Jennifer and I hit up a well-known restaurant for lunch on Monday. Admittedly, we went there because it was on the Dine About Town circuit. While I ordinarily wouldn't be jumping at the chance to drop $30 for lunch, I rationalized it by noting I'd be even less likely to spend the requisite $80 for dinner there.
This is going to be a very brief post about that meal because I can't reveal the identity of the restaurant.
In short: It was one of the worst meals I've ever had in a restaurant in San Francisco. I would have maintained that if I'd paid $8 for it. I can't say what it consisted of, but the flavor combinations were uninspired, oily, lukewarm. The service was lazy and unhelpful, and the ambiance at that hour was kind of creepy. Generally the experience was less than precious, Jennifer was the highlight.
I wrote a letter to the management expressing all of this in no-uncertain terms. It was my first time registering a formal complaint. I really believed that the experience warranted it. But I also told them I'd spare them a public slamming (because I'm obviously a widely read food writer and their reputation is in the palm of my hand) because I was sure that their reputation was not founded on low quality food or service. If they give me a respectful response I may not slam them at all. But if I don't hear from them...oh my my...the winds of shame, they will be a blowin'.
So be prepared dear ones, I may get to do my first ever take down as a legitimate Kitchen Assassin.
Marry Me, 2223
Be still my beating heart...no, can't. I'm panicking on the inside. It's a woozy feeling, brought on by day old alcohol working it's way out of my system; the warm butterflies because I've just realized I'm madly in love with the waiter who is moving about the dining room and not, *tragically*, waiting on us; and the dish that has just been set down in front of the woman at the table to my left. Dear god, I want what she's having-- I don't even know what it is, but I know I didn't order it. Panicking, panicking, panicking. I'm at 2223 and I'm in love in more ways than I can count.
The woman informs me it's the roasted mushroom bread pudding, and the waitress recommended it. That's interesting, I loathe bread pudding; it's too bready, almost always. But I'd seen it on the menu and for some reason blushed a little bit. It promised mushrooms, it promised goat cheese, green salad, all things I adore. Something had come over me, so I psyched myself out, and went with the safe order of an egg white omelette with gruyere and sundried tomato pesto and an herbed scone. But staring at the plate on the next table it hit me--I didn't want that omelette anymore and quite honestly felt like I might die if I didn't get the bread pudding. Panicking, panicking, panicking. My supportive friends, with whom complicated ordering is habit, informed me it was okay to ask the waitress to make the change. I was slowly having a meltdown, we'd already been waiting for our food for a little while. It seemed unlikely the kitchen wasn't working on it. But we asked anyway. Our waitress, the clear industry leader in brunch service, took care of it for me, and bless her heart, only a few moments later I was sitting in front of my own hot plate of mushroom bread pudding. Crisis averted. Heart beat subsiding. That was almost a complete disaster.
Our breakfast entrees arrived after we'd cleared the frosting off a small plate containing one mammoth warm pecan cinnamon roll. This cinnamon roll was absolute heaven. Light dough glazed with gooey caramelized sugar and candied pecans, delicate frosting...good lord. I don't eat cinnamon rolls very often and this made me want to start but only if they are this good every single time. And that's simply impossible. One reason to return to 2223, warm gooey cinnamon rolls, noted. Of five of us at the table, three people ordered the smoked salmon benedict. It was by some transcendental force that I didn't order it too. Herbed scones formed the foundation for two perfectly poached eggs cloaked by a mound of shimmering ribbons of smoked salmon and a lovely dress of hollandaise (not too creamy, not too lemony. I'm not the biggest hollandaise fan, but these people clearly get it.) A light green salad with radishes and shaved fennel graced the plate's outer edge. It was a heartwarming dish in every sense.
And back to the bread pudding. My one complaint is that, in spite of my late ordering, the plate may have sat under cool green salad and the heat lamp one racing heartbeat too long. The melted cheese on top of my bowl-molded bread pudding had hardened ever so slightly. It wasn't a ruiner, but a mild hash mark against them. Otherwise, everything was perfect. The salad was lightly dressed and arrived blanketing the bread pudding, which was not bready in the slightest, though it had an impressively crisp topside. The middle was light and fluffy, strongly egg-based, warm, and overall very sensitive to my needs. My heart beat finally slowed. The food coma set in. I stared, glassy eyed, at the waiter who was not giving me the time of day. I was in love with the food, in love with that man, and most of all in love with the waitress who pulled it all together.
Beware 2223, I will be back to see you soon. Perhaps with a ring in hand.
The woman informs me it's the roasted mushroom bread pudding, and the waitress recommended it. That's interesting, I loathe bread pudding; it's too bready, almost always. But I'd seen it on the menu and for some reason blushed a little bit. It promised mushrooms, it promised goat cheese, green salad, all things I adore. Something had come over me, so I psyched myself out, and went with the safe order of an egg white omelette with gruyere and sundried tomato pesto and an herbed scone. But staring at the plate on the next table it hit me--I didn't want that omelette anymore and quite honestly felt like I might die if I didn't get the bread pudding. Panicking, panicking, panicking. My supportive friends, with whom complicated ordering is habit, informed me it was okay to ask the waitress to make the change. I was slowly having a meltdown, we'd already been waiting for our food for a little while. It seemed unlikely the kitchen wasn't working on it. But we asked anyway. Our waitress, the clear industry leader in brunch service, took care of it for me, and bless her heart, only a few moments later I was sitting in front of my own hot plate of mushroom bread pudding. Crisis averted. Heart beat subsiding. That was almost a complete disaster.
Our breakfast entrees arrived after we'd cleared the frosting off a small plate containing one mammoth warm pecan cinnamon roll. This cinnamon roll was absolute heaven. Light dough glazed with gooey caramelized sugar and candied pecans, delicate frosting...good lord. I don't eat cinnamon rolls very often and this made me want to start but only if they are this good every single time. And that's simply impossible. One reason to return to 2223, warm gooey cinnamon rolls, noted. Of five of us at the table, three people ordered the smoked salmon benedict. It was by some transcendental force that I didn't order it too. Herbed scones formed the foundation for two perfectly poached eggs cloaked by a mound of shimmering ribbons of smoked salmon and a lovely dress of hollandaise (not too creamy, not too lemony. I'm not the biggest hollandaise fan, but these people clearly get it.) A light green salad with radishes and shaved fennel graced the plate's outer edge. It was a heartwarming dish in every sense.
And back to the bread pudding. My one complaint is that, in spite of my late ordering, the plate may have sat under cool green salad and the heat lamp one racing heartbeat too long. The melted cheese on top of my bowl-molded bread pudding had hardened ever so slightly. It wasn't a ruiner, but a mild hash mark against them. Otherwise, everything was perfect. The salad was lightly dressed and arrived blanketing the bread pudding, which was not bready in the slightest, though it had an impressively crisp topside. The middle was light and fluffy, strongly egg-based, warm, and overall very sensitive to my needs. My heart beat finally slowed. The food coma set in. I stared, glassy eyed, at the waiter who was not giving me the time of day. I was in love with the food, in love with that man, and most of all in love with the waitress who pulled it all together.
Beware 2223, I will be back to see you soon. Perhaps with a ring in hand.
Woman! Get back to the kitchen
And back to the kitchen I went as my roommates roped me into cooking for them. It was to celebrate the finale of Top Chef, which I'm personally not very invested in. They suggested the meal in jest but I took 'em up on it because it's been so long since I've been able to play in my own the kitchen. The debut was quite satisfying, here's what I made:
Citrus salad with avocado:
Grapefruit, orange, avocado, salted cashew pieces, lemon juice and a bit of sunflower oil on a a few well-chosen leaves of butter lettuce.
Stuffed mushrooms:
I went to the Fancy Food Expo yesterday and walked away with about twelve kinds of cheese (I'm actually serious). I'll name them just so you believe me. Two types of aged Gouda, dill Havarti, Dubliner, Emmentaler, Saint Andre, Brie, Feta, Jarlsberg...what else is currently crowding my fridge? I've lost track, that's how obscene it is. Needless to say, mushrooms were stuffed with Gouda, breadcrumbs, mint, basil, salt, pepper, and olive oil. They enjoyed 30 minutes in the oven at 375 degrees.
Popovers:
I usually make popovers from the Joy Of but got inspired to poach a new recipe and elected one from a site with recipes from different Bed & Breakfast joints around the country. This one called for: eggs, milk, flour, melted butter, salt, sugar. The key, they said, is having all the ingredients at room temperature then kicking their asses in the cuisinart for a few seconds, before quickly dumping the batter into well greased muffin tins. They bake, first for 15 minutes at 425 and then turn down the oven to 350 to finish them off for the next 15. These popovers were less like the inflated mounds my mother made in my childhood and slightly more shortcake looking (in a dense way)but had great flavor and offset the polenta well (see below).
Gorgonzola polenta:
Emily made for a tremendous souz chef and man-handled this dish quite nicely. She boiled three and a half cups of water, added 1 cup of yellow cornmeal (whisking it in slowly as the water boiled) turned the heat down, simmered, stirred frequently until the polenta began coming away from the sides of the pan. She cooked it for about twenty minutes then removed it from the heat and added 1.5 ounces of blue cheese (cut into cubes), a bit of heavy cream, a crack of butter, and then stirred until the whole mess melted together. I kept it warm over a double boiler while the popovers finished.
Asparagus:
The double boiler actually served as the stage on which I blanched some pieces of asparagus. They were in the rolling boil for 1.5 minutes before getting doused with cold water.
When the popovers came out, I spooned a circle of polenta onto each plate, nested a popover in it, hollowed out the middle of the popover, arranged a few of the pieces of asparagus inside and then filled the rest of the center with more polenta. The whole thing was well received, although I'll admit to overcooking the polenta. I had to take it off the heat before the popovers were done, and it began to set up. It was regrettable. If it had been hot and creamy, I really would have applauded myself. Instead it was kind of amateur. But live and learn, live and learn. And Emily, I apologize for tainting your very well done part of the meal.
It was great to be back in the kitchen again. It's so refreshing not to have to look at a menu to see what I might eat.
Citrus salad with avocado:
Grapefruit, orange, avocado, salted cashew pieces, lemon juice and a bit of sunflower oil on a a few well-chosen leaves of butter lettuce.
Stuffed mushrooms:
I went to the Fancy Food Expo yesterday and walked away with about twelve kinds of cheese (I'm actually serious). I'll name them just so you believe me. Two types of aged Gouda, dill Havarti, Dubliner, Emmentaler, Saint Andre, Brie, Feta, Jarlsberg...what else is currently crowding my fridge? I've lost track, that's how obscene it is. Needless to say, mushrooms were stuffed with Gouda, breadcrumbs, mint, basil, salt, pepper, and olive oil. They enjoyed 30 minutes in the oven at 375 degrees.
Popovers:
I usually make popovers from the Joy Of but got inspired to poach a new recipe and elected one from a site with recipes from different Bed & Breakfast joints around the country. This one called for: eggs, milk, flour, melted butter, salt, sugar. The key, they said, is having all the ingredients at room temperature then kicking their asses in the cuisinart for a few seconds, before quickly dumping the batter into well greased muffin tins. They bake, first for 15 minutes at 425 and then turn down the oven to 350 to finish them off for the next 15. These popovers were less like the inflated mounds my mother made in my childhood and slightly more shortcake looking (in a dense way)but had great flavor and offset the polenta well (see below).
Gorgonzola polenta:
Emily made for a tremendous souz chef and man-handled this dish quite nicely. She boiled three and a half cups of water, added 1 cup of yellow cornmeal (whisking it in slowly as the water boiled) turned the heat down, simmered, stirred frequently until the polenta began coming away from the sides of the pan. She cooked it for about twenty minutes then removed it from the heat and added 1.5 ounces of blue cheese (cut into cubes), a bit of heavy cream, a crack of butter, and then stirred until the whole mess melted together. I kept it warm over a double boiler while the popovers finished.
Asparagus:
The double boiler actually served as the stage on which I blanched some pieces of asparagus. They were in the rolling boil for 1.5 minutes before getting doused with cold water.
When the popovers came out, I spooned a circle of polenta onto each plate, nested a popover in it, hollowed out the middle of the popover, arranged a few of the pieces of asparagus inside and then filled the rest of the center with more polenta. The whole thing was well received, although I'll admit to overcooking the polenta. I had to take it off the heat before the popovers were done, and it began to set up. It was regrettable. If it had been hot and creamy, I really would have applauded myself. Instead it was kind of amateur. But live and learn, live and learn. And Emily, I apologize for tainting your very well done part of the meal.
It was great to be back in the kitchen again. It's so refreshing not to have to look at a menu to see what I might eat.
Destination: Brunch
We drove, four across the backseat, hip bones assaulted by door handles, ribs assaulted by neighboring elbows, in hot pursuit of one of the single greatest outdoor brunch spots in the Bay Area. A quick jog over the Golden Gate and through Tiburon's winding hills and there it is: Sam's Anchor Cafe.
It's the perfect way to spend one of the no-longer rare, beautiful San Francisco days. Sam's patio looks out over the Tiburon Marina towards the city's glistening skyline and salt and pepper, house-filled hills. The patio is split into two sides, one with small tables and a bar, the other with larger tables for full service dining. The outdoor bar boasts a colorful list of refreshing morning cocktails, Pink Lemonade made with Skky, Mojitos, and Bloody Mary's to name a few. If you happen to
want your Bloody tailored to your neediness, a selection of booster ingredients are on a ledge below the bar: Tabasco, Worcestershire, pepper, horseradish and bountiful cups of limes, celery, olives and other salad items you might want to wander into the mix.
Anthony Bourdain has said that brunch is one of the least respectable, most sketchy meals that restaurants serve. All the new/bad staff get punished with brunch and the food is usually a nicely worded excuse for week-old leftovers. If Mr. Bourdain honestly thinks that his best selling books, two TV shows, and guest judging spot on Top Chef qualify him as a "person in the know" he's got another thing coming.
We were seated just shy of their brunch menu cut-off (2:00pm). Our waitress Theresa quickly brought over the chips and guacamole we ordered in haste as we were still in the act of sitting down. The ordering proceeded in the following way:
Jennifer: "Can I add vegetables to the crab and jack omelette?"
Waitress: "I'm new here, I'm not sure, I have to ask."
Jennifer: "Okay, well, if it's possible, I'll have that. If not I'll have the broccoli and artichoke frittata."
(Waitress leaves to ask then comes back)
Waitress: "They said they could do it. Who's next?"
Lyndsey: "Are the Ramos Fizzes good here?"
Waitress: "I'm not sure, I've never had it..."
Lyndsey: "Uh, okay. I guess I'll try it. And the Ahi tuna sandwich with salad."
Waitress: "Okay."
Mandy: "Can I get the chedder and bacon omelette but instead of bacon will they substitute chicken apple sausage?"
Waitress: "I'm not really sure. I'll go ask."
(Waitress leaves to ask then comes back)
Waitress: "They said they could do it."
Mandy: "Great. I'll have that. And a...hmmm...am I ready for a drink yet? Yeah, okay. A mimosa, please."
It took close to six minutes for the six of us to order. (Mr. Bourdain, you know nothing about the kind of staff they put on the brunch shift.) In spite of her newness, Theresa worked it all out and each of the dishes showed up looking fabulous and tasting awesome. I enjoyed my dungeness crab benedict tremendously. The eggs were poached nicely and sat quaintly atop two beautiful crab cakes. When I got my fork in there the rivulets of running yolk cascading through the exposed pieces of crab meat made me beam. (This was particularly heartening after Citrone's notable crab cake failure.) I will insert a noticeable shortcoming. Liz and I ordered the same thing except she got potatoes and I got fruit. Her plate came with an adorable mound of potatoes and a handful of bright whole strawberries. My plate came with a small dish of average fruit cocktail that employed pineapple, cantaloupe, and grapes. I can't say I was over the moon about it but Liz donated a strawberry to my cause and that put me back on the cheerful wagon. The Ahi tuna sandwiches made for some good eye candy: robust steaks of seared tuna, sandwiched between two well grilled slabs of focaccia lined with a layer of arugula. Actually, the focaccia was almost better than the fish. It was grilled so that the interior of the bread offered a nice crunch but the exterior only lightly toasted. It was counter intuitive and I got a big kick out of it. Apparently all others were happy with their orders and for the record the Ramos Fizz is awesome: light, not too sweet, with a gentle dusting of grated nutmeg on top.
If you don't mind dropping a dollar to eat delicious food, (perhaps served by a green, albeit competent staff) amidst some of the most awe-inspiring views of San Francisco, definitely make Sam's a priority. The ferry actually drops you off there-- in case you are motivated to have more than one or two Ramos Fizzes. The one warning I have is about the seagulls; they abound and they aren't scared of you. It is in your best interest to cover your food with a napkin (in the event of a communal dish like chips and guac) and definitely keep your guard up if you are sitting anywhere on the perimeter of the patio.
Sam's, thanks for a very happy Sunday. Bourdain, lay-off the green ones.
It's the perfect way to spend one of the no-longer rare, beautiful San Francisco days. Sam's patio looks out over the Tiburon Marina towards the city's glistening skyline and salt and pepper, house-filled hills. The patio is split into two sides, one with small tables and a bar, the other with larger tables for full service dining. The outdoor bar boasts a colorful list of refreshing morning cocktails, Pink Lemonade made with Skky, Mojitos, and Bloody Mary's to name a few. If you happen to
want your Bloody tailored to your neediness, a selection of booster ingredients are on a ledge below the bar: Tabasco, Worcestershire, pepper, horseradish and bountiful cups of limes, celery, olives and other salad items you might want to wander into the mix.
Anthony Bourdain has said that brunch is one of the least respectable, most sketchy meals that restaurants serve. All the new/bad staff get punished with brunch and the food is usually a nicely worded excuse for week-old leftovers. If Mr. Bourdain honestly thinks that his best selling books, two TV shows, and guest judging spot on Top Chef qualify him as a "person in the know" he's got another thing coming.
We were seated just shy of their brunch menu cut-off (2:00pm). Our waitress Theresa quickly brought over the chips and guacamole we ordered in haste as we were still in the act of sitting down. The ordering proceeded in the following way:
Jennifer: "Can I add vegetables to the crab and jack omelette?"
Waitress: "I'm new here, I'm not sure, I have to ask."
Jennifer: "Okay, well, if it's possible, I'll have that. If not I'll have the broccoli and artichoke frittata."
(Waitress leaves to ask then comes back)
Waitress: "They said they could do it. Who's next?"
Lyndsey: "Are the Ramos Fizzes good here?"
Waitress: "I'm not sure, I've never had it..."
Lyndsey: "Uh, okay. I guess I'll try it. And the Ahi tuna sandwich with salad."
Waitress: "Okay."
Mandy: "Can I get the chedder and bacon omelette but instead of bacon will they substitute chicken apple sausage?"
Waitress: "I'm not really sure. I'll go ask."
(Waitress leaves to ask then comes back)
Waitress: "They said they could do it."
Mandy: "Great. I'll have that. And a...hmmm...am I ready for a drink yet? Yeah, okay. A mimosa, please."
It took close to six minutes for the six of us to order. (Mr. Bourdain, you know nothing about the kind of staff they put on the brunch shift.) In spite of her newness, Theresa worked it all out and each of the dishes showed up looking fabulous and tasting awesome. I enjoyed my dungeness crab benedict tremendously. The eggs were poached nicely and sat quaintly atop two beautiful crab cakes. When I got my fork in there the rivulets of running yolk cascading through the exposed pieces of crab meat made me beam. (This was particularly heartening after Citrone's notable crab cake failure.) I will insert a noticeable shortcoming. Liz and I ordered the same thing except she got potatoes and I got fruit. Her plate came with an adorable mound of potatoes and a handful of bright whole strawberries. My plate came with a small dish of average fruit cocktail that employed pineapple, cantaloupe, and grapes. I can't say I was over the moon about it but Liz donated a strawberry to my cause and that put me back on the cheerful wagon. The Ahi tuna sandwiches made for some good eye candy: robust steaks of seared tuna, sandwiched between two well grilled slabs of focaccia lined with a layer of arugula. Actually, the focaccia was almost better than the fish. It was grilled so that the interior of the bread offered a nice crunch but the exterior only lightly toasted. It was counter intuitive and I got a big kick out of it. Apparently all others were happy with their orders and for the record the Ramos Fizz is awesome: light, not too sweet, with a gentle dusting of grated nutmeg on top.
If you don't mind dropping a dollar to eat delicious food, (perhaps served by a green, albeit competent staff) amidst some of the most awe-inspiring views of San Francisco, definitely make Sam's a priority. The ferry actually drops you off there-- in case you are motivated to have more than one or two Ramos Fizzes. The one warning I have is about the seagulls; they abound and they aren't scared of you. It is in your best interest to cover your food with a napkin (in the event of a communal dish like chips and guac) and definitely keep your guard up if you are sitting anywhere on the perimeter of the patio.
Sam's, thanks for a very happy Sunday. Bourdain, lay-off the green ones.
How can you Haight on nectar from the Gods?
Get thee to Cha Cha Cha. Either location, Miss. or Haight will do -- although Haight is the original and one could make an argument on the basis of historic sincerity-- here's why:
It's true that there are better small plates restaurants sprinkled throughout the city. It's true that there are superior fried plantains available. And yet, when you are rolling with a group of nine rambunctious divas who just want to booze for no more than the price of two movie tickets, this is your watering hole.
Cha Cha Cha does not take reservations and Friend Host graciously informed us at our 8:45 arrival, that it would be a two hour wait. We were fairly well prepared for such a scenario, and thus, divided and conquered. Two of us set out on foot down the street to check for group status at Kan Zaman. Four of us hunkered down near the bar, pitcher of Sangria in hand, while we waited for the rest of our party to arrive.
Our friends soon showed up and much merriment ensued. Cha Cha Cha really shines in the affordable Sangria department. For $20 you get a sizable pitcher laden with much alcohol inspired fruit and enough of that sweet heavenly Carlo Rossi infused nectar to keep at least five of you busy for (if you are booze hounds like we might be) eight or nine minutes. The pitcher was the catalyst for many jovial toasts: "to surprise trips from New York" and "Mandy's first day of professional freedom!"
Friend Host approached us in the bar after possibly twenty minutes and gave us a "Liz party of 8?" nod. Interestingly, we had a Liz and we were a party of 9 (close enough), though we thought we were penned on the list as Jen party of 10. A bit of confusion ensued, frantic texts were sent to the squatters at Kan Zaman, who were also enjoying grape flavored beverages but were trapped behind a bevy of belly dancers. After realizing Friend Host really wasn't addressing our group, we decided to fess up and let the real Liz party of 8 enjoy the prime real estate that was the corner booth Friend Host was leading us to. So we loitered, Sangria glasses in hand, looking devilishly cute and congratulating ourselves for our honesty. Sure enough, Friend Host found us again a moment later and said "it seems there is no Liz party of 8. Jen party of 10, this is all yours." Ah Kharma, you are good looking.
In the time it took us to get seated, me to get up and wait in a two person line for the ladies room (is there not a law about how many women's restrooms are in a place that serves copious and delicious beverages? Perhaps it's a mechanism to keep you from drinking too much--- eh, I doubt it. But this is the one complaint I'll wager: Cha Cha Cha, get thee a second bathroom for chicks) and return, food had been ordered and had started arriving. I'm still confused as to how that happened so quickly. All of the sudden, our table was exploding with light and crispy fried calamari, roasted potatoes (a fine dish, but not a go-to), two chicken quesadillas (rumor has it that they were tasty, although I did not indulge), several plates of plantains with black bean sauce....mmmm.....mmmm.....plantains, I love you. Deliciously tangy seafood menagerie ceviche, beans and rice and three pitchers of sangria. We contemplated dessert, but in all honesty, we are a chocolate crowd and the short list was heavy to the fruity persuasions. Additionally, we'd had enough vitamin C in our drinks to maintain our scurvy-free reputations and thus opted out.
Unless we were too foggy-visioned to calculate the bill correctly, which I highly doubt because there were some very talented number crunchers at the table, splitting the alcohol seven ways and the food nine ways left us with a grand total of $23 per person for the drinkers, $13 for the prohibitionists, and nine full bellies. More self-congratulating ensued.
We challenge any 9 person, Jen party of 10 to have more fun than we do. Good luck with that. But if you'd like to try, Cha Cha Cha is probably a decent starting place.
It's true that there are better small plates restaurants sprinkled throughout the city. It's true that there are superior fried plantains available. And yet, when you are rolling with a group of nine rambunctious divas who just want to booze for no more than the price of two movie tickets, this is your watering hole.
Cha Cha Cha does not take reservations and Friend Host graciously informed us at our 8:45 arrival, that it would be a two hour wait. We were fairly well prepared for such a scenario, and thus, divided and conquered. Two of us set out on foot down the street to check for group status at Kan Zaman. Four of us hunkered down near the bar, pitcher of Sangria in hand, while we waited for the rest of our party to arrive.
Our friends soon showed up and much merriment ensued. Cha Cha Cha really shines in the affordable Sangria department. For $20 you get a sizable pitcher laden with much alcohol inspired fruit and enough of that sweet heavenly Carlo Rossi infused nectar to keep at least five of you busy for (if you are booze hounds like we might be) eight or nine minutes. The pitcher was the catalyst for many jovial toasts: "to surprise trips from New York" and "Mandy's first day of professional freedom!"
Friend Host approached us in the bar after possibly twenty minutes and gave us a "Liz party of 8?" nod. Interestingly, we had a Liz and we were a party of 9 (close enough), though we thought we were penned on the list as Jen party of 10. A bit of confusion ensued, frantic texts were sent to the squatters at Kan Zaman, who were also enjoying grape flavored beverages but were trapped behind a bevy of belly dancers. After realizing Friend Host really wasn't addressing our group, we decided to fess up and let the real Liz party of 8 enjoy the prime real estate that was the corner booth Friend Host was leading us to. So we loitered, Sangria glasses in hand, looking devilishly cute and congratulating ourselves for our honesty. Sure enough, Friend Host found us again a moment later and said "it seems there is no Liz party of 8. Jen party of 10, this is all yours." Ah Kharma, you are good looking.
In the time it took us to get seated, me to get up and wait in a two person line for the ladies room (is there not a law about how many women's restrooms are in a place that serves copious and delicious beverages? Perhaps it's a mechanism to keep you from drinking too much--- eh, I doubt it. But this is the one complaint I'll wager: Cha Cha Cha, get thee a second bathroom for chicks) and return, food had been ordered and had started arriving. I'm still confused as to how that happened so quickly. All of the sudden, our table was exploding with light and crispy fried calamari, roasted potatoes (a fine dish, but not a go-to), two chicken quesadillas (rumor has it that they were tasty, although I did not indulge), several plates of plantains with black bean sauce....mmmm.....mmmm.....plantains, I love you. Deliciously tangy seafood menagerie ceviche, beans and rice and three pitchers of sangria. We contemplated dessert, but in all honesty, we are a chocolate crowd and the short list was heavy to the fruity persuasions. Additionally, we'd had enough vitamin C in our drinks to maintain our scurvy-free reputations and thus opted out.
Unless we were too foggy-visioned to calculate the bill correctly, which I highly doubt because there were some very talented number crunchers at the table, splitting the alcohol seven ways and the food nine ways left us with a grand total of $23 per person for the drinkers, $13 for the prohibitionists, and nine full bellies. More self-congratulating ensued.
We challenge any 9 person, Jen party of 10 to have more fun than we do. Good luck with that. But if you'd like to try, Cha Cha Cha is probably a decent starting place.
Ohio: First in Aviation, Not Last in Food
I visited EZ in Columbus for the weekend. He kindly accommodated my self-invite to be his date to the Governor's inaugural ball. I figured the least I could do was take him out for a good meal.
I told him to pick the nicest restaurant in Columbus. He had little to offer off the top of his head. His eating style is best explained by the four half-gallon containers of milk in his fridge, a shrine to fetid dairy. We drove around in the afternoon reading menus until we settled on Barcelona, embracing the promise of paella. Barcelona** is in German Village, one of Columbus' oldest "suburbs". The city has since sprawled out around it and now German Village is mere moments from downtown. It's a quaint area with historic brick buildings and cobblestone streets. Barcelona is on the corner across from Giant Eagle, the single most patriotically named grocery store I have ever heard of. This is convenient because it has a large parking lot which the restaurant notes in a sign on its front door that tells you not to park in it.
When we were seated our waitress, a stellar lady named Kaylee, informed us that it was "UnWine'd Sunday" and that all wine was being sold at retail price which equated to a couple dollars more than half off. (Note to self: always go to Barcelona on Sundays.) That tip kicked off what became a night of disturbing gluttony. Barcelona is aptly named. The menu, like the city, draws from many international persuasions. Just a few of the appetizers included an Asian noodle salad, warm spinach and crab dip, tomato basil soup, gumbo, and hummus. The menu changes weekly and is printed on the front of a single piece of paper. On the other side there is a recipe from the restaurant. That evening it was for their spinach dip.
The wine list is lengthy and given the range of ethnic territory that the menu covers, I found it difficult to settle on the bottle we wanted. (Nice thing about retail wine night is that it gives extra incentive to be bold. If failure occurs, it's still possible to get another bottle.) We ended up ordering a 2003 Cotes de Rhone; a blend of Syrah, Carnignon, and Grenache. It turned out to be their last bottle and an entirely unoffensive choice, a mellow sidekick to the wildly continuity-free meal.
EZ started with spiced peach soup. In no uncertain terms, it was the essence of peach crisp. Delicious, although maybe a stretch for a low-key, initial palette wake-up. The tomato basil soup that I got was great. Warm and robust but not the least bit creamy. Both soups were soul warming after days of rain and some heavy drinking. Next came grilled octopus. Mmmmmmm grilled octopus. If I could eat nothing but this for a while, I think I'd be fine with it. Three small octopi arranged around a springy mound of baby greens topped with charred pepper relish. This was the most interesting and best smelling dish I've encountered in quite a while. The octopus was perfectly cooked, lightly chewy but not rubbery. The greens were gently dressed and the charred peppers tied it all together nicely.
We ventured ahead to entrees: lobster paella and a half order of mac and cheese. The lobster paella came with black rice, as opposed to the more traditional saffron route. At the time, I liked the sound of it- "black rice"- but ultimately was underwhelmed. It was lacking saffron's dynamic nature and generally just took up space, looking more off-green than black. The lobster tail was split down the middle and splayed out in the center of the cast iron pan. Mussels and clams surrounded it and chorizo, peppers, and peas were sprinkled throughout. It was good paella-- not life changing-- though certainly upstaged by its octopus predecessor. But it has been a while since I've had paella and unless the dish is done terribly, it's fun to eat. I happily picked my way through it's maze, the lobster was cooked well and was rich but not overwhelming.
Rich? You want to talk rich? Three little words: Mac And Cheese. Good lord. At Barcelona this dish is INSANE. Even our half order began to feel like a burden as we worked through the meal. The dish arrived piping hot with a golden brown parmesan crust. Long strips of portabello mushroom were threaded throughout springy fusilli bathed in a blend of chedder, parmesan, gorgonzola, and cream. This dish could be a stand-in for mortar in house building scenarios, it was that....intense. At this point we transitioned from feeling happily fattened to in grave danger of cardiac arrest. It was wicked. Wicked good.
The one disappointment was the green beans which I was happy to find listed among the sides as just that, not the San Fran. standard haricot verts. The beans were crisp and cooked nicely but were coated in olive oil and far more salty than necessary. It was interesting to see that Barcelona's short coming happened with the least complicated dish. It makes me think that the chef probably isn't tasting everything that hits a plate. It was a forgivable $3 mistake and in all honesty, I was probably better off not stretching my stomach any further.
We debated skipping dessert; we were pretty legitimately pained at this point but cunning Kaylee put the hustle on EZ while I was taking a breather away from the table. She coerced him into ordering vanilla creme brulee. It came in a generous porcelain boat alongside two oddly shaped ebony and ivory biscotti. I will say this: Barcelona understands crusts. The caramelized sugar wall was incredibly satisfying to crack through and even required a wee bit of muscle to get the job done. The interior was souffle-like in texture, thankfully not too silky. Both of us failed to give the biscotti the time of day until Kaylee came over and specifically asked our impression of the lighter one which she said was flavored with saffron and pine nuts. She vaguely implied that she found it odd. And it was different. The saffron came through very strongly and the only thing I could think to say was "interesting, it tastes like paella."
Overall it was a very enjoyable meal. The atmosphere inside was relaxed and we ate to the melodic stylings of live classical guitar. My one black mark against the place was that there were two TVs over the bar that were tuned into the food network. I didn't really appreciate watching Emeril make bolognese while I was having my meal but like the green beans, it was forgivable.
I feel that I owe the city of Columbus an apology for doubting its culinary capability. In fact, I came across some memorable food, including a trip to North Market and two traditional diner breakfasts: Nancy's-- where you can name your own price. And Tommy's-- where Ken Blackwell goes for grits, which were decent, though not the best I've ever had. North Market was a definite highlight. A hybrid cousin of Philly's Reading Terminal Market and Emeryville's Public Market. I dug that place, hard.
Many thanks to EZ, Aaron Tippin, Congressman Tim Ryan, Governor Strickland, and Lt. Governor Fisher for showing me such a great time in their great state. Perhaps I'll be back soon.
**Later I found out that Barcelona is part of Dine Originals of Columbus, a collective of independently owned restaurants that advocate the importance of eating locally. Given my complete aversion to chains and their strong presence in the Midwest, it was heartening to find out that there is consciousness about high quality local restaurants.
I told him to pick the nicest restaurant in Columbus. He had little to offer off the top of his head. His eating style is best explained by the four half-gallon containers of milk in his fridge, a shrine to fetid dairy. We drove around in the afternoon reading menus until we settled on Barcelona, embracing the promise of paella. Barcelona** is in German Village, one of Columbus' oldest "suburbs". The city has since sprawled out around it and now German Village is mere moments from downtown. It's a quaint area with historic brick buildings and cobblestone streets. Barcelona is on the corner across from Giant Eagle, the single most patriotically named grocery store I have ever heard of. This is convenient because it has a large parking lot which the restaurant notes in a sign on its front door that tells you not to park in it.
When we were seated our waitress, a stellar lady named Kaylee, informed us that it was "UnWine'd Sunday" and that all wine was being sold at retail price which equated to a couple dollars more than half off. (Note to self: always go to Barcelona on Sundays.) That tip kicked off what became a night of disturbing gluttony. Barcelona is aptly named. The menu, like the city, draws from many international persuasions. Just a few of the appetizers included an Asian noodle salad, warm spinach and crab dip, tomato basil soup, gumbo, and hummus. The menu changes weekly and is printed on the front of a single piece of paper. On the other side there is a recipe from the restaurant. That evening it was for their spinach dip.
The wine list is lengthy and given the range of ethnic territory that the menu covers, I found it difficult to settle on the bottle we wanted. (Nice thing about retail wine night is that it gives extra incentive to be bold. If failure occurs, it's still possible to get another bottle.) We ended up ordering a 2003 Cotes de Rhone; a blend of Syrah, Carnignon, and Grenache. It turned out to be their last bottle and an entirely unoffensive choice, a mellow sidekick to the wildly continuity-free meal.
EZ started with spiced peach soup. In no uncertain terms, it was the essence of peach crisp. Delicious, although maybe a stretch for a low-key, initial palette wake-up. The tomato basil soup that I got was great. Warm and robust but not the least bit creamy. Both soups were soul warming after days of rain and some heavy drinking. Next came grilled octopus. Mmmmmmm grilled octopus. If I could eat nothing but this for a while, I think I'd be fine with it. Three small octopi arranged around a springy mound of baby greens topped with charred pepper relish. This was the most interesting and best smelling dish I've encountered in quite a while. The octopus was perfectly cooked, lightly chewy but not rubbery. The greens were gently dressed and the charred peppers tied it all together nicely.
We ventured ahead to entrees: lobster paella and a half order of mac and cheese. The lobster paella came with black rice, as opposed to the more traditional saffron route. At the time, I liked the sound of it- "black rice"- but ultimately was underwhelmed. It was lacking saffron's dynamic nature and generally just took up space, looking more off-green than black. The lobster tail was split down the middle and splayed out in the center of the cast iron pan. Mussels and clams surrounded it and chorizo, peppers, and peas were sprinkled throughout. It was good paella-- not life changing-- though certainly upstaged by its octopus predecessor. But it has been a while since I've had paella and unless the dish is done terribly, it's fun to eat. I happily picked my way through it's maze, the lobster was cooked well and was rich but not overwhelming.
Rich? You want to talk rich? Three little words: Mac And Cheese. Good lord. At Barcelona this dish is INSANE. Even our half order began to feel like a burden as we worked through the meal. The dish arrived piping hot with a golden brown parmesan crust. Long strips of portabello mushroom were threaded throughout springy fusilli bathed in a blend of chedder, parmesan, gorgonzola, and cream. This dish could be a stand-in for mortar in house building scenarios, it was that....intense. At this point we transitioned from feeling happily fattened to in grave danger of cardiac arrest. It was wicked. Wicked good.
The one disappointment was the green beans which I was happy to find listed among the sides as just that, not the San Fran. standard haricot verts. The beans were crisp and cooked nicely but were coated in olive oil and far more salty than necessary. It was interesting to see that Barcelona's short coming happened with the least complicated dish. It makes me think that the chef probably isn't tasting everything that hits a plate. It was a forgivable $3 mistake and in all honesty, I was probably better off not stretching my stomach any further.
We debated skipping dessert; we were pretty legitimately pained at this point but cunning Kaylee put the hustle on EZ while I was taking a breather away from the table. She coerced him into ordering vanilla creme brulee. It came in a generous porcelain boat alongside two oddly shaped ebony and ivory biscotti. I will say this: Barcelona understands crusts. The caramelized sugar wall was incredibly satisfying to crack through and even required a wee bit of muscle to get the job done. The interior was souffle-like in texture, thankfully not too silky. Both of us failed to give the biscotti the time of day until Kaylee came over and specifically asked our impression of the lighter one which she said was flavored with saffron and pine nuts. She vaguely implied that she found it odd. And it was different. The saffron came through very strongly and the only thing I could think to say was "interesting, it tastes like paella."
Overall it was a very enjoyable meal. The atmosphere inside was relaxed and we ate to the melodic stylings of live classical guitar. My one black mark against the place was that there were two TVs over the bar that were tuned into the food network. I didn't really appreciate watching Emeril make bolognese while I was having my meal but like the green beans, it was forgivable.
I feel that I owe the city of Columbus an apology for doubting its culinary capability. In fact, I came across some memorable food, including a trip to North Market and two traditional diner breakfasts: Nancy's-- where you can name your own price. And Tommy's-- where Ken Blackwell goes for grits, which were decent, though not the best I've ever had. North Market was a definite highlight. A hybrid cousin of Philly's Reading Terminal Market and Emeryville's Public Market. I dug that place, hard.
Many thanks to EZ, Aaron Tippin, Congressman Tim Ryan, Governor Strickland, and Lt. Governor Fisher for showing me such a great time in their great state. Perhaps I'll be back soon.
**Later I found out that Barcelona is part of Dine Originals of Columbus, a collective of independently owned restaurants that advocate the importance of eating locally. Given my complete aversion to chains and their strong presence in the Midwest, it was heartening to find out that there is consciousness about high quality local restaurants.
Citrone All Alone
Things have been on the up and up since earlier in the week's salad debacle. So much so that I actually thought the Inland Empire was in a position to redeem itself tonight. This morning I learned that only five minutes away, in the town of Redlands, there was a "cute" street with a "decent" restaurant. Usually on Thursday nights we all head back to the Bay Area, I'm flying to Ohio tomorrow and couldn't get a flight from here until the morning. Since I was rolling solo for the evening, I figured, I've been here almost two months and complained continuously, tonight would be the night that I gave this place a second chance.
Citrone is on the 300 block of Orange Street. One of the two main veins of the historic section of downtown Redlands. The dining room was warm and only about half full at 8:00. I took a cursory glance at the menu before committing with an understated "table for one, please." Expecting to be lead to a two-top lining the back wall, I was surprised to be seated at a table for four, adjacent to the long open kitchen which was brightly lit and where two chefs appeared surprisingly inactive. The service staff was attentive and noticeably all male. Not in a Steps of Rome, Italian ex-frat boy sort of way, just in a coincidental "we have no women that work here" sort of way. I was tempted to ask about the intentionality of it, but didn't.
My server presented me with the menu, the wine list, and an oversized round of warm focaccia accompanied by a dish of olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. The menu was printed on a double sided single sheet. It lumped together starters and salads, moved to a collection of pastas, and rounded out its backside with several typical entrees: pork loin, lamb chops, Atlantic salmon. The wine list was far lengthier; the crescendo being three pages of Pinot Noir. It came with a disclaimer from the waiter, "all the wines on the list are by the bottle, I can tell you what's by the half bottle and glass." But he didn't and walked away. I opted for the Paul Hobbs Pinot Noir and informed the waiter on his return "Oh, we don't have that by the glass, sorry. But we do have Carmel Road, I promise you won't be disappointed. Want me to pour you a taste?" It actually wasn't disappointing so I let him pour me a glass. I decided to start with the Citrone Salad described as orange, grapefruit, avocado, and currents in a spicy-honey dressing. I waffled with the entree choices, almost getting roped into a roasted eggplant penne. Eventually I narrowed it down to two options. The Citrone Stack: grilled eggplant, roasted red peppers, mushrooms, potato, buffalo mozzarella presented in a tower and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Or an appetizer size of dungeness crab cakes with papaya-mango salsa. I deferred to the waiter and was advised that the Stack was "big and wouldn't keep overnight." He underestimated my eating abilities, that much was clear, but I took it as a vote of confidence for the crab cakes.
I glanced around the dining room. The brick walls and track lighting were gentle on the eyes. The room was decorated with frames containing enlarged wine labels. The one outlier was the large poster that every girl has in her freshman dorm room from that series of vintage Italian liquors. It depicted two boisterous tux-clad waiters carting bunches of grapes and had the word "Union" emblazoned under their feet. The open kitchen was framed by frosted glass with the word Citrone etched in. It was back lit by an aqua glow. The decor made me nostalgic for Palo Alto during the Dot Com era.
My salad arrived. It was dressed liberally and the flavor smacked more of mustard than spice. One edge of the plate held a heap of currants scattered about two hearty rounds of citrus. The salad was good, not great, but certainly took all BJ's salad excuses to the mat. My crab cakes came. The papaya-mango salsa was heavy to the lime and red onions but a nice addition to the two cakes and the small pile of greens on the plate. The cakes were large with a dark brown exterior that implied they might be a bit crispy on the outside. Alas, alas. The exterior was not dissimilar from the mushy interior and the whole mass, inside and out, was the same color. The flavor was mediocre and I really couldn't get passed the textural disappointment. I worked my way through some of it, finished my wine and sat back. The patrons were like the crab cakes, all between the ages of 32 and 40, middle weight, mediocre looking. I'm not really sure what I was expecting.
The waiter brought over the dessert tray. There was a lot going on: peanut butter cake with a graham cracker crust, sponge cake with a white wine sauce and mocha frosting, an eye-pleasing ricotta fruit tart, cheesecake, tiramisu, other things that were forgettable. Ultimately I opted out.
It was a good try. For a second, I forgot I was just a few hundred yards from I-10 East. For a second I was really pleased with the prospect of crab cakes. And the wine was legitimately good. It's Redlands, not San Francisco. I should keep things in perspective; they tried their best. But when the best is priced like San Francisco yet just doesn't come close to comparing, it's hard not to resent it. Ultimately it was more like a throwback to my college days, when my food standards were lower and the bricks of the British Bankers Club made me feel at home. It was a definite upgrade from nightly usual but I don't believe I'll be going back any time soon.
Citrone is on the 300 block of Orange Street. One of the two main veins of the historic section of downtown Redlands. The dining room was warm and only about half full at 8:00. I took a cursory glance at the menu before committing with an understated "table for one, please." Expecting to be lead to a two-top lining the back wall, I was surprised to be seated at a table for four, adjacent to the long open kitchen which was brightly lit and where two chefs appeared surprisingly inactive. The service staff was attentive and noticeably all male. Not in a Steps of Rome, Italian ex-frat boy sort of way, just in a coincidental "we have no women that work here" sort of way. I was tempted to ask about the intentionality of it, but didn't.
My server presented me with the menu, the wine list, and an oversized round of warm focaccia accompanied by a dish of olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. The menu was printed on a double sided single sheet. It lumped together starters and salads, moved to a collection of pastas, and rounded out its backside with several typical entrees: pork loin, lamb chops, Atlantic salmon. The wine list was far lengthier; the crescendo being three pages of Pinot Noir. It came with a disclaimer from the waiter, "all the wines on the list are by the bottle, I can tell you what's by the half bottle and glass." But he didn't and walked away. I opted for the Paul Hobbs Pinot Noir and informed the waiter on his return "Oh, we don't have that by the glass, sorry. But we do have Carmel Road, I promise you won't be disappointed. Want me to pour you a taste?" It actually wasn't disappointing so I let him pour me a glass. I decided to start with the Citrone Salad described as orange, grapefruit, avocado, and currents in a spicy-honey dressing. I waffled with the entree choices, almost getting roped into a roasted eggplant penne. Eventually I narrowed it down to two options. The Citrone Stack: grilled eggplant, roasted red peppers, mushrooms, potato, buffalo mozzarella presented in a tower and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Or an appetizer size of dungeness crab cakes with papaya-mango salsa. I deferred to the waiter and was advised that the Stack was "big and wouldn't keep overnight." He underestimated my eating abilities, that much was clear, but I took it as a vote of confidence for the crab cakes.
I glanced around the dining room. The brick walls and track lighting were gentle on the eyes. The room was decorated with frames containing enlarged wine labels. The one outlier was the large poster that every girl has in her freshman dorm room from that series of vintage Italian liquors. It depicted two boisterous tux-clad waiters carting bunches of grapes and had the word "Union" emblazoned under their feet. The open kitchen was framed by frosted glass with the word Citrone etched in. It was back lit by an aqua glow. The decor made me nostalgic for Palo Alto during the Dot Com era.
My salad arrived. It was dressed liberally and the flavor smacked more of mustard than spice. One edge of the plate held a heap of currants scattered about two hearty rounds of citrus. The salad was good, not great, but certainly took all BJ's salad excuses to the mat. My crab cakes came. The papaya-mango salsa was heavy to the lime and red onions but a nice addition to the two cakes and the small pile of greens on the plate. The cakes were large with a dark brown exterior that implied they might be a bit crispy on the outside. Alas, alas. The exterior was not dissimilar from the mushy interior and the whole mass, inside and out, was the same color. The flavor was mediocre and I really couldn't get passed the textural disappointment. I worked my way through some of it, finished my wine and sat back. The patrons were like the crab cakes, all between the ages of 32 and 40, middle weight, mediocre looking. I'm not really sure what I was expecting.
The waiter brought over the dessert tray. There was a lot going on: peanut butter cake with a graham cracker crust, sponge cake with a white wine sauce and mocha frosting, an eye-pleasing ricotta fruit tart, cheesecake, tiramisu, other things that were forgettable. Ultimately I opted out.
It was a good try. For a second, I forgot I was just a few hundred yards from I-10 East. For a second I was really pleased with the prospect of crab cakes. And the wine was legitimately good. It's Redlands, not San Francisco. I should keep things in perspective; they tried their best. But when the best is priced like San Francisco yet just doesn't come close to comparing, it's hard not to resent it. Ultimately it was more like a throwback to my college days, when my food standards were lower and the bricks of the British Bankers Club made me feel at home. It was a definite upgrade from nightly usual but I don't believe I'll be going back any time soon.
The Thousand Calorie Salad
BJ's Brewhouse, you sneaky bastard.
After four delicious days back in San Francisco, I almost forgot how depressing it is here in San Bernardino.* After indulging in a light, early evening snack of SWA's famous dry roasted peanuts, I arrived at the hotel hankering for some greens. For salads, I generally opt for Elephant Bar or BJ's. At BJ's, my usual choice is the Garden Medley; I get it to go and add avocado. Tonight I was feeling a little sassy and was eating in the din of their brick walled, sports lounge fortress. I opted for the Sante Fe salad described on the menu in the following terms:
A colorful blend of crisp romaine, red onions and roasted red peppers tossed with our Santa Fe dressing. Topped with jack and cheddar cheeses, sliced avocado, corn, diced tomatoes, crisp tortilla strips and blackened chicken breast.
Fair enough. I order, substituting black beans for chicken and ask for dressing on the side. The waitress and I spend a moment clarifying what I mean by black beans (I didn't just pull this ingredient out of thin air as a challenge, black beans are on the menu) once it appears we have reached an understanding, she leaves.
When my salad arrives, everything looks appropriate. My black beans are in a cute ramekin alongside its ramekin twin that contains my dressing. Both are teetering on the edge of this heaping bounty. The mound of crisp tortilla strips are "crisp" because they've been re-dipped in the deep fryer and are actually glistening, like tri-colored snowflakes. I scrape those off to the side. I mix in the beans, gingerly dip my fork into the dressing and deftly spread the droplets about the first layer. I stir things up a bit. I take a few bites. The lettuce is crisp and there seems to be a nice ratio of beans and corn. I take a few more bites and discover a treasure chest of cheese...and I notice how far that forkful of dressing has gone. I try to distribute the cheese evenly looking to match it with lettuce; I'm having a hard time finding the lettuce. Avocado is everywhere. I'm cutting things into pieces to construct well balanced bites-- the dressing has now tripled in size. Then I realize: the "dressing on the side" was interpreted as "extra dressing on the side." After about seven bites I'm completely out of lettuce. I'm working with literally two whole avocados, three kernels of corn, six beans, and two pounds of shredded cheese. A pool of Santa Fe dressing (which I believe is ranch with paprika and chili mixed in) is collecting at the bottom of the bowl. I am horrified. When you can't even find a salad that doesn't make you feel like you are licking cream straight off a cow's udder, how won't you need a triple bypass by your twelfth birthday?
Naturally I came to wonder, is everyone here as fat as I think they should be? Here are some (not entirely telling) statistics I found for obesity rates in San Bernardino:
In 2001 SB was one of sixteen counties that had "obesity rates significantly higher than the state rate." (California's age adjusted rate is 19.1 percent--more than 4.7 million Californians.)1
Another study showed that of 21 cities in San Bernardino County, the actual city of San Bernardino has the fourth highest incidence of overweight middle schoolers, with a flooring 35.2 percent.2 Awesome, start 'em young. These statistics can be reinforced by the fact that BJ's was positively BUMPING at 8:00 on a Tuesday night. I don't believe people cook around here. And I fear they even drive significant distances to eat in this cellulite-inducing mecca.
If someone wants to open a grocery store, it could be really great...assuming you could convince these folks that it takes less time to cook than it does to loiter outside of a restaurant door, holding a brick sized table beeper and waiting for the red lights to start flickering and the Taboo-buzzer-like wailing to begin.
*It should be noted that I ate phenomenally well all weekend long, including a rad meal that ten of us cooked up last night. It was requested that I write about it, and I will, as soon as I clear tonight's foul feast from my head. Likely in a day or two.
After four delicious days back in San Francisco, I almost forgot how depressing it is here in San Bernardino.* After indulging in a light, early evening snack of SWA's famous dry roasted peanuts, I arrived at the hotel hankering for some greens. For salads, I generally opt for Elephant Bar or BJ's. At BJ's, my usual choice is the Garden Medley; I get it to go and add avocado. Tonight I was feeling a little sassy and was eating in the din of their brick walled, sports lounge fortress. I opted for the Sante Fe salad described on the menu in the following terms:
A colorful blend of crisp romaine, red onions and roasted red peppers tossed with our Santa Fe dressing. Topped with jack and cheddar cheeses, sliced avocado, corn, diced tomatoes, crisp tortilla strips and blackened chicken breast.
Fair enough. I order, substituting black beans for chicken and ask for dressing on the side. The waitress and I spend a moment clarifying what I mean by black beans (I didn't just pull this ingredient out of thin air as a challenge, black beans are on the menu) once it appears we have reached an understanding, she leaves.
When my salad arrives, everything looks appropriate. My black beans are in a cute ramekin alongside its ramekin twin that contains my dressing. Both are teetering on the edge of this heaping bounty. The mound of crisp tortilla strips are "crisp" because they've been re-dipped in the deep fryer and are actually glistening, like tri-colored snowflakes. I scrape those off to the side. I mix in the beans, gingerly dip my fork into the dressing and deftly spread the droplets about the first layer. I stir things up a bit. I take a few bites. The lettuce is crisp and there seems to be a nice ratio of beans and corn. I take a few more bites and discover a treasure chest of cheese...and I notice how far that forkful of dressing has gone. I try to distribute the cheese evenly looking to match it with lettuce; I'm having a hard time finding the lettuce. Avocado is everywhere. I'm cutting things into pieces to construct well balanced bites-- the dressing has now tripled in size. Then I realize: the "dressing on the side" was interpreted as "extra dressing on the side." After about seven bites I'm completely out of lettuce. I'm working with literally two whole avocados, three kernels of corn, six beans, and two pounds of shredded cheese. A pool of Santa Fe dressing (which I believe is ranch with paprika and chili mixed in) is collecting at the bottom of the bowl. I am horrified. When you can't even find a salad that doesn't make you feel like you are licking cream straight off a cow's udder, how won't you need a triple bypass by your twelfth birthday?
Naturally I came to wonder, is everyone here as fat as I think they should be? Here are some (not entirely telling) statistics I found for obesity rates in San Bernardino:
In 2001 SB was one of sixteen counties that had "obesity rates significantly higher than the state rate." (California's age adjusted rate is 19.1 percent--more than 4.7 million Californians.)1
Another study showed that of 21 cities in San Bernardino County, the actual city of San Bernardino has the fourth highest incidence of overweight middle schoolers, with a flooring 35.2 percent.2 Awesome, start 'em young. These statistics can be reinforced by the fact that BJ's was positively BUMPING at 8:00 on a Tuesday night. I don't believe people cook around here. And I fear they even drive significant distances to eat in this cellulite-inducing mecca.
If someone wants to open a grocery store, it could be really great...assuming you could convince these folks that it takes less time to cook than it does to loiter outside of a restaurant door, holding a brick sized table beeper and waiting for the red lights to start flickering and the Taboo-buzzer-like wailing to begin.
*It should be noted that I ate phenomenally well all weekend long, including a rad meal that ten of us cooked up last night. It was requested that I write about it, and I will, as soon as I clear tonight's foul feast from my head. Likely in a day or two.
Guilty Pleasures
I'm going to let you in on a little secret: I love sweepstakes. It's embarrassing and ridiculous and I'm fine with that. You are welcome to mock me all you like but one day when I win a Land Rover and a week long trip for seven to Telluride with daily spa treatments, don't expect an invitation from me. Actually, that was a sweepstake from last year and I didn't win that one.
The sweepstake peaking my interest currently is sponsored by Haagen-Dazs. (Out of fairness it's more of a contest than a sweepstake but let's not waste time with semantics.) I'm still debating whether or not telling you about this will ruin my chances of winning. As we all know, sweepstakes are about probability, so don't go getting any big ideas that are better than mine.
Haagen-Dazs is searching for a new flavor; the company is asking that contestants submit their ideas via story, video, or artwork. Sometime in February, three finalists will be brought to the H-D factory in beautiful Bakersfield to doctor their flavor alongside experienced ice cream scientists. The winner will go to Gourmet magazine's headquarters in New York for a flavor unveiling. One million pints of this limited edition flavor will be released with the winner's name etc.
This is my dream and I've thought long and hard about it. I wanted the flavor to be a reflection of me with emphasis on invention and risk-taking. I'm a spice devotee
known to take Sriracha straight from the bottle. Initially I came up with flavors like spicy chamomile and jalapeno apricot. Then I re-read the rules and noticed that a flavor will be judged in part on the likelihood of Haagen-Dazs consumers wanting to try it...hmmm.
I thought a while longer, took an informal poll of the friends I could find, and then arrived at the following. In response to the question "what was the inspiration for your flavor?" I submitted this entry (the writing is a little kitschy but go onto the website and see the video examples and then you'll understand)and please bear in mind I was limited to 200 words:
San Francisco is known for its foggy days. Few things offset the chill like a soothing cup of Earl Gray tea with a little milk and sugar. San Francisco is also known for its chocolate. From San Francisco Chocolate Company to Ghiradelli, many of us cannot live without a daily fix. Earl Gray tea has been paired with dark chocolate before though not, in my (albeit limited) knowledge, in ice cream. With this in mind I came up with the following flavor: Bergamot Dark Chocolate.
A dominant flavor in Earl Gray is Bergamot, which is a small acidic orange. Paired here, a hint of citrus will compliment the richness of the dark chocolate and the acid will marry with its faint bitterness. Add to this the signature creaminess found in Haagen-Dazs and the result will be ethereal.
Haagen-Dazs flavors are decadent and refined and play off the integrity and simplicity of ingredients. Haagen-Dazs caters to a consumer base with a sophisticated palette. Bergamot Dark Chocolate is a departure from the played out combinations of vanilla bases and baked goods; it fits the profile of a flavor that should be in Haagen-Dazs' notoriously decadent line-up.
Apparently sometime in February there will be an opportunity for people to vote on the top ten flavors they find most enticing. I'll be sure to let you all know when Bergamot Dark Chocolate hits the top ten.
The sweepstake peaking my interest currently is sponsored by Haagen-Dazs. (Out of fairness it's more of a contest than a sweepstake but let's not waste time with semantics.) I'm still debating whether or not telling you about this will ruin my chances of winning. As we all know, sweepstakes are about probability, so don't go getting any big ideas that are better than mine.
Haagen-Dazs is searching for a new flavor; the company is asking that contestants submit their ideas via story, video, or artwork. Sometime in February, three finalists will be brought to the H-D factory in beautiful Bakersfield to doctor their flavor alongside experienced ice cream scientists. The winner will go to Gourmet magazine's headquarters in New York for a flavor unveiling. One million pints of this limited edition flavor will be released with the winner's name etc.
This is my dream and I've thought long and hard about it. I wanted the flavor to be a reflection of me with emphasis on invention and risk-taking. I'm a spice devotee
known to take Sriracha straight from the bottle. Initially I came up with flavors like spicy chamomile and jalapeno apricot. Then I re-read the rules and noticed that a flavor will be judged in part on the likelihood of Haagen-Dazs consumers wanting to try it...hmmm. I thought a while longer, took an informal poll of the friends I could find, and then arrived at the following. In response to the question "what was the inspiration for your flavor?" I submitted this entry (the writing is a little kitschy but go onto the website and see the video examples and then you'll understand)and please bear in mind I was limited to 200 words:
San Francisco is known for its foggy days. Few things offset the chill like a soothing cup of Earl Gray tea with a little milk and sugar. San Francisco is also known for its chocolate. From San Francisco Chocolate Company to Ghiradelli, many of us cannot live without a daily fix. Earl Gray tea has been paired with dark chocolate before though not, in my (albeit limited) knowledge, in ice cream. With this in mind I came up with the following flavor: Bergamot Dark Chocolate.
A dominant flavor in Earl Gray is Bergamot, which is a small acidic orange. Paired here, a hint of citrus will compliment the richness of the dark chocolate and the acid will marry with its faint bitterness. Add to this the signature creaminess found in Haagen-Dazs and the result will be ethereal.
Haagen-Dazs flavors are decadent and refined and play off the integrity and simplicity of ingredients. Haagen-Dazs caters to a consumer base with a sophisticated palette. Bergamot Dark Chocolate is a departure from the played out combinations of vanilla bases and baked goods; it fits the profile of a flavor that should be in Haagen-Dazs' notoriously decadent line-up.
Apparently sometime in February there will be an opportunity for people to vote on the top ten flavors they find most enticing. I'll be sure to let you all know when Bergamot Dark Chocolate hits the top ten.
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