This is the post that should have happened back in May when I came home from my North African adventure with Katie. I had high hopes in the culinary department thanks to intrepid friends who had visited before me. I expected to eat camel meatballs every day and cous cous with various toppings and basically be snorting saffron all the time. Moroccan food is good, but most of the stuff you encounter on the beaten tourist track isn't THAT great. Things turned out to be pretty expensive, and most of the time, the more we spent the more mediocre the food was. So lesson learned. It usually pays to eat street food. And whatever you can get made by non-restaurant folks is a big bonus. Beautiful cous cous was cooked for us and served by a nomad family in the Black Desert (pictured below) and the best tajine was made by the family that ran a guest house in the Dades Valley where we spent the night crossing from Merzouga to Marrakesh.
Tajine, which is both the name for the distinctly Moroccan cooking dish in which the food is made and the food itself, is an assortment of lightly seasoned vegetables and usually a meat (chicken, lamb, beef). It is cooked on a ceramic plate underneath a ceramic chimney like cone. In restaurants it often came overcooked, as if the vegetables had been boiled beyond recognition and then plated back on the tajine just in time for service. It tended to be bland, but during the first week it was everywhere, and we ate it a lot. Cous cous was essentially the same as tajine but the veggies and meat arrived atop a mound of the little granules. Harira was also a common find. A traditional Moroccan soup that is tomato based with lentils and garbanzo beans. It was a favorite of mine and was especially good in Chefchaoen a small, rainy mountain town where a piping hot bowl ran us about $1.00. Although we never encountered camel meatballs, we did see this at a butcher shop in the Fez medina.
Halfway through the trip we were a little tajined out. We made the the discovery that Morocco has about as many Italian places as traditional Moroccan spots. We went on a pizza and pasta binge that lasted more than a few days and spanned a few cities. Most of the pasta was only ok at best but we found a few spots where it was LEGIT. One was in Essaouira and was a Sicilian restaurant run by a guy whose mother was Sicilian and father was Moroccan. That place was turning out some amazing food. Katie and I went two nights in a row. Their complimentary bread basket came with a plate of assorted goodies: creamy goat cheese, roasted eggplant, anchovies, and olives. I can't remember the name of the place at the moment, it might have been something like Mama Siciliana, I'm pretty sure that Mama was in the title. I'll try to figure it out. Here I am with the owner (on left) and head waiter who treated us to limoncello shots after closing.
The very best gem, I suppose, counts as street food. Although the cook was not technically a street vendor. While wandering through the maze that is Fez' old city, we happened upon this guy cooking up tasty sandwiches. He was frying eggs on a griddle alongside little potato cakes. When cooked he mashed them up together, stuffed them into a pita pocket, drizzled, a spicy chili sauce over the whole business, and then sprinkled it with cumin. That was a really good find. And for Morocco, the man had a pretty immaculate kitchen.
Another huge bonus was Fez' donut guy. This man wheeled a cart near the entrance of the Medina in the afternoon and rolled donuts and fried them to order. The best part was that you got to dip your hot oily donut in sugar yourself. Katie and I were way into it. We went so far as to buy four of them at the same time and each take down two, one after another. Below Katie gets busy and happy. Moroccan street food is definitely where its at. From sandwich carts, to dried fruit and nut stands, to orange juice vendors (all found easily at the main Plaza in Marrakesh, probably the most intense place I have ever been). But you want to be careful who you buy from. You can tell who has the freshest goods by taking a cursory lap before committing to a vendor. We found some pretty putrid looking mounds of kefta (mystery meaty balls) and lots of candy vendors whose carts were better off as beehives thanks to the swarms inside the case. Yikes.
Eating on Lakeshore
I said that I was unemployed and would resurrect this column and write all the time, and I lied. If John McCain does it, why can't I? The truth is I job search, I see friends, I fill my time with other things. My apologies for leading you on, it is a genuine hope that I will do this more, and do it better.
But just to keep the record straight, my lack of frequent posting has nothing to do with the fact that I haven't be eating well. Quite the contrary. Since moving to the Lakeshore neighborhood I've indulged constantly. I eat better than well, I probably eat better than you. I can chock this up to three things that I have that you don't, unless of course you're my neighbor.
1) Grand Avenue's insane weekend market that happens mere minutes from our house. Every Saturday we trek downhill, canvas bags in tow for our weekly supply of the season's bounty. We have our cheese and butter vendor, Spring Hill, (how great is it that I can buy homemade butter?) and our various suppliers of produce. Blossom Bluff sells us stone fruits. Zuckermans gives us potatoes in various shapes and colors. We've bought orchids, figs, corn, avocados and other delights. Perhaps the greatest indulgence is the Roli Roti truck which parks at the end of the chaos and turns out blistering, fat, rotisserie chickens from Petaluma. Half the fun is just standing there watching them spit cook and drip fat on each other. And smelling them isn't half bad either. Buy a whole chicken ($12) or just a half ($6.50). Finger licking good. There is also live music, like Dylan Moon, the 15 year old Pink Floyd phenom. And a bouncy castle as if you needed any more reasons to be jealous.
Here is a picture after a recent trip to market land (chicken not pictured).
2) I live just up the hill from Arizmendi bakery. Part of the employee owned, cooperative series that brought you similar ventures like The Cheese Board and the other Arizmendi. They put out killer baked goods, breads, and pizzas for a phenomenal price. They also sell their extra pizza dough (which is a house made sourdough crust) for $1.50 a round. They have a double corn muffin that is worthy of tears. My only question is why they don't make bagels.
3) Colonial donuts. $.85 Glazed Old Fashioned. Open 24 hours. You do the math.
I'll end this post with photos of the food we've been enjoying thanks to the Lakeshore neighborhood.
Tacos on handmade corn tortillas made even better by garden fresh salsa, a Justin specialty.
A tomato snack with farmers market avocado and shaved parmesan.
Its great to be back in California.
But just to keep the record straight, my lack of frequent posting has nothing to do with the fact that I haven't be eating well. Quite the contrary. Since moving to the Lakeshore neighborhood I've indulged constantly. I eat better than well, I probably eat better than you. I can chock this up to three things that I have that you don't, unless of course you're my neighbor.
1) Grand Avenue's insane weekend market that happens mere minutes from our house. Every Saturday we trek downhill, canvas bags in tow for our weekly supply of the season's bounty. We have our cheese and butter vendor, Spring Hill, (how great is it that I can buy homemade butter?) and our various suppliers of produce. Blossom Bluff sells us stone fruits. Zuckermans gives us potatoes in various shapes and colors. We've bought orchids, figs, corn, avocados and other delights. Perhaps the greatest indulgence is the Roli Roti truck which parks at the end of the chaos and turns out blistering, fat, rotisserie chickens from Petaluma. Half the fun is just standing there watching them spit cook and drip fat on each other. And smelling them isn't half bad either. Buy a whole chicken ($12) or just a half ($6.50). Finger licking good. There is also live music, like Dylan Moon, the 15 year old Pink Floyd phenom. And a bouncy castle as if you needed any more reasons to be jealous.
Here is a picture after a recent trip to market land (chicken not pictured).
2) I live just up the hill from Arizmendi bakery. Part of the employee owned, cooperative series that brought you similar ventures like The Cheese Board and the other Arizmendi. They put out killer baked goods, breads, and pizzas for a phenomenal price. They also sell their extra pizza dough (which is a house made sourdough crust) for $1.50 a round. They have a double corn muffin that is worthy of tears. My only question is why they don't make bagels.
3) Colonial donuts. $.85 Glazed Old Fashioned. Open 24 hours. You do the math.
I'll end this post with photos of the food we've been enjoying thanks to the Lakeshore neighborhood.
Tacos on handmade corn tortillas made even better by garden fresh salsa, a Justin specialty.
A tomato snack with farmers market avocado and shaved parmesan.
Its great to be back in California.
The Carnivores Carnival
It amazes me that only three posts ago I was announcing my decision to take a full time job in Seattle and settle "permanently". This just reconfirms the notion that permanence exists in sixth month increments for those of us in our middle twenties. In fact, as I write this I am sitting at my desk for the last time. Typing on a computer that will remain at this desk after I leave today.
I'm not sad at all and really won't miss a thing about the job or the place. But simultaneously I have no regrets. I have learned a lot this past year: about foodservice and distribution and supply, and also about my personal relationship with food and the interconnectedness of my appetite and my morals.
Which has brought me to a new place in my dietary road: I am eating meat again. Sort of. As with all things related to me, it is a condition loaded with caveats. The catalyst for the change was a combination of poor health (during which I decided I'd shock my system with some extra protein and see what happened) and the anticipation of my trip to Morocco with Katie during which I don't want to have dietary limitations. If lamb is put in front of me...so be it. But eating meat raised and processed domestically has always raised a lot of issues for me. The thought of the factory slaughter process is disgusting (and if you aren't disgusted by it you really should be)So it was with much forethought that I ventured into my new omnivorous state. The first meaty meal was at Tilth one of only two restaurants in the country to receive organic certification from Oregon Tilth. I assumed their meat would be the kind that was raised lovingly on a farm, frolicking among the buttercups by day and wrapped warmly at night in dry wicking blankets, as sweet promises of cotton candy and dreams were whispered softly in their ears. I ordered their flat iron steak medium rare, it showed up raaaaaarrrreee, or mooing, on an oversalted mound of mashed potatoes and some oversalted vegetable. The meat was fine though no fireworks were coursing through Seattle's drizzly sky. I didn't get sick which was a huge plus, but the experience left me feeling like there was more and better out there, and I was going to try it.
Steak attempt two involved the Farmers Market (and in my mind some very coddled cows who were probably thinking "my life has been so good here on this farm, if only I could give something back....I would give my left shoulder for a newly retired vegetarian to enjoy the fruits of my loving upbringing") and an outstanding grill job by one Mr. Riggs, roommate to one never before mentioned boyfriend, Justin. The sky was drizzly, again, but this time there were fireworks. The medium rare was a true medium rare. The outside of the steak had a light crispness and the inside was tender and juicy. Naturally the boys were over the moon about dragging a vegetarian down their carnivorous shame spiral. But it was a great meal and I've climbed on-board the lovingly-raised-locally-without-antibiotics-or-hormones-and-only-fed-sweet-grass-and-clear-water meat train.
I'm not sad at all and really won't miss a thing about the job or the place. But simultaneously I have no regrets. I have learned a lot this past year: about foodservice and distribution and supply, and also about my personal relationship with food and the interconnectedness of my appetite and my morals.
Which has brought me to a new place in my dietary road: I am eating meat again. Sort of. As with all things related to me, it is a condition loaded with caveats. The catalyst for the change was a combination of poor health (during which I decided I'd shock my system with some extra protein and see what happened) and the anticipation of my trip to Morocco with Katie during which I don't want to have dietary limitations. If lamb is put in front of me...so be it. But eating meat raised and processed domestically has always raised a lot of issues for me. The thought of the factory slaughter process is disgusting (and if you aren't disgusted by it you really should be)So it was with much forethought that I ventured into my new omnivorous state. The first meaty meal was at Tilth one of only two restaurants in the country to receive organic certification from Oregon Tilth. I assumed their meat would be the kind that was raised lovingly on a farm, frolicking among the buttercups by day and wrapped warmly at night in dry wicking blankets, as sweet promises of cotton candy and dreams were whispered softly in their ears. I ordered their flat iron steak medium rare, it showed up raaaaaarrrreee, or mooing, on an oversalted mound of mashed potatoes and some oversalted vegetable. The meat was fine though no fireworks were coursing through Seattle's drizzly sky. I didn't get sick which was a huge plus, but the experience left me feeling like there was more and better out there, and I was going to try it.
Steak attempt two involved the Farmers Market (and in my mind some very coddled cows who were probably thinking "my life has been so good here on this farm, if only I could give something back....I would give my left shoulder for a newly retired vegetarian to enjoy the fruits of my loving upbringing") and an outstanding grill job by one Mr. Riggs, roommate to one never before mentioned boyfriend, Justin. The sky was drizzly, again, but this time there were fireworks. The medium rare was a true medium rare. The outside of the steak had a light crispness and the inside was tender and juicy. Naturally the boys were over the moon about dragging a vegetarian down their carnivorous shame spiral. But it was a great meal and I've climbed on-board the lovingly-raised-locally-without-antibiotics-or-hormones-and-only-fed-sweet-grass-and-clear-water meat train.
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