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.
Showing posts with label sashimi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sashimi. Show all posts
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.
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