A while back, an internal memo written by Starbucks chairman Howard Schultz leaked into the public. In essence he said that Starbucks had lost its way. That's basically how I feel about this blog. I have neglected it after noticing that my last few posts were going a little flat. My writing drifted from a well-crafted, artisan level cup of coffee, to an espresso drafted from an automatic machine. Push a button and the post showed up but without the added level of intimacy; my devotion was diminishing. So I took a break and collected my thoughts. The downtime was not exactly relaxing. Since my last post I made the decision to accept a full time job up here, found an apartment, bought a car and mentally adjusted to the prospect of staying here indefinitely. Throughout this transitional whirlwind I have attempted to determine what my "passion for food" really is about.
Before making the decision to stay here in Seattle I went to great lengths to try to find a way back to the Bay Area. I even cold-contacted the tablehopper. If you are privy to the Bay Area food scene you will agree that this woman has her ear to the ground and knows the ins and outs of the moving and shaking from farm to kitchen and kitchen to table. She sends out a weekly newsletter which I have been loyally reading since about the time she began. She makes herself very accessible to her public and does a service called "Tip Please" where you can write her to get a restaurant recommendation. You say, "I'm planning a birthday for my roommate and ten friends, we need a good sushi spot." She might say "Go to Sushi B (B is for Bistro)". Her only request is that after you go, you hit her back and tell her what you thought. Anyway, I reached out to her in a moment of rock-bottom desperation during which I was trying to rationalize returning to the ever-resplendent Bay Area without an equally legitimate job prospect. This woman is so down to earth and so approachable and considerate it floored me. So for that, and because I just think she and the newsletter are great, I'm going to encourage you to subscribe.
Now, let's talk about food since I think straying from that intention is at the heart of my problems with these recent posts. As you know, I'm a brunch fanatic. Though brunch, as god intended it, ought to be shared among good friends and serve to soothe a mediocre to quite heady hangover. The rub is that until this point I didn't have many friends in Seattle impacting both the likelihood of sharing a meal with friends as well as engaging in the kind of behavior that resulted in a hangover. Thus, not much brunching has really taken place for me. I've had two weekends of friends coupled with two weekends of drinking and the result was my discovery of my new favorite weekend brunch spot. Indeed, I found a place so tasty I actually went twice-- two days in a row. And as I write this I'm still digesting some fantastically tasty Migas compliments of Portage Bay (42nd Ave NE and Roosevelt).
Portage Bay: An open kitchen mingles with the neo-industrial architecture of this cozy little b-fast nook. A wall of south facing floor to ceiling windows looks out on the weather-permitting outdoor dining area. The space feels open and inviting despite the crowds that mingle around the door and entry-way. Located in the University District PB draws a mixed crowd of college students and cross-towners alike. Many arguments can be made for the appeal of this place: the nearly all locally sourced and mostly organic menu, the reasonable prices, or (and this is clearly the only real argument) the "breakfast bar". It's all about the breakfast bar. Running lengthwise along the counter top of the open kitchen, large glass bowls brim with fresh fruit: blackberries, raspberries, huckleberries, lingonberries, strawberries, peaches, pears. As well as butter, whipped cream, and Vermont maple syrup. Many of the dishes on the menu like Bananas Foster French toast with all natural challah bread from Great Harvest Bakery topped with Myer's rum brown sugar caramel sauce and sauteed organic/fair trade bananas come with a trip (or 3 or 7) to the breakfast bar. But don't think they aren't expecting that: the b-fast bar comes with the encouraging reminder "Remember, please take all you want, but eat all you take." If you aren't feeling like a glutton you can incorporate the breakfast bar into a lighter route. I've heard the Chai and organic vanilla soy milk steel cut oatmeal with your choice of toppings from the breakfast bar is quite a hit. If the breakfast bar doesn't serve as enough inspiration, a host of other tasty dishes will likely call your name. Perhaps a Benedict: Spicy black black bean-pancetta cakes, homemade organic cornbread, with our house-smoked tomato and saffron sauce. Or one of their heartwarming hashes: Grilled organic vegetables including red onion, celery, red, yellow and green peppers, red potatoes, sweet potatoes and fresh herbs. Topped with three organic scrambled eggs, all natural whole-wheat toast, and your choice of all-natural corned beef, House smoked wild salmon, chicken-basil sausage, sautéed mushrooms. And if a more traditional omelette suits your fancy perhaps you'd enjoy the not so traditional: Oregon Country Beef flatiron steak omelette folded with St. Andre Triple Cream Brie and topped with a selection of wild and cultivated sautéed mushrooms. Hungry yet?
On my first morning at Portage Bay the sun was almost shining which gives Seattlites the feeling that they ought to dine outdoors. The wait for four of us was only 20ish minutes, during which our appetites built as large beautifully assembled plates of blintzes and pancakes sailed passed us.
My second morning there, the next day, the weather had returned to the ever-typical Seattle funk and the waiting crowd on the sidewalk was large and milled about in the same sweet anticipation that I did. Although informed of a 45 minute wait for Katie and I, we managed to snake two places at the corner bar tucked away by the bathrooms. Though removed from the main dining room, it does have a quaint view of the cold/waiting crowd outside. Three minutes later menus were in our hands and the difficult process of choosing another dish had begun.
Though I love food and love breakfast it's rare for me to feel compelled to try almost everything on the menu. I feel that way about Protage Bay. I could go back daily until I'd tasted the whole business.
They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I'll take it a step further to say good breakfast is the most important meal to have in a city you are trying to call home.
Culinary Achievements and Allergic Reactions
I haven't abandoned this. Worry not, kind friends (er--mostly family).
I just got back from a weekend in New York. Not just any social romp mind you, but for the specific purpose of witnessing the marriage of one of my most adored cousins, Nick. I did myself the service of arriving one day early so I could get a little friend time. And as per usual my heart was lighter after seeing the shiny faces of my friendlies.
I've written about the Chelsea Market before. And sure enough, while staying in Chelsea there was no way I wasn't going to pay it a visit. In good form Sage let us cook at her place and I had the distinct privilege of my brother in tow so I got excited and decided I'd cook. It's been a while since I've cooked. I don't really do it ever in Seattle and what I do for work mostly involves assembly as all of our ingredients are RTU (industry speak for Ready To Use). So there we are, in Chelsea, on a sort of beautiful day. It was actually blustery with scattered showers but I was pleased as punch to be there and to be hanging out with my brother. Thus the revisionist historian will take over and we'll just say it was a balmy 73, not a cloud in the sky and a warm breeze was softly playing tag with us. My brother suggested we make fresh pasta for dinner which naturally lead me to fast track it to the specialty Italian store...whose name I really ought to know but don't.
After lengthy stops in both Italy (can I just call it that and you can you not judge me, please?) and the Produce Exchange, conveniently located close to one another in the great fish tank of Chelsea Market, we headed home with our bounty: fresh basil, pinenuts, garlic, a wedge of Parmesan, chili pepper flakes, spinach, strawberries, feta, onions, Italian peeled tomatoes, capers, kalamata olives, anchovy fillets, fresh pasta.
Dinner was--if you haven't solved the puzzle on your own:
Salad. Spinach, sliced strawberries, diced red onions, and crumbled feta lightly dressed with an orange marmalade balsamic vinaigrette.
Fresh Pasta with two sauces.
Pesto. Traditional with basil, pinenuts, olive oil, Parmesan cheese, a splash of balsamic -- you raise your eyebrows but acid is KEY to all great things, I'm telling you.
One Sicilian number. Owing its flavor to anchovies, capers, kalamata olives, tomatoes, garlic, chili pepper flakes, and yes a splash of balsamic.
I have been reading Heat by Bill Buford. The retelling of his time spent as "kitchen bitch" to Mario Batali owner of Babbo and Po among other known establishments. Not to mention a regular on Iron Chef America and the host of the once regularly programmed Molto Mario on the Food Network. Heat was a gift from a former attorney co-worker, quite a thoughtful one at that, as I ventured away from law to pursue what has become this odd little preoccupation with food . It took me almost four months to pick it up but it really couldn't be more timely as I am presently struggling with my own feelings of wanting to narrow my food learning while feeling simultaneously stupid and over qualified in competing moments with the job. Anyway, there are many little lessons peppered throughout Buford's tale, not the least of which is Mario's belief that fresh pasta is the main attraction and sauce the side-car (grossly simplified lesson-- read the book yourself.)
In no uncertain terms, dinner was a success. I tend not to give people enough credit for their eating habits, perhaps in large part because Starbucks' food customers are such an uninspired bunch, but it was great to be cooking for friends who were compelled to get down with my experimental anchovy sauce. And there weren't a lot of leftovers which always makes a cook happy.
Just to give credit to the meal I didn't create: dessert were cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery. For how famous that place is I only have one word: Overrated. And to be more specific: get a new frosting recipe and a little extra moisture in your cake wouldn't hurt either.
Anyway, I slept cozy on a nest of four ottomans and woke up Saturday to an interesting discovery: the bottom left quadrant of my lip was swollen and about the size of my thumb. My first reaction was that I'd been bitten in the face by an invisible rodent. But there was no pain anywhere. It was just fat. This was shocking for many reasons. 1) I am not allergic to anything, I have a sensitivity to sulfites and mild lactose intolerance-- otherwise, I've really got nothing. I can snort grass, dust mites, pollen, and peanuts and none would be the wiser yet here I was with a fat lip and nothing identifiably as the cause. So what did I do? I went and woke up my friend Vicki, asleep in the next room, who is a recent finisher of her first year at UCSF medical. Vicki determined it was an allergic reaction (juxtapose this to my brother's response "what invisible person hit you in the face?") advised me to ice and take a Benedryl. In my head all I've got is, "perfect, fly in for the family wedding, look like I spent the morning having a root canal." But blessed be those educated in medicine, two and a half hours later, during a fantastic brunch at Good my fat lip was normal size.
So I'm playing this all back in my head. What was the ingredient that I used in my own cooking that gave me a fat lip?...am I going to develop late onset food allergies?...is this the beginning of an ironic end to my food loving career?...will it come back at an even less convenient time? (What would be a less convenient time? Perhaps while I'm giving an important speech about how allergies really are just a sign of weakness and completely psychosomatic.)
I'll still be inclined to eat all those things with gusto, particularly that anchovy sauce, man that was some tasty business. But I will keep one eye on my own lips to see if the swelling returns.
I just got back from a weekend in New York. Not just any social romp mind you, but for the specific purpose of witnessing the marriage of one of my most adored cousins, Nick. I did myself the service of arriving one day early so I could get a little friend time. And as per usual my heart was lighter after seeing the shiny faces of my friendlies.
I've written about the Chelsea Market before. And sure enough, while staying in Chelsea there was no way I wasn't going to pay it a visit. In good form Sage let us cook at her place and I had the distinct privilege of my brother in tow so I got excited and decided I'd cook. It's been a while since I've cooked. I don't really do it ever in Seattle and what I do for work mostly involves assembly as all of our ingredients are RTU (industry speak for Ready To Use). So there we are, in Chelsea, on a sort of beautiful day. It was actually blustery with scattered showers but I was pleased as punch to be there and to be hanging out with my brother. Thus the revisionist historian will take over and we'll just say it was a balmy 73, not a cloud in the sky and a warm breeze was softly playing tag with us. My brother suggested we make fresh pasta for dinner which naturally lead me to fast track it to the specialty Italian store...whose name I really ought to know but don't.
After lengthy stops in both Italy (can I just call it that and you can you not judge me, please?) and the Produce Exchange, conveniently located close to one another in the great fish tank of Chelsea Market, we headed home with our bounty: fresh basil, pinenuts, garlic, a wedge of Parmesan, chili pepper flakes, spinach, strawberries, feta, onions, Italian peeled tomatoes, capers, kalamata olives, anchovy fillets, fresh pasta.
Dinner was--if you haven't solved the puzzle on your own:
Salad. Spinach, sliced strawberries, diced red onions, and crumbled feta lightly dressed with an orange marmalade balsamic vinaigrette.
Fresh Pasta with two sauces.
Pesto. Traditional with basil, pinenuts, olive oil, Parmesan cheese, a splash of balsamic -- you raise your eyebrows but acid is KEY to all great things, I'm telling you.
One Sicilian number. Owing its flavor to anchovies, capers, kalamata olives, tomatoes, garlic, chili pepper flakes, and yes a splash of balsamic.
I have been reading Heat by Bill Buford. The retelling of his time spent as "kitchen bitch" to Mario Batali owner of Babbo and Po among other known establishments. Not to mention a regular on Iron Chef America and the host of the once regularly programmed Molto Mario on the Food Network. Heat was a gift from a former attorney co-worker, quite a thoughtful one at that, as I ventured away from law to pursue what has become this odd little preoccupation with food . It took me almost four months to pick it up but it really couldn't be more timely as I am presently struggling with my own feelings of wanting to narrow my food learning while feeling simultaneously stupid and over qualified in competing moments with the job. Anyway, there are many little lessons peppered throughout Buford's tale, not the least of which is Mario's belief that fresh pasta is the main attraction and sauce the side-car (grossly simplified lesson-- read the book yourself.)
In no uncertain terms, dinner was a success. I tend not to give people enough credit for their eating habits, perhaps in large part because Starbucks' food customers are such an uninspired bunch, but it was great to be cooking for friends who were compelled to get down with my experimental anchovy sauce. And there weren't a lot of leftovers which always makes a cook happy.
Just to give credit to the meal I didn't create: dessert were cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery. For how famous that place is I only have one word: Overrated. And to be more specific: get a new frosting recipe and a little extra moisture in your cake wouldn't hurt either.
Anyway, I slept cozy on a nest of four ottomans and woke up Saturday to an interesting discovery: the bottom left quadrant of my lip was swollen and about the size of my thumb. My first reaction was that I'd been bitten in the face by an invisible rodent. But there was no pain anywhere. It was just fat. This was shocking for many reasons. 1) I am not allergic to anything, I have a sensitivity to sulfites and mild lactose intolerance-- otherwise, I've really got nothing. I can snort grass, dust mites, pollen, and peanuts and none would be the wiser yet here I was with a fat lip and nothing identifiably as the cause. So what did I do? I went and woke up my friend Vicki, asleep in the next room, who is a recent finisher of her first year at UCSF medical. Vicki determined it was an allergic reaction (juxtapose this to my brother's response "what invisible person hit you in the face?") advised me to ice and take a Benedryl. In my head all I've got is, "perfect, fly in for the family wedding, look like I spent the morning having a root canal." But blessed be those educated in medicine, two and a half hours later, during a fantastic brunch at Good my fat lip was normal size.
So I'm playing this all back in my head. What was the ingredient that I used in my own cooking that gave me a fat lip?...am I going to develop late onset food allergies?...is this the beginning of an ironic end to my food loving career?...will it come back at an even less convenient time? (What would be a less convenient time? Perhaps while I'm giving an important speech about how allergies really are just a sign of weakness and completely psychosomatic.)
I'll still be inclined to eat all those things with gusto, particularly that anchovy sauce, man that was some tasty business. But I will keep one eye on my own lips to see if the swelling returns.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)