Sushi Or Not Sushi, That Is The Question

I was reading an article in the Santa Cruz Sentinel the other day about making sushi at home for the holidays, when I suddenly understood the whole sushi principle. I'm not talking about the principle of raw fish not killing the patrons, which is a good principle of which I approve; I'm talking about the principle of sushi-construction. As it turns out, it sounds as if sushi chefs don't hand-craft the small, bite-sized morsels we know and love. They might instead make long rolls and then slice them up into smaller pieces. This does make more sense, even if it diminishes some of the sense of mystery of "How did they make such small rolls?" For the record, I am talking about maki sushi, as apparently there are different kinds of sushi, although I am not technically capable of explaining the difference at the moment.

The other takeaway I had from reading that article was the realization that I was hungry and had not consumed sushi since San Francisco.

Last night on my mad dash to the post office at 4:45, I passed Mobo Sushi by the Trader Joe's on Front Street, and I noted that it looked charming and comfortable, an impression that I might have gleaned from the fact that Mobo prominently advertises Sapporo.

In the spirit of our commitment to exploring Santa Cruz and trying new places to eat, Marina and I decided to try Mobo tonight, which was reported to be quite good.

It's hard to go wrong with sushi, which is almost universally satisfying, especially with the right beer. And in general, Mobo Sushi was satisfying, but there were a couple points where they did go wrong. For one thing, it seemed to take quite a while to get the sushi and then later to get the check and a to-go box for the leftovers, but that might have been simply because the place was crowded. It is evidently popular with locals, as Marina arrived early and people were lined up waiting for it to open at 5. The other failing was one of construction. Some of the pieces tended to fall apart when plucked by chopsticks. My friends will say this is because I tend to wreak havoc anytime I wield chopsticks, in much the same way that I spread chaos and confusion when shuffling cards, but I've actually polished my chopstick technique to a fine, functional competence. Also, Marina confirmed my impression of less than perfect maki-integrity. In addition, the tuna for the spicy tuna was a little soggy.

Not that this discouraged me from bringing home the leftovers for lunch tomorrow. It did taste good, of course. It always does.

The beer probably helped.

So my assessment, with which Marina concurred, was that it was a pleasant experience, and I would go back, but not until after I sample other sushi restaurants, especially the first sustainable sushi restaurant in the area, which is out in Capitola, and whose name escapes me at the moment.

Speaking of trying new things, Marina decided that she wants to find a place that serves pho, another staple we enjoyed in San Francisco but have not yet found in Santa Cruz. We speculated on whether there would be time on one of Marina's sojourns to the city to both socialize and track down the Vietnamese specialty. Once again, it seemed, we came back to the eternal question: Friend or Pho?

Visions of Sugar Canes

I found myself yesterday with some egg-nog and bourbon lighting up my insides and a small kitchen mallet poised over a red and white striped holiday tradition. I was told by my fiancee and her sister that you can't be a man until you have smashed candy canes with a mallet. "Ha," I scoffed, "I'm plenty secure with my masculinity. Way too secure to fall for that line."

Moments later, I brought the mallet down with finesse, with artistry, and looked down to see . . . an intact candy cane. Seriously? I tried again, same result. You should make cars out of candy canes, because they would be indestructible. Wham wham wham, and I hammered with greater intensity, causing the cutting board to jump and spreading fragments of visions of sugar canes all across the counter top.

I tend to think it should not have taken me fifteen minutes to smash four candy canes, but oh well. Moving on. The candy canes went into a sugary frosting to be sandwiched between two small chocolate cookies. Totally made it all worth it.

The reason for this candy cane massacre was not because it was just another Saturday night. It was the annual Christmas cookie production for Marina and her sister and mother.

I love the three of them dearly, but I have to say that the motto of these cookie days seems to be "Hurry up and have a festive, relaxing, family cookie-baking, damn it." Yet somehow, it works! Especially when there is plenty of enhanced egg-nog.

Oh, I also got to say the line, "You put the fun in funnel." They pretended not to hear me, but they heard me, all right. Oh yes, they heard me.

(I would have loved to provide photos of the beautiful cookies and rice krispie treats, but I was busy letting Marina's nephew play Pac-Man on my iPhone--Boden, by the way, is the first kamikaze Pac-Man player I've ever met, determinedly running directly into each ghost, saying "Got him!" Distracting a young boy from the fact that he can't have cookies yet is definitely the reason why I have no photos of the finished product to offer; it certainly has nothing to do with me having finished my own tin of cookies already. Not at all.)

Items learned: candy canes are hardy; parchment paper is great for baking; chaos is a little boy who wants sugar; and Marina's mom has cunningly figured out how to let Marina and Valerie take over the kitchen while she stays out of the way. I adopted a similar strategy. I mean, I spent the time bonding with Boden, providing a very important source of male energy, by which I mean I knew how to play Boden-Monster and race around the backyard. Some would say that was the most important ingredient for the cookies we made. That, or the candy canes.

Or, you know, not.

In all sincerity, it was an absolutely fun weekend, and the cookies turned out wonderfully.

What are your favorite types of Christmas cookies or other holiday treats?

Firefish? Try Hire Fish!

On visiting Santa Cruz, you will come across the Municipal Wharf, a long platform sticking WAAAYYYY out into the water on wooden pilings, where sea lions lounge on the beams supporting the structure and you will find all sorts of souvenir shops, kayak tour groups, and a wide assortment of dining options, from seafood to Mexican to a wine bar to seafood.

The setting is sensational. You might be concerned, though, that the restaurants would trade quality of location for quality of food, figuring tourists would be too entranced by the memory of rides at the Boardwalk and views of pelicans and sea lions to notice what they were eating.

Nevertheless, I've always wanted to check out more of the dining options on the wharf. I've gone many times to Gilda's for breakfast, because on our visits, we always stayed at the Dream Inn, right next to the wharf, and Gilda's makes for an irresistible breakfast destination for someone like me who likes coffee cheap and plentiful and a side of pancakes with my pancakes. And of course, the view of the water is a delightful novelty.

Since we moved to Santa Cruz, I've also tried the takeout window at the Dolphin. Marina was out of town, and I wanted to do something other than my usual solitary dinners at home, so I walked to the wharf, and the Dolphin, whose name has always intrigued me, caught my eye. I ordered fish and chips and a beer to go, before I saw the signs on the garbage can that said no beer allowed. I must have misread it, or else no one really cares, because they handed me a can of Corona and a plastic cup. When I got the fish and chips, I had to eat and drink quickly, and not just because I wasn't sure I should be drinking a beer in public. As soon as I sat down at a picnic table, hiding the beer can within the plastic cup--yes, in retrospect, there was probably a better strategy--I felt like a celebrity stalked by paparazzi. That's right, I compared paparazzi to a swarm of raucous, greedy seagulls. Not fair, I know, because seagulls are perfectly innocent creatures. I apologize, seagulls. Still, I would prefer you didn't hassle me for my fish and chips.

So that marked two restaurants I had sampled. A week or so ago, Marina and I were walking towards the lighthouse along West Cliff Drive, and I suggested we walk to the wharf for dinner. I had seen an advertisement in the morning's paper advertising a Local's Special at the Firefish Grill. Lots of tempting menu options, particularly the chicken dishes.

When we arrived, we found a cozily-lit establishment, plenty of space between the tables. We had a good view of the water even from our table in the middle of the room. The server brought some menus that didn't seem to include the specials; when I mentioned the item in the paper, she said, "Oh, yes, the locals' specials," and brought the appropriate list, which means that I had successfully verified my Santa Cruz residential creds. Huzzah!

In the end, though, none of the locals' specials could tempt me after I saw the fish and chips, battered in Anchor Steam. I ordered the fish and chips to follow the sweet and mellow mojito, and to accompany the Anchor Steam-battered entree, I ordered . . . an Anchor Steam. And as an appetizer, we sampled some of the best garlic bread I've ever had, light and buttery, with just the right amount of crispiness.



The garlic bread whetted my appetite for the fish and chips, which were the best I can remember having in some time, not too greasy and flavorful, accompanied by a small portion of coleslaw and excellent fries.



So far, the Wharf is off to a great start. Gilda's is a favorite and I loved Firefish. The Dolphin I could maybe take or leave, and would probably try a new place first before going back. It's all about the fish and chips on the wharf for me. Well, that and breakfast.

Have you had amazing fish and chips experiences? If so, where? I need to know these things.

Pumpkins And Egg Nog And Bourbon, Oh My

The holidays are coming up, which means it is time to figure out all the wonderful things you can do with egg nog and alcohol. Last year, I cultivated the mixture of egg nog and brandy or bourbon, occasionally cutting the egg nog with a little non-fat milk, which served both to make the egg nog last longer, and also to make it a little healthier. I would also sprinkle some ground nutmeg on the top, and I would sometimes make a version of a Brandy Alexander--1 oz Brandy, 1 oz Brown Creme de Cacao or Kahlua, 1 oz Half and Half, and 1/4 tsp of nutmeg--substituting egg nog for the Half and Half.

This year, I've ramped it up a little with some pumpkin liqueur, a wonderful concoction that I did not know existed. Trust Marina's unerring eye for strange and wonderful new sideboard candidates.

The liqueur can be enjoyed alone, over ice or neat. When mixed with egg nog, brandy, and maybe a dash of organic cream, it adds a tasty spice to a gentle, sweet and full-bodied drink which is perfect for a nightcap on an chilly evening by the ocean.

What are your favorite liquid treats for this time of year, alcoholic or non?

To Bean Or Not To Bean, That Is The Question

Last night's dinner marked several firsts: the first dinner I've cooked in Santa Cruz that merits a blog; the first time I've cooked green beans; and the first time I've set off a smoke alarm. I would say they are all important milestones.

You would think that green beans would be easy to cook. And you would probably be right. But all the recipes I looked up on Epicurious were very complicated, seating the green beans in the midst of a bunch of other ingredients, and last night, I was too tired for ingredients. I just wanted to cook something healthy that was not pasta, so I made a run to the local New Leaf grocery store, which is essentially a Whole Foods, or, for those of you in Montana, a Good Food Store. At New Leaf, I bought a boneless, skinless chicken breast, and asked them to cut it in half (note to self: next time, be sure to ask the butcher to cut it in half horizontally; cutting in half the other way doesn't give any advantages in terms of making the breast thinner for faster cooking time). I also picked up half a pound of fresh green beans--okay, I don't know that it was half a pound, but who's going to check?

In other New Leaf notes, egg nog is now available, which is the first sign of the holidays. I'm currently on my second egg nog and bourbon of the evening. Okay, okay, so it's my third.

Google mentioned sauteeing green beans, so I decided to wing it. However, it did mention trimming the strings from the beans, so I set to doing so. That took a while. And then it took a while more. It took me so long, in fact, that I realized that cutting green beans belongs in a French movie, perhaps featuring Marion Cotillard and Gerard Depardieu, chopping green beans and drinking melancholy glasses of red wine and brooding philosophically. After I finished trimming the beans, the couscous and chicken breasts were starting to cook rapidly, so I chose a haphazard strategy of piling up all the beans and slicing at them at random, which worked surprisingly well, probably better than I deserved.

It was one of my more chaotic cooking experiments, and that says a lot. Here's the evidence of chaos:





Pretty chaotic, considering all I had the energy to do was throw instant couscous in a pan and cook chicken in olive oil with salt and pepper, and cook green beans in olive oil. So chaotic that the smoke from the chicken set off the smoke alarm, which was a first. I think that means I've earned my stripes as a cook now, right?

I reckon this hasn't happened before because our old stove at the SF apartment had built-in fans for ventilation, while the new stove does not. Next time, I will open windows first.

Somehow, some way, order appeared from chaos.





All in all, not my best effort. I put too much water in the couscous, which caused absorption problems, and I had to drain and fluff and do some remedial heating to bring it up to the right consistency. The chicken was tasty and tender on the inside, but was perhaps excessively crispy. Still, it wasn't bad for being exhausted.

But short of baking green beans into a casserole, does anyone have good, simple ideas for spicing up their preparation?

A Relocation Of My Hunger For Knowledge (Pun Intended)

So we have moved from San Francisco to Santa Cruz, which changes the venue for the blog, but not the overall purpose. There are eateries to try, meals to cook, and beers to drink (and the local market stocks Moose Drool, my Montana friends! This makes me very happy).

The big news is that our bungalow, two blocks from the ocean, comes with a yard and vegetable beds! In the months ahead, we will be plotting--so to speak--a strategy for what to plant and when. In the meantime, we inherited a few small, delicious, sweet tomatoes, and some vaguely yellow things which I am calling squash, for want of a more precise knowledge. Here are photos; could someone please confirm for me if these are squash, and if so, what kind?




And how does one cook a squash? I have vague notions that one slices and roasts or sautees it. Or one blends it up and magically converts it to soup or a stew. Anyone have any good recipes to try?

INTERLUDE IN THE NORMALLY SCHEDULED BLOG WHILE I COOK MAC AND CHEESE AND CHICKEN SAUSAGE FOR LUNCH: I just learned that I have tendency, when slicing chicken sausage, to pull the knife to the left. This means that when I am cutting four sausages at a time, if I want the sections to come out roughly even, I need to have the sausages furthest away from me lined up indented to the right compared to the others, which I argue is a great image to use when writing about food. I cook in paragraphs. Maybe that should be the new blog motto.

As far as our Santa Cruz dining goes, we've had some good experiences. Lots to talk about, but I'll start with the two places we've tried since we've been here that we had never tried before.

The Parish Publick House

You might not expect much from a pub located in a shopping center that includes, among other merchants, Panda Express, Chase, ACE Hardware, and Safeway. But let me just say that this is no ordinary shopping center. The Safeway is the most advanced and glamorous Safeway I can remember, with a huge wine selection and an olive bar. Let's just say it makes the Safeway on Mission Street in SF seem even more sketchy than it is, which is saying a lot.

The Parish is a Sharks bar, with lots of TVs for watching sports, particularly hockey. The decor is quite good, full of the dark lighting and dark wood paneling one would expect from an authentic pub, and featuring a pool table with red felt at the back. They also have an extremely strong beer selection, including Moose Drool, and they recommend pairings with their menu items. They are apparently famous for their shepherd's pie, and I have it on good authority that this dish is quite tasty. The salmon fish and chips are also thoroughly satisfying; if the onion rings are a bit too greasy, that can be forgiven. All in all, a good pub to have as the local pub.

Burger.

Sunday night, when The Parish was too crowded, we headed instead for the nearby and grammatically-interesting Burger.. See, already the extra period has thrown me off. It also leads to the grammatically-dubious quote on the website, "At Burger. ingredients matter."

You would think that a place so hip as to recklessly use extraneous punctuation would appeal only to the college students from UCSC, but there was a good cross-section of humanity on hand. Burger. also uses random celebrity mugshots instead of numbers; when we placed our orders, we got pictures of Mischa Barton and an unrecognizable dreadlocked guy whom we later learned was Tommy Lee. Clever, but like so many hip things, problematic when you think about it, because how are the servers supposed to see who you have from a distance?

It is definitely a popular establishment. We had to stake a claim to a single table and chair and send forays to the counter to order, until a couple nearby left and we were able to swoop like vultures on the additional seats. The place was lively, with big screens showing sports and a hefty beer selection that looked quite promising. They even offer beer-shakes, which seems good in theory but which I did not find appealing on the night.

As for beer, Marina tried a can of Fat Cat beer, but didn't like it much and passed it on to me. Clever name aside, I will probably not try this again, because it seems to be a hip version of Bud, Coors, Miller, etc. In other words, it tasted like mildly flavored water. We also shared a pint of Retribution beer, which was better, but a little too sweet for my taste. However, the Pink Burger that I ordered--a salmon burger with aioli and dill, was light and flavorful and satisfying, although the serving size of the burger and fries seemed slightly San Franciscan, which is to say, small for $9. Still, it was good enough that I would certainly go again.

Keeping Currant On The Philosophy Of Salad

I think what I like best about salad is the laissez-faire nature of its preparation. If you can eat it, you can put it in a salad. That pretty much sums up my perspective on salad.

That may be a bit simplistic. There are some things that don't belong in a salad, such as sawdust, or even worse, sauerkraut. Still, there is a lot of flexibility, and a salad is difficult to butcher, so to speak.

Nevertheless, my latest idea for a salad innovation was not attractive to Marina. In fact, it was so definitively NOT attractive to her that she left the country for a month in the hope that I would forget all about it.

I do not forget, however.

So last night, taking advantage of Marina's absence and resultant lack of veto power, I decided to combine crispy lettuce from a romaine heart, sliced radishes--which have become my favorite staple for salads due to their peppery kick--dried currants, and crumbled goat cheese.



I made just a small portion, a one serving size to go with the pasta and chicken sausage entree and a glass of Carmenere. As with most of my salads, I skipped any sort of dressing. A lot of people find this tendency of mine to be weird, but I would argue that salad nudists are people too, with a valid point of view.

The goat cheese had a heavy taste, slightly sour, but not excessively so, and it matched well with the sweetness of the currants and the bite of the radishes. I would call it a success.

What are the oddest combinations you have tried in a salad, and what were the results?

The Continuing Adventures of The Dining Out Amateur: Another Mission In The Mission

You might be surprised, but sometimes life gets a bit busy, too busy to check out new restaurants. Thus, the relative dearth of entries on this blog, particularly regarding new restaurants and my reaction to them. I even considered writing about eating pizza at Chuck E. Cheese in Sacramento for my future nephew-by-marriage's birthday, animatronic rodents and all. (Nephew-by-marriage seems awkward. Nephew-in-law? Bonus nephew? Mascot?)

This is not to say we haven't eaten. That's just not plausible. For one thing, even Chuck E. Cheese pizza can technically be considered food. But we have tended to rely on the standard choices recently, good as they are.

So yes, we've cooked, but we haven't dined out as much. But there are some days when enough is enough and you just have to get out and go to Rosamunde for gourmet sausage and delicious beer. And then when you find that Rosamunde is packed to the gills, you have to find a new place to eat.

La Traviata

We were on Mission Street, between the Bart Station at 24th Street and 25th Street, trying to decide where to eat. We talked about walking around to Valencia to Pi Bar, but we knew that might be crowded too. We settled on choosing between Italian and Mexican, and that seemed to present an obvious choice.

I've walked past La Traviata on Mission Street almost every day on my way home from work. Being a fan of Italian food--pasta and wine and garlic bread? Who, other than my crazy friend Jeff, wouldn't love it?--I've always been tempted by it. It has a small, modest entryway, a recessed alcove with a door oriented perpendicularly to the street, and a friendly, well-used wooden sign. It seemed a welcome prospect.

Or not. Yelp's review, which seemed favorable, assured us it was open at 5:30. The glowing red open sign was another good indication.

The locked door, however, was not so favorable. No signs in the window indicating closed for a private party. No sign of life when I tugged on the door. There was a small doorbell next to it. Maybe they wanted us to ring the doorbell, which seems paranoid. In any case, we decided to move on. If they didn't want our money, we didn't want their food.

I'm sure there was a reasonable explanation. But deny me Italian food and you've earned my enmity; there is so much good Italian food in this city, I feel like I have no reason to try La Traviata again.

So instead, we strolled down to 23rd and around the corner to the Velvet Cantina at Bartlett.

I had a couple doubts at first. The layout of the place, two separate, darkish rooms connected by a narrow hall, threatened to feel oppressive.

But two words: watermelon margaritas. Yeah. Words can't do justice.

The fish tacos were also quite satisfying, and I actually liked the rice and beans even more. It also seemed to avoid being too crowded; maybe because it was slightly off the beaten path. I guess writing about it could be risky, because now other people might be there when I want to go.

Yes, on that thought, I should tell you that I totally made up the Velvet Cantina. It doesn't actually exist. Forget I mentioned it.

Chicken Of The Forest

You've heard of Chicken of the Sea, which is actually tuna, and as Jerry Seinfeld pointed out, that's lunacy--chickens don't live in the sea; tuna is nothing like a chicken. But something that is like chicken is Chicken of the Forest, and that's because it is chicken.

Chicken of the Forest--which is my description, not the recipe's--is composed of chicken breasts rubbed in rosemary and oregano and then pan-fried in olive oil. It looks like a chicken breast was dropped through a pine tree and a shrub. I wasn't sure this what the recipe intended when it said to rub the rosemary and oregano into the chicken, along with salt and a little pepper:



It just looked wrong, but in my gung-ho culinary adventure mode, I plowed on, damn the twigs and stems. This came after I sliced the chicken breast apart and pounded the resulting four pieces into roughly equal thicknesses with a meat mallet. That is strangely satisfying, and possibly a worrisome statement about my psyche, but what happens in the kitchen, stays in the kitchen, except when I want to write about it on this blog. Moving on . . .

As the olive oil started to whisper and pop, I slapped the chicken pieces down in the iron skillet. While I was attending to this, Marina was attending to the appetizers of cheese--Drunken Goat and a Havarti--and crackers, a little bit of wine, and the salad I placed on the table:



Say what you will about chicken draped in pine trees and shrubbery, it sure smells good in a frying pan, and as Marina pointed out, we would just scrape off the herbs when eating the chicken:



I was a little concerned about the flammability of this project. After all, if the forest metaphor was accurate, what would you imagine would happen if you put a bunch of trees in the midst of hot oil and turned up the heat? Exactly.

However, with the magic of cooking, no conflagrations appeared, and the chicken breast cooked exquisitely and was soon ready to be paired with couscous in a healthy, tasty, and flavorful entree.



As we ate, and before we finished, I asked Marina if I should bring out dessert. She concurred, but instead of the cookies I so cleverly mentioned, I brought out this:



As you can tell from the picture, she said yes.

Apparently, though, this was not the surprise twist I thought it was. Apparently, she suspected this was going to happen when I had declared a week earlier that I was going to cook that night. Considering how regularly I cook, I had thought this would not be a giveaway, but apparently I have no poker face. She knew for sure when I served crackers and cheese. I guess I'm not as good at surprises as I thought, although I would argue that she was probably on high alert for possible surprises, since she and I had visited the artist who made the ring about a month prior.

In any case, a very special dinner. Also tasty. The chicken, that is, not the ring. We didn't actually eat the ring, even if it was dessert.

A Mix Of Mystery Vegetables

As part of our ongoing quest to fool ourselves into thinking we are adults, Marina and I like the notion of eating vegetables, by which I don't mean ketchup. Readers of the blog will remember our earlier escapades with vegetable roulette. Once again, we took part in a guerrilla vegetable purchase from the same farm, although this time, dealers and buyers were so brazen that all the transactions took place in full daylight.

We received a selection similar to our previous endeavor, but with bonus strawberries. Bonus strawberries make any day a good day, in my opinion. This time, it was maybe a little heavier on the greens, some of which did not fare so well while waiting for Marina to return from Mexico; the same fate befell a few carrots.

However, we still had a decent selection. We toyed with the notion of a stir-fry, until we realized the only soy sauce we had was a bit past its prime. In truth, the vegetables we decided to use did not seem totally compatible with the notion of a stir-fry: miniature potatoes, a bright orange cauliflower variant, and broccoli. I suggested the radishes, which I love for their peppery bite, but Marina gave me a look and I thought better of it.

We decided to do a saute of sorts, as a stir-fry substitute. We cooked some rice from Whole Foods in the fancy rice cooker I acquired from Peter and Roni before they sailed into the West--New Zealand, that is. While that was cooking, I melted butter and some vegetable oil in an pan, added pepper and a dash of salt. I would have added some minced garlic, but here we ran into an unexpected obstacle: the most insidiously-impossible-to-open jar I have ever seen. Do not buy this brand:



I say this not just to warn you, but also out of spite, because I really wanted some minced garlic. Oh well.

There was some question as to how well the potatoes would fare in a saute, so I sliced them finely and put them in well before the other vegetables. Then I realized they were almost getting too done, so I had to rush to turn down the heat and add the other vegetables.

It actually looked quite colorful at this stage:



This dish turned out surprisingly well, and by surprisingly, I mean that I was surprised by two things: the potatoes took on the texture and appearance of the chicken apple sausage that we love so well, and the cauliflower turned yellowish and looked like scrambled eggs. It even fooled my taste buds to an extent.





All in all, it was a success and a pleasant surprise.

Eggs Aren't Just For Easter Any More

So I said I was going to stuff okra for my next blog entry. But then I got busy, and the one time I had a chance to go shopping, I couldn't find okra in the local Good Life Grocery. It's a vegetable, right? I assume I should get it fresh, rather than frozen.

So instead, I'm going to write about scrambled eggs.

Yes, again, but with a twist. This time, there are healthy vegetables involved, for vitamins and color.

Let's face it; scrambled eggs are delightfully the same, in terms of consistency and color. But sometimes, that yellow and white color gets kind of boring, plus heart-heavy. Variety is demanded.

You can sear the eggs a little bit, letting them stay in the pan a little longer to develop a light coat of brown crunchiness in places. But tonight, I took a different path, which made me feel virtuous and healthy. I chopped up a part of a red pepper and a few florets of broccoli, and tossed them in the pan with the eggs.



If I had planned ahead more, I would have chopped them more finely. The eggs couldn't really enfold the large chunks of vegetable. I was kind of scrambling the eggs around the obstacles presented by the pepper and broccoli. If I had followed my original instinct and added sliced radishes . . . well, that's just too crazy to contemplate.

Nevertheless, I think it came out quite well. Protein and vegetables! Color and health! Disregard the fact that I had a poppy seed bagel slathered in butter and a glass of yellow wine to go with the main course, because those things are just implied in a scrambled egg meal, and therefore don't really count in considering the healthiness of one's food choice.

Plus, it was kind of pretty.

Dining In Mexico, An Exhaustive Study

First, a word about the title: it is totally valid to call it exhaustive, because it is tiring to drink so much refreshing beer. So there.

Now, here's the long-awaited chronicle of our trip to Mexico, in terms of food and drink. It can be summarized in four words: "beer and fish tacos." At least, it can for me. Marina has a somewhat more sophisticated palate when it comes to travel food.

Here we go:



So to clarify, not every single meal we had consisted of fish tacos. For instance, on our first night in Loreto, we ate in a garden at a restaurant called El Papagayo Cantando, or The Singing Parakeet, which is where I imbibed that first beer on Mexican soil--a ceremonial moment, my friends. There, I ate a spicy fish of the day meal that was quite tasty, and listened to Marina converse in Spanish with the waiter and in English with the expatriate owners. I wonder if the locals who work in towns based on tourism like Loreto find a thrill or a sense of relief in speaking to a visitor fluent in Spanish.

Anyway, from that point on, I ate a lot of fish tacos. I believe Baja is famous for fish tacos, and if it isn't, it should be.

After a magical boat ride on Sunday, replete with a dolphins, sea lions, a dead scorpion, and a blue whale, we wandered the narrow, empty streets of Loreto and came upon this small establishment:




It looked to be a converted trailer and covered car-port, with tables in the shade, festively decorated. There was an amazing fabricated shark, being slowly covered in beautiful beadwork by a young man named Mariano, of the Huichol people in mainland Mexico, who talked to us about the art form, which has a dwindling number of practitioners, and how he would like to teach children about the tradtion, but is challenged by the fact that he can't read or write.




We were the only ones in the restaurant, and some of the staff was eating at a back table, watching a soccer game. Marina saw my wistful expression, so mentioned to one of the workers that I was a big football fan. He seemed intrigued, but when he asked me who my favorite team was, any rudimentary grasp of Spanish in terms of using it to discuss soccer flew out of my head like a Wayne Rooney bicycle kick flies into the net. All I could say was "I like Chicharito. He was great at the World Cup," and other bluster in English. I was like the kid who tries to impress his parents with a magic trick that he sort-of-almost-kind-of understands but hasn't quite perfected yet.

But I had fish tacos and beer, so I was undaunted. Be jealous:






There is something delightfully simple about a fish taco. Sweet, crunchy, a little kick from salsa and the cabbage or lettuce, and the beer aspect helps too.

One more bonus fish taco picture, from our lunch in Mulege on Monday as we headed towards San Ignacio:



There is undoubtedly more to talk about when it comes to a food-centric perspective on Mexico, but for now, I must go prepare to make brunch. As a teaser for this next week, though, I will tell you that in a long-delayed response to a reader-survey, I will be experimenting with okra this week while Marina is out of town. Assuming I can figure out what okra is.

Let's Get Drunk And Call It Education

So what do educated San Franciscans do on a Wednesday night? We head to SOMA and learn to taste cognac in a building so new that we walk past work-benches, dust sheets, and scattered tools through a wide-open garage still under construction.

We are also told about www.sfbeerweek.com and the soon-to-be-active www.experiencecognac.com, so we can take our drinking into the 21st century, which is good, because our real life is in the 21st century too. [Marina: the event was unsubtly subsidized by France and the EU, emphasizing the appellation-style uniqueness of the Cognac region on France's Atlantic coast.]

Did I just shill? Yes, but keep in mind that for $20, I got two glasses of punch, four generous shots of cognac, and two cocktails. I may be for sale, but at least I get value for money.

The last whisky class we took was at 18 Reasons. This cognac class was at The Boothby Center For The Beverage Arts, the home of The Barbary Coast Conservancy of the American Cocktail. I think the name leaves no need for further explanation. Yes, we San Franciscans take cocktails seriously. We could devote our time to learning foreign languages--like Chinese or Arabic--or preparing for the apocalypse by cultivating an urban garden, but why do that when we can learn proper mixology? When Rome burns, I will have my fiddle ready. And a tumbler of whiskey, too.

You might think I'm being sarcastic. I'm never sarcastic when it comes to cocktails. I'm almost 31--tomorrow's my birthday, in fact--so I no longer feel the need to hide the fact that I like learning about cocktails. Yes, learning foreign languages would be good--Marina and I have talked about studying Italian--but that would not make for as amusing a topic as learning about cocktails, at least not in this forum, so cocktails it is!

The class started out in the manner of a pep rally, really. To paraphrase the first speaker's introduction: "Cognac is great and marvelous and delightful, blah blah blah. We have a treat for you today. We're starting at this level" as he held his arm up at a random height at approximately eye-level, "and going on from there."

He went on to extol the foresight of the "houses" in the Cognac region in France, who on multiple occasions resisted the urge to form monopolies on cognac-production for the sake of preserving the economy of the region as a whole. It was about that time that two random guys with classic French accents took their leave of the class amidst good-hearted banter with the instructors. [Marina: Am I sensing some anti-Francophone hostility?]

Later, he pointed out that the EU passed a law in 2008 to protect the name Cognac, preserving the name for just those spirits distilled in the region in France. Apparently the US is one of few countries to not really respect that. Silly America.

Did I mention that the class was developed in conjunction with Le Bureau National Interprofessionnel du Cognac?

I did love the description of the town of Cognac, where apparently as you walk down the street, you can smell the cognac permeating the ground from the cellars holding millions of barrels. That's a great image. [Marina: ew.]

The class became even more fascinating when we delved into the history and nature of cognac itself. For one, we learned that you do not heat the snifter. Cognac is drunk at room temperature, which is fitting, because so am I, usually.

A quick and dirty summary of what we learned, in a list of highlights that especially intrigued me:

1) In the 12th and 13th centuries, the Cognac region of France was known for wine, and large salt deposits. Dutch and English traders came and exported salt and wine all around the world. As the wine would start to spoil, the sailors started cooking the wine, before adding water back when they reached their destination. This made for a more intense drink, called eaux-de-vie.

2) Punch came about when English sailors in India ran out of beer. Looking for a palatable drink, they would take the eaux-de-vie on board, add citrus, water, and spice, such as nutmeg. This punch became an English naval tradition that spread back to England in the 1670s, where it took root in coffeehouses.

3) Punch is a "welcoming drink," very much oriented to a community. It was traditionally served in small amounts so that people would go back to the punch bowl repeatedly, where they could meet other drinkers, gossip, complain about the unreasonable demands of ye olde reports at work, etc.

4) Residents of the US are the number one consumers of cognac in the world, but the Chinese are quickly catching up. We have our work cut out for us, America!

5) When you taste, you should take two sips. The first sip is merely a "rinse" that you spit out, which may be the only time in the world where spitting marks you as discerning and educated. The reason for this is that the first sip, and spitting it out, cleanses your palate of whatever you ate or drank previously. And there was a distinctly noticeable difference in the sensation of the first and second sips of each cognac we tasted.

6) One reason for cocktails before dinner is that the acidity in a cocktail makes you hungry by activating gastric juices. That's just nifty!

7) "We drink to taste good things . . . We taste how we eat." I think that is as useful a philosophy as you are likely to find in this crazy old world. Or at least as usefully hedonistic a philosophy, which is all we can ask for, probably.

IN OTHER NEWS:

I've heard that some people found this blog particularly fun in the beginning, when I knew less about what I was doing. Apparently I have learned way too quickly. But never let it be said that I don't try to give people what they want. Please submit some intriguing, random/obscure culinary experiments you would like Marina and me to attempt to take us out of our comfort zone, keeping in mind the following restrictions:

a) I don't eat red meat or pork (pork is not red meat, right?);

b) I can't stand sauerkraut, so sauerkraut would earn an immediate veto; and

c) no mushrooms.

Let the games begin!

Why I Love Bernal, Part 17

When one lives in a city, it is easy to fall into a routine, much as one falls into a routine anywhere. Well, at least it is easy for me. There have been times when I have simply wanted to come home after work, the initial thrill of exploring new areas of the city having seemingly faded back behind my desire to relax at home with a book, a movie, good food at home with Marina.

But there is still much to see and do in San Francisco, especially when it comes to food and drink. Recently, Marina and I have started talking much more seriously about moving out of the city in the not-too-distant future. There are many factors for this. We both love small towns; Marina has lived in the city for ten years; we would love the space to have a garden; her sister and brother-in-law and nephew are moving to Santa Cruz in November, and her mother will likely follow.

This is still up in the air, but seems a probable destination. In the meantime, it has reinvigorated in me the desire to pay attention to and absorb as much of this city as I can. One project involves writing poems about San Francisco as a means of recommencing poetry as a frequent practice. The other project, more germane to this blog, is the continued experimentation with new bars and restaurants, because everyone likes to read about places to drink and eat.

We live in a corridor rich in food and drink, much of which I have not yet explored. I've written before about Pi Bar, Emmy's Spaghetti Shack, Specchio, and a few other places in the Valencia/Mission district, but this barely scratched the surface of our options.

Recently, a cocktail bar opened literally down the hill from us, right at the corner where Mission meets Valencia. The Royal Cuckoo took over the premises abandoned by a prior dive bar named Belinda's. As you enter the long, narrow room, you see a bar dominating the right wall, with shelves of liquors and mixers illuminated and glittering in contrast with the overall dim light. It is relatively dark in The Royal Cuckoo, but it isn't the I-can't-see-to-whom-I'm-talking-or-what-I'm-drinking dark, but the relax-and-savor-a-cocktail dark. Benches and chairs line the left wall, alternating with small wooden tables with short lamps. In the back--and this is a cool feature--instead of a jukebox, there is a list of records--by which I mean vinyl records--that you can peruse and turn in a request to the bartender. The scratchy sounds of a record player add a certain character to the music that blends perfectly, somehow, with the emphasis on cocktails over beer or wine.

There is a mellow vibe, with the red paint of the walls and the dark mahogany of the bar giving a warm feeling, although the second time we went there, on Friday night, it was somewhat busier than the first time, which was on a Wednesday night. People may be starting to discover the place, or maybe it was just a weekend phenomenon. I had delicious brandy sidecars on both visits. Marina tried one of their specialty cocktails, the red margarita, which was smooth and tasty.

On Friday night, after the cocktail at The Royal Cuckoo, we spontaneously decided to eat at El Patio, kitty-corner from the bar, and still just down the hill from home. I have walked past the place for years, but had never eaten there. It specializes in Salvadorean and Mexican food. I was keen on trying proper pupusas, as my only prior experience had been with the pupusas we bought from Whole Foods. We ordered cheese pupusas, a plate of flautas, garlic prawns, Coronas and corn chowder--which was so sweet and tasty that I could understand why some people have it for dessert. The pupusas were satisfying, loaded up with coleslaw and salsa. (The Mexican version of Judge Judy was on TV, which was fascinating to try to guess what the plaintiffs were complaining about so vociferously. I'm able to catch a few words in Spanish here and there--for instance, I was able to figure out fairly quickly that Marina had ordered the entrees for us--but for the most part, Mexican television is a mystery to me, as my ears don't work fast enough--the same holds true while watching a Mexican soccer game.)

Overall, I enjoyed the meal, although the light felt a little bit harsh against the white stone walls. It could be it is a place better to eat at during the day, when the shade might be a comfort against the sun, or the outside light from the window moderates the need for the overhead lights. I would definitely go back for the corn chowder or the pupusas, although the rest of the food didn't seem vastly superior to Puerto Alegre, which has a much cozier atmosphere.

Whiskey Or Whisky? Whatever Fills Your Tumbler.

From time to time, Marina and I have injected our food education with a little amateur mixology, because what's food without a good cocktail or a shot of something? Last year, for instance, on one of our most brilliant dates, Marina surprised me with a town car ride out to the Cliff House at Sutro Baths to attend a mixology mix-off between four bartenders from four of the hottest cocktail bars in the city. Think Battle of The Bands, but with cocktail shakers instead of electric guitars.

Yes, perhaps this could be considered in the vein of Nero fiddling while Rome burns, but hey, with a good cocktail, the burning of the city just looks festive. And there's nothing wrong with applying a little erudition to things one likes. Look at High Fidelity. No, seriously, look at it, if you haven't. Great film, especially with a glass of something.

In the spirit--so to speak--of educating ourselves, we signed up for a Whisky Primer class at 18 Reasons, the local food/drink education center of the Bi-Rite Market. It was taught by Peter, the author of a terrific blog, The Casks.

Here's an amazing thing: if you put twenty or twenty-five people around a long wooden table for a class, and then add samples of five different whiskeys, the class loosens up rather quickly. Who knew?

As an example, compare one of the notes I wrote at the beginning of the class--"single malt-only barley, made in one distillery"--with some other examples I wrote at the end--"you can spell it whisky or whiskey; they won't punch you in the face either way" and "when I win the lottery, we will take a Scotch tour. In Scotland."

Here are some of the other fascinating things we learned:

--To be called bourbon, it must be aged two years in a brand new barrel made from charred American oak. This isn't necessarily because of a scientific need for new barrels each time, but because the cooper's union wanted it so, which guarantees a lot of work for barrel-makers. Yes, coopers have their own union, which I think is just terrific.

--As whiskey matures and ages, as atmospheric conditions change and the wood of the barrel expands and contracts, a bit of the spirit evaporates, which is called "the angel's share." Don't tell me that's not brilliantly poetic. No wonder writers drink.

--Scotch from the Isla region is aged for at least 10 years in ex-bourbon casks on the beach--now you know where the bourbon barrels are sent by the coopers. How picturesque is that? I'll tell you: 8.77 out of 9.

Here are my (obviously subjective) impressions and descriptions of the five whiskeys we sampled. We had them in pairs, the first two, the third and fourth, and then capped with the fifth:

1) Eagle Rare 10 Year Old Bourbon
--Spicy and hot, sweet on the front of the tongue, spicy on the back of the tongue. The taste and the heat of it lingered the longest of any of the samples--although that could be that my taste buds dulled as more and more whiskey washed over them. Water mellowed the kick of it by quite a bit.

2) Sazerac 6 Year Old Rye Whiskey
--The difference with rye from bourbon? Much more rye, and I could taste it. I tasted rye bread, olives, and onions, and the phrase "Deli Whiskey" came to mind. Heavier on the tongue, and I preferred the bourbon.

3) Powers 12 Year Old Irish Whiskey
--This was the only triple-distilled whiskey. The rest were double-distilled. As a result, it was purer, lighter, and mellower. It had a light and fruity taste, and was probably my favorite of all we sampled. All the more reason to travel to Ireland some day, perhaps as an addendum to that Scotch tour.

4) Balvenie 12 Year Old Doublewood
--From a family owned distillery from the Speyside region of Scotland, matured first in ex-bourbon casks, then in sherry casks. The family does everything but farm the barley. Someone shouted out that it tasted like chocolate, which totally influenced my reaction, which was akin to reading the Introduction to a classic novel, which I never do. Oh well. (You can see the loosening up of the tone of my notes at this point, can't you?) It was warm, coiling up in the throat like a dragon, and mellowed well with water.

5) Laphroaig 10 Year Old Scotch Whisky
--This is the one matured in casks on the beach, which makes it famous for "pungent, maritime tones." I think this is the brand served at Ben's wedding. It is smoky, powerful, with a taste of peat. It was paired with a piece of dark chocolate, and I loved that, which says a lot, because I am generally not a fan of dark chocolate, which is usually too bitter for my liking.

All in all, it was a wonderful evening, very informative, and intoxicating--intoxicating in the sense of knowledge gained, I mean, and the accompanying sense of power. What did you think I meant?

A Dark And Stormy Vegetable Night

6:30 p.m. Night had fallen on San Francisco. The truck was parked on a side street in the Dogpatch, a block away from the Hell's Angels Clubhouse, merchandise stacked up in big bags on the curb, shadowy people checking off names from a list on a clipboard. Cars were parked helter-skelter as people braved the darkness to get their fix . . . of farm-fresh vegetables.

We were buying a mystery bag of vegetables from a small, organic family farm near Watsonville, Mariquita Farm. This is not the first time we have dabbled in Community Supported Agriculture, which is a growing trend--so to speak--where you can subscribe to a certain farm and receive regular deliveries of fresh vegetables. We signed up for one briefly last year, but the trouble was, the boxes were so full of vegetables, and not always perfectly fresh vegetables, that we were barely able to make a dent in the harvest before it spoiled. [Marina: This time we took advantage of the farm's one-off winter "mystery box" offers through their Ladybug Buying Club. Unlike our previous CSA foray, this time everything was super fresh, with heirloom varieties to boot.]

The bag was as big as my torso, and while my workouts may tend to focus more on stationary bike work and sit-ups, that is still saying something. The challenge we faced was what to make with all these vegetables, preferably something more interesting than just making a gigantic salad. It was a rather daunting task, to be sure. [The impressive quantity of veggies combined with limited time for freshness wasn't the only challenge. There were more than a few legumes that we couldn't even identify with confidence. Granted, iceberg lettuce was one of the few veggies on offer during my childhood - but Devin was equally stumped. Thankfully the farm provided an online list of "mystery box" contents, and eventually we identified all of the mysterious greens. The farm also kindly proffered recipes for less common items, and informed blog with veggie wisdom.]






Now, clearly there could be good salads made from the ingredients that included two kinds of radicchio, gem lettuce, onions, scallions, parsnips, beets, chard, sorrel, and cabbage, but what were we to do with the sizable heads of broccoli romanesco and two pounds of potatoes? In my past, I've often bought potatoes and cauliflower and broccoli and started out eating them enthusiastically, only to lose interest and find a bag of said vegetable months later in less than stellar condition.

The trick, clearly, was to trick other people into eating their vegetables. We invited my sister, Marina's cousin Seth, and Seth's girlfriend Amber for dinner. As it turned out, we also tricked Rosie by putting her to work with us in an elaborate preparation that turned out quite well.

We settled on a gratin dish with the romanesco, potatoes, cheese, panko bread crumbs and a sauce made of sauteed onions, chicken broth, and flour. The mere fact that we were cooking something with the word "gratin" in it made me feel very accomplished. [Our ultimate creation was a mash-up of Epicurious recipes, farm recipes, and my vaguely-remembered experience making bechamel sauce in Spain for gratin-like dishes. Bechamel, I was reminded, can be a great way to simulate creaminess with a relatively low amount of fat.]













The pictures above show a step-by-step review of the dish coming together, skipping the actual mixing of the broth, onions and flour, and sparing you the picture of boiling potatoes, which as earthy as it sounds, is not exactly an artistic photo when it isn't set in some homely country cottage hard on a choppy sea.

It was actually quite easy, with enough hands at the battle stations. We put down a layer of broccoli romanesco, then slices of potatoes, with salt and pepper, scattered cheese, panko, and half of the sauce spread liberally over the top. We then repeated that layer, and shoved the whole thing in the oven, and after about half an hour, voila! We produced the crisply golden-brown dish pictured above.

We must have done something right, because at the end, when I offered to split the last little portion of the dish with someone, Seth took me up on it. You don't ask for seconds if you don't like the dish.

Now if we can just figure out what to do with the parsnips.

Chile Nights in New Mexico: Taos

The town plaza in Taos is approximately one half the size of the plaza in Santa Fe. Consequently, the blog about food in Taos will be about one half the size of the blogs about Santa Fe. Symmetry like that is the hallmark of high literature. I'm just saying.



The Monday night we drove into Taos was chilly and clear. We were staying with Marina's mother's ex-husband Jeff, who drove us in to the downtown for dinner, where we went to the historic Taos Inn to dine at the Adobe Bar. It was a small room, white walls and timbered-ceilings, just off the lobby of the Inn. We arrived before the start of an open-mike night, so we got a table easily.

It was good, trusty bar food. I had the burrito with chicken, because it was New Mexico. To drink, I had a beer. Obviously.

While I can't say it was the best I've ever had, that is not to say I didn't enjoy it. The simplicity of a burrito makes it wonderful. You know what to expect. It's like fast food in that consistency, yet still being actual food--and yes, I support the ban on toys in Happy Meals in San Francisco (note the ban only applies to Happy Meals that don't feature fruits and vegetables, which is not too much to ask). McDonalds is not food. McDonalds is inane and stupid cultural drivel that makes us fat and unhealthy.

Plus, a burrito is just so nicely contained. It's like a sandwich, but without a crust.

A burrito and beer in New Mexico on a Monday night. It just fits.

And on the Tuesday morning of our departure, I took a stand. I had been avoiding all the traditional traveling favorites of mine this whole trip in favor of what seemed more authentically New Mexican. On Tuesday morning, I said, "Let there be french toast," and there was french toast, Cinnamon Swirl French Toast, and it was really, really good.



As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words, so I will leave it on that note, a picture of perfectly delightful french toast on a Tuesday morning. Marina and I were eating with a charming woman named Jimmy, an old friend of Marina's mom, and the three of us had Doc Martin's restaurant--back at the Taos Inn--pretty much all to ourselves. It was a cold but sunny morning that seemed to epitomize New Mexico for me, stark blue sky above sandy adobe walls.

I had coffee, of course.