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.