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.