I got zero input from people. Jomo did raise an eyebrow. Here are the last two:
You stumble onto a peculiar varietal. Do you:
a) blog about it;
b) rave about it to your wine purveyor;
c) leave a 5-minute voice mail at BevMo for Wilfred Wong;
or d) don’t sweat it since Dottie and John will "discover" it in 18 months.
Bonus: Match the items in the two columns:
1. Dottie
2. Malbec
3. Thousand Oaks Chardonnay from 7-Eleven
4. Walt Mossberg
a) John
b) Can't miss with charred meats
c) "Light and almost as refreshing as a Slurpee"
d) "Ask me again if I’ll fix your computer. Go ahead, ask me."
6/18/09
Nobody Beats the Whisk at Zuni
Now there have been two occasions over the past 10 years where nothing else seems appropriate other than a midday meal at Zuni, and on both occasions I've had variations on the humble chicken egg that will withstand another 10 years of countless unmemorable meals, peppered with standouts.
The last, last time, I was joined Paul Festa and James Roe (and perhaps even someone else, I don't remember) and I had poached eggs with chimichurri -- the kind of eggs that are dropped in a centrifuge of boiling water and cooked in seconds. That was awesome, and on the same footing as my recent frittata, the simplest preparation of eggs, shallots, shaved pecorino, arugula and balsamic vinegar. Dynamite. I also had oysters. Barely made it back to the courtroom to finish out my jury duty.
The only point of contention was the too-rich, too-spendy Chardonnay, recommended by the server (who perhaps was looking to serve lunch to the too rich to care). What struck me most was contrast in the class habitus, if you will, of the dining room and the courtroom. Everyone has a jury-duty story, and like real-estate or DMV stories almost all are boring, and mine wasn't really different -- a trip-and-fall case on Caltrain. Still, there's something weird and interesting when 30 or so people have to get together and talk for a few nerve-racking minutes about themselves.
There were just as many single people as coupled people and divorced people. Some were native San Franciscans; others had been here five years. The economy had run roughshod over various attendees, yet there also was an immigrant engineer, a woman who did purchasing for boys' clothes at the Gap, a guy who did historic restorations and someone who retired from bridge repair for Caltrans.
But look at the sidelined potential in our workforce: One guy in the jury box said he'd been on SSI for 20-some years; a lady behind me gasped. A hipster said he worked at a cafÃĐ. When asked about it, he acknowledged being the assistant manager. (Why not just say so?) One of his housemates this or that and the other, well, he had no idea. Everyone laughed. Another guy was trying to go to school while teaching dance a few times a week. The cute brunette who graduated with a degree in sociology a few years ago is but an assistant to the administrator at a law firm. Maybe they're all happy as clams; what the hell do I know. Sitting at Zuni, though, it's hard not to feel like a hothouse flower -- with the table linen, the shellfish and Chardonnay and elegant eggs with a sheen of shallots, shaved cheese, tiny arugula leaves and a few drops of balsamic.
Good thing the parties settled; plaintiff sought redress and apparently got it before any more public resources were squandered. Which brings me back to why service is interesting and also weird: It's like a temporary case study of how we all make our way in the world, glorious and messy.
The last, last time, I was joined Paul Festa and James Roe (and perhaps even someone else, I don't remember) and I had poached eggs with chimichurri -- the kind of eggs that are dropped in a centrifuge of boiling water and cooked in seconds. That was awesome, and on the same footing as my recent frittata, the simplest preparation of eggs, shallots, shaved pecorino, arugula and balsamic vinegar. Dynamite. I also had oysters. Barely made it back to the courtroom to finish out my jury duty.
The only point of contention was the too-rich, too-spendy Chardonnay, recommended by the server (who perhaps was looking to serve lunch to the too rich to care). What struck me most was contrast in the class habitus, if you will, of the dining room and the courtroom. Everyone has a jury-duty story, and like real-estate or DMV stories almost all are boring, and mine wasn't really different -- a trip-and-fall case on Caltrain. Still, there's something weird and interesting when 30 or so people have to get together and talk for a few nerve-racking minutes about themselves.
There were just as many single people as coupled people and divorced people. Some were native San Franciscans; others had been here five years. The economy had run roughshod over various attendees, yet there also was an immigrant engineer, a woman who did purchasing for boys' clothes at the Gap, a guy who did historic restorations and someone who retired from bridge repair for Caltrans.
But look at the sidelined potential in our workforce: One guy in the jury box said he'd been on SSI for 20-some years; a lady behind me gasped. A hipster said he worked at a cafÃĐ. When asked about it, he acknowledged being the assistant manager. (Why not just say so?) One of his housemates this or that and the other, well, he had no idea. Everyone laughed. Another guy was trying to go to school while teaching dance a few times a week. The cute brunette who graduated with a degree in sociology a few years ago is but an assistant to the administrator at a law firm. Maybe they're all happy as clams; what the hell do I know. Sitting at Zuni, though, it's hard not to feel like a hothouse flower -- with the table linen, the shellfish and Chardonnay and elegant eggs with a sheen of shallots, shaved cheese, tiny arugula leaves and a few drops of balsamic.
Good thing the parties settled; plaintiff sought redress and apparently got it before any more public resources were squandered. Which brings me back to why service is interesting and also weird: It's like a temporary case study of how we all make our way in the world, glorious and messy.
Knock-Back Jokes
Additions welcome.
Layoffs at newsrooms are rising. Do you blame:
a) the whole bloody Internet;
b) lousy media unions;
c) too much corporate debt;
or d) operational inefficiencies holding up Dottie and John's expense reports.
The Dottie and John "Tastings" Video Drinking Game:
• Every time they clink their glasses, drink.
• Every time they mention each other or a family member, drink.
• If bored and are drinking when they drink, drink three times and start the video all over again.
The tasting note "Last night: aging OK, hints of melon and spice, weak finish" is by:
a) Dottie;
b) John;
c) Dottie and John;
or d) the hooker they got off Craigslist to hear them blab about wine.
Layoffs at newsrooms are rising. Do you blame:
a) the whole bloody Internet;
b) lousy media unions;
c) too much corporate debt;
or d) operational inefficiencies holding up Dottie and John's expense reports.
The Dottie and John "Tastings" Video Drinking Game:
• Every time they clink their glasses, drink.
• Every time they mention each other or a family member, drink.
• If bored and are drinking when they drink, drink three times and start the video all over again.
The tasting note "Last night: aging OK, hints of melon and spice, weak finish" is by:
a) Dottie;
b) John;
c) Dottie and John;
or d) the hooker they got off Craigslist to hear them blab about wine.
6/5/09
Valley Chef
and another food video:
"Ancho chilies, serrano chilies, habanero chilies and dried New Mexico chilies."
"Ancho chilies, serrano chilies, habanero chilies and dried New Mexico chilies."
5/22/09
Appetizing Aioli
A quick double-whammy today: The MarketWatch Radio Network did a thing on how consumers are cheaping out by not ordering appetizers, including soups and salads when dining out. Sounds like the consultancy is serving up some junk science to get some free press, because of course the pervasive small plates are basically just a bunch of appetizers. Ask me one day about my introduction to quick tapas in Madrid.
I just had an appetizer the other day, along with a drink post-haircut at the Hotel Monaco's Grand Cafe, already one of my favorite San Francisco venues and my go-to in the Union Square environs. I am now even prouder to announce that the Grand Cafe has one of the best happy hours in the city, period.
The bar menu from 4 to 7 is grouped not by offerings, but by price, with bites and beverages paired. I had the salt cod beignets, which were parked in aioli, and a Kronenbourg draft, $4 each. I was tempted to try the boudin blanc, which I was told is duck, with a porter from Marin Brewing Company, $7 each. Homemade chips and Sierra Nevada on tap are $3 apiece. There's also a pissaladerie for $5. Maybe I'm a sucker for the packaging, but I'm bowled over by pairings every time. (I've stopped ordering wines by the glass and instead am asking the server to pick something for my starters and main courses. We talk about the suggestions and sometimes taste something and then talk some more. Wine lists can be too much work, and the staffers have knowledge they're eager to share.)
Incident of note: While I was sitting at the bar, a quintessentially San Francisco thing happened. A wino walked in and sauntered over to the service station. Without raising his voice, the bartender says, "You have to leave." The guy, sort of regular-looking in a jacket and baseball cap, replied in conversational English but I remember it as "Arrrahghgahhhghaahr." The bartender stands firm, no change in expression. "You have to leave."
When the barman turns to phone security, the wino reaches over to the by-the-glass bottles and picks up some red wine, already opened. He looks at it in the light from the window, and sees that it has but a finger left. He puts it back where it was. The bartender calls out from the telephone: "I'm calling." A bouncer, a not too tall fellow, is there in an instant. The bartender says, "Search him." The wino holds open his jacket. He and the bouncer walk out. It probably happens eight times a day.
Maybe at some point in the city such an occurrence would have that old Barbary Coast/Kerouac/Bukowski quality, but even then it'd be a stretch. For more than a few years now it's just been a nuisance issue. Patrons like myself watched and waited for it to be over so we could get back to daydreaming and taking a little break from busyness.
I'll leave you with my simplified aioli recipe, based on Jamie Oliver's. It was great with the giant artichokes the in-laws got in Gilroy on their drive up.
1/2 small clove of garlic, peeled
1 teaspoon salt
1 egg yolk
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
About 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Juice from half a lemon
A bit of mayonnaise to thicken
Freshly ground black pepper
Start by finely chopping the garlic or mashing it in a bowl, adding in the salt. I love mashing garlic. Spoon in the mustard, and separate an egg yolk with your hands and throw it in. Whisk with a whisk or a fork. Slowly pour in the olive oil; keep whisking. Squeeze in the lemon juice, and stir in a little mayo until it's the consistency you want. Crack some pepper there and you're done.
I just had an appetizer the other day, along with a drink post-haircut at the Hotel Monaco's Grand Cafe, already one of my favorite San Francisco venues and my go-to in the Union Square environs. I am now even prouder to announce that the Grand Cafe has one of the best happy hours in the city, period.
The bar menu from 4 to 7 is grouped not by offerings, but by price, with bites and beverages paired. I had the salt cod beignets, which were parked in aioli, and a Kronenbourg draft, $4 each. I was tempted to try the boudin blanc, which I was told is duck, with a porter from Marin Brewing Company, $7 each. Homemade chips and Sierra Nevada on tap are $3 apiece. There's also a pissaladerie for $5. Maybe I'm a sucker for the packaging, but I'm bowled over by pairings every time. (I've stopped ordering wines by the glass and instead am asking the server to pick something for my starters and main courses. We talk about the suggestions and sometimes taste something and then talk some more. Wine lists can be too much work, and the staffers have knowledge they're eager to share.)
Incident of note: While I was sitting at the bar, a quintessentially San Francisco thing happened. A wino walked in and sauntered over to the service station. Without raising his voice, the bartender says, "You have to leave." The guy, sort of regular-looking in a jacket and baseball cap, replied in conversational English but I remember it as "Arrrahghgahhhghaahr." The bartender stands firm, no change in expression. "You have to leave."
When the barman turns to phone security, the wino reaches over to the by-the-glass bottles and picks up some red wine, already opened. He looks at it in the light from the window, and sees that it has but a finger left. He puts it back where it was. The bartender calls out from the telephone: "I'm calling." A bouncer, a not too tall fellow, is there in an instant. The bartender says, "Search him." The wino holds open his jacket. He and the bouncer walk out. It probably happens eight times a day.
Maybe at some point in the city such an occurrence would have that old Barbary Coast/Kerouac/Bukowski quality, but even then it'd be a stretch. For more than a few years now it's just been a nuisance issue. Patrons like myself watched and waited for it to be over so we could get back to daydreaming and taking a little break from busyness.
I'll leave you with my simplified aioli recipe, based on Jamie Oliver's. It was great with the giant artichokes the in-laws got in Gilroy on their drive up.
1/2 small clove of garlic, peeled
1 teaspoon salt
1 egg yolk
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
About 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Juice from half a lemon
A bit of mayonnaise to thicken
Freshly ground black pepper
Start by finely chopping the garlic or mashing it in a bowl, adding in the salt. I love mashing garlic. Spoon in the mustard, and separate an egg yolk with your hands and throw it in. Whisk with a whisk or a fork. Slowly pour in the olive oil; keep whisking. Squeeze in the lemon juice, and stir in a little mayo until it's the consistency you want. Crack some pepper there and you're done.
5/15/09
Goodbye to All This
Now that the one-month leave I took to care for Araceli is about to end, I have a couple of thoughts. Come to think of it, I always have a couple of thoughts now that I have Araceli.
One is that we are a remarkably wealthy country despite the nasty unemployment. Look at the folks out and about all the time. For instance, half the people on my block don't seem to have the usual work commitments; by 10 am at least half the garbage bins have been moved back inside. Then there's the constant traffic on the arterials, along with the usual goings-on at Amoeba on Haight during the middle of the day.
Second thing, how is it that a Mission-style burrito pushing $7 and beyond? Is it because I am pushing 40 and started hitting the taquerias two booms ago, when a trip to El Farolito set you back $2.46? (It's hard to forget those Mexican morsels, coming standard with fresh avocado and a fine pico de gallo.) Zona Rosa rolled a nice spinach-tortilla tube for me, throwing in the chopped onions and cilantro, and while enjoying it I couldn't help doing math. If the average tab is $8, how many customers do they need to make their nut? If I ran such a business, I'd call the landlord and offer him a burrito a day in exchange for lower rent. If he balked, I would counter by charging him extra for chips (they're not that good anyway) and then have him lower the rent.
Recession schmecession, places like the Eos wine bar are still turning tables, catering to customers with happy-hour offerings along with some nice plates a bit north of burrito prices. I met Jomo and his Torontan friend Ed there with half-carafes of South African chenin blanc and Chilean cabernet, plenty of pours for $10 each. The oysters also were $1 apiece, but turns out they were flown in from the East Coast somewhere and while plump weren't Tomales Bay quality. The manager made a point to walk around and check on each table, chatting up Jomo about his last take-out order. With the deals and small plates and the human touch, they're working it to keep everyone happy.
One is that we are a remarkably wealthy country despite the nasty unemployment. Look at the folks out and about all the time. For instance, half the people on my block don't seem to have the usual work commitments; by 10 am at least half the garbage bins have been moved back inside. Then there's the constant traffic on the arterials, along with the usual goings-on at Amoeba on Haight during the middle of the day.
Second thing, how is it that a Mission-style burrito pushing $7 and beyond? Is it because I am pushing 40 and started hitting the taquerias two booms ago, when a trip to El Farolito set you back $2.46? (It's hard to forget those Mexican morsels, coming standard with fresh avocado and a fine pico de gallo.) Zona Rosa rolled a nice spinach-tortilla tube for me, throwing in the chopped onions and cilantro, and while enjoying it I couldn't help doing math. If the average tab is $8, how many customers do they need to make their nut? If I ran such a business, I'd call the landlord and offer him a burrito a day in exchange for lower rent. If he balked, I would counter by charging him extra for chips (they're not that good anyway) and then have him lower the rent.
Recession schmecession, places like the Eos wine bar are still turning tables, catering to customers with happy-hour offerings along with some nice plates a bit north of burrito prices. I met Jomo and his Torontan friend Ed there with half-carafes of South African chenin blanc and Chilean cabernet, plenty of pours for $10 each. The oysters also were $1 apiece, but turns out they were flown in from the East Coast somewhere and while plump weren't Tomales Bay quality. The manager made a point to walk around and check on each table, chatting up Jomo about his last take-out order. With the deals and small plates and the human touch, they're working it to keep everyone happy.
2/22/09
Focaccia Me? No, Focaccia You
Every now and then when I want that braised flavor and some well-cooked veggies I head to Focaccia, which is on that swanky block of Sacramento near Embarcadero and probably near every swanky choad-for-hire firm in the financial district.
The place has lots of good everyday stuff like sandwiches and salads, but I appreciate the good deal that is the stew -- $5.95 for beef, lamb or chicken (although I can’t remember when they had beef or lamb) over rice, with a selection of fresh veggies like zucchini, mushrooms, asparagus and so on. Of course I never take the rice and request the vegetables instead. It’s not service with a smile, but all I come for is the stew and veg.
There are only a couple of problems. One is that I have to jostle the hoity-toity scene at Focaccia, and the other is that I have to deal with the grumpy Focaccia guy.
OK, so the economy is probably pinching this small business, especially one that takes on the overhead to cater to the upscale-professional lunch crowd. So now, apparently, swapping out the rice for the veggies is not OK.
There’s one person ahead of me. Grumps helps him out, then says "next!" without making eye contact, even though it’s just me standing there. As usual, I order the stew without rice and with some veg. He demurs. "There’s a lot of veggies already in there," he says of the stew, and asks me: "Rice?"
"No rice, veggies," I repeat. He makes a face. I stare back. Grumpaster G turns to the pot on the stove and ladles some chicken stew in a take-out container; he grabs a few string beans and asparagus with his tongs and places the order on the glass shelf. I take it.
Let the record show that a few potatoes, chunks of canned tomato and a piece of celery don’t qualify as a lot of veggies, or really as veggies as we’d call them, we who work and grab take-out and also make a point to go to the market and cook. But the last thing I’d do on this earth is quibble with a guy and his "I’m a dick all the time" attitude because he’s stuck shoveling stew to particular people like me.
Anyway, the stew isn’t as good anymore – flavor’s off, probably because they’re just throwing the above ingredients together, putting the pot on simmer and otherwise not giving a crap. Maybe we’re seeing the same funks in financial districts everywhere, among big shots and their supporting businesses. Times may be bad for you, sweethearts, and maybe that's a shame, but the rest of us are done bothering.
The place has lots of good everyday stuff like sandwiches and salads, but I appreciate the good deal that is the stew -- $5.95 for beef, lamb or chicken (although I can’t remember when they had beef or lamb) over rice, with a selection of fresh veggies like zucchini, mushrooms, asparagus and so on. Of course I never take the rice and request the vegetables instead. It’s not service with a smile, but all I come for is the stew and veg.
There are only a couple of problems. One is that I have to jostle the hoity-toity scene at Focaccia, and the other is that I have to deal with the grumpy Focaccia guy.
OK, so the economy is probably pinching this small business, especially one that takes on the overhead to cater to the upscale-professional lunch crowd. So now, apparently, swapping out the rice for the veggies is not OK.
There’s one person ahead of me. Grumps helps him out, then says "next!" without making eye contact, even though it’s just me standing there. As usual, I order the stew without rice and with some veg. He demurs. "There’s a lot of veggies already in there," he says of the stew, and asks me: "Rice?"
"No rice, veggies," I repeat. He makes a face. I stare back. Grumpaster G turns to the pot on the stove and ladles some chicken stew in a take-out container; he grabs a few string beans and asparagus with his tongs and places the order on the glass shelf. I take it.
Let the record show that a few potatoes, chunks of canned tomato and a piece of celery don’t qualify as a lot of veggies, or really as veggies as we’d call them, we who work and grab take-out and also make a point to go to the market and cook. But the last thing I’d do on this earth is quibble with a guy and his "I’m a dick all the time" attitude because he’s stuck shoveling stew to particular people like me.
Anyway, the stew isn’t as good anymore – flavor’s off, probably because they’re just throwing the above ingredients together, putting the pot on simmer and otherwise not giving a crap. Maybe we’re seeing the same funks in financial districts everywhere, among big shots and their supporting businesses. Times may be bad for you, sweethearts, and maybe that's a shame, but the rest of us are done bothering.
2/6/09
Salmon Chowder
It's a chilly, rainy winter night, and we've warmed ourselves up a bit with a hearty salmon chowder. The idea sprang from necessity. End of the week: our fridge is bare, but we have a pound of wild salmon from T.J.s in the freezer ready to be defrosted. That's our dinner, but we want to try something different than the usual broiled fish recipe. It's between fish soup and salmon cakes, and the chowder recipe wins out.
We start with four slices of bacon, cut into inch-long bits, in a big pot, crisped up nice. We remove the bacon, reserve the bacon grease for cooking potatoes, celery and onions until soft. We then add the broth of water, white wine and milk to the vegetables. Throw in the salmon for a few minutes, sprinkle in some fresh dill and you're ready to slurp.
The bowl is filling, creamy and flavorful. I especially like the different textures: firm potatoes, crunchy celery and soft salmon cubes. To top it off, Alex mixes up a spicy little raita of cucumbers to toss in the bowl for an extra kick. In all, an easy, fairly healthy potage de poisson I'd make again.
We start with four slices of bacon, cut into inch-long bits, in a big pot, crisped up nice. We remove the bacon, reserve the bacon grease for cooking potatoes, celery and onions until soft. We then add the broth of water, white wine and milk to the vegetables. Throw in the salmon for a few minutes, sprinkle in some fresh dill and you're ready to slurp.
The bowl is filling, creamy and flavorful. I especially like the different textures: firm potatoes, crunchy celery and soft salmon cubes. To top it off, Alex mixes up a spicy little raita of cucumbers to toss in the bowl for an extra kick. In all, an easy, fairly healthy potage de poisson I'd make again.
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