Check One-Two.

Fred and I just returned from our final trip to San Francisco before we embark on our Eastward adventure. Our last trip, period, before we head East. So, of course, I had a few restaurants, two in particular, to cross off my never ending list. One was Mission Chinese Food. I have been trying forever to find the perfect Chinese food spot. One that's not trying to keep up with the healthy Jones' (I want some of that MSG, umami, and some greasiness, dammit), one that's not too far off the beaten path (no molecular gastronomy here, please), but one that is trying to insert a modicum of creativity into the food. I have been coming up empty. To the universe's credit, I haven't been making any backbreaking attempts either. It would certainly not fall into 'my life mission' category. But, whenever I crave Chinese food I am reminded of the whole issue.

Well, now I'm even more irritated about this since I found EXACTLY what I was looking for in a city where I do not reside and in the very state I am leaving permanently in a few short weeks.

Within a couple of hours of waking up on our first morning, we grabbed coffee, picked up my Dad and his girlfriend, Dale, checked out the Diebenkorn exhibit at the de Young Museum, and found ourselves standing face to face with the wonky, old-school, hole-in-the-wall-Chinese-eatery, pop-up turned restaurant-within-a-restaurant, hipster-hot Mission Chinese Food.

Inside it was still, it was dark and it was hot. If you want ice in your drink, too bad. No ice.

I skipped breakfast for this so I could order as many different items as possible. So we did. Beers for the boys, soda for Dale and a grüner for me. Then we went for it: Beijing Vinegar Peanuts with smoked garlic, anise, fennel seeds, rock sugar ($5), Fresh Rice Noodle with peanut sauce, tofu skin, pickled mustard greens ($8), Stir-Fried Pork Jowl and Radishes with fermented black bean, shiso, mint ($12), Grandma's Spicy Lamb Dumplings with peanuts, dill pickles, chili oil ($9), Squid Ink Noodles with cumin, fennel and chick peas, lamb dipping broth (I can't recall the price), and finally Braised Pea Leaves with pumpkin, pressed tofu, salted chili broth ($12).

All of the flavors were bright, fresh, creative and surprising – think dill, smoked garlic, fennel, pumpkin, all mixed in with the tofu, pork jowl, dumplings, and rice noodles. And somehow, amidst all of this intrigue we were completely sated in the Chinese-food-craving department. This vibrant and intelligent food still had enough of the classic flavors and textures, even the oil, and the unctuous quality we know and love (within reason) about traditional Chinese food. And, no joke, I will be making those vinegar peanuts at home very soon. I could eat those forevers.

I will happily remember that meal for a very, very long time. I'm pretty sure we all will.

Check one.

The second place I knew I had to visit on our short trip was Tartine Bakery. I don't eat a ton of pastries, nor do I crave them very often. However, I have been really exploring the world of baking of late and am extremely interested in everything that goes into the science of it. More importantly, I am a sucker for an incredible butter croissant – and it's almost shocking how few I come across.

And so, on our last morning in San Francisco, while Fred was brunching and bonding with his Aunt and cousins, and Dad and Dale were wrapping things up and checking out of their their hotel, I knew exactly what I would be doing. I knew I had to go at it alone, and really, I wanted to. My dad would never in 2759870 million years have tolerated that line for a pastry, or anything really. Actually, I'm guessing no one involved in this trip would have wanted to endure that line unless it was to pick up their winning Powerball check.

So I hopped into Fred's car (a stick shift), clocked my destination on my smartypants phone and headed out, lurching and jerking along the way (it had been quite a while since I had driven a stick – and this was possibly the worst city to test that time lapse). After spending twenty minutes finding parking, which was about two blocks away, I walked up to the bakery and settled in back of the infernal eternal line, halfway down the block – and yes, it was formidable. And, no, there were no available seats inside or out by the time I received my order: a ham and cheese croissant, a plain butter croissant, a loaf of their sourdough bread and a latte (totaled around $20). So I walked back to the area where the car was and plopped right down on the curb.

I don't know. To most people none of this may sound appealing in the least: driving strange car in strange city to wait in seemingly endless line to get 'breakfast' only to find there is nowhere to sit and then sit on the side of the road in mid-August to drink hot coffee and eat a pastry. All alone. Not even a book to read.

Well, I'm not certain exactly what it was. The journey, the anticipation, or even the little spot in the shade all by myself, but that croissant and that latte and that moment were... perfect. I mean, perfect. It was one of those – and I've talked about them before – Cosmic Muffin moments. Those Nowhere-I'd-Rather-Be moments.

The latte was warm, rich, smooth and comforting. The croissant was flaky, crunchy, light and yet somehow strapping, with heft... and buttery, oh so buttery, like a delivery system of cultured French butter, buttery. After two bites in, it looked like there had been a flash snowfall of flaky crumbs around my toes on the sidewalk.

Nirvana, pure bliss; I was truly happy.

Check two.

And then I was ready. Ready to get back into the car and brave the drive to pick up the grow ups, then Fred, to head up for the bucolic segment of the trip: Inverness.


One year ago: Heirloom Melon & Tomato Gazpacho
Two years ago: Beer Braised BBQ Pork Butt
Three years ago: Classic Southern Deviled Eggs
Four years ago: Nebulous Misadventures (AKA The Lost Weekend)

Comfort Me With Bucatini.

Growing up in Richmond, I recall very little pasta happening in either of my parents' kitchens, except maybe pasta salad. I also don't remember going out for much Italian food back then. I'm sure there was spaghetti and meatballs when I had dinner at my friends' houses, but – and I could be wrong – I don't think I ever saw it on my dining room table(s). That's weird, right? I mean, I don't even think we did lasagna, for crying out loud. It's a miracle I turned out alright.

That being said, there wasn't a ton of Italian food in my life for quite some time. After college, in the early Atlanta years, there were a couple of EYEtalian restaurants where I dined on occasion. By EYEtalian, I mean dimly lit rooms with red checker tablecloths, taper candles in old chianti bottles, dishes like eggplant parmigiana, veal scaloppini, chicken marsala, penne alla vodka (one of my favorite pasta dishes to this day), mostaccioli, linguine with clam sauce, baked ziti, lasagna, and spumoni or cannoli for dessert. Oh, and both kinds of wine: red and white.

Then in the last year or two there, a couple of Italian restaurants popped up that became game changers. For me, at least. Actually, it was really one restaurant that later became two with the same owner. The first born, Sotto Sotto, was the higher end version of its younger sibling, Fritti. It was at Sotto Sotto where a lot of things about Italian fare really evolved in my world. In a little restaurant in Inman Park, Atlanta, my palate got to travel from Southern to Northern Italy for the first time. I remember tasting delicate, handmade pastas of all shapes, sizes and consistencies, flecked with bright and fresh surprising accents like arugula, mint, and lemon or anchored down with braised, local duck with an aged twelve year balsamic. There were fresh truffles, walnut sauce and sage browned butter, which fifteen years ago was not something I saw on menus very often. I remember having the most delicate beef carpaccio I had ever tasted. The beef sliced so carefully, so thinly, that it essentially melted on my tongue. And then when the little sister, Fritti, came along, I was introduced to the lightest, freshest calamari fritti, garnished only with fresh lemon, and their crimini and portobello mushrooms, lightly fried in rice flour batter with white truffle oil. Most importantly, it was the first time I became acquainted with Neapolitan pizza. And burrata.

Best of all, I lived a mere two blocks away. Even bester, two of my girlfriends and my then boyfriend worked there.

And so an Italian food lover was born.

In the eleven years that I have lived here in LA, though, I don't make pasta at home as much as other things, I would say that my go to meal out is easily for Italian food. More often than not, what I crave is the Northern Italian fare; the fine handmade pastas with fresh, seasonal produce, nuanced flavors and elegant sauces, and almost always I will opt for Neapolitan pies to that of any other. That said, I would never turn down a dinner at Dan Tana's. Who wouldn't want a side of spaghetti with their spaghetti?

But here's the thing, a couple of years ago I came across a recipe in The Week for a dish called Cacio e Pepe. Its scant few ingredients and seemingly whimsical and simple process tempted me. The recipe called for a long pasta (in this case, bucatini), Parmesan cheese, extra virgin olive oil, Kosher salt and lots and lots of freshly cracked black pepper. After I tried to make it the first time, and failed, I started to read about the recipe. I realized that this dish exemplifies the complexity of pan sauce precision. Of course! This is one of those less-is-more, minimalist recipes by which cooks are measured – and as I read on, I learned that no two chefs agree on how to do it just right.

And, it's a Roman dish... making it kind of EYEtalian!

After that, my interest was piqued. If I saw it on a menu, I ordered it. And, for the most part, folks were using the bucatini. So, my only occasion, other than my own kitchen defeat, for both the bucatini and the cacio e pepe had been when dining out.

Then I met Fred. And on our third date, he invited me to his place to cook me dinner. I remember thinking, “Uh, oh. He has no idea what he's gotten himself into. Be nice, be nice, be nice.” Beyond all of the bells, whistles (the right kind, not the gaudy kind), and the ts crossed and is dotted, there he was, in his kitchen, with a YouTube video playing on his iPad illustrating how to make cacio e pepe. And before you ask, no, he had no idea. This was all Fred.

I remember thinking it was going to be a disaster. If I couldn't make it right, and it was such a cornerstone for great chefs, how was hegoing to do it?

It was perfect. It is still the best version of cacio e pepe (and with bucatini, mind you) I have had to date. I'm serious!

And so, not only did cacio e pepe become even more pivotal to me, but bucatini, in particular did as well. Unfortunately, I have only stumbled upon it a few times here in LA since I began this obsession. And I look. Once I saw it at the Silverlake Farmers' Market, but it seemed a little pricey. Anyway, on a recent trip to San Francisco, Fred and I poked into our favorite EYEtalian deli and grabbed every kind of bucatini they had. That would be five (5) different brands of bucatini.

And a couple of nights ago I made a dish with the prettiest and fanciest of our bucatinis. It was a type of a cacio e pepe, but I added shaved asparagus stalks, a single clove of garlic, some red pepper flakes, lemon and I topped everything with fresh breadcrumbs. I also used two cheeses; a Grana Padano, for its velvety texture, and Pecorino, for its sharpness. Other than adding the extras, the concept and the technique were no different than the original cacio e pepe.

I'd like to tell you how romantic it was that we made this, our very special dish together. I'd like it to seem like we savored that last strand of bucatini like the Lady and the Tramp. But we were really just so excited and so hungry, that we pretty much inhaled our big bowls of pasta and glasses of chianti. Just-a like-a Mama would-a like-a.

Bucatini with Shaved Asparagus & Fresh Breadcrumbs

Serves 4

Ingredients:

2 thick slices hearty bread, torn into about 1-inch pieces


extra virgin olive oil


1 pound bucatini


red pepper flakes


1 clove garlic, minced


2 bundles asparagus, shaved


The juice of 1 lemon


1/4 cup mixed grated Grana Padano & Pecorino cheeses

Kosher salt, and freshly cracked black pepper

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Pulse bread in food processor to make bread crumbs.  Spread the crumbs on a small baking tray.  Drizzle with olive oil and a pinch of salt; toss.  Toast for 15 minutes, or until golden brown.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil.  Cook bucatini until al dente.  Reserve a bit of the cooking water.

Just before the pasta finishes cooking, heat about a tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet.  Add garlic and a pinch or two of red pepper flakes and cook until fragrant, about a minute.  Add asparagus and a pinch of salt; cook until the asparagus until slightly softened.  Add juice of the lemon.  Toss.

Add the cooked bucatini and parmesan to the skillet with the asparagus; toss to coat.  Add reserved cooking water a tablespoon at a time, if necessary, to achieve your desired consistency.  Serve, topped with toasted breadcrumbs.


Printable recipe.

One year ago: Grilled Oysters with Garlicky, Lemony, Buttery Sauce
Two years ago: I Left My Heart in San Fran-cheesy; Part 3, The Final Chapter
Three years ago: Chili with Beef & Bacon
Five years ago: Angelini Osteria

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

I looked the phrase up. Years ago every Las Vegas casino had a three-piece chicken dinner with potato and veggie for $1.79. A standard bet back then was $2.00, hence when you won a bet you had enough for a chicken dinner. Winner, winner...

I’ve never been to Vegas. And I’ve lived in LA for ten years. I don’t care about gambling at all, but I like the idea of winning my chicken dinner. I doubt they still do that, but I should go. I should at least check Vegas off my list.

What I do love, a lot, is chicken. For quite a few years now I have been mastering my whole roast chicken. It’s sort of my Sunday ritual. I get a chicken at the Sunday farmers’ market, or at Lindy Grundy, and roast it that night. In the past year, usually Maggie joins me as she’s generally around on Sunday nights. Fred has had one or two, I think. All of my peoples have had my roast chicken at some point or another. Like I said, I’ve been making it for years.

What I love so much about the Sunday Roast Chicken is how it’s really a whole week of chicken joy. Yes, it is dinner on Sunday night. But then it is sliced in sandwiches on Monday, chicken salad or tacos on Tuesday, and chicken stock on Wednesday, used both for soup bases and in our dog’s food for a little yummy, protein kick that lasts for the rest of the week. All from one, small chicken.

I’m not sure why, but unfortunately the chicken entrée is historically the pariah of the menu in most restaurants. It’s treated as the throw away, the cheapest option, the choice for the kids, the relative visiting from Iowa or the seniors at the table. I'm thinking about L.A. Story, the 1991 movie that Steve Martin wrote and starred in as Harris K. Telemacher. He attempts to land a reservation at an upscale L.A. French restaurant called L' Idiot (pronounced Leedy-O), only to be interrogated about his finances by the Fourth Reich Bank of Hamburg. "He can't have zee duck!..." the chef snorts. "He can have zee chicken."

There have always been exceptions, of course. Both Zuni Café's Judy Rodgers and French Laundry's Thomas Keller both have very famous roast chickens that are the stars of the menu. And lately, times they are a changing. Suzanne Goin has a Devil’s Chicken with Mustard and Bread Crumbs that blows my mind. Salt’s Cure often offers a half roasted chicken that is pretty tasty as well. But, to be shamelessly, brutally honest – I think mine is better. And the majority of the people that have had my roast chicken will agree.

On the night that I actually roast the chicken, something magical happens in the house. Regardless of the weather or time of year, it might as well be blustery and chilly outside and inside the whole house is warm and welcoming and smells like home. It feels like flannel and fireplace and jazz.

Although, I am ready for Summer in a big way, I cannot control whatever it is that is going on with our weather here right now (or ever, for that matter). And ever since Fred and I returned from San Francisco last week where we finally sampled the Zuni Café chicken, my wheels have been spinning. And so how fortuitous that we have had a cold, blustery, rainy weekend? And so last night, on a rainy St. Patrick’s Day, Fred and I built a fire, put the Pogues on the radio, and got to roasting a chicken – slow and low, that is the tempo. While that chicken cooked, we snacked on white anchovies, cheese, olives, soppressata, marcona almonds and bread. I also worked on a stock from the chicken feet. 

Then when it was all ready, and the house smelled like cozy, Fred and I sat down, poured ourselves a couple of glasses of garnacha and ate until we were sated. Heck, we even whipped up some sauteed broccoli rabe topped with a beurre blanc to add some green in the spirit of St. Patrick's Day (we are nothing if not festive). We saved the other half of the meal for Maggie to have when she returned home from working a double. And with the week ahead I look forward to all of the other dishes we create from that one little chicken. I'm going to shoot for a pasta tomorrow, I think. Or maybe Maggie can whip up some of her infamously spicy chicken lettuce wraps. Who knows, the possibilities are endless.

And, by the way, as I devoured my chicken dinner last night, I couldn’t help but say aloud, “Yep, mine isbetter”. Winner, winner...

Now, who’s up for Vegas?

A Sunday Supper:

Slow & Low Roast Chicken with Meyer Lemon and Thyme

with Roasted

Heirloom Carrots, Baby Potatoes & Cipollini Onions

Serves 4

Ingredients

• 3½-4 lb chicken (free range/organic and fresh)
• Salt and pepper
• 6 fresh thyme sprigs (or sage, or rosemary, or all of them)
• 1 large lemon, cut in 1/8 inch slices (Meyer lemons if available)
• 8 tbsp (1 stick) unsalted butter at room temperature, divided
• 1 bulb of garlic
• 1/4 lb mixed baby potatoes (yellow, red & purple)
• 1 bunch heirloom carrots (the more colors the better)
• 1/4 lb cipollini onions
• 1/2 cup red wine
• 2 tbsp olive oil

Special equipment:

A cast iron skillet that's about 3 inches deep, a pastry brush for basting; a board or platter for resting and carving; kitchen twine

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Preparing the Chicken:

Rinse the chicken well (inside and out) and pat it dry with paper towels.

Tuck the wings up against the breast.

Poke tiny holes through the skin, everywhere with a toothpick or bbq skewer (this helps achieve super crispy skin).

Season 6 tbsp butter with 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves, salt & pepper and mix together.

Carefully slide your hand underneath the chicken skin, and gently move over the breast and leg meat to create space between the skin and the meat. You don’t want to tear the skin, so try to keep your hand as flat as possible and work slowly if necessary. Once you’ve created space, evenly distribute the butter beneath the skin.

Next, take 6 lemon slices and slide them underneath the skin, giving them a slight squeeze, and again evenly distributing them on top of the breast and thigh meat.

Take the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter, and gently rub it all over the outside skin of the chicken. Salt and pepper the outside of the chicken and inside the cavity. Drop 2 lemon slices, an onion, a bulb of garlic and any leftover herbs into the cavity, giving the slices a slight squeeze as you place them inside.

Tie the ends of the drumsticks together with twine. Place the chicken breast up in the cast iron skillet. Distribute the carrots, potatoes and onion around the bird. Drizzle the red wine over the top of the whole thing. Top chicken with sprigs of thyme. Finally, squeeze the juice of the remaining lemon pieces all over the top of the chicken.

Roasting the Chicken:

Place skillet in the oven, with the chicken legs pointed to the back of the oven.

After 30 minutes, lower the oven temperature to 350 degrees.

Check on the chicken every fifteen minutes or so, and when you see it beginning to brown quickly on top, baste the chicken with the pan juices. 

Roast the chicken for an hour, basting several times. The chicken will be done when the juices run clear and when the leg joint can be easily moved if wiggled. A thermometer inserted into the thick part of the thigh should read 180 degrees.

Printable recipe

One year ago: Creamy Roasted Parsnip-Carrot Soup with Crispy Bacon & Potatoes
Two years ago: Fresh Minty Pea Soup

I Left My Heart in San Fran-Cheesy; Part 3, The Final Chapter.

It was nice waking up in the hotel room on this morning. I love that hotel. I guess I have an affinity for it as I stayed there about five years ago and had a special time.

But, no rest for the weary – we had to hit the ground running and get to the farmers’ market at the Ferry Building.

It was a blustery day, drizzly and gray. When we arrived at the market we pretty much bee-lined for the oyster stand. I ordered three on the half shell. And, I have to admit, standing there in the weatheryness, a little groggy, staring at the bay, slurping down those oysters – there was nowhere I would have rather been. It was one of those moments that you know, right then and there, you’ll remember forever. Pretty god-damn great.

After that I hit up Roli Roti for a more substantial lunch. It was delicious. We poked around for a bit, checked out the stalls. I, of course, wanted to buy up some beautiful piece of produce from each and every stall, but I didn’t have a kitchen to race back to to flex in. So I bought a jar of pickled veggies to bring home to Maggie instead.
 

Then we went on to wander around at the Musée Mécanique, which was just down the way. By the by, anyone exploring San Francisco absolutely must check this spot out. It is great fun.

There was a lot of walking, a lot of wandering, a lot of coffee stops, and then back to the hotel to get ready for our last big night out in the city.

The strangest thing: whenever we looked out the window of our room, the city looked bright and dry. But then every time we walked out the front doors of the hotel, it was gray, blowy and rainy. Mysterious.

We hopped in a cab and set out to have a cocktail prior to dinner at a fun little bar very close to the restaurant. I really dug this bar and would like to return at some point to try the food. Onward. To Quince.

Quince was the only other I-must-eat-here spot in San Francisco other than Chez Panisse for this trip. I had heard raves about the place for years and thought Michael Tusk, who cooked extensively in Europe, and used to work at Stars, Oliveto, and Chez Panisse, had the tastiest morsel of all at La Loves Alex’s Lemonade this past November. I believe it was a quail and chickory salad with quince mostarda.

Quince’s interior was an unexpected delight. For some reason, I had predicted an environment more along the lines of Heirloom, but what I discovered was entirely a surprise. What I walked into was an elegant, formal dining room studded with chandeliers and suited staff, yet modern and hip (God, I hate using that word) with original Thomas Struth and Sally Mann prints. With exposed brick in the back and high ceilings, a large main dining space with peripheral area in the back, a long bar to the side, lounge in front, a private dining room, and a huge 10,000-bottle wine cellar, clearly this is an occasion restaurant. Thankfully, this was one (when isn’t?).

After I ordered my wine and Minty ordered her cocktail, the food began. We were first served our amuse bouche: scoop of diced big eye tuna and a shot of salsify veloute. Beautiful, fresh and inspired.

From there we ordered a few items that seemed a smart cross section of the menu, to share. They instinctively split our plates, which was tremendously generous and kind. The service was impeccable all night, actually.

 
Then came our Willet Farm Artichoke Salad with farro and burrata. This was a bewitching and graceful dish. The super fresh, creamy burrata worked beautifully with the earthiness of the artichoke and the farro and the crispies on top of it all.

The Delta Crawfish with Sonoma Coast wild mushroom, chickweed and cipollini onion was up next and was also exemplary. Those crawfish were cooked perfectly and were promoted to a surprisingly elegant status, yet maintained true-to their-roots in both presentation and taste.

I am on an extreme pasta kick right now so the Tagliolini with smoked eel and fava beans was an obvious choice. The pasta was done just right and the smoked eel was a creative and welcome companion. The fava element added a nice coarseness to such an otherwise refined dish. I could have eaten my body weight in this one.

And then we were served our Atlantic Cod with celery root, Meyer lemon and black truffle. I’m such a lucky girl to have so much truffle in so little time. And we all know about my current celery root fixation. This was one of those dishes. One of those perfectly composed, well thought out and well executed dishes. This dish was not unlike some of the beautiful photographs hanging on the very walls in front of my eyes that night. It was a piece of art.

I was doubtful that our dessert would rival the previous night’s at Chez Panisse. While they were not to be compared – apples and oranges, if you will – the Meyer Lemon Tart was pornographic in decadence, richness and buttery goodness. And, yet, somehow maintained a refined freshness.

Jeez.

So.

This was my favorite meal on our little journey.

Then we went and closed down a bar with another cute bartender to flirt with. Then there was lunch the next day. Then, after an overwhelmingly delicious coffee, we hit the road.

And, after a long drive (sans speeding ticket) with a beautiful sunset and then horrific weather, I greeted my little family up in the canyon, put on my pine cone jammies, poured a glass of wine, and snuggled into my couch to contemplate how I left my heart in San Fran-Cheesy.

I Left My Heart in San Fran-Cheesy; Part 2, Friday

This day started a bit late. But we did get up and running, packed our stuff to move on from Carina’s, loaded the car and decided to amble around the city and find some lunch before we could check into our hotel in the mid-afternoon.

This landed us at Tony’s Pizza Napoletana. I think I may have heard Donovan and Minty talking about this place the night before, but I wasn’t certain. Regardless, what I thought was a stumble-onto kind of deal was that sneaky Minty’s plan all along.

I’m not historically a big pizza person, athough I do appreciate a good pie from time to time. Perhaps you may recall my Pizzeria Bianco adventure not too long ago. Tony's was actually not altogether unlike Bianco’s style. In fact, Tony Gemignani is no slouch – he is a nine time World Pizza Champion. All ingredients are authentic, and imported from the Pizza Capital of the World, Napoli.

We ordered the 2007 World Pizza Cup Winner, 900 degree wood fired margherita (limit 73 per day). It was beautiful. It was up there in the tops for me, but I still don’t think I’ve tasted better than Chris Bianco’s margherita.

Tony was on site and smack in front of that 900 degree wood fired oven, right in front of us. He is a great guy who deeply cares for his craft and his restaurant, and as a result, a man I have deep respect for.

We spent the next couple of hours driving and wandering around the city, killing a little time prior to check-in at the hotel. Minty even led us down Lombard Street for some touristy fun.

And then we checked into the hotel. And then Minty got her nap on while I wandered out into the city on foot for a few hours. And in my solo meandering, I accidentally dropped way too much money on face wash. Well, no massage for me. Lesson learned. And then I stopped into our hotel bar for a glass of prosecco before going back up to the room to rouse Minty so we could get all gussied up.

And then it was time. It was time to drive to Berkeley for our dinner at Chez Panisse.

On the drive there I commented on the fact that I was more than a little scared. I mean, I had been waiting years for this dinner. I had rented a car and driven up the coast for this dinner. How could any dinner live up to what my expectations had grown into?

The building is quaint and rustic with soft, yellowy lighting and is absolutely beautiful. Walking inside one immediately feels warm and welcome with its lodge-like ambiance, bustling energy and magnificent arrangements of seasonal fruits, vegetables and flowers. We checked our coats and went upstairs to the café for a glass of wine before dinner.

The café was crackling with activity and had a much more casual vibe to it. As I sipped my glass of lillet and perused the café menu, I sort of wished we could dine up there. But I was quickly reminded that after all this time, and it being my first experience, I really needed to experience that which was the genesis of Chez Panisse. Or I would always wonder. And we were committed. The $95 tasting menu it was.

And so, after our drink, we descended the stairs and were seated in the front room in a corner with windows all around. It was the exact table I was hoping for. The downstairs, while maintaining a consistence aesthetically, had a much calmer, more mature, refined vibe than the upstairs. More formal. Our server promptly served us our aperitif along with an amuse bouche, some gougéres and fresh bread and butter. Holy, little, baby Jesus – that bread was outstanding, as was the butter. Both so fresh and delicate and perfect in every way.

For our first course we were served the warm chicory salad with goose proscuitto, mustard flowers and orange vinaigrette. We paired this with a light, crisp white upon the suggestion of our tremendously gracious and helpful sommelier. This was a simply beautiful salad. It was exactly what Alice Waters and Chez Panisse are. It was vibrant, fresh, savory, sweet, vivid and replete with varying textures to play on one’s tongue. I pretty much licked my plate clean.

Next came the Pacific cod with potato puree and black truffle butter. A simple dish, a clean dish. My cod was a hair overcooked and the taste of truffle a bit faint, though I could see a gracious plenty with my eyes. I also wanted a little salt.

The Grilled Paine Farm squab with dates, butternut squash blinis, braised endives and watercress was on point. I adored this dish. So many robust flavors married perfectly. The squab was meaty and plentiful, and I can’t wait to start playing with braised endive in my own kitchen. We had a beautiful, light, smart red with this dish that went brilliantly. I called this a “Jill” wine. And again, here, I was a member of the clean plate club.

My prize for such a lauded membership was the chocolate fondant with bourbon ice cream and espresso caramel. Now, I’m not a dessert person, nor am I a chocoholic, but the dessert was heavenly. The cake was moist, the little pecan on top was the ideal accoutrement, and the ice cream and caramel were mouth watering. 

Howie, our sommelier, continued to offer us various sips and tastes for each course, which was great fun. Actually, all elements of service were impeccable. We were even welcomed into the kitchen to poke around and explore the driving force behind Chez Panisse.

We had a beautiful night. We were full of good food and good wine. Was it everything I had ever hoped and dreamed for? That I cannot say. I am eager to return, however. I am mostly excited to experience the café, upstairs where I can pick and choose this and that, sip wines, and graze in a more casual environment.

I have absolutely nothing but mad respect for Alice Waters and everything she has done for food and for us over the decades.

The drive back to the hotel was mostly quiet and thoughtful. Time to ruminate, I suppose. Which was nice as our next adventure involved tremendously loud, abrasive music in an overcrowded hotel bar filled with convention-goers and busted hookers.

And then there was sleep.

Stay tuned for part three, the final chapter in my culinary adventures and various other mis-adventures in the City by the Bay, coming soon…

I Left My Heart in San Fran-Cheesy; Part 1, Thursday.

Although I am itching to deviate, temporarily – as I do – from the restaurant writings, as there seem to be a few in a row at present, and I know everyone is just waiting with bated breath for my next story about how some very personal chunk of my life relates to one of my recipes, which I then share, I would be remiss if I didn’t discuss my recent trip to San Francisco and some dining out experiences with you.

Was that run on sentence?

Anyway, that being said, you will all have to wait a bit longer for my celery root soup with sunchoke “croutons” recipe.

Ever since food found such a prominent, and dominant, part of my life, I have wanted to go to Chez Panisse. But, as I have been able to travel little in the past seven or so years, it has not been checked off the list. Until very recently, that is.

A month or so ago I decided I was going to bust a move up the coast for one of my culinary adventures. I had fully intended to go at it alone until one night, after blathering on about my plan to Minty, it was decided: we were going to team up and conquer the food and cocktail scene in San Francisco together.

And so, two weeks ago, in my rented Toyota Corolla (my car would never make the journey, nor would anyone want to spend that much time in it), Minty and I hit the road. She, with her weekend bag. Me, with the suitcase I used when I spent two weeks in Europe – full. I am the world’s most horrible packer.

We were all set, cruising up the I-5N, had my iPod playing tunes, us, chatting away. About an hour and a half to two hours in, I look down and notice A. I’m going about 90 miles per hour, B. I have no actual clue what the speed limit is, and C. Regardless of the speed limit it is almost certain that I am speeding. And, D. right at that crucial moment, I also decide to pass the car in front of me. That car was a cop. First speeding ticket ever, check.

The remainder of the drive was glitch free with the exception of coming frighteningly close to running out of gas only moments after the whole ticket affair. Hey, I don’t proclaim to being that awesome of a driver. Just take a look at my car sometime.

The view from Carina's.

Well, rest easy, we made it there alive – and in amazing time! Upon arrival, I wanted coffee. Minty led us to wine. Oh, I suppose I can have a glass of wine. Or two.

You gotta love The Castro.

After settling in at our host, (and Minty’s friend) Carina’s place and having a little time to freshen up, the three of us headed out, on foot, to dinner. It was a beautiful, crisp night and I thoroughly enjoyed every second of soaking in the air and the city during our walk. 

That night we dined at Heirloom Cafe. The girls wanted to go to Frances, but as the wait was a bit, ahem, excessive we continued walking until we arrived at Heirloom. The girls were sweet. They knew my style was along the lines of sustainable, local, simple food – and they wanted to cater to it. Again, very conscientious of the ladies.

Heirloom was right up my alley. It actually reminded me, aesthetically, of a lot of the restaurants/cafes/bistros I grew up eating in back in Richmond. Small, and intimate, with wooden floors, vintage wall-paper, high, tin-stamped ceilings, and an airy, rustic feel. It also felt like Richmond in that we were the only guests under 50 years-old in the house. Interestingly, I discovered later that Heirloom, which opened up in the Mission District less than a year ago, is the brainflower of Matt Straus, former wine director at Wilshire and Grace, right here in sunny Los Angeles.

We were seated at a long, communal farm table that extended along the length of the middle of the room.  The wine list was tremendously impressive and about as big as a Tolstoy novel. After some dialogue with our affable server, we selected a beautiful, warm and rounded 2001 Savennieres, Baumard, which ended up pairing very nicely with everything we had to eat.

I thought the menu was small and precise. I always appreciate a tight, confident menu. We started with the Dungeness crab, endive, brioche croutons, lemon emulsion ($14), and a fresh linguine with shaved black truffles (I don’t recall the price). I was tremendously fond of the fresh, tart, and spritely salad. Those buttery, brioche croutons made me smiley from the inside out.

I am on an extreme pasta kick right now, and this was pretty great. The noodles were delicate and sanguine. And who can argue with a shaved, black truffle, especially in January! I could have had these two dishes all to myself, with that bottle of Savennieres and been fully sated and absolutely happy.

We then each ordered an entrée and sampled one another’s choices. Carina opted for the Maine sea scallops, sweet mashers, frisee, brown butter, currants ($22), Minty went with the fish soup, PEI mussels, manila clams, roasted fennel, saffron broth ($20), and I had the sliced duck breast, farro, carrots, confit cabbage, port sauce ($22). Minty also ordered the roasted yam risotto, chanterelles, crispy shallots, pistou ($15). She just couldn’t resist.

The duck, sadly, was a little disappointing in that it was under-seasoned. It was, however, cooked to perfection and its accoutrements were delightful. I loved the farro and port. Minty’s fish soup had a bold, beautiful broth and was chock full of fruits of the sea. I love fennel. I love saffron. I love seafood. I don’t normally opt for Bouillabaisse-like dishes (you never know what might float to the top), but I enjoyed my tastes of this dish. The risotto was outstanding. It was perfectly toothsome, slightly sweet, earthy and incorporated a perfect ceremony of color, taste and texture. I enjoyed Carina’s scallop dish as well. The scallops were spot on, but while I appreciated the brown butter, I was not necessarily a fan of the currants and sweet mash as plate partners. I realize I am a bit of a nut with the fruity stuff and my sweet and savory getting too muddled, but I honestly was just unsure about this dish conceptually, as a whole. I will add that I was alone with this opinion.

And this brings us to dessert – not something I normally indulge in, but what the hell - it was vacation. We got the apple and pear butter cake and a play on the Oreo, a cake-like concoction called o Ree Oh Or ee oHH cake. I loved the actual cake part of the pear and butter cake. The chocolate-y o Ree Oh Or ee oHH cake was fun, but by this time I needed a wheelbarrow to roll me out. Stick a fork in me, I’m done – you know?

Good stuff, Heirloom. If and when I return to San Francisco, I will return to you.

After dinner we met up with Donovan, a friend of Carina and Minty’s, and headed to a couple of bars where we bellied up and finished out the night. I recall a cute bartender at our second stop. I recall a cab ride home. I recall a sound night of sleep after a long drive and our first night of our adventure. I recall a couple of girls with tiny (ahem) hangovers the next morning.

More exciting San Francisco culinary adventures coming tout suite – including the eagerly anticipated Chez Panisse story, so stay tuned…