Good To Go

Goddammit. I’m sick. 

It’s irritating on obvious levels. But the big rub is that I walk around, all puffed up like a peacock most of the time, touting that I simply do not get sick. But anyone can take one look at me right now and know that’s a load of crap. It would appear I have temporarily acquired Walter Matthau’s nose and I am entirely unable to pronounce any words involving the letters N and/or M. And let’s not even mention the small mountain range of soiled tissues that have become my number one accessory of late.

But oddly I have not lost my appetite.

It is now a new year: 2012. I welcome this year. I’d say it’s already off to an auspicious start. Well, except for the whole sick thing. But I suppose it’s worth it. Fred was sick before me, you see.

Wait, that's right, I was in a car accident last week. No one was hurt, but my car went through over a grand worth of repairs. The other car was fine. I suppose it was all officially my fault, but those tourists stopped at a green light!

Okay, so I’m sick and I caused a car accident that has set me back a considerable chunk of green. All in the first week and a half of a new year that I am heralding as auspicious. Hey, I’m in a good mood, what can I say?

Things look bright. I am going on a mini getaway next weekend to someplace called Inverness. Apparently I will not even have cell service there. I find this to be both frightening and tantalizing. It looks like it will rain there that weekend, so we are anticipating much cooking and snuggles. Works for me. Then, in February, my dad and his girlfriend are coming to visit. I always get excited for some QT with Pops. Plus we always eat out a lot at all the fun places he hasn’t been yet. Cha-ching!

Anyway, things just feel right in 2012 despite the sickies and the car situation.

In case you, my fellow Angelinos, have not noticed, 2012 thus far has hardly been Wintery. In fact, it’s been downright Summery. I do believe it was in the nineties last week. I guess it’s fine. I can’t do much about it anyway. Although, being sick seems even worse when it’s warm and blue and sparkly out. It makes me feel guilty for curling up in a ball with my box of tissues, hot tea and a blanket.

So I won't.

I like to pretend I’m not sick. I’m out in the world. I’m sitting at one of my haunts, Cheebo, having something I have been eating at least once a week for a couple of years, now. It doesn’t matter if it’s Winter or Summer, I can eat their chopped salad any season. I often come here to write (free wi-fi), and Uncle Dougertons and I historically meet up about once a week-ish to have dinner. We always split the chopped salad to start. And we always sit at the bar.

The staff knows me, and my glass of sauvignon blanc is always placed in front of me right as I seat myself. They know not to allow me to eat more than one ramekin of their complimentary home-made potato chips. Sometimes I bring the kitchen fresh herbs from my garden to use. When the power goes out in the canyon I will camp out at Cheebo and read and graze and sip for hours.

Cheebo is not cool or hip or in or sceney. It’s really orange inside and has pretty garish artwork on the walls. The music is usually a little bit too loud and not as calm as I’d like. There is a television above the bar that is always on (though I do appreciate that during baseball season). But there is something to be said for our neighborhood spots. The places that provide us with a sense of community and comfort. Places that are inexpensive with solid food and perfectly acceptable wines by the glass.

So, here I sit, sick with an appetite, at the bar at Cheebo, in the middle of a Wednesday. I’ve got a glass of ice water, a bowl of cream of broccoli soup and my favorite salad. Ever. As I’ve been writing this I realized that, while I have Tweeted and Four SquaredCheebo and my salad love, I have never written about them. And so I feel they deserve their due (and they deliver!).

I’m pretty sure the guy sitting next to me at the bar is sick too. He’s drinking hot tea and has a tissue. I sure hope he is because my ears are blown out from blowing my nose and I can’t hear. So I can’t tell if I just burped loudly or quietly, and more importantly, if he heard me.

Cheebo: Good To Go

7533 W. Sunset Blvd.

Los Angeles, CA 90046

323.850.7070

One year ago: Cremini Mushroom & Meyer Lemon Risotto

Two years ago: Chocolate & Chile de Arbol Brownies 

FOUR years ago: Oyster Stew

I'm Totally Rushing You In the Fall.

Things are happy. Things are good. Business is good, things feel pretty stable, and, on these crisp nights, I can rock layers (clothing). Thanksgiving has passed and Christmas is coming up really fast. Usually I am a pretty major Christmas geek. I love Christmas music, the tree, the decorating, the parties, the excuse to be over dressed and wear sparkly things, the excuse to be over dressed, wearing sparkly thinks while drinking sparkly things.

This year I don’t feel as much like Mother Christmas as I usually do. I don’t foresee having my annual Christmas party, I’m entirely unclear what I’m giving to whom as gifts (and I usually have that on lockdown months before), and I’m not even getting a tree. I have dug the big boxes of Christmas from the garage, so that’s a start.

A lot of this could be because of the timing of the most recent Dinner at Eight. That would have been last Friday. But even though that’s over and done with, I don’t feel like I can concentrate on things. I am decidedly distracted. I’ve barely even written anything this month. But maybe that’s because I have a crush.

I do.

 

And it (he) has taken quite a bit of my physical and mental space over the past few weeks. He’s coming over for dinner tonight. I haven’t cooked for him yet. I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? I cook for people all the time. I cook for friends, family and even complete strangers. All. The. Time. And yet I’m nervous to cook for Fred tonight. I know I’m going to make my oyster stew. However, I don’t know what will follow. I’m sure it will be fine. I’m sure it will be better than fine. I’m sure it will be delicious and fun.

But I’ve still got the swirlies. Ugh.

Anyway, this past Sunday we spent the better part of the day making cassoulet. I’ve wanted to make cassoulet for forevers. It’ one of my very most favorite dishes. Cassoulet night at Lucques is something I look forward to all year (that’s coming up, by the way). Our cassoulet making was a really fun process that began with procuring our Meat(s) at Lindy & Grundy around one o’clock and ended on Fred’s couch, chowing down at about eleven o’clock. And that was with the fast soak on the cannelini beans. We spent a good deal of the down time doing the Sunday crossword and watching In A Lonely Place (best movie, ever). It all worked out really nicely. It was good times and good food, I must admit. And, as you know, I do so love a Process. And a Sunday. And a cassoulet.

So, back to tonight. I’m thinking either scallops or a stuffed pork tenderloin. Something with beets? I welcome your thoughts on the matter. Regardless, I’ll keep you posted on how tonight’s meal turns out. Promise.

Our Sunday Cassoulet

Serves 6-8

1 lb. dried cannelini beans
10 tbsp. duck fat 

16 cloves garlic, smashed
5 shallots, chopped3 carrots, chopped

1 large ham hock
1 lb. lamb neck, cut into 1"cubes
1⁄2 lb. pancetta, cubed
4 sprigs oregano
4 sprigs thyme
3 bay leaves
1 cup whole peeled canned tomatoes
1 1/2 cup white wine
2 cups chicken stock

2 confit duck legs (we used chicken legs)
1 lb. pork sausages
2 cups bread crumbs

Soak beans in a 4-qt. bowl in 7 1⁄2 cups water overnight. Heat 2 tbsp. duck fat in a 6-qt. pot over medium-high heat. Add half the garlic, shallots, and carrots and cook until lightly browned, about 10 minutes. Add ham hock along with beans and their water and boil. Reduce heat and simmer beans until tender, about 1 1⁄2 hours.

Transfer ham hock to a plate; let cool. Pull off meat; discard skin, bone, and gristle. Chop meat; add to beans. Set aside.

Heat 2 tbsp. duck fat in a 5-qt. dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add lamb and brown for 8 minutes. Add pancetta; cook for 5 minutes. Add remaining garlic, onions, and carrots; cook until lightly browned, about 10 minutes. Tie together oregano, thyme, and bay leaves with twine; add to pan with tomatoes; cook until liquid thickens, 8–10 minutes. Add wine; reduce by half. Add broth; boil. Reduce heat to medium-low; cook, uncovered, until liquid has thickened, about 1 hour. Discard herbs; set dutch oven aside.

Meanwhile, sear duck legs in 2 tbsp. duck fat in a 12" skillet over medium-high heat for 8 minutes; transfer to a plate. Brown sausages in the fat, about 8 minutes. Cut sausages into 1⁄2" slices. Pull duck meat off bones. Discard fat and bones. Stir duck and sausages into pork stew.

Heat oven to 300˚. Mix beans and pork stew in a 4-qt. cast iron dutch oven. Cover with bread crumbs; drizzle with remaining duck fat. Bake, uncovered, for 3 hours. Raise oven temperature to 500˚; cook cassoulet until crust is golden, about 5 minutes.


Printable recipe


One year ago: Linguine with Pancetta Mushroom Cream Sauce
Two years ago: The Flying Pig Truck

Duck, Duck, Fat: Dinner at Sun Ha Jang.

This past Saturday night was very exciting. First off, I may or may not have been on a date. But more importantly, I was taken to two (2) places in my City of Angels that I had never been nor had any prior knowledge of. That’s pretty rare.

I was sent an email a day or two before Saturday with a link to the prodigious Mr. Gold’s review of our restaurant destination: Sun Ha Jang. So I was aware and prepared for whatever lay ahead. That would be duck. Excitement mounted.

At precisely seven o’clock (right on time!) I was picked up and off we went. To Koreatown. And just as I was noticing the façade for a spa I sent my mom to as a gift for Christmas some years ago that left her with PTSD to this day (another story), we were parked smack in front of the restaurant.

Sun Ha Jang was bright, but not too bright, tidy, small and about halfway filled up. I think this was about seven thirty. We were seemingly the only non-Koreans in the house, which was a comforting sign. We were seated immediately and handed golden menus with those hologramy-winky pictures in them. We hardly perused the menu at all before our server came over to get our order. This was fine as we didn’t really know what we were doing and we were pretty much going to go for what was suggested from the review. The Roasted Duck. I’m guessing they were used to Korean food dilettantes coming in, clutching their reference guides Smart Phones since she just kindly nodded, and knew exactly what to deliver.

So right after we got our bottle of soju, a bottle of cold tea, and the usual assortment of panchan, kimchi and marinated bean sprouts, came the sliced duck. Our server was kind to us and guided us through The Process wordlessly. She gingerly placed the round, thick, marbled and fatty duck slices on the griddle in the center of the table with a generous smattering of whole cloves of garlic. Then she picked up a chunklet of kimchi and used it to plug the griddle's drain. We later realized this was to preserve all that glorious duck fat.

After just a few minutes we started to pick at the duck, flipping it and whatnot as I had read that we should by no means allow them to condense into chewy nubs. This was when our server hustled back over to assist, and also where I will insert my companion’s only sound bite from the evening for this post, “Aside from the yumminess of the duck and duck fat roasted garlic and the good company, what sticks in my mind the most was the maternal weariness with which the waitress took over as she watched my relative clumsiness in flipping the duck over on the griddle.”

Did you see that? I’m good company!

Anyway.

When the duck was ready to come off the griddle our server even showed us how to assemble and eat everything together. She made a whole presentation on Date’s plate. The result was not unlike a duck salad: the chopped, dressed lettuce with a few slivers of marinated onion, and a little julienned pickled radish, garnished with the duck topped with a few strands of sliced Korean leek and a small dollop of chili paste. It was fresh and clean, yet rich and unctuous. Each bite was crisp, cool and bright right alongside with being warm, supple and lush.

After a little more time and a lot more bites, the cloves of garlic were all roasty, with crisp outsides and warm, oozy insides. At this point I just wanted to eat bites of the garlic rubbed over slices of the now, ever so slightly brittled duck meat that remained.

But there was more. I knew it was coming and I was aflutter. Our server then brought us a bowl of rice cooked with beans and dumped it onto the griddle, sprinkling it with herbs and sesame seeds. And there it sizzled away as it cooked in that beautiful, seasoned duck fat until it was perfectly crunchety on the bottom.

And then I was sated.

I very much enjoyed my meal and my experience at Sun Ha Jang. I do so love a process. An interactive meal, so to speak. The company was pretty great too.

And then we were off, into the night. Off to destination number two, and as mentioned above, yet another new experience for me, a bar called 1642. This place serves only wine and beer, is perfectly dark and plays almost-but-not-too-loud-and-very-good jazz. Wine and conversation ensued.

This was a good night.


One year ago: Salt's Cure
Two years ago: Grace

Slowing Down.

I have gone home to Richmond and now I have returned home to Los Angeles. I had somewhat of a seminal trip, I must say. While I always appreciate going back home, it is, more often than not, fraught with some sort of mess(usually caused by me). This visit, however, was decidedly different. It was not only mess-free, it was calm and nice (with a lite peppering of pretty great play-times), and it made me honestly miss Richmond.

Don’t get too worried. I don’t see myself leaving LA. Certainly not any time soon.

On my first night there I had plans to have dinner with my dad and Paz. We had reservations at the Blue Goat at eight o’clock. Paz came over a little after seven or so for a champagne toast before heading out. But I just could not relax. I kept looking at my watch and asking Dad if we were okay on time. We had to get to the West End, after all! He told me to chill (which he does a lot). We left at ten minutes to eight, effortlessly found parking and walked in the front door of the restaurant at two minutes to eight.

Um.

On another day I was driving through my neighborhood, The Fan, with My Favorite Rugby Boy when I noticed the car in front of me pulled over to the right and put their hazards on while someone proceeded to get out of, or into, the car. Without hesitation I checked my blind spot and whizzed around them. MFRB grabbed the OMG handle in the car and was, visibly, a bit rattled. I turned to him and said, “What’s the problem?” To which he replied, “I forgot about you Los Angeles drivers, is all.” During that moment that I rolled my eyes at him, I also realized, he’s right. There was really no reason to go around that car. Why couldn’t I have just waited one minute, until they were moving again, and amble along from there? What’s the hurry?

And you know what? I’m always in a hurry. I always have to be doing, moving, going. I’m obsessed with time and being on time. There’s never enough time.

After I realized this, I slowed it down. I meandered around the new grounds of the Virginia Museum, I leafed through a magazine, I took a nap, and I wasn’t even crabby when My Favorite Rugby Boy told me he was running late for cooking-lesson-night at his house (bless his heart – he boils chicken and eats it for dinner).

That night I taught him how to make chicken under a brick (fantastic chicken from Belmont Butchery), slow-cooked broccoli rabe, salt-baked potatoes and a roasted cauliflower and garlic soup with rye croutons. I thought the first three items would all be things he could take away and riff on: simple classics that taste delicious. In an interesting turn of events he was most taken with the soup. In an even more interesting turn of events, I walked away that evening with knowledge of a new term: SCRUM. One never does know, does one?

The next day Dad and I drove up to Northern Virginia to visit Aunt Babe. I napped the whole way there while Dad drove. We had lunch with she and her daughter, my cousin, Noel. It was truly wonderful to see them both. I got a ton of recipes and stories and material to work with. Heck, three of the dishes at the next Dinner at Eight are Aunt Babe’s. The funny thing was, Aunt Babe expressed she was pleased as punch to be out of the kitchen and didn’t miss it one bit. One never does know, does one? 

I then napped the entire way back to Richmond while Dad drove.

Me, Aunt Babe & Dad, circa 1999.

For my last night back home I stayed in. In my pine cone jammies. On the couch. I was sort of sad. I realized that I really love Richmond. I realized that I really miss Richmond. I started fantasizing about moving back to Richmond. It’s so beautiful, so straightforward there. I, of course, also realized that it’s easy to feel this way about a place when you spend your days there jogging, wandering, eating, drinking wine, napping, reading and being snuggly.

But I did make a decision. Here it is: I will be going back home considerably more often. I even pulled a classic chick move on the very house in which I grew up. I left stuff that I knew I would have to return to – namely my pine cone jammies.

~~~

And for all of you and My Favorite Rugby Boy, here’s the recipe for that sexy soup.

Creamy Roasted Garlic and Cauliflower Soup with Rye Croutons

serves 4-6

Ingredients:

1 whole head cauliflower
1 large whole head garlic
1/2 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter

6-8 fresh sage leaves
1 medium onion, chopped
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper 
1 tablespoon flour
1/3 cup sherry 
1 cup water
3 cups chicken or vegetable stock, plus up to 2 more as needed for desired consistency
1 dried bay leaf
1/3 cup heavy cream

1 slice crustless rye bread, cut into 1/2-inch dice (1 cup), toasted
 

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Cut cauliflower into individual florets. Toss with 1 tablespoon olive oil. Transfer to a foil lined baking sheet. Scatter fresh sage leaves around the florets. Sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper.

Cut the top off of the head of garlic. Drizzle with olive oil and wrap with foil. Place wrapped garlic on the baking sheet. Roast the cauliflower and garlic at 400 degrees F for 15-20 minutes. When the cauliflower is tender and golden remove from the oven.

The garlic will need to roast for a total of about 25-30 minutes. You can remove it to check it's progress as needed - it should smell fragrant but not raw, be golden and tender.

Meanwhile, heat the butter in a cast iron dutch oven or medium-large stock pot. Add the onion. Saute over medium heat for about 10 minutes. Whisk in the salt, pepper, and flour and continue to cook for 2 more minutes.

Add the sherry and water, whisking to combine with the flour mixture. Then, slowly add in the 2 cups broth. Add the bay leaf and roasted garlic cloves. Bring mixture to a boil, then reduce heat to medium-low and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the cauliflower and simmer an additional 5 minutes.

Remove the bay leaf. Working in batches, add the soup to a food processor (or use the trusty immersion blender) and blend until pureed and smooth. Add additional broth during or after blending to achieve desired consistency. After all the batches have been completed, return to the pot. Stir in the cream. Cook until just heated through. Adjust salt and pepper for tastes.

Ladle into bowls, scatter the croutons on top and serve.


Printable Recipe

One year ago: Cream Biscuits
Two years ago: Pizzeria Bianco

Your Hand in Mine

fickle |ˈfikəl|

adjective

changing frequently, esp. as regards one's loyalties, interests, or affection : Web patrons are a notoriously fickle lot, bouncing from one site to another on a whim | the weather is forever fickle.

DERIVATIVES

fickleness noun

fickly |ˈfik(ə)lē| adverb

ORIGIN Old English ficol [deceitful] .

I’ve always known I’m fickle.

persnickety |pərˈsnikətē|

adjective informal

placing too much emphasis on trivial or minor details; fussy : persnickety gardeners | she's very persnickety about her food.

• requiring a particularly precise or careful approach : it's hard to find a film more persnickety and difficult to use than black-and-white infrared.

ORIGIN early 19th cent. (originally Scots): of unknown origin.

I’m also aware that I can be tremendously persnickety.

At times either of these attributes could be considered cute, quirky or even endearing. But as I get older I would say that, more often than not, these qualities are irritating, unnerving and not so attractive. Especially if you’re a food, restaurant or boy I can’t decide if I want or not, or might want, or maybe I won’t want - at any given moment.

Doug knows all too well that prior to dining out – or even last Friday when deciding on a happy hour spot – there is a whole process involved. This process usually begins anywhere from a few hours to a few days before said event.

I just want the choice to be the perfect choice. I want everything to be just right. I don’t want to wish I were anywhere else. Or with anyone else.

I guess I have control issues. And I’m kind of OCD.

Hey, I’ve never claimed to be a walk in the park, you know?

Anyway, there’s all sorts of good stuff, too. But it’s not what I’m thinking about right now.

I’m thinking more about how I can relax. Without pharmaceuticals, mind you. I need to learn how to go with the flow, float with the tide. I need to fucking chill out. I can’t control everything and it doesn’t make any sense to try anyway. It’s exhausting for me and, I imagine, for the people around me. Maybe this is why I’ve been so tired lately.

During these moments I usually I turn to soup. But today I thought I’d give myself more of a challenge. I needed to get a lot more involved in something. I decided to bake. So, earlier, as I was listening to one of my favorite songs, and one that has been in constant rotation of late, Your Hand in Mine by Explosions in the Sky, and reading through some of my favorite blogs, I stumbled upon a particularly tempting recipe from One Perfect Bite. A recipe for Bouchon Bakery’s Nutter Butter Cookies.

I made a scant few modifications here and there, but I’m pretty excited. I baked!

I guess I can grow and change. 

Nutter Butter Cookies

Makes 8 ginormous cookies

Ingredients:

Cookie Dough:

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 pound (2 sticks) butter, at room temperature
1/3 cup creamy peanut butter, preferably Skippy
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 tablespoons coarsely chopped peanuts
1-1/4 cups quick-cooking oats

Cookie Filling:
8 tablespoons butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup creamy peanut butter
1 ½ cups confectioners’ sugar

Directions:

1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

2) To make cookie dough: In a bowl, sift together flour, baking powder and baking soda; set aside. Using an electric mixer, cream together butter and peanut butter. Add sugars and beat at medium speed for 3-4 minutes, scraping down bowl twice. At low speed, add egg and vanilla. Add flour mixture and stir until well mixed, frequently scraping down bowl. Add peanuts (if using) and oats, and mix well. Using an ice cream scoop 2 inches in diameter or an extremely heaping tablespoon, place balls of dough on parchment-lined baking sheets at least three inches apart. Bake until cookies have spread and turned very light golden brown, about 10-14 minutes. Remove from oven and set aside to cool and firm up, 5 to 10 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool completely before filling.

3) To make filling: Using an electric mixer, cream together butter, peanut butter and confectioners’ sugar until very smooth.

4) To assemble cookies: Spread a thin layer (about 1/8 inch) on underside of a cookie. Sandwich with another cookie. Repeat.

 

Son of a Gun - It's Rated ARGH! (Insert pirate hook here)

I really wanted to steer away from the restaurants for a while and get back to the recipes/stories/metaphors tangled up in my world. But, I was fortunate enough to hit up Son of a Gun on only their second night open and I was on a date doing it. And so, all the news that’s fit to print, right?

I spent almost all of last week and the last weekend in super nesting mode. I think I went out one night. But I wasn’t really cooking anything too exciting either. I actually wasn’t feeling great. But I told myself, and Mr. Michael Motorcycle (named!), that I would definitely be ready to go out for a nice dinner Monday night. I was bandying about the idea of hitting Salt’s Cure or Animal. Then I ended up having lunch with Jill, that very day, at Salt’s Cure (I can’t help it!), and then I remembered, Animal?!, Hells bells! Son of a Gun opened just last night!

And there you go.

It’s been long awaited, but those two, super cute chefs behind Animal, Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo done did it. And I so love that they opened on Oscar night. Their newest, Son of a Gun, occupying the old Cynthia’s space on Third Street, is seafood-centric, with a head-to-toe nautical themed interior. There are 55 seats, half of which – the leather banquets -  are open for reservations and the other half – a long, communal table, running down the middle of the room, are reserved for walk-ins. We marched right up to the bar, however. We sat next to the goldfish.

I tried to wait for the perfect moment, but I’ve never been good at patience or timing – so, Mr. Motorcycle had to hear my pirate joke before he even got a glass of wine down. I think he was humoring me, as he did, in fact, laugh. But let’s face it, I am the worst joke deliverer ever. And my jokes are stuck in 5^th grade. So, points for the boy...

Okay.

So we each ordered a glass of 2008 Erbaluce, La Torrazza, Carema ($13), against the better judgement of our server. She was right and Mr. Motorcycle noticed it immediately: While being a very drinkable wine, this does not have enough snap to hang with the oceanic fare we had selected. This fare was the Smoked Mahi Fish Dip, Celery, Radish, Crackers ($9), and the Fluke, Raita, Oro Blanco, Pineapple, Mint ($15). These two dishes were fun to have side by side as one was very pedestrian in concept and one was tremendously refined. The mahi dip was fresh and crisp and served along side buttery Ritz-esque crackers. I felt like I was sitting on the pier. The fluke was delicate and complex. This dish took one’s palate on a bit of a trajectory from soft and supple, to rich and creamy, to citrusy and and, bam!, a bit of heat. I felt like I was on the, um, very fancy pier?

Side note: I love that their plates are Heath.

At this point we decided to commit to a bottle of 2007 Bourgogne Aligoté, Domaine Rollin ($38). We tasted it and it seemed a bit more befitting for the evening.

Next up was the Alligator Schnitzel, Heart of Palm, Orange ($13) and the dish I was the very most excited about: Linguine and Clams, Uni Aglio-Olio, Breadcrumbs ($16). Here things take a slight twist. But only very.

The schnitzel was fun, but not anything exceptional, nor something the caliber I expect to see from these boys. I’m thinking maybe the breading could use a little something? It was simply, not very interesting. And I want my alligator to be interesting!

The pasta was good. It was cooked beautifully and I loved the addition of the breadcrumbs for the texture. I really did like this dish but, If you can believe it, it was a skosh too salty for me. Translation: really salty.

We finished up with the Fried Chicken Sandwich, Spicy B&B Pickle Slaw, Rooster Aioli ($11), on the behest of our super great bartender. This sandwich was excellent! Perhaps one of the best chicken sammies I've had to date, actually. I wish we ordered it earlier so we could have inhaled it, but we were pretty full at this point. Mr. Motorcycle took it home to have for lunch the next day.

I like this place. A lot. I will like it more as wrinkles get unwrinkled, but mostly when it gets all warm and sunshiney out. You know, when we want to be on that pier. Eating awesome seafood in an awesome spot. And they're open late!

Oh, and hey guys, I really want a soup on the menu.

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.

Clash of the Titans

Sometimes I don’t know if I like having crushes – or the whole dating universe. I mean, it’s great to have someone to play with, but it’s also jarring to begin sweating all the stupid girly shit when you were doing just fine before, on your own.

Something is overwhelmingly disturbing about having one’s confidence shaken to the point of paralysis as the result of not getting a phone call (or, more often than not these days, a text) about a plan that was vague at best, anyway. A plan you didn’t even really know if you wanted to be a part of anyway.

Suddenly one’s skin and emotions are all gossamery and stuff.

But then, it’s also really important to try to remember that this is supposed to be the funnest part, the neatest part. The totally not boring part.

But then, of course, the inevitable big battle begins: ego and jealousy always jump in and try to wreak havoc on the butterflies and giggles parade.

It must be worth it because we all return for it, over and over again. Hell, we hunger for it. We pay good money to see God-awful movies and wildly successful TV shows (that became God-awful movies) about it.

Funny thing: I have been doling out dating “advice” to my friends a lot lately, it seems. But I just realized, as it’s been so long since I’ve been on more than a couple dates with any one person that said advice is infinitely easier said than done.

I guess this is the part where I tell you that my first date, about which I shared some neurosis with you very recently, went really well. I had a lot of fun. And I didn’t expect to. And yes, there has since been a second (and maybe a third!) date. Also fun.

So this brings us to the now – the time when I have to work really hard – wait for it – to enjoy everything. Oxymoronic, no?

And so, as I reflect on these thoughts, and try to recall and feel the fun sillies from the weekend, and try not to project on how many ways either he or I or the universe could possibly make it all dissolve into thin air, I, as usual, found my zen in my kitchen. Making soup.

This is a beautiful and delicate soup. It’s one I had a lot growing up in Richmond. There was (and still is) a little Greek spot called Athens Tavern that served it. That was the only place I ever had it until somewhat recently. It’s like chicken and noodles, but it somehow manages to be a lot more complex and bold while simultaneously being delicate and diaphanous upon hitting the tongue. These supposed elemental mismatches end up making perfect sense - they just are - not unlike the ego versus butterfly battle. The clash of the Titans.

I also gave a certain someone a big bowl of this soup to have for lunch at work today…

Avgolemono Soup

6-8 servings

2 quarts strong chicken stock (preferably home-made)

1 cup chopped up chicken pieces (preferably from the meat of the chicken used for the stock)

½ cup raw orzo

4 eggs

Juice of 4 Meyer lemons

Kosher salt and fresh cracked black pepper

Bring stock to a boil and add the orzo. Cook until orzo is tender, about twenty minutes. Add chicken.

Remove the stock from the heat. Just before serving, beat the eggs until they are light and frothy. Slowly beat in the lemon juice and dilute the mixture with two cups of the hot soup, beating constantly until well mixed.

Add the diluted egg-lemon mixture to the rest of the soup, beating constantly. Bring almost to the boiling point, but do not boil or the soup will curdle.

Salt and pepper to taste.

Serve immediately.

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Eduardo Facebook Saverin Shaffbar

For about a year or so, quite a few of my close friends have told me I should write a dating blog, or something along those lines. I find this to be borderline hysterical, as I have not even been in a relationship since season four of The Wire began. I suppose I have had some interesting adventures in the love and/or dating sphere since then, but absolutely nothing has stuck. Well, except Besito Ysidro, of course. And food.

For the past two or three winters I have been having a lot of fun playing with sunchokes. Prior to that they were relatively unknown to me. They are really very interesting, however, and their unusual texture and flavor make for fun and experimental dishes – but for me, mostly soups, purees, mashes and hashes.

Sunchokes

This winter I have been all about celery root, or celeriac. I have had all sorts of celery root things before, but I don’t think I ever stopped to consider that celery root was any different than celery. Who knows why that would be. And, in case you didn't know, celery and celery root are not the same thing. It is a kind of celery, grown as a root vegetable for its large and bulbous hypocotyl rather than for its stem and leaves.

 

At the end of January I had a lovely celery root soup at The Mercantile. This inspired me.

The sunchoke and celery root appeal to me in similar ways, ways not unlike the artichoke. I mean, who ever looked at any of these items and thought, “I wonder if I should try to eat this gross, and imposing vegetation?" These are ugly and unwelcoming looking shapes. But I'm glad someone did. Because they turned out to be so interesting – so complex, multi-layered, delicious, and fun to cook with. Actually, kind of like the men I am often attracted to. And dogs, for that matter. 

Mise en Place - Celery Root is on bottom right.

This brings me to Eduardo. The latest man in my life. I met Eduardo about a week and a half ago. He was being fostered by an incredibly sweet, and humanitarian, couple in West Hollywood. Regardless of the fact that they own four cats, some feral and with health problems (and none that care for dogs), they still managed to save Eduardo from a certain death at a shelter on the very day he was to be put down. They asked me to take care of him for a few days while they went out of town and it was love at first snuggle. I adopted him. Well, to be clear, Maggie and I adopted him.

Eduardo Facebook Saverin Shaffbar and his Twin.

Not unlike the celery root or the sunchoke, or the men I often find myself attracted to, Eduardo is not without his unattractive qualities. He can be quite the surly little man at times. But ultimately, when he's not growling at you for trying to pick him up, or put him down, he is beautiful, complicated, multi-dimensional, snuggly, goofy and well, pretty damned sweet. He sort-of dares you to love him. And he has the funniest little teeth. They are more like tiny human teeth than doggie teeth. Like tiny, little pieces of rice.

That being said, ironically, I have a date tonight. Not with a root vegetable or a dog. Or Maggie. But with a boy. Oof. Wish me luck. I will now leave you all with that recipe I know you've been waiting for - the soup I promised in the last post.

Celeraic Soup with Sunchoke "Croutons"

Serves 6

2 medium celery roots (celeriac; 1 3/4 pounds total), trimmed, peeled, cut into 1-inch cubes (about 8 cups)
1 pound russet potatoes, peeled, cut into 3/4-inch cubes (about 3 cups)
3 cups chicken stock
2 cups whole milk
3 garlic cloves, peeled
3 fresh thyme sprigs
1 fresh bay leaf
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, divided
3/4 cup heavy cream
8 ounces sunchokes, scrubbed
1/2 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil 
chopped fresh fennel fronds (for garnish)

Combine first 7 ingredients in heavy large pot. Add enough water to cover. Sprinkle with salt. Bring to boil, reduce heat to medium, and simmer with lid slightly ajar until vegetables are tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Drain; return to pot. Discard thyme sprigs and bay leaf. Stir over medium heat to dry vegetables. Using immersion blender, blend vegetables until coarsely pureed. Add cream. Stir in 3 1/2 tablespoons butter. Season with salt and pepper. DO AHEAD: Can be made 1 day ahead. 

Preheat oven to 425°F. Cut sunchokes into 1/2-inch cubes. Place in medium bowl; add oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and toss to coat. Dot with remaining 1/2 tablespoon butter. 

Transfer to rimmed baking sheet; roast until tender and golden brown, turning occasionally, about 25 minutes.

Place celery root and potato puree in serving bowl. Sprinkle sunhokes and chopped fennel over and serve.

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