A different home

Apparently there's nothing homey about Home on a Friday night. Scott, his friend Rommy, and I were hoping to eat at Home on Church and Market before seeing the Fiery Furnaces at Cafe Du Nord (sadly, it was sold out, and as I was the one without a ticket, am now here, at my house, on my bed, typing while Scott and Rommy are there), but after a longish wait we left and headed across the street to Azteca for Mexican food.

And, I'm glad we left. I'd been to Home before and enjoyed a very good pork chop there but tonight's 8:30 dinner atmosphere was much different from the Wednesday 6 o'clock one from my last visit. Tonight's crowd was tall, thin, stylish, and clone-ishly alike. The men, most of whom appeared to be gay, were dressed in button down shirts with the top button undone, had short hair conservatively spiked in the front, and nice shoes. The women, in tall shoes (I still don't understand why women wear those hoofy sandles--they look neither stylish nor comfortable) and too much makeup, flipped their hair as they waited for their tables. (There was a pair of Asian women who looked identical except for the color of their hair--one had brown the other yellow.) This seemed like way too much show for mac and cheese. I, in my $8 tank top and lazy flats who had just rolled out of bed twenty minutes earlier, felt like a fish out of water.

So, when the hostess twirled her hair and apologized that we had to wait much longer than she had first informed us and suggested that the best option for us if we were hungry was to find food elsewhere, I wasn't too disappointed.

We crossed Market and went to Azteca for something quick. This was much more familiar: a counter with glass that housed tubs of beans, rice, guacamole, sour cream, and various types of meats; a yellow board with black type menu posted to the wall; a salsa bar and little clear plastic containers; plastic trays on which to carry our own food; and people in sneakers and hoodies.

I had a quesadilla suiza with chicken and a Negro Modelo. This was home.

Hong Kong style

Birthdays are tricky business and I don't like celebrating mine. The attention, the planning, the "Oh, how old are you? You're so young!" gets to be a little bit annoying for me. I would much rather pass the day as any other day--not having to say the obligatory "thank you" after every "happy birthday," not having to pretend to like bad cake, and not forced to suffer through a rendition of the birthday song belted out by waiters and people trying to eat their meals.

But this year is different. I'm planning something. Nothing big. Just dinner with friends. And it was still tricky. How to find a restaurant that everyone would enjoy and that would be vegetarian friendly? How to find a place where a large group wouldn't get stretched out across a long table, allowing people to only talk to the people directly across from or beside them? My solution: Chinese dinner banquet.

What better way to celebrate the birth of me than to celebrate in Asian style? Red lanterns, large round tables and lazy Susans to play pretend DJ with, Cantonese-speaking waiters. Brilliant. But I knew of few places that had what I wanted and needed to do some test runs.

Ryan offered to have a pre-birthday birthday dinner with me since he'll be in the middle of the Pacific when my birthday actually rolls around. We met at the Apple Store downtown and rode the 38 bus (we met a very nice Israeli man looking for a "nice bar," which apparently is code for "gay bar", and who asked us if we'd like to join him) to Parc Hong Kong, on Geary at 17th. Stepping through the doors, I knew this was the place. Lots of red and pink covered the walls and tables. The hostess and waiters spoke to me in Cantonese and I tried to not embarrass myself. Large tanks held fresh fish, lobster, and crab. Lazy Susans dotted large tables. This had to be it.

We sat by the window and studied the menu. I had no idea what I wanted and so did some adventurous ordering. I chose one of the chef's specials, the dried scallops with fish maw and egg white, not knowing what fish maw was. It would be a surprise. Ryan ordered something safe, the cashew chicken.

My dish came out first. It was a plate of white. I didn't know what to expect really but wasn't expecting egg whites topping bean sprouts and some crispy fried noodles. I dug in slowly, poking around with the spoon at first. It tasted of the sea and slowly I was able to identify all the different things that I was scooping up. I knew what part was egg white, what were the dried scallops, and, through process of elimination, I figured out what fish maw was. I'd actually eaten it many times before when my mom makes fish stomach soup, one of my favorites. Now I have a name for that slightly crunchy tubular mesh thing. The dish was good though, even though I was suspicious of it at first. It was slimy and crunchy and chewy. The bean sprouts softened from the heat of the egg white saute and the noodles became more chewy than crunchy. Ryan had a little bit and politely declined when I offered him more.

I think I found a good one for Monday's birthday dinner. I just hope my friends think so too.

PB&J

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches aren't just a childhood favorite. They're an anytime and anyone favorite. It was my dinner of choice tonight as both Scott and I were too tired to make anything real to eat. He suggested we put a frozen pizza in the oven. But when he discovered that there were none to put in the oven, he opened a pack of Pasta Roni and started cooking, leaving me with having to decide what I could dine on.

Peanut butter and strawberry jam on wheat bread just seemed like the right choice. I hadn't had one in who knows how long. I didn't even know if I still had peanut butter that I would be willing to eat. But, after a little hunt through the outer hidden reaches of my refrigerator, I came upon the peanut butter and strawberry preserves.

After spreading a generous portion of peanut butter on one slice and jam on the other, I cut my sandwich in half right down the middle and took a bite. Strangely satisfying. I forgot the stickiness of peanut butter and how I have to lick the roof of my mouth to clean it off.

My cheese course came next: two slices of sharp cheddar (with the moldy spots cut off, of course).

And, of course, there was wine with the meal, a $5 (on sale) bottle of Yellowtail merlot that had been in the fridge for almost a week. Cheap wine and peanut butter. Perfect. Scott and I sat across from each other, staring intently into each others' eyes while whispering sweet nothings, he eating his Pasta Roni and me with my PB&J.

Lazy night

Today was one of those days when I just felt like doing nothing, cooking nothing, and eating nothing. I have one of these every once in a while when I feel too lazy and tired to roll off the couch and head to the kitchen to put food on a plate and eat it. These are the days when starving looks more appealing than anything you could put in front of me. But then I realize that I can't really eat nothing all day long and force myself to head to the fridge. I opened the doors and stared. Did I want to eat cheddar cheese and packaged turkey? That was about as much energy as I could muster but I knew I couldn't really let myself do that, especially not without crackers.

So, I made one of the quickest and easiest things that I could not involving eggs or a sandwich of some type: angel hair pasta with clams. Nothing fancy. The clams are canned (gasp!). Take some shallots (I had none so I used onions and garlic instead) and slowly cook them. Dump in the drained baby clams. Add the cooked pasta. Toss with olive olive and a squeeze of lemon. Simple.

But I over seasoned. I went a little overboard with the red pepper flakes and black pepper. My mouth was just a little bit unhappy by the end of the meal. But I soothed it down with three spoonfuls of ice cream in the freezer that had been there since no one can remember.

Singing sickness

I'm feeling sick and not the kind of sick with the stuffy nose and sore throat (that was two weeks ago). This sick is the kind that makes you want to throw up. Not pleasant. Perhaps it's the karaoke gods telling me that I shouldn't mix whiskey sours, Abba, and a quesadilla from El Castillito together.

Burma Superstar

I know I found the right organization to work with when we go out to eat. Tuesday’s lunch was my third meal with these new co-workers and it was awesome.

Anh chose to go to Burma Superstar on Clement and 4th for her going-away lunch. The seven of us rode the 38 Geary together. I watched the sun fade into grayish haze the closer we ventured toward the ocean and fretted over my outfit (I wore a summer skirt wishfully thinking that today would be as warm as yesterday). But, I was excited and signs of rain weren’t going to dampen my spirit. We were going to Burma Superstar! The last time I was out on Clement I walked by Superstar and the crowd standing in front, and wanted to know what all these other people apparently knew. I was going to know.

We walked through the doors and a mouthwatering aroma welcomed us. I rubbed my belly in hungry anticipation. This was going to be good.

After careful deliberation, I ordered the catfish chowder and ginger lemonade. (It was a hard choice not to get the Superstar Sangria with lychee berries and Asian pear, but I knew that I couldn’t go back to the office and interview people slightly tipsy—it would have to wait for another time.)

The chowder was made of ground catfish, deep-fried lentils (I think), and rice noodles in what appeared to be a tomato-based broth. It looked and smelled like a Vietnamese dish that my mom makes. Anh and Billy told me the Vietnamese name but I forgot. It tasted like it too. The catfish bits were floating around in their flaky glory. The lentils added a nice crunchy texture. And the soup was rich and flavorful. I spooned up every little bit.

The ginger lemonade was refreshingly delicious too. A little tangy at first with a finishing kick of ginger that wasn’t too overpowering.

Everyone else’s food was yummy too. Bowls, plates, glasses, spoons, and forks were passed around the table as we all tasted one another’s choices and mmmed in unison. I hope to be here a while.

Barista husbands

Ryan woke me up early Sunday morning to get tickets with him at the Fillmore. It was early and I needed coffee, so we went to Momi Toby’s Café, a place I walk by almost every day but had never entered. The Arcade Fire was playing and the baristas were talking about TV on the Radio. I wanted to marry them; Ryan might have as well. They made a decent double latte too.

Yummy Yummy

Nothing warms a cold body like hot soup. I was on a search Saturday afternoon for warm soup after spending the morning and half of the afternoon sitting in cold auditoriums learning about college requirements at UCSF. I found it at Yummy Yummy on Irving at 11th.

The sign outside advertised Vietnamese food and Pho Xe Lue. More Asians were inside, so I took that as a good sign.

I ordered the Number 1, which is the Number 1 at any Vietnamese restaurant, the special bowl of pho with rare beef, tripe, meatballs, and other parts of a cow that I can’t name.

The pho at Yummy Yummy really was as the name described. There was a plentiful amount of beef, so much so that I even left some in the bowl. The meat wasn’t too chewy either, as at some other places. The soup was clear, no oil slicks across my lips, and not too salty. Delicious. I’d definitely return.

Old Krakow

Scott came out of the bathroom this morning in a towel and asked if I was excited to go to Old Krakow. He, apparently, was excited.

We met up later in the evening at the house, where he chatted with Ralph about sex and I about mice, and waited for Scott’s friend Jona who was going to join us for dinner. We hopped on the train and got off at West Portal, a part of town I’d never been to and didn’t even know where it was located.

We stepped out of the train station, and it felt like we were in a foreign land. Perhaps our ride on the K train really did take us to Old Krakow. We walked along West Portal in search of this Polish restaurant and found it at the end of row of restaurants and shops under a red awning.

The inside wasn’t as I expected. I was expecting something drab and romantically sad in its bareness. But it wasn’t. The walls were painted a stately red and the patrons looked three times my age and well-to-do in their pearls. Paintings of generals and what looked liked baronesses lined the walls.

I ordered the Zrazy, which was described as onions and bacon wrapped in beef and smothered in rich gravy. How could I pass up bacon wrapped in beef and then topped off with gravy? There was no way. Potato dumplings and a beet salad were the accompaniments, and I love beet salad.

A large white plate was placed in front of me and in the sea of gravy were two beef rolls that looked deceptively small. Three white mounds of potato dumplings surrounded the gravy ocean.

The Zrazy was good. I didn’t know quite what to expect with Polish food. This was my first. The beef didn’t taste as much as bacon as I had been hoping it would. But it was tender and the rich gravy smothered over everything fun. The dumplings, which looked liked Hostess Snowballs, were starchier and chewier than I was expecting too and a bit bland, but the gravy took care of the bland part. We ended dinner with a chocolate mousse flavored with almond and their version of apple pie. I was about to burst.

We slowly waddled our way out of Old Krakow and dreary-looking West Portal, promising to return the next day but knowing we wouldn’t. Maybe when summer finally comes.

Taiwan

Whenever I wander my way to the Richmond or the Sunset, I feel like I’m home. Cantonese flows down the street, ducks and pork slabs hang in restaurant windows, fruit and vegetable stands crowd the sidewalks. It felt even more like a misplaced homecoming with Natalie, an old friend from my life in suburban Los Angeles who I hadn’t seen in years.

She met me at the Green Apple Book Store on Clement, where I had been wandering the aisles in search for cookbooks and comics in a state of wonderment. We were both starved and decided to eat at Taiwan, which was conveniently located across the street.

The restaurant front was unassuming. Nothing fancy, no bright lights, but there were Asians inside—the sign of a good Asian restaurant. (The last time I ate at a Chinese restaurant in SF was at Ton Kiang on Geary and 23rd. Stevie and I were the only Asians in the place and we knew something was awry.)

Natalie and I stared at the menu, so many choices and at such good prices. The waiter was kind and knowledgeable and helped us choose the wonton soup, green beans, and country chicken. The green beans and country chicken were the restaurant specialties. And, I noticed plates of green beans sitting on almost every other diner’s table, so it couldn’t be that bad.

The soup came first. It was a tasty clear broth with mustard greens and dumplings filled with pork and shrimp—a nice way to warm ourselves up from the Richmond cold. The beans came next. A large plate of sautéed long beans with dried shrimp, pork, and fried garlic. And, finally, a clay pot filled with steaming chicken, ginger, and basil.

The beans were salty and good. I scooped up the fried garlic, dried shrimp, and pork bits and mixed it with my rice, like I used to when I was younger. The fried garlic was so delicious that by the end of meal, I was just picking up garlic with my fingers and popping it in my mouth. The chicken was tender, with meat just falling off the bone. The taste reminded me of all the meals my mother made with chicken in clay pots, and the basil was an interesting addition that worked well.

Natalie and I sat there for two hours, eating everything as our tea was getting cold. We decided that we would make that our hangout spot, trying everything on the menu, and maybe we could even make it for their $3.95 lunch special.

Goat Cheesiness

I eat out way too much. I'm figuring this out sadly and slowly, as each time I check my bank account the numbers are counting themselves down. So, a remedy: bringing my own lunch to work. This isn't actually a bad idea. Spending four days down near Fisherman's Warf doesn't really give me many cheap eating options. And, the novelty of a clam chowder bread bowl vanishes after one's first childhood visit to San Francisco.

So, today, I brought my lunch, contained among the plastic walls of Gladware and carried in a brown paper bag. Classy.

It was penne pasta with pesto and chunks of Riccota goat cheese, another one of my things-in-the-fridge-I-need-to-eat-before-more-mold-spreads creations. And I'm serious about the mold spreading. I bought this Riccota weeks ago, hoping to make a pasta salad with it. It wasn't your regular Riccota. This one had the consistency of fresh mozarella since the cheese had been drained to remove more moisture than usual. And it smelled of goat, as Manoella informed me. I never made the pasta salad and the cheese sat in the refrigerator, forgotten about for weeks. When I found it earlier this week, it was no longer a creamy white, but an almost white with spots of red and brown. It couldn't be good, but isn't all cheese mold anyhow? I figured that cutting off the discolored parts would make the rest edible. Plus, I've got a strong stomach--I was willing to test it out.

The pesto was a few weeks old too. It was leftover from these little pesto and tomato toasts that Manoella and I made several weeks back. Could pesto go bad? Could it mold? If it could, I couldn't tell. Green on green is hard to discern.

So, these two got tossed together with some penne. The pesto was surprising still good and fresh (still tasting of basil, garlic, and parmesan) and the Ricotta seemed fine. The texture of the cheese changed with a little bit of heat. The small white chunks reminded me of marshmallows with a goat scent. The pasta was a bit oilier than I would have liked though, but not bad for a leftovers thrown together. I just had to make sure there were no green pesto chunks stuck between my teeth though. All clean.

Omakase

Xuanie and Derek, my soon-to-be brother-in-law, met Jeanne and me out in the Westside to get dinner a Uzen, a sushi restaurant on Santa Monica at Brockton. We chose four seats at the bar and asked for omakase, which translates to Chef's Special. Since the chef chooses what to make for you, it's a good way to taste a lot of things that you'd never usually order. I had only done this once before at Tekka in San Francisco with Eleanor and Arion, and had tons of fun mmm-ing over all the little dishes of things I had no clue about but knew would be good.

This time was no different. Bits of food kept getting dropped onto our plates by our sushi chef who reached over the clear divide that separated him from us and the seafood cool. The chef put various types of nigiri on our plates--sea bream, halibut, salmon, crawfish, shrimp, scallop, mackerel, sardine, toro. The seafood was so fresh and smooth in texture, most it tasted like butter on my tongue. A plate of grilled eggplant topped with a soybean paste appeared from over our shoulders and in front of us, as did steaming bowls of miso soup with a crawfish head floating around. We had a deep fried eggroll type thing filled with shrimp and mushroom that came with a tempura dipping sauce. And, Olivia ordered the Uzen roll to finish off our meal. It all got washed down with three large bottles of Asahi.



Not only was the food delicious, the chefs and waiters the nicest people ever, but our seats at the bar also allowed me to stare in awe at the dexterity of the three sushi chefs in charge of the whole restaurant. I wish I had their skills, or maybe just their little hats.

Home cooking

My mom relegated Jeanne and me to make dinner at the house tonight, since she and my dad were off to a pre-weddding wedding banquet. She laid everything out for us and gave us directions on what to throw into the wok when. It was just going to be six of us for dinner but she left us with enough food to feed all the flood victims twice over.

Jeanne and I were doing a miracle dance in the kitchen, twirling around one another with adept skill, balancing plates and colanders of chopped vegetables, and looking stylish in our new shoes while doing so (me in heels nonetheless--a veritable feat all in itself).

We had steamed fish in soy sauce; chicken and shitake mushrooms; xigua squash stirfry; scallops, shrimps, and snowpeas cooked to tender perfection in an oyster sauce; pumpkin leaves and flowers (I think that's what they were); Korean barbeque sytles ribs; and sea turtle soup. It tasted just like Mom made. And, best yet, the vegetables came from our backyard garden. There really is no place like home.

Fat bridesmaid

The Labor Day weekend sent me home to LA to hunt down a bridesmaid dress that wasn't hideously covered in tafeta, pink lace, and frill. And, of course, it would have to be slimming, especially since I have a ritual LA homecoming meal at In-N-Out every time I come home to LA (it's the native Angeleno in me, no matter how much I try to deny it). Right off the plane, I had my usual, a Number 2, animal style with extra pickles and a Lemon-Up. I held my stomach in throughout the whole dress fitting that took place afterward. Hot.