Giving in

I couldn't hold out. I succumbed to the sugary devil that is Halloween treats. It was a tough battle and I stayed strong for longer than I thought I could. But, when it was announced over the PA system that a Halloween dessert buffet was taking place in the lounge, I knew I was facing a steep uphill battle. And, as each time I went to fill my mug up with water, that large chocolate chip cookie and decorated cookies blocked my path, I knew I couldn't hold out much longer. So, I relented and cut a chunk of that large cookie and ate half an orange-colored cookie. I passed up the pumpkin pie, apple pie, and can of whip cream. And, I am proud to say, that my Jack-o-lantern cookie still remains intact on my desk.

Susan's Daily Non-eats

I've been bombarded by Halloween snacks. The list so far: cake with lots of frosting, a giant Jack-o-lantern cookie, a wedge from a 12-inch diameter chocolate chip cookie, more cookies, fun-size chocolate bars. I am trying not to eat them as I had a real breakfast this morning--yogurt, a bagel, and coffee. But what else will be coming my way? I've only been at work for about two hours, and I don't know how long I can last at not snacking on junk.

Dinner for one

It’s been a lazy Sunday and my big accomplishment of the day was to make dinner. I needed a reason to leave the house and finally did at 5:30 in the evening (after Scott got home and asked if I slept all day or not) to walk to Safeway to buy an onion for my tomato sauce.

Tonight’s dinner was chicken in a tomato sauce with roasted potatoes and asparagus. I doubted whether or not wanted to put the energy into making it or just have a salad instead but I decided that I had to do something productive today. So, potatoes got scrubbed, chopped, doused with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and put in the oven. The chicken drumsticks were browned on all sides and then removed from the pan. I made a quick tomato sauce with thinly sliced onions, some chopped garlic, a can of diced tomatoes, and a sprinkling of red chili flakes. Once the sauce had been simmering for about fifteen minutes, I placed the chicken in the sauce to finish cooking. My asparagus got a little drizzling of olive oil and a touch of salt and pepper and into the oven. The asparagus and potatoes then got tossed with a little bit of parmesan cheese when they were tender.

It was a bit much to go through for dinner just for one and, sure, having a can of chili, as Scott suggested, would have been easy and quick. But chopping and stirring pots while dancing along the way felt good.

Drunk eating

Being drunk makes me act in strange and frightening ways, and, somehow, the Jack in the Box drive-thru window always seems appealing and never too far away, even when it’s out of the way.

On our way down the hill from Mo’s pre-Halloween supervillain costume party (where I was mistaken as Chlamydia), Quressa and I took a little detour to Jack in the Box. The Jack in the Box on Telelgraph has been the late-night savior of many drunken folks, myself included on more than one occasion. Curly fries, 99 cent tacos, sour dough Jack--greasy goodness and a heart attack in the wings.

We waited in the long row of cars full of young people in need of a 2AM meal. And, when it was our turn to the shout into the menu board, I ordered myself a Bacon Bacon Cheeseburger, which is not my standard late-night drunken snack. I usually get the curly fries but after careful deliberation along with wise advice from Quressa, a sandwich would be the best way to go. I would be able to eat and drive without worrying about dripping buttermilk sauce on my coat.

So, I drove along Telegraph to the freeway and across the Bay Bridge with my Bacon Bacon Cheeseburger in on hand and the steering wheel in the other, and enjoyed every bite of the sandwich that I would later not admit to have eaten.

Drunk eating (the prequel)

After a failed attempt at crashing a party last night (the cops came and we left), Scott and I stumbled through the rain to Haight St. for drinks at the cavernous Noc Noc, where we lounged on a giant pillow on the floor and made friends with a lovely and inebriated Indian girl who lived in our neighborhood. We then went next door to the pizza place and I ordered myself a slice of mushroom, pepperoni, and sausage, and ate it walking home in the rain.

Breakfast of champions

Today's breakfast: one Reese's peanut butter cup and a fun size Twix bar.

Beer and pork

San Francisco really is a small town. I run into people I know all the time, and I don’t know that many people. Earlier last week, as I was driving around, I spotted Rob. Twice actually (although I only mentioned spotting him once to him). The first was when I was heading from the school to the office. I had turned onto Lombard and realized that I couldn’t make a left onto Gough so I had to make a series of right turns to get back on track. Rob was going straight. The second time was about two hours after the initial spotting along Laguna. This time, he was behind me in his car. I studied my rear view mirror, trying to make out if it was really him or not, and wondered what to do. Let him keep driving behind me? Stick my head out and shout? Try to throw something? I decided to call him and we made plans to eat pork.

We met at Suppenkuche and I was late. I found Rob at the bar. We ordered beers (I don’t know what I got; he ordered for me as I was not paying attention to the menus. He did, however, take notes and said he’d email me our drink orders—let’s see if he does.) and prepared to wait. We stood around, chatting, drinking our large glasses of beer, eyeing the host in the green shirt who seemed as if he was about to have a panic attack at any moment, and wanting to befriend our barmates so that I could have some of their sausage. He nodded at us a couple of times but still no spot for us. We were just two. We didn’t take up too much space. Anywhere would have been fine. But we kept waiting and ordered more beer.

I was getting impatient, pounded my fists on the wooden bar top and made sure the whole restaurant knew the wrath of my hunger, which was starting to disappear with all the beer. And, perhaps, it worked. The green shirted host offered to bring us appetizers since we were waiting for so long. We got the potato pancakes with homemade applesauce (I still wasn’t paying attention to what was happening with the food process but somehow knew that potato pancakes were coming our way). And then we got seated. Finally. After about an hour.

I chose the sautéed porkloin in a mushroom sauce with spatzle and a green salad. Rob had the pork and duck sausage with red cabbage. He also ordered a cream of cabbage soup and I said I’d have some of it.

When our potato pancakes arrived, I was far from hungry anymore. But, they looked good and I wanted to be hungry again. They were so light and crispy that when I tried to cut into mine, pieces of fried potato flew across the table. The applesauce that came with the pancakes was thick and tasted of fresh apples. The cauliflower soup was creamy without being overpowering in creaminess. There were bits of cauliflower throughout the soup that required just a little smush with the tongue.

By the time our entrees were placed in front of us, I was full. I had a couple of bites of my porkloin, which Rob had aptly described as a German version of pork katsu, and some of the spatzle. They were both delicious. The pork was tender inside but crispy outside. And the mushroom sauce that topped it was rich with mushroom flavor that went well with the spatzle, as I was using it to soak up the sauce. Rob’s sausage was great too. It burst with flavorful juice as I bit through the casing. I forgot how good pork could be.

Saturday night

Saturday night's are for lounging around in pajamas. Sure, those who say I'm young and should be going out and having fun have some validity in their opinions. But, really, sometimes just doing nothing alone is the best thing to do.

I had my evening planned. I'd order a pizza and watch a cheesy video. The pizza came from Volare's on Haight. It was a sausage and mushroom one that came very quickly and very steamy (the delivery man--he really was a man--got a nice tip). The cheese was creamy and there wasn't too much tomato sauce. The sausage tasted like fennel and the mushrooms tasted like mushrooms.

The video was Fever Pitch with Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore. Okay, I admit I wanted to see it. I actually remember having someone refuse to watch it with me in the theater and we went to see Old Boy that night instead. And, sure, Fever Pitch wasn't the best movie ever made but it was good, in a sort of way that a single girl spending an evening with pizza and beer would enjoy.

Belated birthday

I had my qualms about the vegan Japanese restaurant. I envisioned rolls filled with hard brown rice instead of the sticky soft white kind. I pictured too much tofu. I saw myself smiling politely as I tried to swallow. But, I was pleasantly surprised when I met up with Lisa and Mo for a belated joint birthday gathering at Cha-Ya in Berkeley.

Located in the gourmet ghetto along Shattuck Avenue, Cha-Ya is a tiny place with few tables and spots along the counter. There was a long line forming outside when I arrived and found Mo and Lisa already seated. I felt slightly guilty to just breeze past all the folks freezing as they were waiting for a table.

Lisa and Mo had already done some ordering. I looked at the menu before deciding that there were too many options, gave up, and went with whatever those two had decided upon. There was a jicama salad on the table and cubes of tofu in a light brown sauce. The salad was clean and fresh. The julienne jicama and radishes crunched in mouth, and I tried to figure out what else was mixed in there. The tofu cube was soft and tender without being impossible to pick up with chopsticks. I topped my piece off with seaweed. The vegetable tempura that came out was crispy, the batter flakey and not greasy. There was a roll that looked and tasted like a roll from any other non-vegan Japanese restaurant. We also had a bowl of sushi rice topped with a mixed vegetable assortment: lotus root, snap peas, carrots, and I don’t remember what else.

Everything tasted fresh and clean. And, although I did spy brown rice options on the menu, I was more than happy with our non-brown rice dishes.

After dinner, we headed across the street to Cesar for cocktails and dessert. Through the crowd of older people being hip, I ordered a Cuban Manhattan and a cheese plate with figs and almonds drizzled with honey. The white cheese was smooth, creamy, and sweet—really tasting like a dessert. The figs that surrounded it were perfectly ripe with their seedy middles exposed in full glory. And the honey that covered the dish pulled the parts together in a light touch of sweetness. Delicious.

Workplace pounds

It’s dangerous being in the office on Fridays, especially with people who like to eat. There are snacks galore.

A former employee came to visit and brought with her German chocolates. I picked up a Duplo bar as I walked pass our communal food spot. The packaging read “Schmeckt krusperleicht!” It turned out to be a version of an American Kit Kat bar—chocolate with wafers in the middle.

Melissa returned from her presentation with a bagful of sample Luna bars. The Lemon Zest one, one that I had been suspicious about, was good. It tasted like a lemon bar and had none of that yucky graininess that Luna’s sibling Cliff has.

Andrea and Kristen came downstairs, done with their tutor training, with kettle corn, Pepsi, pretzels, celery sticks and vegetable dip. Bea put a plate of kettle corn in front of me and my hand just wandered its way to the plate and then to my mouth.

Apparently, in college, it’s the freshman fifteen. I guess the same goes here in this office too.

Urban family dinner (part II)

The Tuesday night dinners that Scott and his friend Brandy make for each other every week took place on a Thursday this time around. It was Scott’s turn to cook this week and since he asked me much earlier in the week if I’d be home for it I couldn’t not be. Plus, there would be gay boys, shag carpeting, guacamole. There was no way I could pass that up.

Scott’s dinner menu of choice was chicken fajitas. He laid out quite a spread. When I got home, he had already prepped the chicken (he even put a pad of butter in the pan just waiting for the chicken to pop out of the refrigerator), placed the tortillas in the microwave, arranged bowls of salsa, cilantro, sour cream and shredded cheese on the coffee table, and was just finishing up the final seasoning adjustments to the guacamole. I helped by putting extra beer in the refrigerator, eating chips, and telling him that something was missing to his guacamole but couldn’t decide on what.

Brandy’s friend Matt was joining us for dinner too and this was the first time I met him. Scott and I both had a bit of a crush on him (tall, thin, rides a bicycle). Needless to say, I was happy that he was seated next to me on the shag rug.

We carried our plates of food into the living room and situated ourselves on the floor around the coffee table. For some reason, sitting on the rug around the coffee table is the best spot in the house for any sort of meal (second only to standing next to the refrigerator with take-out box and fork in hand). We passed bowls of various fajita fillings around the table to complete our wraps. I tried to turn my fajita into a Mission-style burrito by trying to replicate the hand motion used by those skilled burrito-istas but didn’t quite succeed—my faux-burrito burst at the bottom and oozed refried beans.

We ate and drank Tecates and Fat Tires, talking about boys (Scott and Matt had dated the same guy), more boys, girls, and various movies. When the conversation turned to architecture and neo-urbanism, I faded away, trying to look interested but not able to fully pull it off. Scott gave me a knowing, thanks-for-hanging-out-with-my-architect-friends tap with his socked foot.

We ended dinner with brownies from a box, topped with chocolate ice cream, and washed down with more beer. A good dinner all-around.

Suzu

If I knew the tiny ramen noodle house in the lower level of the Japantown shopping center was called Suzu, I might have eaten there much more often. But, I didn’t find out its name until tonight, when Colin, Eleanor, and I were looking for a place to eat. Colin suggested going to a restaurant on the top floor and I suggested going to Suzu—I had an excellent noodle experience there before and wanted to eat there again. So, it was a bit of a duel—Colin’s noodle house against mine—and I was getting nervous as to whether my noodle place was really as good as I thought it was. I couldn’t let Colin and Eleanor think I have bad taste in food. But, the coin toss spoke, heads won, and we headed downstairs.

Suzu is a tiny place, with only about dozen small tables. Pieces of cloth hang over the doorway, creating a sort of curtain in the restaurant, which is charming but also annoying to the vertically advantaged who have to duck to pass under. The same pieces of cloth wrap around the hanging lamp fixtures, adding to the charm of the small restaurant.

When we got there, all the tables except one for two were taken. The hostess eyed us, held up three fingers, nodded, and then asked a couple sitting at a table for four if they would move. They looked at us and scooted over to the tinier table. We said thanks as we headed to their former spot, and they asked us if we could do them a favor and hand them their menus back.

The menu at Suzu is a fairly limited one, boasting of handmade noodles that I presumed were made on the premises. After another consultation with the coin, I decided that the ramen with Japanese-style fried chicken would win over the one with ma po tofu.

After a short wait, the small waitress brought over a large dark bowl with steam rolling off the top. She placed it in front of me, along with a small dish of fried chicken, and I sat there smelling the marvelous aroma as we waited for Colin’s and Eleanor’s bowls to arrive.

After some polite waiting and still no more dishes approaching our table, I dug in (after the okay from Colin and Eleanor). And it was so good. Warm and soupy, just what I wanted on a bit of a chilly night with a visible layer of fog blanketing the city. The broth was rich and tasty without being overly seasoned. The noodles were the right balance of chewy and soft. And, the chicken, in its separate bowl, stayed crispy. The only problem I had with the dish was the steam fogging up my glasses and hindering my view of the noddley masterpiece.

When we slurped up all the noodles and broth, we headed back upstairs for dessert crepes at Susie’s Crepes. I had my favorite, a crepe with Nutella and banana, which always reminds me of the warm afternoon sitting on the slope in front of the Centre Pompidou with Boy Bryn and having Nutella drip all over my shirt. Perfectly lovely.

Non-groceries

Scott and I went to Safeway to get some groceries. But we didn’t buy anything we could really make a meal of. We got Tecate, fire logs, popsicles, brownie mix, four avocadoes, mice poison, cheese, deodorant, salad greens, eggs, a can of garbanzo beans, gum.

I refrained from eating one of the Whole Fruit Bars while waiting in line. I ate it the second I got home.

Urban family dinner

There aren’t many things I miss about living with my parents in LA. I do, however, miss family dinners. We had these every night. They weren’t mandated, but it was something we always did. Mom would cook, and we would eat. Sure, for most of the dinner we would switch stations between Chinese news and The Simpsons (our parents could never understand why we would watch a show that didn’t even have real people in it) but it was something we did together.

And I miss it. So, when Jon came by for dinner and he, Scott, and I sat down to eat together, it was like reliving those evenings. Except we didn’t eat rice with chopsticks and we didn’t watch Chinese news. Instead, we had baked chicken, roasted potatoes, and green beans. And, we talked about our worse vomit stories after I refused to spend another dinner together playing Kill, F***, Marry.

The chicken recipe was something that Jeanne had sent along and I thought I’d try it. Crush some cornflakes then add cayenne, salt, and pepper. Then, dip chicken parts into an egg wash, then into the cornflake mixture, and bake. Nothing to it. The red potatoes were scrubbed and cut into small chunks then tossed with olive oil, salt, and pepper and put into the oven. And, the green beans were simply sautéed with a bit of onion and olive oil. An easy, low-maintenance dinner for a lazy Sunday evening.

When it was all done and we were plating up, it looked like a very all-American sort of meal. Scott even remarked that it appeared like nothing I’d make. And, as I eyed my plate, I realized that he was right. I had made Shake-n-Bake.

We ate around the round table in the kitchen, talking about things I’d usually be shy to talk about around the dinner table. I guess this is my urban family dinner.

Kate's

After a late-night and slightly drunken scavenger hunt at the new de Young Museum, there wasn’t anything I wanted more than eggs and potatoes (except for perhaps more sleep).

Colin, Eleanor, and Toby spent the night at my house after finishing up with our scavenger hunt at about five in the morning. When we all roused ourselves out of bed (or shag carpet and sleeping bags), we ventured over to Kate’s on Haight at Fillmore for an early afternoon breakfast.

We were lucky. We didn’t have to wait in line as usually is the case at Kate’s on a Sunday. We actually feared karmic ass-kicking as we cut in line in front of probably a thousand people at the museum, but the waiting-in-line gods were apparently smiling upon us.

We sat at one of the tables covered with a red checkered tablecloth and looked over to the specials board, where pancakes, omelets, and egg scrambles were written in colorful chalk. We nodded when we were asked if we wanted coffee or not, and I was happy to get something into my stomach.

I ordered one of the special scrambles with a name that can’t recall because it was so long and slightly elaborate but consisted of eggplant, feta, peppers, mushroom, onions, and egg. It came with homefries (yes, potatoes!) and a biscuit that was flecked with red and green. I don’t know if I was ridiculously hungry or if my body was starting to feel the effects of the previous night’s drinking, but I ate the massive plate of food up. I had some of Colin’s French Toast Orgy and Eleanor’s buttermilk pancakes too.

Balancing act

I’m eating leftovers at my desk as I type. Teriyaki chicken with brown rice and steamed broccoli and carrots. Pretty healthy stuff (one of my co-workers commented on how nutritious my meal looked as she opened her styrofoam container of brown fried noodles in a little pool of grease).

But it’s all just a rouse. A balancing of good and bad. This morning, I had two mini Baby Ruths and a bag of nacho cheese Doritos for breakfast.

Tired of cake

Cake can only be so good for so long, and I’m starting to wonder if the cake in my freezer is starting to go bad. I had sliced my leftover birthday cake into thirteen slices, Scott wrapped them up in wax paper (he did so very skillfully and with absolute precision), and I put them in bags and stacked them in the freezer. They’ve been there for about two weeks. Not too long, really, but long enough so that after about a slice a day, I’m starting to get really tired of cake.

Drunken colleagues

It’s funny watching old people get drunk. It’s funnier when they’re my colleagues.

It’s my second night in Tahoe for a work function and the Embassy Suites here has a free happy hour for hotel patrons, and apparently it’s very popular. Usually, I’m all up for the free drinks (anybody who knows me knows that). But in this case, it’s different. I’m working and I’m trying to establish myself with these people as someone who is responsible, in control, and knows her boundaries.

So, I ordered a margarita on the rocks and joined my coworkers for bar snacks and a little bit of a debriefing of the day’s activities. We watched our colleagues walk pass us with drinks, some with one in each hand and one with drinks carried on a dining tray heading up to his room. I started to wonder if I’m working with a bunch of alcoholics and if, for once, I wasn’t the lushiest in the bunch.

We joined everyone for the evening social and raffle. People were making a little commute from that conference to room the bar regularly, and growing increasingly wobbly in the process. I had never seen a group of people get so excited about a raffle before. People were jumping up and down for sweatshirts, mugs, and office supplies. One man even took his shirt off to reveal a scrawny and naked body.

I can’t wait to get back home to San Francisco.

Old lady friend

Mrs. Wallach passed away on Monday. She slipped away as her son and her friend Flossie were reading to poetry for her. I can’t imagine a sweeter way for her to leave the planet.

For almost two years I spent part of each weekend with her. We read The New Yorker, demolished dandelions, watched CSPAN and The Daily Show (she referred to Jon Stewart as “her friend”), chatted about her family, movies, politics, and the world of education.

And, we ate. We journeyed throughout Berkeley to some of her favorite places. We had lattes at the Café Roma on College, pizza slices at The Cheese Board, fresh bread and pastries at La Farine. We always made friends at Bateau Ivre, the butchers on College, and Andronico’s where we shopped for groceries.

Each day was a little adventure in its own way and I’ll miss the mornings in her garden, the strolls throughout Berkeley with her knuckley but smooth hand in mine (which she always said were nice and warm), the runs for cake. But, especially, I’ll miss her, her humor, her charm, her wisdom and grace.

The horror

You enter a different world when you cross the California / Nevada border. A world full of sin. And, I’m not just talking about the gambling. I’m talking about hotel buffets—troughs of food just open for the taking, without self-control, without concerns for wastefulness, without any sense of self-awareness.

I haven’t been to a buffet in years. I think the last time I went to one, it was at the Hometown Buffet with my parents. That was my parents’ idea of a nice dinner. And I’ve never felt a yearning to gorge myself at a buffet. So, when one of my directors from work suggested we eat at the Harrah’s buffet in the part of Lake Tahoe that no longer resides in California but in Nevada (we literally walked ten feet from our hotel in California into Nevada), I secretly cringed, but acquiesced.

To say that whole process was an ordeal would be an overstatement but not a gross one. We had to search our way through the clouds of smoke in the bottom floor casino to the elevator that took us up 18 floors to the restaurant. We waited in a line, paid the cashier, got seated, and then it was off with our plates.

I scoped out my choices on our way to the table and eyed the baked salmon, roasted potatoes, green beans (their vegetable—only one—of the day), and cabernet mushrooms. They weren’t bad but they weren’t good either. Everything was much too salty and over-seasoned. The food actually started to hurt the roof of my mouth—I think the salt was burning it off. I suppose that’s what the chefs must do to appease such a wide range of palates.

My second round was for some salad and their Asian foods, which I should have known to be sub-par. The selection of Asian food was actually quite impressive. There was dim sum, noodles, dumplings, seaweed salad, California and unagi rolls. I picked up some of the rolls, a shrimp dumpling, and a pork dumpling. The rolls were cold and hard. The shrimp dumpling’s wrapper was too starchy. And the pork dumpling had a strange and unappealing texture. The salad was decent.

But the quality of the food and having to get up and serve myself aren’t the only things I have issues with at buffets. It’s watching people mound the food up on their plates so that they form little pyramids and wondering how they’re going to be able to balance it back to their seats and eat all of it. It’s watching people whose body hang over the waist of their pants eat large salads of iceberg lettuce and blue cheese dressing, and following that up with three other plates of food and Diet Coke. It’s seeing little kids walk to and from the dessert area four or five times, each with a different treat, and their parents somehow allowing that be okay. Have they no self-control? Or, are they just getting more bang for their buck?

I don’t know. I do know that I wanted to leave that place quickly, cross back in to California, and hide in my hotel room for the rest of the night.

Late-night cakewalk

Why do I do this? Why do I eat a slice of cake with milk so late at night, feel sick, and then regret my eating decision? Why?

But the cake was still good. A thin slice of the decadently rich chocolate cake with caramel ganache from Tartine that my friends surprised me with last night. There's still half of it left, sitting in the refrigerator, just waiting for someone to eat it. So, come visit me, and you can have your cake and eat it too.

susantu.com

Jon gave me my own domain, in my name, www.susantu.com. So far, it's linking to this site, but I think it's pretty damn awesome.

More food to come, including Cafe Cacao, Shanghai Restaurant, and Parc Hong Kong (Part II).