Happy anniversary to me!

Today marks the one year anniversary of Susan’s Daily Eats. What started as a kind gesture at an 826 workshop turned into a year-long chronicle of my eating escapades. I didn’t think this blog would get this far. I thought maybe I’d be able to write for two months tops. A year was unfathomable. So far, this food blog has been my longest committed relationship with anything.

Like all relationships, we’ve had our ups and downs. There were the meals of stale Wavy Lays, the nights when the food I ate just wouldn’t stay down, and, of course, the candy bar breakfasts. But for every dinner eaten standing up in the glow of the refrigerator light bulb there has been a ritual LA homecoming In-n-Out meal, a discovery of sticky love, and an evening at the ballgame. It’s a give and take.

This blog has grown too, just as I have, trying to figure itself out, sorting out its style and purpose, attempting to capture its essence. I first started writing with the intention on journaling everything I ate, from all the Cliff Bar meals to popping random fruit lying about into my mouth, as a take on the pretentious food reviews that abound. But, somehow, in the evolution of bloggery, I’ve been guilty of pretentious food writing myself. I’m still trying to figure things out and find a point to things, and am learning that I don’t really have to.

And, finally, in celebration of this momentous event, I invited everyone to send in a submission of a memorable eating experience. Here is the crème de la crème. (If you still want to send something in, that’s cool too. It’s never too late.) With the accent of the late Julia Child, I say, bon appetite.



Bring Me Meat

I met Jon more than a year ago at 826, where he volunteered drawing half walruses, half aliens, and half fairy princesses for children and where I watched his interactions with the kiddies cautiously. When I moved on, he asked me to lunch and I remember that day in North Beach well. Since then, we’ve had countless meals together. Here’s his questionable account of one.

Every meal with Susan has been an exciting, often glamorous and always sensuous experience. There was the time Susan found an earlobe in her cabbage salsa at Feniqui's, the altercation we got into with our waiter when he grabbed Susan's purse in an effort to obtain a more generous tip, or even the pizza we ordered that came two days late. But by far the most memorable experience was the dinner we had in Potrero Hill at Bring Me Meat.

An all meat-oriented restaurant, Bring Me Meat had been on our list of places to go for weeks. We were to meet at Teddington's for drinks beforehand, but after waiting for half an hour, Susan was nowhere to be found. Was she ditching me? Did she hate me for some reason? Was she dead? I called her cell repeatedly, but got nothing. She probably wasn't dead, but you never know. If she was, I wouldn't be one of the people they'd call.

Starving, and with an hour having passed, I decided I'd go to Bring Me Meat with or without Susan. Not surprisingly they didn't have a wait and I was able to get a booth, all to myself. I also had a waitress, the short and indistinguishably foreign Loaf (pronounced Loof) all to myself. It seemed there were almost no other customers in the place, except for an old man in the corner who didn't seem to be eating or drinking anything, though frequently required the attention of my lonely Loaf.

I'd taken a corner booth, with a view of the door, though slightly obscured by some foliage. So when Susan came in with a strange man in tow, she didn't see me. The growingly unfaithful Loaf seated them in the booth adjacent to mine. Susan, with her back to me, seemed completely unaware of my presence, or even that we were supposed to be eating together. Who was this man? She couldn't have mistaken him for me, he looked nothing like me.

I leaned in, eavesdropping on their conversation like a character in an episode of Three's Company. From what I was able to discern, his name was Martin and they'd met through Craigslist. This was their first date and Susan seemed less than enthused, though Martin was quite excited and utterly unaware of her lack of interest. He blathered on for a while, talking about his truck, his ex-girlfriend and his "awesome job at Radio Shack" for far too long. Too long, actually, for me to be able to say anything to them.

It had been about 15 minutes that I'd been sitting there. If I were to get up and say hello, Susan would wonder why I'd been there so long without saying anything. And worst of all, the meatshake that Loaf had given me, felt as though it had gone straight through me. I had to pee so bad, and going to the bathroom would meaning passing right by Susan's booth. There was nothing immediately visible that would work as a disguise, and Loaf wasn't willing to distract them for me. Maybe if I could wait them out, if I could hold it long enough, everything would be okay. But they'd only just gotten their appetizer (chilled lamb rolls). Why was the service in a place with no customers so slow anyway?

Then Susan called. Susan? That's what my phone said. Looking over at her, she clearly wasn't on the phone. I answered in hushed tones. "Hello?" It was indeed Susan, asking where I was. She'd been at Teddington's for the past half hour waiting for me. She'd gotten there at 6:30, the time we'd agreed to meet, unlike the much earlier and completely incorrect time I'd shown up. But if Susan was there, who was the imposter next to me? I stood up, walking over to get a closer look. It seems that my Susan was more of a stranger I'd never met before, than she was a friend of mine. From across the restaurant, without my glasses, I'd mistaken this woman (who I was now staring at, quite blatantly, from only two feet away), for Susan.

Walking away without a word, I sat back down and resumed my conversation with the real Susan. I explained what had just happened, to which she exclaimed, "What, do we all look the same to you?" I told her that I had to pee and then needed to ask out a girl named Loaf. Unfortunately, after my trip to the bathroom, Loaf's shift had ended, she'd vanished, Fake Susan had abandoned her date and I was left with a restaurant of lonely men and a bill to pay.



Shucking Virgin

Karen moved to New York for graduate school just about a year and a half ago. But, we’d been living hundreds of miles apart from each other for years. We’ve only eaten together a handful of times over the last several years, so I try to make each occasion something special. Her submission is an account of one of those times.

I rarely have the pleasure of dining with Susan. It probably has something to do with the fact that we live on opposite sides of the country.

Susan did take me oyster shucking once. This was about a year ago. After some discussion/debate about whether or not we should even go, we picked up some IPAs, baguettes and cheese from the local Andronico's and hit the road.

We were heading to some place where you could shuck your own freshly harvested oysters and all Susan talked about on the ride was the minionette. When we arrived at the oyster spot, Susan looked perplexed. It wasn't at all like what she had remembered it to be. And when we approached the oyster guy to buy our oysters, Susan asked about the minionette accompaniment. He had no clue. Nonetheless, we purchased about 50lbs of oysters for just the two of us. Why not, really? And a shucker. We also got limes and Tapatio hot sauce.

I was a shucker virgin, but Susan was more than gentle and kind and showed me the proper technique. She actually did most of the shucking. I had neither her forearm strength nor shucking experience. The oysters were amazingly fresh and tasty. No accompaniment needed at all. We probably had about 10lbs worth of oysters each, plus beer, bread and cheese.

With our stomachs more than sufficiently full and shells piled embarrassingly around us, we decided it was time to go home. Susan finally realized that this oyster place was not the same one she had visited before, with the minionette, which was actually just down the road. She duly noted that for her next visit. We packed up and made our way back on PCH. The sun was setting across the Pacific and I commented on how amazing it was to end the day in such a beautiful way. At this point, Susan asked, "What, you've never seen a f**cking sunset before?"


Shucking Virgins Revisited

Apparently, I like to shuck, and Jeanne and Justin learned that on one of their visits. Justin also learned that afternoon in Marin that he shouldn’t eat raw shellfish and then let me drive along windy roads. Jeanne, on the other hand, was a trooper. That’s why I like her and can’t wait for her to visit again for another gastronomic gorging. Here's Jeanne's account of the shuck of her life.

Susan likes to shuck. And she shucks with everyone… I don’t know who she was with for her first time but I know she shucked with Karen before she shucked with me and Justin. What a shucker!

Justin and I was a couple of shucking virgins but Susan was a pro. We prepped for our afternoon of shucking by picking up some wine and bread from the market and stopped by Cowgirl Creamery to get some cheese and sandwiches. By the time we got to Tamales Bay, we were all ready for a good shuck. We bought a ton of fresh oysters, Tapatio, and some limes, and were set for some good-old, down and dirty shucking.

Susan taught us the proper technique of oyster shucking (see Image 1) and was patient with Justin who was reluctant to slurping down the tasty bivalve (see Image 2). After some persuading, he finally joined Susan and me in eating our fill of oysters. By the end of the day, Justin and I could shuck with the best of them (see Image 3). Unfortunately for Justin, he shouldn’t have let us talk him into eating so many oysters because on the ride home, he had to lie down in the backseat and take a few Dramamine. We had to pull over too (see Image 4).


Image 1



Image 2



Image 3



Image 4

Roast-o-rama

I hadn’t cooked dinner for someone in a while. Jon apparently has left me for another woman, or perhaps he got tired of eating curry off the kitchen counter. So, to cook for someone again was nice.

This time, Mark came to my house to have a meal cooked in my relatively luxurious kitchen. The meal wasn’t so luxurious though. It was a usage of old food that needed to be eaten before I headed out of town again. And, the cooking was simple—roasting everything in the oven.

Slowly roasting tomatoes at a low temperature helps mask the blandness of tomatoes that are no longer blushing with summer freshness. The moisture evaporates to create a concentrated essence of tomato. The slow roasting helps bring the flavors of an otherwise sad tomato back to life. Not only do the tomatoes taste like tomatoes again, but the cooking of them is easy. I sliced the Roma tomatoes lengthwise, tossed them with a bit of olive oil, salt, pepper, and sugar, and placed them on a baking sheet cut side up. They stayed in the 300 degree oven for as long as it took me to finish the rest of the meal and for Mark to arrive.

The second sad vegetable for the evening were some zucchini squash that were at least a week old. I don’t remember why I bought them but they were still in the refrigerator when was doing some rummaging. They underwent the same cooking procedure as the tomatoes, except minus the sugar and not nearly as an extensive amount of time in the oven. They stayed in the oven for about 15 minutes, and came out tender without being mushy.

I also roasted salmon. The salmon was the only thing that hadn’t been sitting around the house for days, maybe weeks. The salmon was simply cooked too. The two filets were rubbed with a bit of olive oil, sprinkled with salt and pepper, and covered with fresh thyme springs from the herb pot. I squeezed the fish in next to the vegetables and cooked it for about 20 minutes. I left it in there a little longer than it should have been. It was just barely, almost imperceptibly a touch too dry. Mark said it was fine though, but everyone who comes over for dinner says my mistakes are fine.

The only thing that didn’t go into the oven was the wild rice. That went into the rice pot. I had a hard time gauging the right amount though, and ended up with three times as much rice as I wanted. The rice, however, came out well, unlike my last rice mistake. The grains were tender and chewy, and looked beautiful in their different mélange of shapes and color tones.

Rice mistake

Cooking new rice is tricky. Finding the perfect balance between water and grain can sometimes be elusive, as it was tonight.

I had a plan. I was going to try out the ma po tofu sauce I bought the other day at Genki. I try to make my own sauce for this dish but it never turns out right. It’s usually too bland or too watery or just plain too weird but passably edible. So, I thought, why not use packaged stuff? Eleanor said that our Japanese friend used it. It couldn’t be that bad. And I would make my new rice with it.

So, I set my new rice into the rice cooker before setting off with the tofu. The rice was an organic brown Calrose that I got when I was in LA doing some random shopping at the Nijiya Market on Sawtelle. There were no directions on the package, but I assumed the same water to rice ratio as the brown Calrose that I used before: one part rice, two and a half parts water. I put the rice and the water into the cooker, closed the lid, and pressed the button.

Forty minutes later, I was done. My tofu was ready. It turned out to be a very brown mix of tofu and pork that didn’t look too appetizing, so I threw in some frozen peas and corn for color. It also wasn’t as spicy as the package led me to believe. I’m not sure if I’m a fan.

But, the tofu wasn’t the main problem. The rice was. It was too hard, too crunchy, and too chewy. It wasn’t good, nor was it bad enough to warrant disposal so I kept eating it, giving my jaw a workout. I didn’t put enough water and the center of the grains were just barely tender enough. And, the crunch, I think, was caused by the rice sticking to the bottom of the pot when all the water was absorbed by the grains. I somehow pulled off what would normally sound impossible: cooking crunchy yet chewy rice. Next time, more water. Lesson learned.

Chinatown eating tour

Eleanor and I have had a coupled craving for rice porridge since last week’s Oakland Chinatown brunch. There’s something about this thick rice and water mixture that’s familiarly homey, comforting, and soothing to the soul and stomach. My mom makes it each time I go home to LA, and it’s grown to be something I look forward to maybe even more than those ritual jaunts to In-N-Out.

Jon, Shari, and I met her at Hing Lung on Broadway at Stockton, which was where a little bit of research guided me to in finding the best rice porridge in the City. We were a bit late and the crowds of Chinese people pushing us off the sidewalk and onto the street didn’t help us. When we finally reached her fifteen minutes after when we said we would, we were greeted by yet another crowd of Chinese people within. I was taking mental notes. Lots of Chinese people, a less than sterile-looking cooking environment, loud and rude wait staff--this is Cantonese dining at its finest.

I used my Cantonese skills and wrangled us a table. I ordered the rice porridge with pork and preserved egg. [Note: I call this rice and water soupy goodness “rice porridge” because that’s the best description of it, but menus usually describe it as “congee,” which I have never understood the meaning of, or “jook” or “juk,” Americanized spellings of the Cantonese word.] We also ordered the “Chinese doughnut,” which is a long piece of fried dough that I’ve always understood to mean “oil fried ghost” in Cantonese, and the same “Fried bread” wrapped in steamed noodle. After placing all our orders individually, the waiter looked at me and repeated it to me in Cantonese. I nodded. (My Cantonese skills only take me far enough to be able to order food.)

The fried bread wrapped in noodle came out first. I found this plate a bit questionable since I’d never seen it before anywhere and had never eaten it. But, my chopsticks transported the piece of dough wrapped in more dough and topped with a light soy sauce from plate to mouth, and it was delicious. The steamed noodle’s chewy, soft whiteness cloaked the fried doughnut and was an interesting contrast to the distinct chewy crunch of the fried bread. And, the soy added just a touch of saltiness.

The large bowl of rice porridge came out next. It was thick, white, with chunks of black egg and strings of brown pork, and topped with green onion. A few shakes of pepper and salt made it perfect. It felt so good to have the craving filled by spooning slurpy porridge. And, when the rest of the fried bread came out, I tore it into chunks, dropped them into my bowl, and let them soak up the tasty rice porridge before taking a bite, the way those Chinese doughnuts should be eaten. It was almost as good as eating my mom’s rice porridge in our kitchen.

We finished and journeyed through North Beach, where we picked up tons of sugary snacks at the large candy store. I had a bag full of apple O’s and probably half of Jon’s Spree. I topped that off with a double latte later on in the afternoon.

We walked back through Chinatown on our way home, mostly to stop at a place for steamed buns. The place Eleanor took us to was called Happy Dim Sum Nice Food or some combination of those words or similar ones on Stockton at Jackson. Going into the small store, I just wanted a steamed chicken bun but when I saw a man get a dozen or so dim sum pieces, I wanted some of that too. So, I ordered my chicken bun, a piece of shrimp dumpling, and a piece of pork dumpling. The lady behind the counter told me it was $1.35 and called me a pretty girl. I ate those dumplings and steamed bun out of a plastic bag, with my hands, walking down Stockton and through the dark tunnel, and just felt happy.

Magical udon

I’ll admit that I was skeptical. Mark’s kitchen is the size of my left arm. How was he to cook a delicious meal for two in that tissue box? But, somehow, magically, he pulled it off.

I squeezed myself against the doorway of his kitchen, trying not to take up too much space, as he pivoted from stove to sink. “A clean kitchen is a safe kitchen,” he kept repeating, as he washed each dish and utensil immediately after its use. I felt a bond in our slight OCD, maniacal kitchen cleanliness.

He was making udon, a warm treat on a rainy evening. I watched him slice through a pink half cylinder of fish cake, place chicken breasts on the George Foreman, chop scallions, and boil noodles all within a two square feet area of space. Somehow, in that tiny space, we lost count of the magical phases of noodle soup making.

With chicken and noodles cooked, Mark ladled the warmth into bowls and added the finishing touches—a drizzle of mirin and a dash of Japanese seasoning. I eyed him dubiously, slightly disapproving of his method, and he handed me my steaming bowl. I slurped those thick white noodles, sipped the warm soup, and poked the spongy fish cake with the point of my chopstick. They were good. It really was like Mark pulled off some magic trick, making two hot bowls of udon appear from almost nothing. How am I ever to beat that?

Anniversary reminder

There is only a little more than two weeks left until the one year anniversary of Susan’s Daily Eats. That means you have only a few days before you can think of a great meal (with or without me) and send it in as a guest blogger for your chance to win a super awesome prize. If you have questions, I may have answers.

And, if you’re feeling a little stuck with what to write about or how to write it, here are some examples:

You can read Rob’s blog and his take on our Frjtz experience.

Or, if you’re not cool with clicking on hyperlinks, here’s something for you too:

“Dining with Susan is an experience that everyone should be lucky enough to partake of at least once in his or her lifetime. She’ll charm your socks off with her quick witticisms, only to distract you as she eats all your French fries. I remember the first time I ate with her. She told me a joke about quarks and ducks, and I was shedding tears of laughter, I saw her blurry self stuff five French fries into her mouth all at once. It was quite a sight. I’ll never forget it.”

Or, if that’s not your style, here’s another:

“Susan once made me a sandwich. She called it a peanut butter and jelly one, but there was no jelly. Just gobs and gobs of peanut butter. I didn’t realize it until I took my first big bite and all I got was peanut butter. I think she thought she was being funny.”

The Ryans

The last time I ate with Ryan was in New York. She had taken Karen and me to a great Japanese restaurant not too far from her place with killer sake cocktails. That was almost a year ago.

She was back in town this weekend and we met up with some of her other Berkeley alum friends at Ti Couz for dinner. Ti Couz is one of those places that everyone talks about as being fabulous and I’d always felt more than slightly lame for not getting around to eat there sooner, especially working just blocks away from it for so long. But, the hankering for a Ti Couz crepe just never struck me.

I read the laminated menu and discovered directions for ordering. Apparently, you’re supposed to have a crepe for every course. It seemed like a lot of crepe. So, I just ordered one, the savory Totale, and a small green salad.

The green salad was a bowl of sweet, crispy, and curly-leafed butter lettuce (a lettuce that doesn’t get the action it deserves, I feel). The dressing that I requested on the side was bright green, slightly tangy, and delicious.

The crepe was large brown square with a gooey-looking orangey liquid on top that tasted like cheese and slightly reminiscent of the Velveta kind you stick in the microwave. The filling in Le Totale was mushroom, tomatoes, and cheese. The buckwheat pancake was heavy and good. A thinner crepe wouldn’t have been able to hold up to the dense, flavorful filling. The mushrooms were rich and creamy along side the cheese. And the bits of diced tomatoes added a nice touch of bright freshness.

After dinner, we walked to a house party where a whole bunch of Google kids chatted each other up. I had a piece of scallop wrapped in bacon (shellfish wrapped in pork it the party hors devours) that one of the hosts circled around the room. Boy Ryan met Girl Ryan, and a scuffle over Odwalla ensued.

The Richmond

We left the Palace of Fine Arts hungry. Apparently, sitting through an afternoon double feature of film noir with only a cocktail in between will do that. So, after a brief discussion, Juan, Matt, Cole, Eleanor, and I headed over to the Richmond to have pizza at Pizzetta 211.

Pizzetta 211 is an impossibly tiny place on a block of 23rd that, except for a few anomalous store fronts, is lined completed with houses. It’s a bit hard to find, and Juan and his posse had some difficulty. We squeezed ourselves around a tiny table that could barely fit the five of us and perused the menu. Deliciously foreign sounding pizzas, calzones, and salads covered one side, and beers and wine the other.

We ordered three pizzas to share (my apologies for not remembering the names of all the toppings): the duck confit with greens, the mushroom with an almond concoction, and the rosemary with pine nuts and some unbelievable cheese. All three were amazing. The crust was thin but buttery, flakey, and crisp without seeming like a cracker. The toppings were insanely good too. The duck was rich and moist without overpowering the delicate greens or the crust (I’m not a huge fan of pizza crust but this one I would eat alone). The mushroom slice tasted of fresh woody mushroom. And, with the first bite of the rosemary piece, my nostrils filled with the aroma of the herb.

After pizza, we took a short drive to Genki Crepes on Clement for dessert. I love this place. Susie had taken me for my inaugural Genki Crepe run (we had driven across the Bridge just to go there—this was when I was living on the other side of the Bay) ages ago, and I remembering wandering along the aisles, mouth open in awe and delight, gathering Asian treats in mysterious but cute packaging for a care package for Jeanne. This time, with a new group of kids, I still meandered along the shelves in bewilderment.

I had a litchi crepe with green tea ice cream, a far cry from my usual Nutella and banana. And, it wasn’t as I was hoping it would be. Quite stupidly, I had imagined the litchi would be in a form of some flavorful paste or jelly spread across the thin pancake (just like Nutella is). And, of course, it wasn’t. It was canned whole litchi berries plunked in between the mound of ice cream, the whip cream (which I didn’t expect either), and the crepe. The litchi was good as all canned litchi are, but not really a good addition to the crepe. It seemed to be its own separate entity, and I ate it as such—plucking the berry out with my fingers and popping it into my mouth whole. With the berries gone, eating the crepe was just like eating an ice cream cone, and the crepe was crisp just like one.

It was only about seven o’clock at night when we were done—quite early but seeming very late—and I was ready to crawl into bed. I was exhausted. Watching movies and eating pizza and crepes just plain wore me out.

Diamonds in the rough

Friday night turned out to be a quiet girl’s night. Erin cooked a healthy and tasty dinner of roasted butternut squash with garlic, sea salt, and crushed pepper, steamed brussel sprouts with a tiny pad of butter (not a usual touch for me), and a delicious and slightly sweet multi-grain rice. I sat at her dining table, flipped through her cookbooks, and watched her do dishes and put food into pots. After we cleared our plates, we clicked on pictures of Tiffany diamonds, sapphires, and pearls. Oh my.

She don't use jelly

Today’s breakfast was yet more candy: two small packages of peanut butter M&M’s and two mini Reese’s peanut butter cups.

Like a kid in a candy store

I knew this would happen. I bought candy as a way to lure kids into my office and get their attention during presentations. But, I’m the one eating all the sugary snacks. I’ve had two fun-sized almond Snickers already and have a huge bag full of Reese’s peanut butter cups, Hersheys mounds, and peppermint patties sitting next to me...waiting, just waiting.

Thep Phanom

Patricia Unterman’s San Francisco Food Lover’s Guide hasn’t disappointed me once yet. I’ve claimed Scott’s book as my own and it lives on my nightstand, providing me with bedtime stories of brioche bread pudding and perfectly braised pork. So, when Mo suggested that I choose a Thai restaurant for what would be our last meal together before he heads off for Seattle, I referred to my dining Bible and found Thep Phanom.

Thep Phanom sits in an old Victorian at the corner of Waller and Fillmore. We walked from my place, past the subsidized housing, men drinking on the streets, and smells of smoke and old alcohol, to enter the cozy space decorated with Thai artifacts and with a wait staff dressed in what I assumed to be traditional Thai garb. It was an elegant surprise in a neighborhood that I doubt would ever be described as such.

The menu was extensive and Mo was delighted by the vegetarian options. We started with the crispy tofu with peanut sauce and cucumber salad. The triangles of tofu were golden brown and incredible. They crunched as we bit through the crusty exterior to reveal a steamy, soft, white inside. The peanut dipping sauce was creamy and not too fishy as peanut sauces can be. And the small rounds of cucumber were crunchy in a light vinegar dressing.

Mo ordered the crispy fried Portobello mushroom with braised eggplant after passing up the “Thaitanic” tofu. It came with more fried tofu and a basil sauce. The dish was a brilliant blend of flavors and texture. The eggplant was smushy, the tofu crisp, and the mushroom a mix of both as the crispy fried batter encapsulated a tender mushroom chunk. And, the lightest tinge of spiciness crept up slowly and grew steadily.

I had one of the Sunday specials, the crispy fried filet of duck breast (they seem to enjoy frying foods crisply) with steamed vegetables and topped with peanut sauce. The duck was indeed crisply fried, a little crunch and then a little chew. It was good, but I don’t know why it was so special.

Their dessert menu was rather impressive for a Thai restaurant. Mo ordered the fried bananas, which were made with fragrantly sweet bananas in a batter that was light and airy, just like the perfect cake doughnut. And, I had the Kahlua crème brulee, whose caramelized sugar top could have come closer to the hard crack stage and the custard itself a little more creamy.

Salty fries and fruit bar

After a bit of deliberation and lots of wrangling to get our lazy and exhausted (mine was in pain too) selves out of bed, Jon and I headed over to Frjtz for a quick meal before our movie. Jon had never been before, I had some good meals there, and it was on our way to the theater.

I ordered the Miro crepe—olive tapenade, cured ham, and tomatoes—with an Orangina and we shared a large order of fries with the Thai chili and pesto mayo sauces. The second I bit into my crepe, I knew I made a mistake. The crepe was much too salty. Olives and cured ham? It was a recipe for a dried-out tongue. The fries seemed over salted as well, although they were very crisp. I gave the fries a wipe on my napkin before dunking them in the sauces and then into my mouth. Jon gave me a disapproving and curious look. I should have ordered a salad. What was I thinking? Apparently, I wasn’t.

My Orangina was wonderfully, life-savingly refreshing though. I wished they came in gallon-sized containers. I would have drank all that salt residue away.

After the meal, I wanted something fruity and sweet to cleanse my palate. I bought a Dreyer’s fruit bar from the little store on Hayes and felt silly for doing so since I have a box of those same popsicles in my freezer. We walked to the theater, amongst the evening opera crowd and cool weather, as I ate my popsicle. Jon said a man who walked pass us gave me a look. I think he wanted a lick of my popsicle too.

McCormick and Kuleto's love

I’m wary of anything near Fisherman’s Warf. I fear tandem bikes, fanny packs, the man crouched behind the bush. And, as a rule, I avoid the restaurants there for, ultimately, the same reasons. But, Mark suggested we go to McCormick and Kuleto’s at Ghiradelli Square for dinner. He mentioned that he used to work there, and we were both in for a bit of a surprise when we showed up.

I walk by McCormick and Kuleto’s regularly when I leave my office for my after-lunch stroll but never feel inclined to eat there. It always seemed large and intimidating. But, when we stepped inside that night, the Mark love fest began. Everyone who worked there knew Mark and was ecstatic that he came by. Hugs, catching up, the whole bit. It was quite sweet, and I tried not to look too awkward.

The restaurant is gorgeous. The multi-layers and booths that face the water guarantee every diner a magnificent view of the bay through the panoramic wall of glass. The warm lighting and stained wood add a nice touch of homey comfort in the large dining space.

But, it was dark and I couldn’t see the bay and there was a much more entertaining show going on at our table. Each waiter would see Mark, stop by, ask about his new job, chat about babies and wives. Busboys and managers greeted him. It felt like the news of his arrival spread and everyone needed a glimpse of his glory. An Asian man rubbed his shoulders, asked if he’d been working out, and described his jacket as a “touch me” one. A couple of waiters brought by potted orchids and placed them on our table for reasons I couldn’t quite understand but it was something to the effect of providing us privacy. A Spanish-speaking man referenced me and asked Mark, “Su novia?” to which I adamantly shook my head and said no. I was amused and Mark turned red.

We didn’t get through much of our meal though. We ordered the seared tuna that came with a Japanese-style salad that was delightfully light with a sweet and salty dressing. The tuna was fine. And, our mixed green salad was good, with crumbled cheese and walnuts as lovely additions. We had planned for the tortilla soup and one of the night’s specials but they never came. Instead, we got a large seafood appetizer assortment of fried calamari, coconut shrimp, shrimp cocktail, crab cakes, and beer-battered shrimp that came because they loved Mark. The dish was more fried food than I would have usually cared for, but it would have been rude not to eat it. And, by the time we worked our way through that and several more conversations with the kind staff, we were full. They also sent us what I could only assume was an expensive bottle of white wine that was spectacular (I feel lame for never remembering the wine I have)--fruity, just a touch of sweetness, and clean. We had the crème brulee for dessert, which was what had been missing for the previous night’s dinner, and it was a satisfying end to the meal.

Mark assured me to not expect the same kind of service if I were to come in on my own for lunch. I think I’ll save my McCormick and Kuleto’s meals just for him.

Bar Tartine

Bar Tartine opened up a few months ago on Valencia between 16th and 17th, not too far away from its bakery namesake. For a while I wondered why the owners didn’t think of a name more clever, more creative. I wondered if it was the name, those seven letters that spell delectable treats, that was the draw and not the food. The restaurant hadn’t even opened yet and there was huge buzz, and I was eager to find out if it was because of the name or the food behind it.

Eleanor and I met Colin there after a reading at the public library, and their friend Alex joined us for a bit too. I have to admit that Colin and Eleanor are two are my favorite people to eat with. They know good food, they’re curious eaters and not afraid to ask questions, and they like to share.

After a little bit of a wait, we were seated under an antler chandelier at the large communal table where passersby saw us advertising what good fun could be had at Bar Tartine. The host was very friendly and graciously apologetic, and the waitress, who Colin says is one of the owners, was very knowledgeable and understanding (Jon and Jory walked by, saw us in the window having our fun, stopped in, and chatted with us just as she was about to take our order).

For starters, we ordered the stuffed pigs feet and baby octopus with chorizo in a tomato-based broth. (They had run out of our other two appetizer options.) The stuffed pigs feet were rich and gelatinous, a bit heavy for an appetizer though. It had the texture of “meatier” part of the chicken feet ordered at dim sum. The tomato sauce that the baby octopus floated in was delicious, tasting of a hearty tomato sauce with bits of tomato flesh. The chorizo seemed out of place, and I had forgotten that it was there until I came upon the tough chunk of meat and wondered why my fork couldn’t penetrate it. It seemed like there was too much happening on that little plate and the octopi were simply cute adornments.

We had plenty of options in terms of salads, and settled on the beet salad with gorgonzola, endive, and pear and the porcini frissee with poached egg and black lentils. The beet salad was artistically plated with mounds of bright red beet circling the dish as endive and pear lied below. In the center was a large dollop of gorgonzola that must have been mixed with a lighter cheese that I couldn’t quite figure out. It was a good beet salad, but beets aren’t that hard to do poorly. The porcini salad was interesting. A mix of warm mushroom and oozy egg coated the crisp, frayed frissee as lentils bedded the bottom. All tossed together, it was a fun experience for my mouth.

Our entrees were the cod with olive tapenade in a Meyer lemon sauce, the scallops with fennel and orange, and the guinea hen wrapped in cabbage. The cod was well cooked, crisp on top but flakey and moist within, although the olive topping was much too overpoweringly salty for the more delicate fish. The small bay scallops were floating in a pool of green that I found disconcerting. The green seemed too bright and I couldn’t distinguish what produced its flavor. The scallops were good though and the chunks of orange added a sweet zing, but the three elements weren’t working to enhance each other. Our best entrée by far was the guinea hen in cabbage. The guinea hen was meaty, tender, and succulently sweet. The chanterelles were heavenly. The presentation was lacking, but the food said it all.

We were stuffed to the gills at this point, but we couldn’t pass up dessert at a place that was founded by some of the best bakers in San Francisco. We ordered the gingerbread pudding cake with crème fraiche ice cream and poached pears and the flourless chocolate almond cake with cinnamon ice cream and candied kumquat. The gingerbread cake was a bit too spicy for my taste and heavy (it reminded me of a baking mistake I once made during a Thanksgiving trial run). The crème fraiche ice cream was amazing though, delicately sweet and smooth. The flourless chocolate cake was dense and rich, the kumquat a nice touch, but the ice cream not tasting too much of cinnamon.

All in all, it was a good meal, though not great, with good people. Perhaps my expectations were too high. But how could they not be? Bar Tartine shares the same name as the bakery that makes a bread pudding that stops me in the street with fork in mouth and that made my chocolate birthday cake that I saved in my freezer for well over a month, and I was expecting food that would make my knees buckle, my taste buds dance, and my belly sigh with happiness in the same way.

Let them eat cake...and pie too

Scott took off for Pakistan today and left me a note reading, “Eat pie and cake.” Why, sure, thank you.

His mom made an apple pie that had been in the refrigerator for several days. He, and I, had forgotten about it. But, I did as I was told and sliced me a piece. It was still great; I think even better than when I first had a taste. The apples were sweet and the sauce thick and sticky. And, the crust was still buttery and flakey with the perfect amount of soft goopiness that sitting in the refrigerator helped create. Yum.

I didn’t have room for the cake though. Maybe tomorrow.

[P.S. People should come by the house for pie and cake too in Scott's absence. It gets so lonely without him.]

New year bonanza

We took a risk on our holiday party menu. We didn’t do test runs and we didn’t have recipes. It was cooking on the fly at its finest and the food and the party turned out great.

Jeanne and I woke up early-ish on Saturday to make sangria. We were still in our pajamas, with sticky mouths from a night’s drunken sleep and hair jutting out at sharp angles from our heads, slicing thin rounds of oranges, limes, and lemons and opening bottles of red wine. We had our priorities in order. After hours of chilling in the refrigerator and an added glass of spiced rum for extra kick, our sangria was ready to party.

Our menu also consisted of skewered shrimp wrapped in bacon, which took Jeanne a good hour and lots of complaining to finish. We cooked a few of those on a frying pan to make sure they were decent, and they turned out okay, just a little bit too salty. We learned our lesson to not use thick sliced bacon when wrapping delicate shellfish.

We continued our spearing of meats with pieces of chicken marinated in an Indian curry sauce. The sauce was something I had mistakenly bought for Scott and knew that he wouldn’t be using it any time soon. We had no idea what it tasted like though. I thinned the thick concentrate out with some oil and water, and added a dash of cayenne for added heat.

Stevie boiled up a large pot of eggs for his deviled egg creation. I’d never had a deviled egg before and was a tad bit wary of egg yolk mixed with mayonnaise and then squirted back into the white. It sounded like continuous trips to the toilet in the making. But, it was surprising good. He also added onions and bacon, and finished it off with a dash of paprika. The yellow middle was dense, lush mound of creamy, tangy, bacony goodness, a nice balance to the bland boiled white. [Digression: Jeanne tried to push a piece of the bacon-filled egg to Juan, the vegetarian, who I don’t know ate it or not. However, I did apologize and Juan still wants to be friends.]

Jeanne also made her stuffed mushrooms that were overwhelmingly peppery.

We also heated up some appetizer foods from Trader Joe’s (if Bakesale Betty could do it for her holiday party, so could I). We had party-sized mini meatballs and small spinach things in some sort of puff pastry. Both were decent.

For those with sweet cravings, we made bite-sized brownies and rice krispie treats (another holiday party idea stolen from Bakesale Betty). The problem with them was that they were placed in the living room and eaten by people other than me.

Vegetable plates with grape tomatoes, celery sticks, baby carrots, and a spinach-artichoke sauce as well as a cheese platter with goat cheese, brie, and gouda completed our party menu. Stevie was very artistic in his presentation.

I would say it was a successful party, even if only a handful of people wanted to dance and the only person to kiss me was Scott.

A rice krispie new year

We woke up this morning to a house full of empty bottles, used napkins, deviled eggs, but no rice krispie treats. The party kids must have eaten them all, leaving me with none and a frown on my face. So, after an early afternoon breakfast of Thai food from Thai Place II, Jeanne went to the corner store to buy a bag of marshmallows and we made rice krispie treats with so much marshmallow goo that we ran out of rice krispies and had to add crumbled cornflakes. Stevie crushed part of a Toblerone bar and sprinkled it on top. Delicious. And, now, for our second course, we're having cheese and wine. So far, this has been the best year ever!