Lackluster

I think this has been the longest I've gone without writing. There's no real reason for the lack of posts. I've had some good meals recently (Three Seasons in Palo Alto with the former Hillegass gals, and lunch with Eleanor in the community garden behind Arlequin) and I've had some massive kitchen usage too (a huge pot full of chicken curry that'll make you cry). Maybe the newlywed magic is starting to wane, and the tired reality of commitment with this blog is starting to rear its ugly head.

The breakfast-for-dinner taco

It was more tacos for dinner tonight. This time, it was the breakfast taco with eggs, sausage, and the usual taco fixings. Scott, Roy, and Seth joined me in the taco eating and I was glad. I don’t know how many more tacos I can take.

The egg taco

I woke up from my nap hungry and needed something to hold me over before dinner with my sister’s godparents. I fried two eggs, shredded more cheese, heated up more corn tortillas, and made egg tacos with more of the sour cream and salsa. I added Tapatio too.

I think I’ve reached a point where everything I eat will be a taco. Only twenty-five more tortillas to go. My initial taco excitement is beginning to wane.

Astro baby

Alex Filippenko is a rock star of an astrophysicist, at least that was the impression I was under. Almost everyone I knew at Berkeley had taken his Astro 10 course and said that it changed the way they thought (this even came from the English majors and philosophers). His course was the one that the university catalogues showcased. Little did I ever know that I’d be at his wife’s baby shower at Chevy’s.

Ryan had asked me to accompany him to his advisor’s wife’s baby shower. For some reason, I agreed. All the better judgment in me would have said no. How much did I really want to spend my Sunday morning among pink ribbons and balloons, playing lame games that were meant to be cute, chatting with people who would undoubtedly be more astrophysicists and therefore socially awkward, and most likely being one of the youngest persons there? But, I had said yes. And when Ryan called me in the morning to check if I was awake and still willing to go, I had said yes again, despite being slightly hung over with an off-kilter stomach and wanting to crawl back into bed. I am just that good of a friend.

He showed up at my house with the promised coffee in hand (from Momi Toby’s and with the perfect amount of milk and sugar), and we headed over to the Embarcadero Center.

We were greeted by a grandmotherly kiss on our cheeks by a woman who neither of us knew and the ubiquitous pink balloons. I shook hands with strange and foreign-looking men, smiled and laughed, awed at very pregnant bellies, chatted about schools and backyard pools—all the requisite date duties. And, throughout all of it, I eyed the food and drink.

Baskets of tortilla chips with salsa and platters of chicken wings, guacamole, sour cream, and quesadillas decorated the tables. Pitchers of lemonade, iced tea, and margaritas covered another. Was eleven o’clock too early for a margarita? Was more alcohol the best hangover cure? I didn’t want to risk it and opted for iced tea. The food was too far away and looked too difficult to eat gracefully. And, I was stuck among a group of soon-to-be parents and the newly engaged to adeptly wrangle my way to the food table. Chevy’s tortilla chips never looked so good yet so sadly unattainable.

Fortunately, those chips and chicken wings were only appetizers and real food was on its way. I was holding my stomach and making faces at Ryan, hoping that he’d be able to figure out that the last time I ate (not counting the three in the morning single taco) was at four o’clock the previous afternoon. After hearing about Alex’s eighth grade automatic pencil eraser invention, we made it over to get some food. I loaded my plate with grilled chicken, beans, rice, tortillas, sour cream, salsa, and guacamole. And, we sat with an Asian astrophysicist with the friendliest face and Alex’s childhood friend. I made little chicken wraps and didn’t worry about oozing sour cream and guacamole. It felt so good to eat.

After a game of Baby Bingo where it seemed like everyone but me won a prize, slices of chocolate cake with too much sugary white frosting were passed around. We ate the light but rich cake as Alex and Noelle opened presents. We oohed and ahhed at the crib that could be turned into a bed, the adorable booties with heart-shaped buckles, and the baby boo-boo ice pack, as Alex commented on the translucency of the tissue paper, the practicality of the kiddie hamper, and snuggled pink blankies.

Only then did I realize that this Alex fellow, Ryan’s advisor, was the Alex Filippenko, renowned Berkeley professor. There was something about watching him put a stuffed puppy on his head that somehow clicked things into place. He wasn’t a rock star, but a man with a bad haircut that looked like a toupee, a beautiful wife with a baby on the way, and a roomful of people who cared about him and his family enough to wake up early on a Sunday to eat jarred beef and wear nametags with cartoon bunnies. And, I, strangely, was happy to be there.

The 3AM taco

All I could think about were those two tacos sitting in the refrigerator. The same two tacos that I had left sitting on the kitchen counter earlier in the afternoon in my excited haste to leave for the beach. The same two tacos that were the leftover re-creations from my dinner days before. Slumped over on Graham’s couch, I could only think of those two tacos and how those one and a half blocks from Graham’s house to mine was such a distance to walk for tacos.

But, we finally left party at three in the morning, staggered our way up the Hickory slope, and put those two tacos in the microwave for a minute. Corn tortilla, fried beef, sour cream, cheese, salsa and lettuce never tasted so good microwaved. Five bites later, I was done. Satisfaction is so short-lived.

Bill's Place

Scott and I were driving along Clement in search of a place that would offer us beach food. We spent the afternoon walking along the water at Ocean Beach and then made a little journey to China Beach to marvel at the beauty of the hidden gem when we felt like it was time for a snack, a snack reminiscent of food along the sandy shores. Hotdogs, smoothies, milkshakes. That was what we wanted. But we were in Seacliff and had no idea what nearby place could offer us those things.

We drove slowly along Clement, hoping to find a place that wasn’t an Asian noodle house or boba café. Scott spotted a sign with a burger on it that looked appealing to him but sketchy to me. It was a sign for Bill’s Place. We parked the car, looked at the menu, and went in.

Bill’s Place is an old-school looking diner. The counter, complete with red vinyl chairs that spin, overlooks the large grill. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling while a fluorescent red and green train made of tubular lighting rests on a ledge next to the television screen. A large bucket of potatoes waiting to be French fries sits next to the vat of oil. And, outside is a lush-looking patio area.

Scott and I were two of a handful of diners there for a four o’clock meal. We chose a spot at the counter right behind the grill so we could see our food being made.

The menu was sweet and simple: burgers, sandwiches, sides, and drinks. There was nothing elaborate about those three pages but tribute was paid to San Francisco celebrities such as Herb Caen with his Monterey Jack burger. Scott and I ordered a chocolate milkshake to share. It was a bit watery for my taste, although I’m sure not everyone likes having to eat a milkshake with a spoon as I do. I had the tuna melt on rye with sliced avocado and Scott ordered the Herb burger done to a pink.

There was something magical and slightly disturbing about watching our food being made. The cook scraped off the grease from the dark grill with a metal implement, took two slices of rye, squeezed on to them what I could only assume to be melted butter out of a plastic container, and plopped them on to the grill. Two slices of cheese went on top of the bread and then came the avocado, which he fanned across one slice, leaving a mound of avocado in the middle and none off to the edges. He then scooped on a pile a tuna on the other slice. I wanted to step around the counter to smash down the tuna pile so that tuna touched all the edges of the bread and to rearrange the avocado slices, but I refrained. The tattooed cook then put the two sides together, sliced the sandwich diagonally, and scooped up a huge mound of fries that were still dripping with oil on to the plate. After ringing the bell for a pick up and having nobody pick up, he turned around and put our plates in front of us.

The first thing I did was take my sandwich apart. I spread my knife over the tuna, evening it out, and did the same with the avocado. I squirted a little bit of mustard on it too. The first bite sounded with a crunch. The bread was crispy and a lovely shade of toasty brown. The tuna salad wasn’t too heavy with mayonnaise although there was a little too much tuna salad. It was oozing out of the edges, making each bite progressively more difficult to get into my mouth without having tuna squirt everywhere. I used the fries to scoop up the tuna escaping from the bread. The fries were fine. They were thick and unbelievably fresh, tasting of real potato and nothing else. They weren’t crisp, which was a disappointment, but they weren’t too greasy, even if they dripped the stuff as they were being transported from fryer basket to plate.

I sat there eating my sandwich with my elbows on the counter, following the cheery wait staff who seemed all to be from the same family with my eyes, watching the cook flip burgers with a mysterious charm, eyeing the largest and most spectacular-looking root beer float being placed across the counter from me, and telling Scott that Bill’s Place was the best place ever.

Taco mania

I left LA with a bag full of avocados, and I’d been working hard to eat them. I diced them into my salads. I used crackers to scoop out their flesh. I topped my fried eggs on toast with green fans of the buttery fruit. But, I hadn’t yet made guacamole, the ultimate display of avocado glory. And to accompany my guacamole would be tacos.

I spooned out the insides of those two succulently soft avocados and squeezed in some lime juice. I remember Eleanor making a very good guacamole simply with avocado, lime, and salt, but the pale green thing that was in my bowl didn’t come close to Eleanor’s masterpiece. Scott advised and added salsa and a mixture of spices from his spice mix container. And, when he was done, I had a bowlful of delicious guacamole, creamy, cool, and with just the slightest hint of spice in the background. I stuck on of the pits in it to slow down the oxidation process, covered it in plastic wrap, and put it in the refrigerator until I was done with everything else.

The beef came next. I slathered those small steaks with a spice mix of cayenne pepper, dried habanero chili powder, dried ancho chili powder, salt, and pepper. They then went onto a hot frying pan that was drizzled with a touch of oil. I’ve gotten very good at not touching meat after placing them on a pan. Pokes, prods, flips, and peeks underneath actually help food stick and prevent tasty browning from occurring. After about five minutes of not touching the beef, I gave each steak a flip and let them cook for about another five. As the steaks cooked, I grated cheddar cheese, rinsed and chopped lettuce, and took out the sour cream, salsa, and guacamole.

I have a hard time telling when meat is cooked enough, but the steaks looked done and felt done. After giving them a little bit of a rest, I sliced them thinly against the grain to reveal a slight pink center. They looked beautiful and I was proud of my meat. Once they were all sliced, I put them back in the pan and scraped them against the bottom to soak up every last bit of their meaty and flavorful juices. I heated the corn tortillas on the same pan, just in case any meat juice had escaped.

Then, came the assembly line. With everything set, we were ready to build our tacos. Cheese, beef, sour cream, guacamole, salsa, lettuce. I stood at the kitchen counter eating slices of beef with my fingers; it was that good. But, the completed tacos were just as good. As always, I put too much salsa, sour cream, and guacamole so it escaped the edges and dripped all over my fingers. Although the beef was tender and thinly sliced, it pulled out from the taco because of its length. Next time, I’d chop the meat into smaller bits. And, even though I couldn’t taste the lettuce, I felt its cool freshness in my mouth.

After finishing our tacos, I cleaned up, only to realize that I still had a huge amount of beef, forty more corn tortillas to eat, and almost full tubs of sour cream, salsa, and guacamole. I would be eating tacos for days and trying to find clever ways to incorporate tortillas into every meal.

Rich and hard

I'm eating Pocky for Men in bed as I type. I literally have half a Pocky stick hanging out of my mouth and can see it as a blurry brown between me and my laptop screen. I must admit that, even with all the de Beauvoir I've read, the Pocky for Men is much better than the regular kind although maybe not as good as Reverse Pocky.

And, for those sad folks who have no idea what Pocky is, visit any Asian grocery store. It's a really a crisp breadstick covered in chocolate (but cleverly not entirely, leaving a handy spot to grasp the confection without getting melted chocolate on your fingers) and oh so good.

Shrimp curry

Scott and I have differing cooking techniques. He dashes things into pans and sprinkles things into pots. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him measure. But, apparently he doesn’t need to since the food he makes always turns out great.

This time was no different. He was making a stir fry with shrimp, green beans, bell peppers, and clear noodles. I don’t know what he did but the end result was delicious. It tasted of Thai curry, spicy and with a kick, but there were undertones of coconut milk, soothing and sweet. The green beans were the right crispness and the large shrimps were tender. Brandi and I mmm’ed our way through dinner and marveled at his skill.

100 x 100

Man, for those of you who share my LA lust for In-n-Out, here's something for you: yea, beef!

Foul carrot

Argh...I just ate a carrot that tasted like ass. Seriously. Something was awry with that root vegetable. It was bitter and pungent, like feet trapped in warm sweat socks trapped in hiking boots that have seen the Himalayas. I tried hard not to spit and gag in front of my student.

Catch of the day

My breasts are small, and I know it. They don’t get stared at as I walk down the street, they don’t jiggle as I jog, they don’t provide me with much of a flotation device as I try to swim, they don’t do much for me, really. Which was why when the waiter at Catch rubbed up against my left breast not once but twice, I was a little confused.

Quressa chose Catch for her birthday dinner. It’s a stylish place on Market at Castro. The attractive waiters (I didn’t see a single female waitperson) were all dressed in black, there was a baby grand piano perched in a corner high above the dining room floor where a slender man played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and the dining space was lit with candles in large square vases. Our waiter was friendly enough. He was patient with us as we ordered and helped accommodate Erin and Tim. There was nothing to suggest that he was a groper.

I started with their Kaffir lime cosmopolitan, which was made with white cranberry juice and tasted more of lime than cranberry. It was tart and strong and good. We ordered their crab cakes and tempura shrimp roll as appetizers. The crab cakes were dense with crab meat, while still being light. They were golden brown and crisp. And, the raisin chutney that came with it was an oddly well-matched accompaniment. The shrimp tempura rolls, which sounded so mouth-watering when the waiter described them, were not so mouth-watering in real life. The rice was hard and too compacted together. There was also much too much going on in that larger-than-my-mouth roll: shrimp tempura, carrots, avocado, seaweed, and smoked salmon. I couldn’t make it in one bite and had to use my knife to cut the roll up into four sections. There was definitely an execution problem with those shrimp rolls.

But the main event happened during the arrival of our entrees. I ordered the grilled monkfish with mushroom risotto. When the waiter came to place my plate in front of me, his right arm brushed against my left breast. I scooted over slightly so that he would have more space to squeeze between me and Erica, and his arm scooted over too, and with each turn of the plate I could feel his arm on me. I assumed it purely to be an accident.

My monkfish came on a huge bed of risotto. The monkfish was fine. It was flakey and chewy, and had just the lightest touch of salt and pepper. The mushroom risotto was creamy and rich, tasting of cheese with a hint of lemon. There were plenty of chunks of mushroom through the risotto too and I picked all of those bits out, leaving a little pile of only rice when I was done.

As our waiter cleared our dishes and swept the table, once again squeezing me up against the wall, he asked whose birthday it was. I told him that it was Quressa’s and wondered how he knew. He just sensed it; he’s that good. And, as he was placing our dessert spoons down in front of us, I felt his arm yet again. He brought out a dessert with a tall candle stuck in it, and we sang “Happy Birthday” not all too terribly.

I mentioned to the table that the waiter was all up on me, and Tim said that that’s what he thought was happening. I was amused. It was the third time in about a week that I had gotten felt up by some random guy. Maybe I should have given this one my number.