Susan's Daily Eats

Insomnia blogging

2010-09-28T02:26:00.000-07:00

This one is specifically for you, Jeanne.

It's 1:50am. I can't sleep. I've been awake for the last hour or two; I'm not quite sure since the minutes seem to click away so slowly when I'm struggling to get tired. I've gone to the bathroom, twice. I've tried to read my New Yorker. I've tried to find my sleeping pills. I've even cried a little at my frustration. All have been to no avail. And, I think what makes it worse is that I'm envious of how soundly Ian is sleeping next to me. It makes me want to poke him awake so he suffers with me too.

I suppose insomnia and having nothing else to do at nearly two in the morning, means I sit at my computer in the near dark, trying to catch up on weeks of unwritten blog entries, and describing the rather lovely day I had actually, even though now I am quietly struggling to fall asleep and am hating every second of it.

The day started nicely enough. After a morning jog in the warm sun, I had a breakfast of blue corn tortilla chips and guacamole, made by Ian with the avocados that we picked from my aunt's neighbor's house in LA. My mom made us take home a box full of unripe avocados when we visited a few weeks ago, and we've been waiting for them to grow dark and soft. Since we had been waiting for days on end with no signs of ripening, I almost forgot that we even had them until a few days ago when I found a whole bunch of them squishy. We've been very deliberately trying to incorporate them into our daily diet since then. Avocados on salads. Avocados on eggs. Avocados in kimchi quesadillas. And, today, avocados for breakfast in guacamole form.

As much as Ian and I joke that we're the same person, in terms of our habits on salting food, we are not the same. On some foods, I'm the salter; he's not (but, I will not be accused for being a salt fiend, since I'm not; I just like my food to taste good and believe that salt, in the proper amounts, helps make that happen). I asked for salt in the guacamole. He said there was already salt. Since it didn't seem like he wanted more salt and that it wouldn't particularly be the nicest thing to do to ask for separate bowl of guacamole where I could salt to my heart's content, I asked if we could be Tapatio in it instead. He said yes, and after my reserved dashing of the hot sauce, he asked if that was all I wanted. I told him no but thought that that was all he would want. He reached for the bottle and added more.

For lunch, I met Brynn at Park Chalet. The weather has been gorgeous and really warm, hot even, in San Francisco, and Brynn and I thought that we should take advantage of that, as well as the fact that both of us have more time on our hands now since we're not full-time workers, and enjoy the outdoors, the beach, and a cafe. I thought the Park Chalet would be perfect for that. She and I had a slow, leisurely lunch on the shaded patio, where we had the chance to catch up on our lives, our jobs, our relationships. I had a burger and fries with the California Kind beer, all of which was decent but not spectacular. I was surprised at home many people there were though. Brynn and I spent almost three hours there, and it felt like more and more people kept coming. But, with so few gloriously warm and wind-free days in San Francisco, I suppose it shouldn't be surprising that people would want to enjoy a beer on the grassy lawn.

I took Brynn home and got back to my place just in time for Winnie to pick me up to go volunteer again for Jane Kim, who is running for district superviser in San Francisco. After making calls to local voters, asking who they were supporting, and if they would support Jane, we had a snack of cold pizza, leftovers from the day before, that was fed to the volunteers. I actually kinda like cold pizza, so no complaints from me about that.

And, I ended the day at Zeitgeist, the quintessential bar for a warm San Francisco night. Billy's college roommate was hosting a celebration there for selling his screenplay. Since Winnie and I were just down the street, there was no real reason why we wouldn't go for at least a little while. And, it was lovely, or as lovely as a biker bar with outdoor port-a-potties can be. The outdoor patio was full, but we were able to snag an almost empty bench (there was this couple super making-out at one end of the bench). I had a a Hefeweizen, Billy had a Chimay, Winnie had water, and Ian, who met us, had a veggie burger. It was nice to catch up with Billy though we didn't stay too long and only had a brief moment to congratulate his friend.

Overall, a pretty nice day. I only wish it had a better ending.

Making a meal out of nothing

2010-08-27T16:51:00.000-07:00

Being unemployed and extra frugal is making me rethink my eating habits. Particularly, I feel like I absolutely need to not waste a single edible thing in my house (I've been pretty good at not being wasteful before but now it's been taken to a whole new level) and be more clever with food I already have in the fridge or in the cupboards. And, quite honestly, I'm not actually sure what I have in the house; I feel like there are things in the cupboards and freezer that have been there for years.

Today, after coming back from coffee with Karen and Andy (Karen kindly bought me a deliciously rich and caramel-y latte from the Blue Bottle kiosk), I was hungry and I thought I had nothing to eat at the house. So, I rummaged. There was an almost empty box of macaroni noodles, half a can of sardines from a leftover salad earlier in the week, a tomato that should've been eaten a days ago, a jar of Kalamata olives in the back of the refrigerator, a red onion, some garlic. Totally enough to make lunch.

I got some water boiling for the noodles. As that boiled away, I diced half the red onion and tomato, sliced the garlic thin, and chopped a small handful of olives. I sauteed the onion over low heat in olive oil, then added the garlic, threw in the tomato, and smushed the sardines in the pan. I added some water from the pot to give it more of a saucey consistency. Then, I tossed in the olives and stirred. When the noodles were cooked, I dumped them into the pan, gave it all a quick toss with some salt and pepper, and scooped it into my waiting bowl. After drizzling some olive oil over the top, I took my fork to it and ate. It wasn't bad, kinda good actually. It smelled of fish though, but I suppose that's what I get for cooking sardines. It might have been better with some fresh herbs, a squeeze of lemon, or maybe some capers. But, overall, it was totally more than edible.

Vietnamese noodle salad

2010-08-25T21:37:00.000-07:00

I had been an awful community gardener for the last year. I was negligent and left my little plot relatively untended for months. Michael, the man in charge of the garden, had called me twice in the last year to ask if I still wanted my plot, since it had been overgrown with weeds and showed obvious signs of my neglect. Each time, I would proclaim, "Oh, I'm so sorry! Yes, I still want it! I've been out of town! I've been busy! I'll take care of it right away!" And, of course I still wanted it. I waited almost two years for that piece of dirt the size of a queen mattress; it was prized property!

So, this summer, I needed to prove that I was a committed gardener. I planted twelve lettuce plants, three strawberry ones, one eggplant, six beets, and a handful of radishes. The eggplant is looking sad, and I should probably dig it up and put in something new in its place. The beets are showing signs of great promise. I was really excited by the progress of the radishes, but two days ago I found most of them gone, vanished, probably eaten by someone or something. (There were no signs of gophers and I highly doubt that a fellow gardener would dig them up, so I was really confused. Then, Michael told me that another gardener found homeless people sleeping in the garden's patio. Perhaps they were hungry for radishes?) I was disappointed about my radishes.

But, my lettuces have been doing great, a little too prolific really. But, seriously, what was I thinking? Why would I need so much lettuce? Twelve heads for one person? I had the same problem last year with too much lettuce, way too much for one girl to eat. Why didn't I learn? Why was I stupid again? I tried offering some to my fellow gardeners but they wouldn't take me up on it--they had their own lettuce abundance. So, I've been sticking lettuce wherever I can: stuffed in hummus sandwiches, giant salads as meals, small salads with meals. I'm getting tired of lettuce.

Then, I thought: Vietnamese noodle salad! It would be the perfect use for some of that lettuce, it's incredibly flavorful, and low on calories (I've also put on eight pounds since I started grad school and want to get rid of them again). I love eating this at restaurants and my mom would make it occasionally. And, it's super easy to make: you just toss all the veggies, rice noodles, and whatever protein you want with a spicy, tangy, salty sauce. The problem was the sauce; I had never known how to make it. My mom would ask me to make it sometimes, I would ask her how, and she would be like, "You know, just add some lemon, garlic, fish sauce, sugar, and water to taste." Then, after tasting it, she would make a face that said "Ew, gross! No way are you a daughter of mine!" and adjust the flavors. I don't know why I never thought to look up the recipe before. But, this time, I did, and it all turned out great.

And, you can do it too. Here goes:

For the nuoc cham (the Vietnamese dipping sauce) you'll need:
1 clove minced garlic
2 dried red chiles chopped fine
one generous squeeze of hot sauce (Sriracha from my hometown!)
2/3 cup water
1/4 cup fish sauce
juice of one lime
a little less than 1/4 cup sugar

Put all of those ingredients in a jar, put the lid on, and shake. Done. Easy.

As for the other parts, it's just as easy. Cook up some rice noodles. Chop some lettuce. Gather some crunchy vegetables (I used mung bean sprouts and a shredded carrot) and fresh herbs (I picked mint from the community garden and used some leftover cilantro). Cook up some shrimp (or whatever other protein) that were marinating in more lime juice, fish sauce, and garlic. Then, toss the noodles, lettuce, veggies, and herb in the sauce, and top with shrimp. Eat.

It is embarrassingly easy to make. And, when Scott's dinner date came by the house and was impressed with my dinner, how great it made the house smell, and how awesome it looked, I had to admit that it was stupidly simple but so delicious.

The unemployed life

2010-08-24T14:06:00.000-07:00

I quit my job almost a year ago to study education policy. Now, with a newly minted master's degree, I'm sitting in my living room, unemployed. Friends have told me to enjoy the time off, to see the "fun-employment" period as a vacation, since I've been constantly busy--with full-time work for years, then graduate school, immediately followed by a summer fellowship--and rarely took time off. But, as much as I want to enjoy having much more time on my hands, it makes me nervous. Living in San Francisco is expensive, and I don't want to be one of those twenty-somethings who move back in with their parents. So I had been cutting back on lots of things I used to and still thoroughly enjoy, the most painful of which has been food--eating out, dining at nice restaurants, and cooking for friends.

But, I'm eager to not let this stint of non-work get me down and am viewing it as a time to be creative, to write again, to read again, to cook again--all things I used to do regularly before graduate school craziness got the better of me. And, because I'm stubborn and like a good challenge, I'm going to fight this no income thing and prove that you don't need tons (or any) money to eat well and enjoy it.

So, here's the start of a new season of Susan's Daily Eats: The Unemployed Life. As you might assume, it'll chronicle my unemployed eating and cooking habits.

By the way, if you know of anyone who wants to hire a tall, well-educated, Asian woman, please send him or her my way. Or, if you want to send food donations and invitations to meals my way, I'll gladly accept those too.

Final grad school day

2010-06-06T22:31:00.000-07:00

I am officially done being a grad student. I submitted my last two papers today, 14 hours before they were due, and felt good being finished, though, admittedly, it all felt very anti-climatic. As I promised when I started my graduate program, I would get back to writing this blog when school was over. So, here it is. And, what better way to reacquaint myself with Susan's Daily Eats than to write about my final meals as a graduate student? It's actually amazing how embarrassing and slightly pathetic my meals were today.

I first need to start by saying that I've put on about eight pounds during the last nine months. One pound for almost each month of graduate school. I sometimes wonder how that was possible, but when I think about days like today I realize how very possible it is.

I started the morning healthy enough with yogurt, fruit, walnuts, and some Kashi Go Lean Crunch all mixed together. I had an early start to the day, read the paper as I ate, then started writing again. I had two more research articles to write about as well as a conclusion, then needed to edit. Though I knew what I needed to do, I took my sweet time. Write a little, check Facebook a little, write a little, check email a little. It's an easy way to while away the minutes.

Then, was I hungry again? Probably not but I wanted something salty and I didn't want to sit at my computer, even though I had only been attempting to write for probably two hours. I went downstairs and made myself two cheese quesadillas in the shape of half moons. They were simple, just cheese and Tapatio in between a folded corn tortilla, but perfectly satisfying. They were salty, spicy, fatty, and extra toasty. Some of the cheese also oozed out of the sides of the tortilla when cooking in the pan and formed a cheese chip that hung off the edge of the half moon; it was the best part.

Then, it was time to go back upstairs and sit in front of my computer again. The words were slow-going. I felt no pressure to finish, but I was envious of all the little kids having a birthday party outside my window and their parents who lounged in the shade. I tapped away at the keyboard.

I felt unsatisfied. Did I want to eat again? Yes. Back down in the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator to find a little bit of brown rice still left in a tupperware container. I poured the rice into a small bowl, heated it up in the microwave, sprinkled some Japanese rice seasoning over it, and ate again as I watched the kids outside jump in the inflatable house jumper thing (apparently, you can have one of these delivered to Stanford's graduate student housing if you're throwing a birthday party). Brown rice and Japanese rice seasoning has become one of my new favorite snacks. I also ate two Newman's Own Hint-o-Mint sandwich cookies since I needed something sweet.

Back upstairs, I finished my research paper and sent it off. Now, time to start my final reflection piece on my experience volunteering at a college outreach program in East Palo Alto. I actually had to finish soon since I had a movie date with Raja later in the evening. We had a 6:45pm movie to make. It was about 4pm. I typed away, thinking about the past several weeks with these students. 5:30 rolled around, and I figured I should eat before I met up with Raja. I headed back downstairs, made two more cheese quesadillas, and opened a bottle of Red Stripe. Beer will help the writing process, of course. Plus, it was a warm Sunday evening. I deserved one. And, of course, I finished that paper too and happily sent it off to very little fanfare. I was officially done with graduate school work, and had to a date to get to.

I absolutely adore Raja. She's so much fun to be with and it's so easy to just hang out with her. We were going to see Get Him to the Greek, which seemed both awful and perfect at the same time. But, with half an hour before the movie started, we had enough time to get a little food. After circling the downtown Redwood strip, we decided that Chipotle was our best option. I had a single beef taco with guacamole, lettuce, and salsa. The meat was surprisingly good.

At the movie theater, Raja bought popcorn and peanut M&M's. She said that I should eat them together. Of course, I did as Raja instructed, and it was a fantastic combination. Salty and sweet. It was like Cracker Jack but with chocolate instead of caramel. Sitting there, watching movie trailers, and shoving this strange combination of salty and sweet into my mouth, I was reminded of the bus ride Ian and I took on our way back to Beijing from the Great Wall. We were exhausted and hungry, and the only food we had left with us were crackers, dark chocolate flavored with chili, and crunchy, spicy peanuts. We put all those things together into one bite and were surprised at how good they were together. Back in Redwood City, I had the same revelation: peanuts, chocolate, and something crunchy and salty taste good together. We finished those M&M's and popcorn just a few minutes into the movie, and I was happy to be there, done with school, and enjoying summer.

Official hiatus

2009-09-20T20:46:00.000-07:00

I'm making it official: I'm taking a break from writing. Well, I'm not really taking a break from writing. I'll be doing plenty of writing (and reading!) for graduate school, which has its first day of actual class tomorrow. Though I would love to write about all the wonderful culinary delights of Palo Alto and the rest of the South Bay, I think that being a good student will take precedence and will also take a fair number of my waking hours. So, Susan's Daily Eats will be taking a break. Hopefully, when I'm done with my program in mid-June, I'll go back to writing for non-academic reasons with more frequency.

Meyer lemon and rosemary shortbread cookies

2009-05-06T18:37:00.000-07:00

I don't really consider myself much of a baker, though I have been known to bake up some tasty treats. To me, baking takes too much forethought to make it fun. Plus, all that precise measuring sucks even more fun out of it. For someone as slightly OCD as I can sometimes be, I am a little haphazard in my baking.

Recently though I've been thinking about shortbread cookies. It started with having one of those magnificent chocolate, fleur de sel ones from Miette Confiserie near my house. I've been wanting to recreate it, and Eleanor kindly sent me a recipe for chocolate shortbread cookies, which I still need to work on once I figure out the conversion from metric mass to non-metric volume.

Then, on Sunday, we went to Colin's mom's house in Burlingame, where we picked Meyer lemons and rosemary from the garden. I left with a giant bag of lemons (perfect for making limoncello, just as summer is nearing) and had the bright idea that Meyer lemon and rosemary would go together well in shortbread cookie form. I've never made shortbread cookies before and none of my cookbooks had a shortbread cookie recipe. But, Google gave me my answer. I went over multiple shortbread cookie recipes, found one that seemed simple enough, and got to work in the kitchen.

I followed the recipe exactly, with the addition of the lemon zest and chopped rosemary. The finished dough wasn't coming together and was all crumbly. I didn't quite know what to do. Should I add melted butter? That sounded gross. Ian suggested some water, which worked in pulling the dough together. I rolled the dough into a rectangular log, wrapped it in plastic, and stuck it in the refrigerator. Ian and I made cabbage pancakes and tofu for dinner, and ate while the cookie dough was chilling.

After dishes were done, I pulled the dough out, sliced it, and placed the slices on to two baking sheets lined with parchment paper. They went into the oven and cooked for a little while. Once done, we ate them. I didn't know how they were supposed to be, but these ones were buttery, crisp, and just barely sweet. I could taste the rosemary and wished that the Meyer lemon was more pronounced. But, overall, not bad for a first time shortbread cookie baking experiment. Ian took some cookies with him and I took the rest to school to share. The other counselors and some of the students thought they were great, heavenly even. Lauren asked me for the recipe, which I typed up for her. It follows.

Shortbread Cookies

2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup powdered sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup European style butter (Strauss Creamery butter for me)
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 tsp vanilla

1. Sift flour, powdered sugar, cornstarch, and salt together. Put in a bowl.
2. Beat butter in a separate bowl until fluffy.
3. Gradually add sugar and vanilla to the butter.
4. Stir in the dry ingredients in three batches. Do no over mix.
5. Roll dough into a log and put in refrigerator for about 2 hours.
6. Pre-heat oven to 325 degrees. Slice dough into 1/3 inch slices. (I think I would have liked my cookies smaller.) Bake for 18 minutes, turning the trays once.
7. Let cookies cool until they are cool enough to not burn your fingers and mouth.
8. Eat.

A note: I added the zest of two Meyer lemons and maybe a teaspoon or so of chopped rosemary to my cookies. I think you can really add whatever you want to the basic recipe.

Peninsula and South Bay Adventure Day!

2009-05-03T20:24:00.000-07:00

When I suggested to Eleanor that we reinstate weekend brunches, I didn't think it would turn into an all-day adventure touring around my possible new home, the South Bay. Somehow, though, it did.

The Sunday started off like many Sundays before. I met Colin and Eleanor at the Blue Bottle kiosk. Colin and I had frothy cappuccinos out of tiny brown mugs. Ben showed up shortly, still with crutches, and ordered coffee too. Tucked out of the rain, we caught up for a bit, finished our coffee, and walked over to Ben's car. We headed to Burlingame to have brunch at Alana's and then get some photos from Colin's mom's house.

At Alana's, Ben and I split the oatmeal pancakes with bananas and the Company's Coming, which was potatoes, sausage, cheddar and Provolone cheese, tomatoes, and scallions (we asked for no mushrooms), and topped with two poached eggs. Colin and Eleanor split a variation of the same two dishes. The oatmeal pancakes were as delicious as I last remembered them. They were light but substantial, incredibly tender but not mushy, and packed full of oats. With a little smudge of butter and maple syrup, they were fabulous. The Company's Coming was good too, especially as a nice salty balance to the sweetness of the pancakes. Ben didn't quite eat his share of food though and I couldn't eat it on top of what I had already eaten, so we left some pancake on our plate.

After the yummy brunch, we went to Colin's mom's house, where we looked at old photos of Colin, were mesmerized by and contemplated bees, and picked Meyer lemons. We then drove to San Mateo to do some shopping at the Japanese grocery store. I picked up some sesame oil, bonito flakes, and a box of sauce for eggplant.

At the market, Colin asked if we were getting hungry yet. At first, I thought it was ridiculous to be hungry again, since we only finished brunch about two hours earlier. But, when he asked, I could see how I wasn't as full as I expected to be. I told him that I could probably eat again. Ben said that he was easily swayed. We told Eleanor that we hadn't eaten at Santa Ramen before, and that settled it. We would eat again and eat noodles at Santa Ramen. But, after a quick phone call, we had a change of plans. Santa Ramen was closed until later in the evening. Eleanor was ready with a backup: Maru Ichi in Mountain View.

We got back into the car (Colin had a triangle of rice with pickled plum and wrapped in seaweed) and headed further south. Apparently, none of us had plans for our Sunday and were more than happy to drive for more food. Downtown Mountain View looked freakishly similar to downtown Burlingame, with the exception of the angle of the parking spaces that lined the sidewalk. I was surprised at how many Asians there were and all the Asian shops. I wasn't quite sure what to expect of downtown Mountain View since this was my first time there.

We made our way to Maru Ichi and sat down at a booth. Eleanor told us that we should order the Kuro Ramen, which has a black slick of oil on top. It sounded a little gross and a little weird, but tasted amazing. The oil was made with browned garlic, which was fragrant but not overpowering. And, surprisingly, for a bowl of soup with a layer of oil floating on top, the soup wasn't oily or heavy. Was it magic? I had no clue how they did it. Other highlights were the homemade noodles, which was chewy but tender. Too bad the noodle-making booth in the corner was lacking a noodle maker.

Eleanor had discovered this place in the back of a Japanese newspaper and had tried it on her ramen noodle extravaganza. It and Santa Ramen topped her list. I was glad to know of it too. And, I would be glad to share it with all my potential Stanford friends so that I could be the coolest kid at grad school. We also talked about Colin and Eleanor now having an excuse to either visit me in Palo Alto (if I do end up leaving my Hayes Valley house) or to visit the two ramen houses. Life wouldn't be so different if I had a little San Francisco respite.

As if we didn't see enough of the South Bay yet, we made one last stop in Palo Alto, in search of Keeble and Shuchat. Colin's iPhone battery died so we had to find it the old school way, with Google text. We had a problem though: we had no idea how to spell the name. After multiple text messages to Google and some driving around Palo Alto, we finally got the phone number and went way old school and made a phone call to ask for directions.

We were all exhausted by the time we left the camera store. As much fun as the South Bay was, I think the warm weather and all the food from the day was taking their toll on us. I was ready to head back to the City.

Post-run dim sum

2009-05-02T18:34:00.000-07:00

When Billy, Winnie, and I get together for a run, we usually end up spending more time and energy eating than actually exercising. It was no different this time when we met up to do a 5K run for liver cancer and hepatitis B awareness in Golden Gate Park. We, along with Winnie's friend Tim, ran the race together through the rain and mud. We finished in about 30 minutes, a decent time though not great. I struggled a little bit with a hill and then a cramp, but I hit a stride just as we were nearing the end. I think I could have kept running.

Afterward, we were hungry and decided that dim sum was what we wanted. Nothing beats pork and shrimp and countless dumplings after a morning run. We made a stop at my house first. Tim took a bit of a nap on my couch, while Billy showered and then lied in my bed.

At Tim's suggestion, we went to Chinatown's Great Eastern Restaurant. I usually avoid Chinatown and have only ever had dim sum in Chinatown once. But, I was game to try a new place and possibly have a dim sum go-to in Chinatown. Winnie picked us up from my house, we navigated our way across the city, and found parking relatively easily.

Though were were four Chinese people, the folks at Great Eastern didn't give us the Chinese people treatment. We weren't asked what kind of tea we wanted; we were just given the pot of house tea. And, we were even given forks! Sure, we might have all be born in the US and, sure, our Cantonese isn't all that great, but we know how to use chopsticks. We blamed it on Winnie speaking to the hostess in English to get seated.

I took me a little while to realize that there were absolutely no dim sum carts and that we had to order everything off the menu. I have mixed feelings toward the menu system. Sure, you know what you'll be getting and don't have to anxiously eye carts that come around. But, they eying and the waiting is part of the fun, part of the leisurely activity that is dim sum. Plus, with the carts, you know when to say stop. With the menu system, I've noticed that my friends and I usually end up ordering way more food than we need or want. Our eyes are usually bigger than our stomachs.

That was the case this time too. We ordered tons of food and all the dishes that I grew up eating at dim sum: shrimp dumplings, chive dumplings, turnip cake, chicken feet, tripe, sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves, pork and mushroom dumplings, Shanghai dumplings, taro puff, ham siu gok (which translates to salty water corner), steamed rice noodles with shrimp, steamed rice noodles with barbequed pork, eggplant stuffed with shrimp, bell pepper stuffed with shrimp. At one point, there was no room on our little table for more plates and steam baskets. The women made faces at us. But, we worked our way through all the dishes and took two little boxes of food to go, which wasn't too bad considering all that we ordered for just four people.

Generally, the food was good. It wasn't greasy and the flavors were on spot. The taro puff was especially good though, as it tasted of taro and was crisp and light. The ham siu gok was also particularly good. If I were ever in Chinatown and had a hankering for dim sum, I would go here again. Winnie also ran into one of her former student's mom.

And, because we are that ridiculous, we stopped by Golden Gate Bakery for egg custard tarts on our way back to the car.

Hainanese chicken rice

2009-04-22T21:20:00.000-07:00

Scott left for a three-week trip to Belgium today. As much as I like Scott, I also really like having the house all to myself. It means the usual absent-roommate activities happen: showering with the door open, walking around naked, listening to whatever music I want and turning the volume up, dancing for no apparent reason throughout the house, and doing yoga in the living room without feeling self-conscious. It also means that I use the kitchen more and cook meals more elaborate than my most recent staple of soba, tofu, and vegetables, even if it's just me eating.

Tonight, I made Hainanese chicken rice. For whatever reason, I've been thinking of this chicken and rice dish for the past several days. I remember not too long ago reading Mark Bittman's column about it and how the San Gabriel Valley--my San Gabriel Valley--is home to some of the best Hainanese chicken rice. That, coupled with the fact that I'm running out of freezer space because of all my homemade poultry stock and need to find ways to use it up, meant that chicken and rice would be dinner.

When I got home from the field trip to UC Berkeley and my walk to Whole Foods for a chicken, I defrosted a yogurt container of chicken stock and brought it to a boil with enough water to cover a chicken in my narrowest pot. I rubbed the whole chicken, both inside and out, with salt, and put some chopped ginger and garlic in its cavity. The chicken went into the pot of boiling liquid and boiled over medium heat for ten minutes. Then, I turned off the heat and went to do yoga in the living room.

After trying to hold poses and concentrating on my exhalations for about an hour, I went back to the kitchen and starting chopping. I made a ginger chile sauce for my chicken by blending Serano chiles, a lot of garlic and ginger, lime juice, sugar, salt, and water together. It was pungent; that is all I have to say about it.

I pulled the chicken out of the pot and let it cool down enough for me to handle with my bare hands. In the meantime, I got started on the rice. I sauteed some chopped shallots, garlic, and ginger in some vegetable oil. Then, I added two cups of rice and stirred that around for a bit. After, I transferred the rice to my rice cooker, added about four cups of chicken-cooking liquid, and let the rice cooker work its magic.

With the rice in the cooker, I shredded the chicken. Shredding the chicken might not be traditional, I didn't want to deal with having to pick through bone tomorrow as I'm eating the leftovers for lunch at school. I chopped up some green onions and a little more ginger. Then, I mixed the chicken, ginger, and green onions with some soy sauce, sesame oil, and salt. Again, this is not traditional for Hainanese chicken rice, but, as I was trying to figure out how to add more flavor to the dish, this made the most sense.

When the rice cooker clicked done, the rice inside was a light brown color and each grain was its own and soft without being mushy. I gave the rice a fluff, scooped a little bit out into a bowl, put some of the shredded chicken on top, and drizzled some of the pungent ginger chile sauce on top. Everything got mixed together and then went straight to my mouth. Though the dish probably no longer resembled the traditional style of Hainanese chicken rice, it was still mighty delicious.

Californians in Boston

2009-04-02T14:28:00.001-07:00

I'm in Boston right now, sitting in Luis and Anosheh's Brookline apartment, eating their dried cranberries and busying myself before they come home to have dinner with me. I flew in late Saturday and stayed with Susie and Zyde for the first half of my stay, before moving here for the second half. On my past couple of visits to Boston, I wasn't won over by the city. But, I'm here again, trying to see if I can like it, if I can picture myself calling this place home (even if for only nine months), if I can leave California for the East Coast.

And, I'm starting to really feel that I can't. I came here with all the best intentions of keeping an open mind, but it's impossible to not compare this city with San Francisco, especially in terms of food. I'll write more about all the meals I've had here later, when I find some more time, probably back home in SF.

Korean taco truck!

2009-02-25T14:14:00.001-08:00

Every now and then, I'll miss LA. And, it's not just because I'll miss my family there. I'll miss things like going to the beach and lying on the sand, winding along the 110 with the car windows rolled down and the music turned up, the warm sun against my bare skin, the endless expanse of different landscapes and neighborhoods (which, on my anti-LA days, I'll agree to call "urban sprawl"), and delicious Asian food that I've never tasted the likes of at any Bay Area restaurant during all my years living up here.

And, today, I found another reason to want to be in LA: Korean Taco Truck! It's like all my favorite things rolled into one tin rectangle on wheels! Tacos, spicy food, kimchi, being Asian, questionable food service method!

I still need to hunt down Seoul on Wheels and make time for Mission Street Food. So little time, so many eats.

Meat pies, reprise

2009-02-22T13:14:00.000-08:00

I feel like I've been making lists of goals and things I want to accomplish, as if I'm about to die or something. Included on this list of things I need (or want) to do is clean out my freezer and cupboards. There has been food in there from who knows how long. I'm sure there are things in there that are no longer edible too.

Last night, feeling lazy and unmotivated, I walked over to the freezer and pulled out the portable meat pies I made almost a year ago. There were five little half-moons of meat and pastry tightly wrapped in plastic and placed in zip-lock bags. I couldn't eat five and didn't want to waste energy cooking up just one, so I put two pies on a cookie sheet lined with foil in the oven. I turned it on to 375 degrees and set the timer for fifty minutes. I had no idea how long they should cook for and at what temperature. I just assumed that since they were frozen, they should probably want not too much heat so they could defrost and that they would also want a fair amount of time in there to go from frozen and raw to fully cooked. And, things would turn out okay as long as the smoke detector didn't go off.

About forty minutes later, I went to check in on those little buddies. The crust looked nice. And, some of the juices had leaked out and was burning along the edges. Maybe they were done? I stuck my meat thermometer in them; it read 200 degrees. I don't think I've ever seen my thermometer read that high. The pork pies must be done. They smelled great, but I told myself to be patient. I didn't want to get a mouth burn and a finger burn and a lip burn. I made a little green salad dressed in the last of my balsamic vinaigrette in the meantime.

When all was ready, I plated up. My pork pie on one side and my salad on the other. I tried to pick up my pie with my hands. It broke apart at the middle. Hm...not as portable anymore. But, I didn't want to use a knife and fork, so I stuck with eating the pie with my hands and chopsticks for my salad. The crust was still flaky but not as buttery as I last recalled, which was probably a good thing. The filling was okay. I remember the filling being wonderfully fragrant of sage and apples and cinnamon. This time, it was still reminiscent of those items but not as pleasantly pungent. That's probably what happens when food gets tucked into the back of the freezer for almost a year. I ate up my little pie, licked my fingers, and wrapped up the other one in foil and put it in the refrigerator for the next day.

And, today, reading the Sunday New York Times as is my weekend habit, I found this: Put a Lid On It. Was it merely coincidence that I was just thinking of meat pies, ate one last night and had one waiting for me in the fridge for today, and that the dreary, wet weather in San Francisco had me thinking of baking up a pot pie, and the Times had a piece about meat pies on the same day? I think I'm more superstitious and a believer in fate and destiny than I'd like to admit. Damn, Serendipity!

Better days at Bar Jules

2009-02-20T23:53:00.000-08:00

When Kirk asked me if I had a hot date tonight and if that was the reason I wasn't joining him and other folks at the Mint, I said, "Yes. I do have a hot date. With one very pretty lady." And, it was true. Eleanor is one very pretty lady, and she and I had a dinner date.

I hadn't seen her in what felt like forever (even though it must have only been a few weeks), I had tons of big news to fill her in on, and spending hours with her and catching up with our lives seemed worlds more appealing than listening to people belt out "Don't Stop Believin'" at a karaoke bar. Plus, it was part of my new goal of trying to be a better friend, which is not to say that I'm not a good friend already. I think I'm a great friend--incredibly loyal, thoughtful, caring--but, recently, I've come to the realization that I can make more of a concerted effort to spend time with the people I care about most and who have made living here home for me. So, it started with Eleanor.

She stopped by my house, where I was watching my boyfriend John Cusack in Serendipity. I printed out our list of "Things to Eat Before Death," hoping that we would be able to cross one of those things off. But, upon closer inspection, we noticed that most of the places on our list weren't in San Francisco and most of the items listed weren't really dinner-time fare. So, off to Plan B: walk the block and a half to Bar Jules and have dinner there.

I peeked in the tiny restaurant earlier on my walk home from work to see if Carlo was working but didn't see him. He might have been tucked behind a counter or something, but when Eleanor and I got there, our doubts of him working tonight were confirmed. Oh, well. We told the cute hostess that we would wait for our table and that, no, we didn't want wine just yet. We stood along the sidewalk and chatted. Bar Jules looked so charming at night, with its dim lighting and candles in short vases lining the wall, the single wall painted a cheery, bright blue, and all the diners looking so happy and engaged in the food and each other.

I was thinking of how things change in a year, and how, almost exactly one year ago, I had dinner with Eleanor, along with Colin and Scott, at Bar Jules. It had just opened so Scott and I had to go to the semi-sketchy liquor store up the street for a bottle of cheap wine since the restaurant didn't have its liquor license yet. I had just found out earlier that day that I wouldn't be going to Yale as I had hoped for. And, the four of us, were having a who-needs-them-anyhow celebration of me staying in San Francisco a little longer. Now, a year later, I was telling Eleanor of how, in not too many months, I might actually leave for another Ivy League school. As a fortune cookie once told Brynn: change--it's not a part of life, it IS life.

But, back to dinner. Eleanor and I got seated in a cozy corner spot next to the window. After straining to read the menu and some discussion on what looked best and assessing our level of hunger and how much our stomachs could take, we decided on sharing the carrot soup, the baked ricotta, the grilled quail, and the salmon. Eleanor ordered a glass of the Gruner Veltliner and I a glass of the Grenache.

Our food came out slowly, which was nice as it meant that we could space out all the food we were about to consume and we would have plenty of time to catch up. And, one of our servers was the guy with the sizable 'fro and large glasses who is always generous and patient with me at Bi-Rite Creamery, which, for whatever reason, made us both a little happier. The carrot soup was thick and sweet, with the fragrance of dill, and was a lovely, warm way to start the meal.

The baked ricotta came out next. I was assuming the ricotta to look like slices of baked polenta, but it wasn't. Instead, it was in a small dish on a plate with two slices of toasted, very buttery bread and some greens. The ricotta was rich and creamy, and we didn't have enough toasted bread slices for it, so I slathered the cheese liberally on to the bread we did have. I ate the salad with my fingers (with Eleanor's approval, of course) and could taste the individual grains of salt.

The quail followed, and it was two pieces of quail (we were both surprised at the generous portion) with artichoke hearts, portobello mushrooms, braised endive, and bone marrow sauce. The quail was delicious. It was tender and barely, perfectly, seasoned with just some salt. I told Eleanor I was going to eat that with my fingers too, and she whole-heartedly approved. I rubbed the pieces of quail on my fork all over the bone marrow sauce before popping it into my mouth. The Afro-ed server took our dish with the bone marrow sauce away before we could stop him, which was a little sad and disappointing.

Then, the female server asked if we were ready for dessert, and I said that we ordered the salmon too. Oh, she said. She didn't put that down but we'd get it right away. That was okay with us. It just meant we would have a little food break and that we would have more time to talk. When the salmon did arrive, I looked at it a little confused. Was this cheese on our fish? Nope, I remembered. It was a grated hard-boiled egg. The salmon was just barely cooked and still velvety. I couldn't really taste what the egg added to the dish. But, the beets and frisee were nice, though covered in a touch too much oil for my taste.

I was stuffed and a little warm after two glasses of wine. We decided against the chocolate nemesis, and agreed that she should call me when she has her random days off as I have plenty of sick and vacation hours to use up.

It was so lovely having sharing a leisurely meal with Eleanor. She was the best Friday night date I'd had in a little while, and I was so glad she took me home with her that one night several years ago. Over dinner we talked about my new goal of being a better friend, her goal of trying to be more open and how that is my goal too, and how I'm going to steal her motto for this year of "It's never too late."

Things to eat before death

2009-02-17T11:34:00.000-08:00

7x7 Magazine published an article about San Francisco food titled "The Big Eat SF: 100 Things to Try Before You Die." I went through the list and was able to check off about 23 things I've eaten so far, though there were plenty of places on that list where I had eaten but not the specific dish the article mentioned.

I forwarded the list on to friends and asked who of them would be willing to join me in eating my way through San Francisco. Carlo responded first with this: "Love this idea...maybe we can up the ante a little and make it a little more personal. How about compiling our own list of favorite tastes in the city. If people are in, then send in your top-5 or top-10 favorite tastes in the city. The 7x7 list is good, but maybe we can do one better." That is why I love Carlo!

A few people have emailed in their lists so far. Here they are and in the order they arrived (I assume that for everyone it got a little tougher to list things that weren't previously listed).

CARLO'S LIST
1. Any pasta from Quince
2. Chilequiles from the Primevera stand at the Saturday Farmer's Market
3. Bakesale Betty fried chicken sandwich (Oakland)
4. Tonkotsu Ramen at Santa Ramen (San Mateo)
5. Oysters at the Marshall Store (Marshall)
6. Crab roll and a bottle of crisp white wine at Fish (Sausalito)
7. Burger and a Bloody Mary at Zeitgeist
8. Coffee with Miette cookie pairings at the Blue Bottle kiosk
9. Clam chowder and some really good beer at Bar Crudo
10. Sitting at Dolores park with 2 scoops of Bi-rite ice cream

SUSAN'S LIST
1. Tacos from the Sinaloa truck on International at 22nd (Oakland)
2. Pork and 1000 year egg rice porridge with fried Chinese dough from Hing Lung
3. Mini barbeque pork buns from Koi Palace (Daly City)
4. Eating samosas (or anything else, really) from Vik's while watching the windsurfers at the Berkeley Marina (Berkeley)
5. Warm croissants from Tartine
6. Fleur de sel caramels from Michael Recchuiti
7. Cheese Board pizza eaten on the grassy median of Shattuck Ave. (Berkeley)

BILL'S LIST
1. Super Carne Asada Burrito from Ocean Taqueria
2. Pot-Roasted Shortribs and a Chimay from Park Chow
3. Italian Paradise at Paradise Pizza
4. Four-way combo plate from Everett & Jones BBQ
5. The Chef Roll from Live Sushi Bar
6. A Liter of Radeberger and a Kielbasa at Gestalt Haus
7. A Bloody Mary from The Hotel Utah
8. Beef Colorado and a shot of Don Julio 1942 from Don Ramon's
9. One slice of pepperoni pizza and a Coke at 3:00 a.m. from Seniore's
10. Fish and chips from all three of the following places: 21st
Amendment, Edinburgh Castle, and Weird Fish (with sweet potato fries)
* A tamale from the Tamale Lady.

ELEANOR'S LIST
1. Fish n' Chips from Fish (Sausalito)
2. Lumpia from Andy & Cindy at East Bay Farmer's Markets.
3. Fresh Daifuku from Benkyodo in Japantown
4. Soup Dumplings and Eggplant from Shanghai Restaurant (Oakland)
5. Bratwurst and a beer from Walzwerk
6. Omakase sushi from Ebisu or Jimisan
7. Any pizza from Gioia (Berkeley)
8. Oatmeal Pancakes from Alana's (Burlingame)
9. Pork and Vegetable buns from Dim Sum Nice Food
10. Corn Cherry Scone from Arizmendi on Lakeshore (Oakland)
11. Ice cream from Ici (Berkeley)
12. Burger from 900 Grayson (Berkeley)

Oh, my! I am so ready to get my mouth and stomach working on this list.

What the World Eats

2009-02-16T09:10:00.000-08:00

When Ian and I were at the Museum of African Diaspora on Saturday, I noticed a large photo of a family in its kitchen and surrounded by food. I stared at it for a little bit, trying to make sense of what it was and a little disgusted by all the unhealthy food products. Ian told me that it was part of a larger photography project by Peter Menzel called "Hungry Planet: What the World Eats."

Time and NPR covered the project, and you can read about it at these links: Time and NPR.

It's amazing and disturbing to get such an intimate view of a family, its lifestyle and relative wealth, through what they consume. And, it's frightening to recognize familiar products repeated throughout the photos.

Maybe Jacob Leland was right when, as we were sitting in a New Orleans bar in the Marginy, he said that I should be a food anthropologist.

Street food art

2009-02-05T12:45:00.000-08:00

Last night, as I was making a list of things that make me excited, I thought of street food. I love it. No pretension, portable, tasty, and cheap. Absolutely perfect. And, today, I found Global Street Food in my inbox.

Ice cream break

2009-02-02T13:59:00.000-08:00

David, my office mate, and I just came back from getting ice cream cones at the Ben and Jerry's at Fisherman's Wharf. We were both feeling a little sleepy after eating our lunches (I had brown rice, sauteed bok choy, and leftover kung pao chicken) and I suggested that a walk and ice cream might help wake us up a touch.

It was (and still is) gorgeous outside and warm enough to not need a sweater. I took David along my usual work-break walk along the water and we popped into the ice cream shop. The girl working the counter looked like she should be in high school and we both resisted our urge to ask her why wasn't she in school. She told us we could try anything we wanted. I asked her a sample of the ONE Cheesecake Brownie, Peanut Butter Cup, and a coconut ice cream with tons of stuff in it whose name I don't remember. She scooped some monstrously generous samples. Those three samples were plenty of ice cream for me already. But, I figured I should get a real scoop of something, though none of those (they all had too much going on). I asked for the Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz, a safe standard. David got the coconut one. Our scoops were huge and I started licking my way through it.

With cones in hand, we strolled along the water, past the souvenir shops, tourists, and people asking if we wanted a ride on the Bay. We looked like the perfect picture of summer, but in February.

Obama Day

2009-01-20T14:08:00.000-08:00

January 20, 2009 marked a glorious day in American history. We said goodbye to George W. (and watched him get zipped away from DC and back to Texas on a helicopter), and welcomed Barack Obama as our new president with a big, fat, wet kiss hello. To celebrate this momentous changing of the guard, I hosted an Inauguration Breakfast Party at my house and invited friends over for a meal in front of the television.

Shari, Eleanor, and Colin stayed over the night before, and we didn't get to bed until close to two in the morning, which made it difficult to get up for a 7AM inaugural start. But, we managed to roll out of bed (Colin stayed under the covers and watched from the living room floor for a bit) and make our way into the kitchen.

I decided against making Obama-lets, as that would be too time consuming to make individual omelets, and made a large frittata (Freedom-tata?) with mushroom, onion, spinach, and cheddar instead. I also made Homie-fries ("homie" because Barack's black) and banana-walnut bread.

I did a lot of prep work the previous night, and Shari helped. The filling for the frittata was cooked the night before. I just sautéed the onions, mushrooms, and spinach together. I also par-boiled the potatoes so that, in the morning, I would just have to dice them up and put them in the hot oven with some olive oil and onion to finish cooking and get crisp and brown. I also baked the bread the night before. (I mistakenly ate one of the bananas needed for the bread a day earlier and then had to substitute an extra quarter cup of yogurt for the lost moisture; the bread turned out great still.)

Because most of the work had been done already, I thought I wouldn’t have much to do Tuesday morning and that timing would work out so that food would be on the table and ready to eat by the start of Barack’s Inaugural Address. But, I was wrong. The potatoes took a little longer than I thought to reach the crispy browness that I wanted. And, the frittata totally threw me. I was so happy to have Eleanor help and even more happy to have her take it over (thank goodness for chef friends). I didn’t know how much stirring on the stovetop the eggs needed. I didn’t know how long in the oven it should bake for. I didn’t know how to flip it out of the skillet. But, Eleanor was a pro! She handled it with such grace and didn’t even show the slightest bit of annoyance that she was working in the kitchen as Barack Obama became our president.

Finally, everything was done. We carried the frittata and potatoes to the living room, where friends had been watching the morning’s broadcast, drinking coffee (brewed from beans that Carlo brought for Blue Bottle) and orange juice while munching on the banana (really, yogurt bread) and carrot muffins that Cambria made. I dished out the eggs and potatoes for everyone. We sat on the floor and on the couch and on any space we could find and shared breakfast as we watched Barack speak about the nation’s future. And, I feel so cheesy to say it, but I was moved and proud and glad to be sharing it with friends.

Farmer's market pick-up

2009-01-18T14:20:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I've been hit on by random men. I sort of forgot what it looks and feels like. But, today, as I was shopping at the Civic Center Farmer's Market for goodies for Tuesday's Inauguration Breakfast Party hosted at my house, I was reminded of how silly it is.

My menu for Tuesday's breakfast would consist of two frittatas (one mushroom, onion, and spinach, and the other olives, feta, and sun-dried tomatoes), roasted potatoes, banana bread, and maybe some sausage if I feel like we really need meat. I was armed with my list of things to buy and was going to keep my eye open for other produce that looked especially good.

The first stop was the nut guy. His table was lined with bags and bags of different types of nuts, but I just needed some shelled walnuts. I asked him for about half a cup or so, asked him what that looks like, asked him for a little more, then a little less.

Here's our conversation:

Nut Guy: I've never seen anyone so capricious!
Me: I'm making bread. I want to make sure I have the right amount.
NG: Are you a cook?
Me: I cook.
NG: Or, do you just think you do?
Me: I just think I do. Thanks.

I packed the nuts in my bag and noticed how I actually needed more walnuts than what I bought but was a little embarrassed to go back for more, especially after being so unsure the first time about how much I needed. So, I made my way to the other stands. I picked up some cute little button mushrooms, some onions, some Yukon Gold potatoes, a flat of eggs, and some Asian greens (I'm not sure what they're called but have cooked and eaten them before) for a stir-fry later this week. I realized that it would be stupid for me to go buy more walnuts somewhere else and headed back to the nut guy.

Me: Hi. I'm back. I'm sorry, but I realized that I needed more walnuts.
NG: That's okay. What's your name?
Me: Susan.
NG: I'm Marcella (I think that's what he said).
Me: Nice to meet you.
NG: You have this great aura around you.
Me: Well, it's hard not to when it's a beautiful day and you're shopping for food.
NG: No, you have this energy. I can feel it.
Me: Um, well, thanks.
NG: You would be a wonderful person to get to know.
Me (walking away): Oh, thank you.
NG: Really. Think about it.
Me: Okay. Have a good afternoon. See you next week.

Who knew that my aura of greatness exudes from me as I'm purchasing nuts? Perhaps with my new friendship with Nut Guy, I can get some free nuts.

Anchor and Hope

2009-01-15T23:39:00.000-08:00

I didn't expect much from my Thursday night. I had plans to meet Cambria and Bryce at MOMA for The Act of Drinking Beer with Friends is the Highest Form of Art. It was tons of fun drinking Pacifico as we looked at pieces from the 1000 Journals Project and made our own contributions.

After the museum, Cambria and I met up with Carlo to have dinner at Anchor and Hope. I had no idea what this place was but Carlo was intent on eating there. We parked our car under the freeway and across the street from several homeless men. It seemed sketchy but there were other people out, and I knew Varnish and John Collins were on the same street as Carlo's car so, somehow, that made it seem less sketch.

We found Anchor and Hope in this cute gray building, and the inside was equally as charming, with high ceilings, a long bar, and servers in white shirts with gray, striped aprons. The hostess told us that the wait would be about an hour and that we were welcome to wait at the bar, where we could also get full service. With no open spaces at the bar, we stood at the corner, hovering over the loaves of Acme bread. The bartender was very nice and accommodating and took our order for a bottle of Proseco, shrimp cocktail (large), and calamari.

The three of us toasted to a new year, promising to hang out more often (the last time I saw them both was at my birthday dance party at Annie's Social Club in October), and enjoyed the sweet, crisp bubbly wine. When our food came, we spied two open seats at the middle of the bar. We asked the bartender if we could move down there, instead of standing tightly at the corner of the crowded bar, and he generously obliged, moving our food for us as we took our drinks. More settled and seated (Cambria opted to stand), we dug in. The shrimp were large and beautiful and tender. The calamari was tasty, fried goodness, with soft loops of squid and a light batter that we dipped in a slightly spicy soy-like sauce. We also asked for some bread, since we still had a long wait ahead of us, and that too was good with the soft, salty butter that I just scraped out of the small dish with pieces of bread (we didn't get knives, but that was okay). Carlo ordered us a bottle of a nice, clean and not too sweet Pinot Bianco too.

Finally, we were seated, more than an hour later at the communal table, though, by this time, the restaurant was half empty. Cambria and Carlo noticed throughout our time at the bar that the kitchen wasn't busy at all (there were no pots or pans on the burners) and that many tables didn't have food on them. Not a real problem for us though, since we weren't in any sort of rush and waiting just meant that we would have more time chatting and catching up.

When our server came by to take our orders, we knew what we wanted and that we would share everything: the lobster roll, the paella with a half shell-still-on crab, and the fisherman's stew. She was impressed at our quick decisiveness, but we reminded her how we had plenty of time to peruse the menu as we waited at the bar. She was also impressed at what we had polished off at the bar too. True, we were an impressive trio.

Our food came out fairly quickly and all at once. The lobster roll came split in two, the paella was impressive with this huge piece of crab sticking out from the iron dish, and the stew was loaded up with all types of seafood. I scooted all my different utensils (fork, knife, spoon, crab cracker thing, crab scooper thing), my two glasses, my small plate, and my small bowl out of the way (trying to avoid the large crack in the middle of the table) to make room for all the food.

I stuck my spoon into the soup. It was good but once Cambria added a squeeze of lemon it was great. The salmon in it was perfect, just barely cooked and silkily rich. They didn't skimp on the seafood in it either; there were shrimp, squid, mussels, and some type of white fish too. Carlo served us up the paella. The rice at the bottom was crunchy and stuck to my teeth in a good way. The crab in it was sweet and tender. I cared little about etiquette and manners, and went at it with my fingers. The lobster roll was good too, with large chunks of lobster just barely dressed in a creamy sauce, though I enjoyed the buttery brioche dipped into the fisherman's stew more than the lobster bits.

By the time we finished up, it was almost 11pm and I was yawning. It was time to call it a night. Carlo took us home and we promised to hang out more often in 2009.

Veggie resolution

2009-01-14T23:51:00.000-08:00

When the New Year rolled around, I didn't give much thought to New Year resolutions. It didn't really occur to me. Plus, I've been really good about being healthy and conscious about what I'm putting into my body (things that are usually new year resolutions) over the past year, so I didn't need to make those resolutions. But, after having dinner with Eleanor last week, I realized that I do have new eating goals. I want to eat even more fruits and vegetables and cut back the amount of meat consumed.

So, when Ian suggested that we make sweet potato quesadillas for dinner, I thought it was a little weird but was game. He came over with provisions from Rainbow: two large sweet potatoes, cheese, corn tortillas, an onion, the world's largest clove of garlic, and an avocado. We got to work in the kitchen. I chopped the onion and garlic as he peeled and grated the sweet potatoes. I sautéed the vegetables as he grated cheese. He took over the sautéing and sprinkled in curry powder and ground cumin. It looked like orange mush, and I was still skeptical. Where did he learn this? I asked. His hippie mom and her Moosewood Cookbook, he said.

As he warmed tortillas in a separate pan and started the assembly process, I made a salad with mixed green, baby spinach, carrots, and a balsamic vinaigrette that I made weeks ago but hoped would still be okay and not make us ill. We plated up and sat down to eat.

After a few bites, Ian looked me. What did I think? It was okay, actually surprisingly good. It tasted like sweet potatoes and corn, and nothing of the hippie grossness that I had feared. He didn’t seem convinced that I enjoyed it. But, I cleaned my plate. Perhaps I would include this on my vegetarian repertoire of meals.

Fleur de sel cupcake

2009-01-13T15:41:00.000-08:00

My office-mate David and I like to talk about food. Actually, we like to talk about tons of things and we probably spend more time talking to each other than actually doing work. Today's food topic of choice: cupcakes. It was Kat's birthday on Monday and he was going to bring her cupcakes from Kara's Cupcakes, which is just down the street from our school site, as a belated present. As he read off the different flavors--peanut butter, chocolate velvet, passion fruit--I was envious. I wished it was my birthday.

He headed off to Kara's Cupcakes and was then going to go to the other office; I assumed he was gone for the day. Not too long later, he came rushing back with a single cupcake in his hand. "It's fleur de sel," he said. "I'm double parked." And, just like that, he went off again. My eyes lit up and the students in my office looked a little confused. I set the cupcake aside on my desk and finished up with the students' financial aid reports.

When we were done and the students left, I laid out a piece of paper towel, loosened the paper wrapper from my cupcake, laid it on the napkin, took my fork out from my desk, and cut into the cupcake. It oozed a golden-y cream. I took a bite. It was so decadent. The chocolate ganache frosting was luscious and rich, the caramel was sweet and buttery, and the fleur de sel was a lovely contrast against all that sugar. Though it was all a little too much, it didn't stop me from scraping my fork against the wrapper to get every little bit of cake.

Non-training celebratory meal

2009-01-11T09:00:00.000-08:00

I sort of have a marathon training crew. Billy, Winnie, Tree, and I all planned to run the San Francisco Half-Marathon together this July. The last few times we've run together, we did very little running but plenty of post-quasi-run eating. We planned to start our running together again as well as honor Billy's birthday with a 29-minute run, one minute for every year, as well as celebrate all things to celebrate--a new year, Billy's birth, the completion of graduate school applications, a new baby, a new dog. Of course, the running didn't happen.

I showed up at Winnie's house in Alameda much later than I had anticipated. It look me about 30 minutes to make coffee whipped cream for my devil's food cake from a box (I didn't have time to make the cake from scratch). When the cream was finally at a non-liquid state (I thought that sticking the bowl with the cream into another one with ice water as I whipped would help, which it did), I poured it all on top of the cake, while licking up rogue bits of the cream. By the time I packed everything up and made my way across the Bridge, it was already 5:30pm and the sun was almost done setting. It would be too dark for a run, and I was disappointed since it would have been gorgeous running along the beach in Alameda as the sun set.

Instead of running, I sat in Winnie's kitchen eating carrots, cheese, salami, and crackers as she checked on her potato rolls and made meat patties for sliders. We started cooking when Billy arrived. I helped cook the sliders as Winnie prepared her rolls with cheese and lettuce for the mini patties. She put her macaroni and cheese (a slightly healthier version made with whole wheat pasta and pita bread crumbs) into the oven. Billy heated up the shrimp balls he brought. When Winnie's friend Tim (who is also supposed to run with us) showed up, the four of us sat down to all this food (we had assumed that more people would join us, and more people would though later in the evening).

I loaded up my plate with a slider, a scoop of mac-n-cheese, and a shrimp ball. The slider patty was surprisingly good for a Rachel Ray recipe. The meat was well seasoned and perfectly cooked (go, me!). Winnie's homemade potato roll was a nice touch. Her mac-n-cheese was made with pepper Jack cheese, which added a nice kick to it (I think I might steal this idea from her). And, for whatever reason, I couldn't get enough of the shrimp balls. I think I had five of them. Actually, I had another scoop of mac-n-cheese and split another slider with Billy. My self-restraint was no where to be found tonight.

After a little break, we sliced up some of the cake I made. The whipped cream set up more in the refrigerator, which was a relief, and everyone said that it was really good, though I reminded them that the cake came from a box. I could have just eaten spoonfuls of the cream and done without the cake though.

More friends showed up, though they all had eaten dinner already, which meant that we could have more dessert once I finished my 3D apple puzzle. Winnie had the makings for both root beer floats and banana splits, but we all decided on banana splits. We had vanilla and mint ice cream from Tucker's, which Winnie described as an Alameda institution. I asked for a small portion with only one scoop of vanilla, but when I noticed that everyone also had a scoop of mint, I wanted that too. I topped mine with both the fudge and caramel sauces, just as everyone had done. We finished the evening with some a champagne toast. I felt a little ill.

Usual routine again

2009-01-06T23:11:00.000-08:00

It's nice to be back home again. After almost a week and half on the East Coast, I am happy to be sleeping in my bed, using my bathroom, and eating and cooking as I usually do again. When I got home Monday, I defrosted some butternut and carrot soup I made in October and had that with wheat toast for dinner. For Tuesday's lunch, I packed a green salad with garbanzo beans, sardines, and red onions. For dinner, I made a saffron, tomato seafood stew, which may sound fancy but is actually pretty simple.

I started by sauteing some garlic, shallots, bay leaves, thyme, red pepper flakes, and fennel seeds in a little bit of oil. Then, I added two leeks, thinly sliced, and a touch of water, and cooked that for a few more minutes. After, I poured in a can of diced tomatoes, a slice of zest from an orange, three cups of clam juice, the saffron with its soaking liquid, some water, and two cups of dry white wine. (I got a fantastic bottle of Hiedler Loess Kamptal Gruner Veltliner from 2007, which, according to the lady selling me the wine at Arlequin Wine Merchants, was a great year for Austrian vineyards. The woman's eyes lit up when I told her I was making a seafood stew. She described the wine as perfect for my soup and worked well with a range of flavors, from grapefruit to fennel. And, it was quite lovely and refreshing and very dry.)

I let the liquid simmer for about 25 minutes with the lid off so that it could reduce a bit. I tasted it for salt and pepper. Then, I added the chunks of cod. After about five minutes, the bay scallops and shrimp went in. And, after about four more minutes, I turned off the heat, poured in a couple of tablespoons of cream and threw in some chopped cilantro. I toasted some slices of baguette rubbed with olive oil in my cast iron skillet, and I was done. Easy, yet still impressive.

Better Boston days

2009-01-04T15:52:00.000-08:00

I might be turning a new leaf towards Boston. Last year when I went to visit, the city left a bad taste in my mouth. But, on this trip, I actually enjoyed my time there.

Susie and I had a great Boston day Saturday. Though it was still cold (about 34 degrees), the sun was out and the sky was clear. We started our day at the Haymarket, where vendors were selling produce for ridiculously low prices. Ten avocados for a dollar! A box of mangoes for a dollar! A box of oranges for a dollar! I couldn't believe how cheap the produce was and felt like I should be buying food, even though I would be getting back on a bus to New York the next morning. The sidewalk was crowded with people eying the food in the stalls, trying to find the best bargain. This was not the Boston I had seen on my previous trip. Here were my people. It was loud and crowded and full of people of all different races and ethnicities. And, I loved it.

We then walked over to the North End to have lunch. The place Susie had wanted to eat at was closed until 5pm, so we ate at Florentine Cafe instead. Over pasta (spaghetti and meatballs for me, fettuccine carbonara for her) and a bottle of Chianti, we chatted and stared out the window. It was a leisurely, lovely meal.

Full on carbohydrates and red wine, we headed out again into the cold and over to the Boston Harbor. I thought of the tea party and how these silly colonists dressed up as Native Americans.

It was cold by the water, so we decided to head back inside and get cannolis at Modern Pastry Shop. Susie waited in line as saved our seats from the Asian tourists. I was in awe of all the different sweet treats lining the refrigerated counter and I wanted them all. We ended up sharing two cannolis: a chocolate shell one and one with just the ends dipped in chocolate. The shells were filled to order and they were delicious. The shell was crunchy but buttery and tender, while the cheese filling was rich and light and just sweet enough. We asked the Asian tourists to take a photo of us and our cannolis.

After a little bit of shopping, we went to Top of the Hub, the restaurant at the top floor of the Prudential Tower, the second tallest building in Boston. Sitting at the bar having drinks, Susie pointed out all the different parts of Boston to me and I was able to pick out the gold dome of the State Building. After two cocktails, both of which had a combination of vodka, champagne, and Chambord, not to mention the wine from earlier, I was a little drunk. Susie was too.

We needed food again and had little bit of time before going to watch Slumdog Millionaire. After being unsuccessful at the food court and California Pizza Kitchen (both closed just minutes before we got there), we went down the street to The Pour House. Susie warned that the food would be whatever, and it was. My burger was obviously a frozen patty, but the fries, which were probably also frozen, weren't bad. And, my Sam Adams Winter Lager was a winner, though too much for me to finish.

Only at The Pour House, where I noticed that I was the only Asian person there and Susie said that there were probably no Mexican customers and I felt like I was at a frat party, was I reminded of my last trip to Boston. But, it was a bar and I would be going back to New York the next day only to return to San Francisco the following day. Maybe I could like Boston.

Bacon brittle

2008-12-17T23:21:00.000-08:00

It's almost midnight, two hours past my usual bedtime. Instead of being cozy under the covers, I'm sitting on the living room floor eating bacon brittle. Scott's friend Brandi made it as a gift. And, it's quite spectacular. Sweet and savory. Crunchy and chewy. Intensely bacon-y without being gross.

Muff love

2008-11-11T23:40:00.000-08:00

I am in love with the muffuletta. I'm salivating just thinking of it. Seriously. Trying to find more information about the muffuletta made me feel like I was looking up porn. That salami, that cheese, that olive spread, that sesame seed topped bread. Man.

I knew about this famed sandwich from my New Orleans research but didn't get around to it until my last few hours in the city. I am so glad Jacob suggested that I stop by Central Grocery Company before my flight to pick up an airplane muffuletta snack. The idea didn't even occur to me. Maybe that's why he has a Ph.D. and I don't.

With only a few hours left in New Orleans, I walked a few blocks from Sara's house in the Marginy down to Decatur Street to Central Grocery. I tried not to look like a tourist. I tried to look like I knew what I was doing. I took in the small grocery store that smelled of olives and that had signs directing newcomers where to stand in line. I ordered half a muffuletta. There was a pile of sandwiches already made and packed up. The man behind the counter handed me a half-moon shaped package. It was so easy. I walked out of Central Grocery with my muff in my purse, headed back to Sara's, packed the muff in my backpack, and called a cab to the airport.

With my layover in Houston delayed for an hour due to thunderstorms, it was perfect muffuletta time. I found a spot among the black airport chairs away from others, unpacked my muffuletta, laid the plastic bag across my lap, and unwrapped the sandwich from its layers of paper. This was the first time I laid my eyes on this glorious being and it was impressive. Grease covered the paper, which held the two pie wedges of bread stuffed with green olives, cheese, and slices of cured meat. Its aroma was intoxicatingly strong.

I picked up one of the wedges and took a bite. The bread was soft but with a hearty chew. The sesame seeds that topped it also added a nice toasty taste. The alternating layers of meat, cheese, and meat were beautifully balanced, not too much cheese and not to much meat. The best part, however, was the olive salad. Green olives and vegetables all mixed together in a salty, briny, hella tasty mix. I wondered why all sandwiches didn't include this wondrous concoction. I savored every bite of that first half.

As I started making my way into the second half of my sandwich, slowing down quite a bit, a group of stylish young professionals sat down next to me. The very cute man who took the seat right next to me, looked at my sandwich and laughed.

"Are you laughing at my sandwich?" I asked.
"No. We were looking for sandwiches and all we got were these," he said, referring to wraps in plastic boxes.
"I didn't get this here."
"Someone thought ahead."
"Yes, yes, I did."
"Is it a special sandwich?"
"Yeah. It's a muffuletta. I got it in New Orleans." I showed him my bag.

He ate his wrap. When his friend across the aisle, who was away during our interaction, sat back down to eat at his wrap, he gave a look of concern to his friend.

Cute friend said, "It ain't no muffuletta."
"It was delicious," I replied. And, it was.

Daiquiri Cafe

2008-11-08T14:24:00.001-08:00

I'm in New Orleans right now, sitting in Sara's roommate's room as Sara is taking a nap next door. We just got back from driving through the city. She took me to see the Lower Ninth Ward. There were abandoned homes, FEMA trailers, empty lots, and out-of-place Brad Pitt houses sitting only about ten yards from the banks of the Mississippi. After that, we drove to her old school that is now abandoned, then up St. Charles, where majestic old mansions stand amidst the sounds of the streetcars, and then to the school where she works now.

We made a stop at the Daiquiri Cafe, where I bought a 20oz strawberry daiquiri poured out from a slushee machine into a Styrofoam cup for $5.25, on the way back. This Daiquiri Cafe smelled of cigarette smoke, had slot machines lining the walls, and only sold daiquiris. It was so surreal. I asked Sara where we were. She smiled and suggested I stick with strawberry. I got my cup of slush, stuck my red straw in it, and sucked away. I felt like I was at 7-11. The daiquiri tasted like a 7-11 Slurpee. It was sweet and syrupy and cold with a little bit of a kick from the alcohol.

We then walked over to the levy, me with daiquiri in hand, and strolled to the river, where I took photos of the dirty, brown Mississippi as flies buzzed around us. Afterwards, we got back in the car, me sipping out of my straw, and drove over to the Whole Foods, where we strolled the aisles, me still sipping away. It was so weird to be drinking in a car and at the grocery store. Sara told me that there are also daiquiri drive-thrus. We didn't see any though.

Cake Cafe and Bakery

2008-11-08T13:49:00.000-08:00

I had breakfast at noon today. Sara didn't come back until late in the morning, which was good because I had time to sleep in late, go for a jog, shower, and get cleaned up. But, it was horrible because by the time she and Elizabeth came to pick me up, I was so hungry. They were too.

We walked a few blocks to Cake Cafe and Bakery, which looked unassuming from the outside. There were some plastic, white patio tables and chairs along the sidewalk. Sara quickly ran over to one, claiming it as ours. Inside, there was a counter, where orders were being taken, behind which were trays of bread. There were also pastries on display: cupcakes, bear claws, these things that looked like mini quiches. I told the man behind the counter that I wanted the crab omelet with a biscuit and a cupcake. Which one, he asked? What's the yellow one? I asked. Lemon. I want that one then. He gave a knowing look, as if I had chosen the best cupcake of all cupcakes.

Proud of my cupcake choice and with cupcake in hand, I headed back to our table, where I cut that little sucker up and at a piece. It was delicious. Lemony and sweet without being too sweet. And, the lemon frosty was yummy too. For a cupcake, it was refreshing. And, the cake was light and airy but not too weak like box cake. I wished there were more lemon cakes.

Then, our plates come out. I had a pile of yellow omelet with a humongous biscuit on the side. It was the largest biscuit I had ever seen, or eaten. I dug into the omelet first. I could see still see the intact slices of brie and the large clumps of crab meat. It was good. The crab was the best part. It tasted like fresh crab meat and there was plenty of it. But, I think the biscuit won out. That giant biscuit and that berry preserve were incredible. The biscuit was flaky and warm inside, but crisp on the outside. And, the preserve was just sweet enough. I slathered my biscuit with jam and then used the biscuit to wipe out every last pit of it from its small plastic container. I could have eat just biscuits and jam alone. I cleaned my plate, as did Sara and Elizabeth. We finished the meal with a heavenly Red Velvet cupcake.

A pretty poor po-boy

2008-11-07T17:24:00.000-08:00

I came to New Orleans with a general list of things I wanted to do: hang out with Sara, explore the city, eat and drink. As for the eating part, I also made a list of things I wanted to eat while I'm here: beignets, jambalaya, gumbo, fried oysters, and po-boy sandwiches, just to name a few.

I spent the first part of Friday walking along the river, wandering the Contemporary Art Center and the Ogden Museum of Southern Art, then strolling the streets lined with galleries and warehouses. By about 1:30 in the afternoon, I was starved. I pulled out my guidebook, figured out where I was, and decided that my best lunch option would be Mother's. According to Lonely Planet, Mother's is a New Orleans establishment serving up some of the best po-boys in town and it was only a few blocks from where I was; I could easily walk there before my hunger took over and would bring me to my knees in pure starvation.

I walked into Mother's and up to the counter and ordered a debris sandwich. I had no clue what is was but Lonely Planet recommended not leaving New Orleans without getting one from Mother's. Pretty nice praise, so of course I had to do it. It turned out that a debris sandwich is one with beef and soaked with meat juice. I could do that. I took a seat and a nice black man took my ticket. I asked if he would also bring me my food or if I had to get it myself, and he said he would take care of me. He came back with a paper pocket with silverware and a napkin. And, then he came around again with my sandwich. It looked okay. Nothing too fancy. It was a French roll with shredded beef, some mayo, mustard, and pickles. And, it was sitting in a pool of juice. I would get dirty. I would use many napkins.

This was not the time to be dainty. I dug in. I got my fingers all up in that wet bread. It was a little gross, but if people love this sandwich I would love it too. I took my first bite. It was okay. The beef was a little tough and the meat juice wasn't all that flavorful. The whole sandwich sort of lacked pizzazz. It was too bland. I wanted to add hot sauce but didn't want to make a bigger mess. I wanted more mustard and more pickles, something with flavor. I was saddened. Maybe I ordered the wrong thing. Maybe I should have ordered a crayfish po-boy. Maybe a turkey one. Maybe potato salad would make it better. Everyone else in the restaurant seemed to be enjoying their food. I finished my sandwich, though, disappointed at both my sandwich and Lonely Planet. I expected so much more from both of them.

Celebration

2008-11-05T13:13:00.000-08:00

Last night was a great night. Not only was Barack Obama elected the next president of the US, but it was also Lenna's birthday. To celebrate, she invited me and other friends to her house for food and drinks.

Her house was warm and cozy. Lenna and her mom placed flowers and lit candles around the house. The dining table was covered with food: bowls of chips (Kettle Chip's Spicy Thai, one of my favorites), platters of strawberries and grapes, plates of cheese, salami, and crackers, a giant dish of white rice, and plates with raw fish, chopped veggies, and other sushi fillings. It looked like Lenna and her mom were in the middle of making rolls and didn't quite finish. I wasn't sure what was going on.

Lenna moved us to the living room, where I ate too many chips and crackers, and where we opened the first of many bottles of sparkling wine. When more friends arrived and we filled everyone's glasses with my more champagne, we took our seats at the dining room table. Trying to figure out how to arrange ourselves in the dining room, I realized how rarely I'm in a nice, homey house in San Francisco. Usually, my friends live in houses with mix-matched hand-me-down furniture. Lenna's house had a cupboard full of champagne flutes, family photos on the wall, and a piano. It was a nice change.

Lenna took the seat at the head of the table and told us what we were in store for. We were going to make our own sushi rolls. She even demonstrated, providing us with useful information, such as using the small ends of the chopsticks and spreading the rice onto the nori like cheese on a burrito. She was also encouraging, telling us that there was no wrong way to make a roll. Then, we went about making our own rolls.

I filled my first roll with a little bit of rice, unagi, cucumber, and avocado. To me, nothing could go wrong with unagi and avocado. The next one was a little trickier. I filled it with some rice, tuna, daikon sprouts, some chopped up other fish (I forgot what Lenna's mom called it), and fish roe. That one was good too. For my third roll, I used eggplant, egg, asparagus, and carrot. I followed that with a simple roll of umeboshi (pickled plum that Lenna's mom was trying to sell to us as healthy and low in sodium) and rice. It was so much fun figuring out what combination of fillings I wanted, what would taste good together, and then putting it all together in a neat, little package that I could eat with my hand. After four rolls and too many chips from earlier, I was full.

Throughout the meal, Lenna's mom kept poring us nigori sake that was delicious and sweet. Lessa also kept our champagne flutes full. I needed to make sure I would be okay to drive Lessa, Aaron, and myself home.

That's when we got the call. Barack would be our next president. We all looked at each other with disbelief and excitement. We quickly moved from the dining room to the living room, where we switched on the TV. People were crying. People were hugging. People were waving American flags. We watched. Lenna's mom filled our glasses with more champagne and we toasted.

We moved all the food into the living room with us and watched the number of electoral votes for Obama reach grow to 330. Transfixed by McCain's concession speech and Obama's victory speech, I kept putting food into my mouth: grapes, strawberries, unagi, cucumbers, avocado, tuna, chocolate covered pretzels. It was a huge night and I was so glad to be with Lenna, her mom (who is my new favorite person), her mom's friends, my friends, and Lenna's friends.

We ended the night with a beautiful and delicious Princess cake from Ambrosia, a shot of some blueberry acacia that Lessa and Aaron brought (it was horrible and we all made faces trying to get it down), and glasses of sparkling rose. I left Lenna's house happy. Not only was it a fun night spent laughing and drinking and eating, but it was the first night when I sat in front of a television on election night and the candidate I voted for won.

Mother's warning

2008-11-02T21:08:00.000-08:00

I feel sick. I ate too much Halloween candy. I've been eating too much Halloween candy all weekend. It started Friday at work. No one brought candy in to share. Usually, someone will bring in some sort of snack. Calvin bakes. Before him, Allison used to bring in sweet treats. I thought that for Halloween someone would have brought something. But, nope. Nothing. No cookies. No candy. No sugar.

I was feeling disappointed. It got worse after lunch at Doobu, where one piece of a mini Twix whetted my sweet tooth appetite. By 3:30, I was suffering. I took the opportunity to move my car to drive over to Safeway to pick up sweets for the office. Lucy came with me and we picked up mini Snickers, mini Kit-Kats, mini Reece's peanut butter cups, and a full-sized Twix for us to share (mini Twix were not on sale). I ate my Twix stick in the car, had one almond mini Snickers on the walk back to the office, where I then ate a mini Kit-Kat, a peanut butter cup, two more Snickers, and a box of Red Hots that Kat had.

I made a mistake by taking the leftover candy home. Alone with this bag of candy, I ate two more mini Snickers Friday night. Saturday, I ate three more Kit-Kat bars. Today, before meeting Eleanor and Colin for lunch, I ate another Kit-Kat followed by a mini Snickers. And, just right now at 8:45 pm, I ate two more Kit-Kats, a peanut butter cup, and a mini Snickers. My stomach is not feeling happy.

What was I thinking? I don't usually eat candy and never this amount. When I do, it's usually a small piece of dark chocolate. It's like I'm on a candy binge. Now, I'm feeling guilty and disappointed in and disgusted at myself.

I'm packing up the candy and taking it to work tomorrow. Hopefully, I can pawn these sweets off on my students.

Piccino pals

2008-11-02T17:45:00.000-08:00

Eleanor called me to ask if I wanted to join her and Colin for lunch at noon at Piccino. I hadn't seen them in a few weeks since they were away in Japan and I wanted to see them before I left for New Orleans later this week, but I had already made plans to eat at Piccino for oysters at 1pm. After a few phone calls and Jo telling me that she didn't want me to sit at Piccino for hours, even though I told her how much I liked it there and that it wouldn't be a problem, she and I decided to reschedule our oyster outing for some other time.

So, I headed solo to Piccino to meet Eleanor and Colin. I hadn't been there in a while, even though I have such a good time each time I'm there. The food is good and the company is even better. When I arrived, Eleanor and Colin were already seated and chatting with Cambria. I was so happy to see all of them and hugs were exchanged all around, even to Eleanor.

After catching up for a bit, we got to work figuring out what we wanted to order. We decided on three pizzas--the Margherita, the Funghi Special (roasted mushrooms, crimini mushroom pesto, garlic, and crescenza cheese), and the Red Special (kale, garlic confit, ricotta, and pecorino)--and the rabini salad with pumpkin, onions, and bacon vinaigrette, all to share.

Colin was getting anxious for coffee too, so we ordered coffee with Cambria and headed out the door and down one past the nail salon to the new coffee bar annex of Piccino. As we were approaching, a hand carrying a coffee cup reached out from the window to deliver the cup to a waiting woman on the other side. Coffee walk-through?

When we got inside, we told the woman that we placed our order at the restaurant and she read our order from the ticket. The space was a little too dark and not as warm as its larger counterpart up the street. But, it was cute enough. Eleanor got her tea, Colin got his cappuccino, and the woman walked out the door with two drip coffees in her hand. Was one of them mine? Colin went to check, but nope. The woman came back and asked if we ordered a coffee too? Yes, we did. She had just read it off our ticket only a few minutes ago. Oh, well. We could wait and soon enough I had delicious coffee in my hand.

We arrived back at our seats at Piccino the restaurant and had our salad waiting for us. It was really tasty. The onions were sweet and the bacon was salty. I couldn't taste the rabini or the pumpkin though. They tasted like bacon dressing.

Then, came our pizzas. They covered our tiny tables. The mushroom one was fantastic! It was earthy and rich with mushroom flavor. The Margherita one was good and simple. The Red Special was okay, even with the side of olive oil that Cambria suggested we have. I could only taste tomatoes and not much else. Cambria described it as "sauce forward." The crust for all three pizzas was nice though, thin (but not too thin to be floppy) and crisp. The crust was also good with a little dunk in the olive oil side.

It was a good meal and it was even better hanging out with Eleanor, Colin, and Cambria. But, I remember being amazed by the food. Maybe this time was different because Carlo wasn't back there working his magic and Eleanor wasn't tossing the pizza dough. Maybe I'm biased toward my friends. In any case, it was great to see my friends and share a meal.

Not so yummy, yummy

2008-10-29T22:41:00.000-07:00

The last few days have been cold and dreary, so when Manoella asked where we should meet for dinner, I suggested Yummy Yummy in the Sunset for warm Vietnamese noodle soup. I remember the last time I was there (I just wandered in off the street after a work event) I had a tasty bowl of pho. I wanted that again.

When I stepped inside this time, the restaurant was warm and smelled of sauteed crab. It was a heavenly change from the blustery cold. Manoella was already there (I was about 15 minutes late because I took the wrong bus and then had to walk a dozen blocks). I perused the menu and decided up on the bun rieu, which is rice noodles in a tomato based soup with seafood.

My mom used to make this for me and my sisters when we were younger. I remember waking up late on weekends and there would be a giant pot of the soup simmering on the stove, noodles in a colander on the counter, and lettuce and cilantro on the kitchen table. We'd help ourselves to noodles and soup. The soup would be orange with bits of ground pork, egg, shrimp, and crab meat (sometimes including the crab roe, my favorite part), and it was delicious.

My sister's godmother who lives in San Francisco also makes this. When I visit her and her husband, she'll usually ask for me to stay for breakfast and she'll have a bowl of bun rieu waiting for me or some other tasty Vietnamese dish. I think her bun rieu is actually better than my mom's; the flavors are more intense without being salty. The last time I was there and she had this for me, I asked her how to make it. She said it was easy: cook some chicken broth with tomatoes and add seafood or whatever else I want. It seemed too easy and I haven't made it yet.

I suppose I had high expectations of this bun rieu from Yummy Yummy. But knowing what goes into it and how it can be made, I couldn't see how it could go wrong. But this bun rieu was wrong. Wrong is maybe too harsh, but it wasn't good. The soup tasted salty but not of salt. Perhaps there was MSG (I can never tell) and it left me really thirsty. There were both canned tomatoes and fresh tomatoes, which I thought was a little weird. There were also half-moon slices of Vietnamese pork cake, which I had never seen in this before. There were only three fresh shrimp. And, the pork was made into meatballs, which had a strange, intense fish flavor. However, the noodle soup did help in getting me warm, I'll give it that much.

I left Yummy Yummy disappointed. I don't think I'll ever trek that far out into the Sunset to eat there again. I suppose it's time for me to start experiment with making bun rieu myself.

Heart attack in the wings

2008-10-23T23:14:00.000-07:00

It has been years since I've been in Hayward. Back in my college days, I worked as a teaching assistant for a writing program for middle school students. I drove from Berkeley to Hayward five days a week for several weeks to help these young ones become budding (or at least better) writers. I don't remember much about those days or the time spent in that East Bay city.

Years later, I returned to Hayward for a conference about college financial aid. I wasn't really looking forward to being bored out of mind sitting through the most non-exciting presentation of material I already knew. But, I was looking forward to going to Val's. To me, that would be Hayward's saving grace.

I had read about Val's maybe three years ago in "I Like Eating." And, when I was on a hunt for the best burger in the Bay with Lenna, I remembered Val's. But, before we actually got in the car to make the drive across the Bridge and along the 880 South, I discovered that they are closed Mondays. I was heartbroken. So, when I found out that my coworkers and I would be heading to Cal State East Bay for this conference, I needed to convince them that they wanted to have lunch at Val's too.

I made the first mention on the drive there. I wasn't driving, so I had to sell it. "This is the best burger in all of the East Bay!" I proclaimed. Then, I told David, my officemate and who also likes food more than usual folk, who was also at the conference. He read Yelp reviews during the financial aid presentation. And, we were able to convince others that they wanted to eat there too, though I was nervous at the unwieldy size of the group and how long it took everyone to get moving. We only had 1 hour and 15 minutes for lunch. This was no time to dilly-dally, and I felt a little like a bitch for walking speedily ahead of everyone.

We piled into two cars. I didn't think far enough ahead to get direction, but David had his Blackberry with GPS and logged in Val's address. I was in David's car with Patrick driving, and the other car followed us. We headed down the hill, and, even with GPS, we weren't sure which was to go. David called Val's to get directions. The lady on the phone laughed at him. "Ha, I can't help you. Good luck finding us. We have really good burgers." Huh? He called again and she recognized his voice. "Haha! I can't direct you. But, our burgers are awesome!" We tried following the GPS though it made no sense. We made a U-turn, drove back up the hill, and turned left into a dead-end street.

This was no good. Disappointed, we decided we wouldn't be able to find it in time and drove back to the campus to eat there. David said that, after reading all those reviews about how fabulous Val's milkshakes are, he wanted to find Val's after the conference. I made sure to tell him that I wanted a ride back to San Francisco with him.

We found our way to the campus' food court, which consisted of a sandwich counter and a Panda Express. I don't know why, perhaps I was so distraught by not being able to eat at Val's that I opted for Panda Express. I don't think I've ever eaten at a Panda Express. I had no idea how to order or what to order, and had to watch three of my co-workers place theirs order before I knew what to do when I stepped up to the counter. I chose the fried noodles with kung pao chicken and eggplant with tofu. They looked like the best options.

I was terribly wrong. Everything was greasy, especially the tofu and eggplant, which were sponges of oil. I could only taste grease and salt. Halfway through my Styrofoam box of food, I decided I couldn't eat that anymore. Even if I did seem like a food snob in front of my coworkers who were readily eating this food that they normally would eat, I didn't care. I couldn't put this into my body. I threw used napkins into my box and put all my leftover food in the trash. I would rather be hungry than continue eating that. I think the food also gave me a headache, which I suffered as I sat through a presentation on student loans.

After the conference, we all caught back up with one another in the parking lot. I made my way over to David and told Kirk that I would be riding with him. We asked if anyone else wanted to come to Val's. There was hesitation. "We just ate." "I'm still full." "How long will it take?" "How will we get there?" The part of me that hates being in a group because it can sometimes take forever to come to a decision just wanted to leave and to tell them that they didn't have to join us at Val's, that they were free to do whatever they wanted, that they could go home right then. Though I think some of them thought the idea was ridiculous, they said that they would come too. I started to feel a little guilty; what if Val's sucked? The eight of us climbed into three cars and tried to find Val's, again.

This time, David was lead driver and I, as shot-gun passenger, was the director. After a little bit of a non-direct route through the residential areas of Hayward, we made it to Val's. I was excited! Finally, I was there and it was a cute as could be! It looked like something straight out of The Wonder Years.

We squeezed into a booth and ordered. I ordered just the Baby Burger with cheddar and tomatoes, but made sure to ask if I could have some David's milkshake and onion rings and Nancy's fries. David's and Nancy's milkshakes came out first. I had some of both, and they were creamy and thick, though not so thick that I couldn't get it up my straw. Patrick's and Kirk's root beer floats came out next. They were impressive. A huge scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with whipped cream and a cherry was balanced on the rim of a glass contained root beer. After a few photos, they both tried to figure out how to get the ice cream into the glass without making a mess. Both made a little bit of a mess.

Then, came the food. My Baby Burger was still very sizable. It was a touch pink in the middle, as I wanted it to be, and dripped of juice. It was a good burger, a classic diner burger with no frills or fanciness, but it wasn't the best burger I've ever had. David's onion rings, though, were great. They were crisp, not greasy, and the onion didn't pull out when bitten, leaving just a ring of batter. Nancy's steak fries were also very good with a nice crunch on the outside but with flaky, almost soft and creamy, potato inside. And, the waitress and everyone else inside were so kind. The waitress even called us kids.

After our second meal in three hours, we got back into the cars to drive back to San Francisco. As we were getting off the freeway, David and I were trying to figure out what to do in the hour and a half until our work social. It wasn't enough time to really go home and relax first, so we decided to go to happy hour at O Izakaya Lounge and invited others to join us.

I really like O Izakaya. First, it's basically across the street from the office, which couldn't be more convenient. Second, they have an awesome happy hour, with $3 beer, house sake, and well drinks (happy hour also used to be on Fridays, but they shifted the days to Sundays through Thursdays, not quite as fun). Third, the food is good (and, food also has happy hour prices).

After a Hefeweizen and two little cups of sake, I made my way over to the staff game night with my coworkers. I think I must have been a little drunk because, after telling myself that I was full and didn't need anymore food in me and was already disgusted with myself at how much junk I ate for one day, I had three small slices of pizza that was provided for the social. I played Apples to Apples continually contemplating if I wanted a fourth slice but fought against it.

It was my most unhealthy eating day in a long time: greasy Chinese, a burger, fries, onion rings, milkshake, beer, and pizza. I did, however, have a diet Coke.

Koren food and coffee combo

2008-10-21T11:43:00.000-07:00

Last night was not a good eating night. Because I go to my economics class right after work, I usually have dinner at about 5:30. For my dining pleasure, I take my meals at the food court at the Westfield Center, in other words, the mall food court. Sure, this food court is a cut above the rest. There is no Hot Dog on a Stick. There is no Sbarro's Italian Eatery. There is no Panda Express. Though there are teenagers, they are outnumbered by the less obnoxious older tourists, students, and working people.

I like having my pre-class dinner because I have a variety of options (almost all of them not disgusting and not too unhealthy) and, because the dining section is so large, I can usually find a spot, tucked away from the rest of the crowd, where I can eat in peace and doing some reading.

I went to the Korean food place and ordered the barbeque chicken plate, which comes with rice, clear noodles, brocolli, and kim chi. I carried my tray over to a table for eight, which was away from the other diners, and empty. I pulled out my New Yorker and started in.

As I was eating and reading happily alone, a teenaged girl pulled up the chair two seats away and across the table from mine. She was eating ice cream with fresh peaches. Then, she called over to her friend who sat down across from me and they started chatting. What time do you get off work? Is that your dinner? You don't like peaches? What are your Halloween plans? Can you get me in for free? What time do you get off work? You've asked me that already. On and on, until they finally left about 15 minutes later.

I finished my meal, which was too much food for one meal but I was really hungry so I ate it all and then regretted it. Though it was tasty and filled my stomach, it wasn't amazing, but I wasn't expecting amazing from the mall. The grilled chicken was a little too tough and a little too cold. I didn't get as much brocolli as I wanted, though I did get three little cups of kim chi. It was a meal that did its most basic job.

I then went to get a small coffee from Peet's. Usually, I don't drink coffee in the evening; I have no need to. But, after the last economics class where I was struggling to stay awake and could see my hand drooping as I was making a failed attempt at taking notes, I had a need. I wanted to not be an embarassment and fall asleep in class. So, I drank my coffee.

When I got home from class, I knew something was wrong. I still felt full and could still taste the chicken and kim chi in my mouth even though I ate hours ago and followed it with coffee and gum. I think the combination of barbeque chicken, broccoli, kim chi, and coffee, along with the sheer amount of food I scarfed down, wasn't sitting well in my stomach, so I threw up. It was not pleasant. That'll be the last time I have that combination of food.

Fall soup

2008-10-19T22:01:00.000-07:00

It's feeling more and more like fall in San Francisco. This morning, I woke up late and the sky was gray. I made my way to the Civic Center farmers' market, where all the vendors were wearing knit caps and scarves. I felt underdressed (and shivered a little) in my t-shirt and blazer.

I have a usual plan of attack when I'm at the market. I walk along all the stalls, just looking at what's available and what is looking best, then, I go in for actually shopping. But, it's a little tough to shop on Sunday mornings. It means I need to plan out my meals for the week and figure out if I'll be able to use what I buy before it gets gross. For foods that don't last too long, I either have to cook and eat them on Sunday (my Monday night economics class prevents me from cooking early in the week) or not buy them at all. Because of this, it means I usually end up just buying fruit.

Today, though, I had a plan. I was going to spend this cold, gloomy Sunday at home, cleaning all the dust bunnies from my house and making soup. And, because of the fall produce, I was going to make a butternut squash and carrot one. I picked up a three pound squash and a bunch of carrots, all for $4. I also bought some Asian pears, brussel sprouts, bok choy, persimmons, and two mini pumpkins for my office. I lugged my bag of goodies home and got to work.

I chopped up an onion and half of one left over from Scott's cooking last week. I sauteed the onions and a little bit of garlic in olive oil until they were soft and translucent. Then, I tossed in four carrots that I peeled and chopped and the round half of the squash that was also peeled and chopped (though not as easily accomplished as the carrots). I poured in Scott's left over chicken broth and some from a new container, added two bay leaves and a large (probably too large) pinch of dried thyme, sprinkled in salt and pepper, put on the lid, and let the soup simmer.

When the vegetables were soft, I pulled out my immersion blender (the best present ever!) and whirred away. My soup was too think--it looked like baby food--so I added more stock and whirred away again. I added more salt and pepper and some water (I added too much salt), and was done.

I had a hearty, healthy bowl of soup when I finished cleaning. It had a rich creaminess to it, even though there was hardly any fat, and was just what I was hoping for for a cold fall day at home.

My Daily Eats revived--for real

2008-10-18T15:48:00.000-07:00

I'm reviving Susan's Daily Eats. I read some of my past entries not too long ago, and I became sad. Reading what I wrote, I remembered those meals and those places. I miss that. I miss having this as my journal.

This feeling became particularly apparent when I was walking through the Civic Center Farmer's Market two weeks ago. I had been going there fairly regularly Sunday mornings in the summer. I would pick up summer peaches, nectarines, and pluots. Two weeks ago, I noticed the fruits and vegetables change. There were still some pitted fruits, but there were also apples, butternut squash, persimmons. I could see the shift in season in the new produce. And, I had no outlet in expressing how wonderful it was to see this fall season show its way in food.

So, food blog is back! For real. I'm going to write regularly and post regularly. But, there will be some changes. No more will I be eating as indulgently as I once did. No more will there be posts about excessive beer and mac-n-cheese. No more will there be fried chicken offs and burger hunts.

Instead, there will be more vegetables and whole grains. In my quest to be more fit and less fat, I'm eating more healthily. I'm not dieting, per se. Rather, I'm being more mindful of the things I put into my body and what I need to do to work it out of my body. So, I am still eating burgers and pizza and drinking beer, but just not as much.

Also, because I think cooking healthily should be easy and fun, I'm going to try to include more of what I cook for myself. There won't necessarily be recipes, since I don't like typing out all that detailed information and think that you don't really need to stick to a recipe to make tasty food, but there will be general meal ideas and basic guidance on how to approach cooking it.

So, let's blog!

Grave-side picnic

2008-03-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

The Chinese celebrate something similar to the Day of the Dead, where people go to the burial grounds of their relatives to pay their respects and leave an offering. My mom thought it was great that I was in town this year so that I could go with my family to the grave site of my grandfather.

Jeanne and I woke up early. We were disappointed to see that the ground was wet with recent rain (it meant that we had another day of not driving around in the rental convertible with the top down), but our dad thought it was the perfect weather for a trip to the cemetery. Our mom sent our dad off to pick up the roast pig, some bread, Chinese buns, and dumplings as she worked in the kitchen frying up turnip cake.

We packed up the van with the food and drove off to the Rose Hills burial ground, where we were met by the rest of our extended family. Mom laid out the blanket and started to spread out all the food: the whole roast pig, the loaves of bread, sticky rice, turnip cake, the buns, the dumplings, fruit, and candy. Dad opened up a bottle of Tsingtao beer and placed it in front of the grave marker, which was surrounded by burning incense that we lighted and stuck into the ground. There was also a 12-bottle case of Heineken's that my uncle brought. My aunt also placed a loaf of bread and some candy on one of the neighboring graves, that of a former LAPD officer, and some rice and turnip cake for the grandmother of my friend Sophia.

Able to see our breath in the cold, we said our prayers to Grandpa and I wished him a good life wherever he was. Afterwards, it was time to eat. My mom pulled out her cleaver and the chopping board and, on the wet hill, hacked the roast pig into small rectangles. She filled bread with the meat and passed the sandwiches around so that we all stood eating roast pork sandwiches around my grandfather's grave. The bread was crunchy and its crumbs flecked my purple hoodie. The pork was succulent, sweet, and juicy, and the skin perfectly crisp. I stood on that hill eating my sandwich as I watched the clouds break over the buildings of downtown LA. My aunts, uncles, and cousins also took bites of the pork, praising its tastiness. Dad opened a bottle of Heineken to go along with his sandwich.

When we finished eating and were tired of the cold, we packed up all the food, said a final goodbye to Grandpa, and caravaned down the hill.

Pizzeria Mozza

2008-03-28T17:13:00.000-07:00

I don't buy into all the hype of celebrity chefs. Sure, I know their names and recognize some of their faces, but I'm not going to throw my panties at them. Likewise, I don't rush out the door to try their new restaurants. But, I wanted to eat at Pizzeria Mozza for months now and not simply because its co-owned by Iron Chef Mario Batali and La Brea Bakery's Nancy Silverton but because that combination was reputed to have created some damn tasty pizza. So, for this stay in LA, I made reservations to eat there.

Our lunch reservation was for 3:15pm, the earliest they could seat us. Jeanne and I drove passed the valet parking for $8.50 and found a free spot on the street. Pizzeria Mozza is situated on the corner of Highland and Melrose, next to a suspiciously dumpy-looking house and across from an EZ Lube, and it felt appropriately LA. We walked through the large windowless doors, was greeted by a friendly hostess, and took a seat at one of the several empty tables.

The space was small and unpretentious, which was a nice surprise as I had feared the worst for a hip, LA restaurant. Our table setting was simple: a paper place mat with instructions on how to speak Italian without words and how to make a pizza margherita on top of which was a plate with a paper packet filled with our utensils. There was a wall of wine on one side of the restaurant and a bar that encompassed the yellow-tiled wood-fired oven on the other.

As we perused the menu, trying to narrow our pizza options from more than a dozen to just three, I felt my mouth water and my eyes grow large. I wanted to eat it all. There were too many options: rapini, cherry tomatoes, anchovies, olive, and chile; gorgonzola, fingerling potatoes, radicchio, and rosemary; clams, garlic, oregano, parmigiano, and pecorino. But, we settled on the Bianca with fontina, mozzarella, sottocenere, and sage, the Coach farm goat cheese, leeks, and scallions (we opted to go sans bacon), and the egg, guanciale, radicchio, escarole, and bagna cauda.

The Bianca came out first and its thick ring of crust made its way to the edge of the plate. The middle was a beautiful white combination of cheeses speckled with the green of sparsely placed sage leaves. I ripped apart one of the four slices, wondered if I should attack it with a knife and fork, and decided upon folding the slice in half and biting its drooping tip. It was decadent, dripped of warm oil, and left my fingers and lips glistening with grease. But it was good, especially the crust, which was unlike any that I'd tasted before. It was chewy and charred at spots, deeply flavorful without elbowing to be the star of the show, thin enough yet substantial, and hinted at the tang of sourdough. This was one pizza crust that I did not want to leave on my plate. A little bit of reading before the visit told me that Nancy Silverton thought that the dough was at its best around 3pm, so perhaps that 3:15 reservation worked to my favor.

The egg, guanciale, and radicchio pizza arrived next at our table. Like the Bianca, it had a sizable ring of crust and the toppings looked like a mesh of shredded bits with a circle of bright yellow in the center. I poked my fork into the egg yolk and smeared it across the slices. This pizza was better than the first. I couldn't pick out all the different flavors of the ingredients (except for the slight bitterness of the radicchio) because they worked so harmoniously together. And, it had the most amazing aroma.

By the time the goat cheese, scallion, and leek pizza arrived, we had almost nowhere to put it on our crowded little table. It looked like a garden of greenery with dabs of white cheese and whole roasted garlic cloves. I only had room for about half a slice of it, which I was happy for. This one tasted of grass. It was too leek-heavy. Perhaps the bacon would have made it magnificent.

And, we couldn't pass up dessert. I read about the butterscotch budino with caramel and sea salt beforehand and was then reminded of it as, waiting for the bathroom, saw a newspaper clipping declaring the budino a triumph. The little dish of pudding came with two tiny pinenut and rosemary cookies and a dollop of whipped cream. I dug my spoon in and was wowed. The pudding was creamy and smooth. As I let the sweetness coat my mouth, I could taste the salt crystals cutting into the saccharinity and slowly dissolve. I savored every spoonful and the end of the budino came too soon.

For my first experience at a hip, LA restaurant with celebrity chef names attached, it was quite pleasant. I walked out of Pizzeria Mozza deeply satisfied yet longing to try everything on the menu. Perhaps there was something to these celebrity chefs.

Portable meat pies

2008-03-15T21:56:00.000-07:00

I look forward to Wednesdays. That’s when The New York Times publishes its food section. I eat my lunch (usually leftovers or, recently, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches) as I read about new restaurants and recipes. This past week’s had a piece about meat pies, with accompanying recipes, and I was excited.

I don’t remember when I developed my fondness for meat pies. I think it might have been when I was in London and had my first meat pasty at high tea. Since that revelatory taste of meat and pastry, I’ve been hooked. I am especially fond of the portable meat pies, little treats you can eat as you go without cumbersome knife or fork and, if you wanted, could slip into your pocket. And, if the idea of meat wrapped in dough and cooked to be handy wasn’t awesome enough, it comes in cultural variations—think of the empanada, samosa, calzone, and, the venerable, Hot Pocket.

Even though I’ve eaten plenty of meat pies, I’ve never made one and took the recipe from The Times as my starting point. I was so excited at the idea of making meat pies that I doubled the recipe. I don’t know what I was thinking when I thought it would be a good idea to make so many individual pies, but I did.

I started by making the dough and substituted whole wheat flour for some of the white, thinking that I’d make it a little healthier. My efforts were thwarted when it came to the butter. The recipe called for 14 tablespoons, so, doubled, that made 28 tablespoons. I didn’t think that I was possible; that’s a lot of butter. I double and triple checked the recipe and my math, but they were right. In addition to butter, the recipe also called for six tablespoons (or 12 doubled) of shortening. This was not going to be a skimpy, low-calorie pie. I combined the flour, fats, salt, and ice water to make the dough. Once those little rounds were ready and resting in the refrigerator, I started working on the filling.

I sautéed two onions and three cloves of garlic. To that, I added diced Granny Smith apples, a cinnamon stick (I couldn’t find my ground cinnamon), salt and pepper, and raisins that had been soaking in chicken broth (the recipe called for dried currants and white wine, but I didn’t have any of either). Once the liquid evaporated, I turned off the heat and let the mixture cool a bit. Then, I added the ground pork, chopped sage, and toasted pine nuts.

I rolled out my disks of dough into equal portions, using the shape of a bowl to ensure that I had perfect circles, filled the dough with the pork mixture, sealed it shut, and marked the edges with the tines of a fork. Then, my little pies went into the oven for 40 minutes.

When the timer buzzed, I retrieved my pies from the oven and cut into one to check to see that the pork was cook. It was, and I took a bite of the steaming pie (burning both my finger tips and tongue in the process). The meat pie turned out better than I hoped. The crust was incredibly flakey and really buttery (though I think it didn’t really need all 28 tablespoons of butter), and the filling was a nice touch of sweet and salty. I ate two pies, wrapped up the other six that were cooked (hoping that Eleanor and Colin may want a pie as a snack for tomorrow’s movie), and put the uncooked five in the freezer. I’ll be eating meat pies for a while.

Fried chicken off

2008-03-01T23:37:00.000-08:00

I didn't think I was capable of turning down fried chicken. I didn't think I had the will power to do so. But, last night, at Carlo's, I reached my fried chicken limit.

When Eleanor told me that Carlo and his friend Tony were having a fried chicken off, my eyes lit up. The two of them were planning on experimenting with different methods to try to achieve the best fried chicken. It was like their very own America's Test Kitchen. All Monday I waited anxiously to hear from Eleanor to see if it was really going to happen if I would get invited. So, when her text arrived asking if I waited to join her, my response was an astounding yes.

When Eleanor and I arrived at Carlo's, he and Tony had been cooking and eating chicken for an hour and a half already and had ruled out a number of fried chicken variations. There were pots of grease on the stove and a small deep fryer off to the side. On the counter were various dry coatings. And, there were pale chicken drumsticks waiting in the wings. Eleanor and I stood off to the side, watching this two-man fried chicken show. And, when Tony's wife, Karen, arrived, the three of us stood off to the side.

The chicken drumsticks had been brined overnight in a mixture of buttermilk, garlic, and ginger. Carlo and Tony tested different coatings: white flour, wheat flour, cornmeal, panko bread crumbs, soybean flour. They tested different liquids: buttermilk alone, buttermilk with vodka, buttermilk with whiskey, buttermilk with soda water. They tested different greases: vegetable oil and Crisco. They tested different cooking methods: deep fry versus shallow fry. They tested different batter methods: one dip, two dip, dip and then immediate fry, dip and then postponed fry. They tested variations of all of those factors.

Each time a new method was tried, the chicken drumstick would get passed around. Each of us would take a bite and contemplate the chicken. How was the batter? Was there too much batter? Was it crunchy enough? Was it too greasy? Did the batter stick to the chicken? This went on all night, until all 30 drumsticks were cooked and all different variations were tested.

Despite how delicious all the chicken pieces were, I could see us slow down. The piece of chicken would linger a little longer on each plate with each passing drumstick. The bites would get progressively smaller. Until, finally, I had to say no. I had enough fried chicken.

Tea party

2008-02-03T23:53:00.000-08:00

I don’t get invited tea parties every day. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been invited to a tea party, although I have had my share of fancy-pants high tea, complete with triangle sandwiches, scones, and clotted cream. So, when Eleanor invited me to her house for a tea party, I was expecting an afternoon of sipping cups of tea with good friends and not much more, but Eleanor had something else in mind.

When I arrived at her apartment, Eleanor had on the most adorable outfit: a cartoon character apron and slippers made by Colin’s mom. She was also busy making crumpets. I was giddy. I had no idea what crumpets were (although I associated them with nursery rhymes) and was excited for my first crumpet experience. I asked Eleanor if I could watch and sat myself on the stool, just enough out of the way. Eleanor questioned the batter. It hadn’t risen to twice its original volume and had only two perceptible bubbles. We suspected that it probably wouldn’t rise much more, and Colin, when he arrived, agreed. Eleanor then set about frying up the crumpet batter in a buttered cast iron skillet.

Colin prepped the tea, readied the table, and had me choose my tea cup. When Shari arrived, we sat down to tea. Eleanor had also made a lemon tart with a pine nut crust, which she sliced and served, and laid out Digestives (something I hadn’t seen or eaten in years). We dug in. The lemon tart was superb, not too sweet with a good amount of tang and a crust that was buttery but not cloyingly so. The crumpets, with the consistency somewhere between a pancake and an English muffin, were, as Colin described, like “afternoon pancakes.” And, the Digestives, were just as good as I remembered them. It truly was a tea party.

Mushroom risotto

2008-01-29T22:35:00.000-08:00

I forgot how much I enjoy cooking for my friends. The last year has been an interesting one. I spent countless hours studying, taking practice graduate school exams, writing essays, trying to plan for my future. And, because of it all, I started to forget the things I enjoyed: cooking, writing, having friends over to the house. But, I'm turning around, getting back into the habit of cooking for the people I like.

I had Shari over for dinner tonight. I hadn't seen her in weeks and thought she was dead or lying ill in a hospital somewhere, when she called to tell me that she actually was alive and had been in Tahoe with no phone for several days. Happy to know that she was safe, I invited her to a vegetarian meal cooked by me.

After going through my cookbooks trying to figure out what to make (something hearty, healthy, and vegetarian that would be substantial enough for me to give up meat for a night), I settled on a mushroom risotto. I spent my morning off (I was scheduled for jury duty in the afternoon) shopping at Rainbow and enjoying all the parking spots and empty aisles. I wished I could shop all the time on weekday mornings.

Back at home, I soaked my dried porcini mushrooms in warm water. I sliced my crimini and oyster mushrooms. I chopped up my garlic, onions, and thyme. I heated up my mushroom broth along with the mushroom soaking water. With all the prep work done, I was ready to cook. I heated up some olive oil and butter in a pot and sautéed the onions, and then added the garlic and mushrooms. After about ten minutes of cooking, I added the Arborio rice and cooked that for a few minutes. Then, went in the white wine and the mushroom broth, ladle by ladle. I stirred constantly and was patient, only adding more liquid when the rice started to look dry. The rice took twice as long as I thought to get tender. Shari already arrived and Scott got home from work too. They helped me stir. Finally, when the rice was tender, I added the chopped thyme, some more butter, grated parmigiano reggiano, salt, and pepper.

I scooped up the risotto, which looked unappealing as brown goop, into bowls and we sat down to a warm meal. The risotto was creamy and tasted rich, despite the small amount of fat involved. And, we had a green salad with goat cheese and balsamic vinaigrette. Shari complimented the meal and was sent home with a tupperware of leftovers, while I secretly longed for meat.

Bar Jules

2008-01-18T23:18:00.000-08:00

I was scheduled to find out about my graduate school prospects on January 18, and Colin, Eleanor, and I made plans for dinner that night. It would either be a celebration one or an "Eh, who needs 'em?" one. It turned out be an "Eh, who needs 'em?" night, which started with glasses of vodka-cranberry juice and Ghostbusters on VH1. By the time the movie was over and I was slightly drunk, we made our way down the hill to eat at Bar Jules, the new restaurant that took over the Don't Call it Frisco laundry mat.

It was a small space with an even smaller menu. As we waited outside with Scott with our bottle of wine bought from the liquor store on Hayes and Buchanan (Bar Jules doesn't have it's liquor license yet), we decided we wanted one of everything on the menu. The friendly hostess with a foreign accent kept us abreast of our table's readiness for us. When we were seated inside and asked if we needed more time, Colin stepped up, "We want everything, please." Easy enough. But, they ran out of squid, so we could only get almost everything.

They started us off with some fried peanuts, which was a nice touch but which I felt would have been more apt in a bar. The two salads--one carrot and one arugula--came out next. The carrot salad was was flavored with cummin and had a creamy dressing on it. The flavor was interesting but the viscous, white sauce had a texture that wasn't too appealing to me. The arugula salad was light and refreshing with some sweet beets and cheese, but it seemed like any other arugula salad (arugula seems to be the salad green of the season). The barely soup was hearty and rich without being overpowering, and they gave us two bowls though we only ordered one (yay for generosity!).

As for entrees, we had the strip steak with blue cheese and the fish (I can't remember what fish it was but it was a white flesh one) with citrus. The steak was well cooked, tender and all melt-in-your-mouth delicious, but the cheese was too strong. I rubbed the cheese off my piece of meat and could still only taste cheese, and Eleanor opted for a piece that touched no cheese (a smart move on her part). I remember that the fish was good but nothing more.

For dessert, we had the quatro leches cake and a slice of the chocolate one. The adorable waitress informed us of that the quatro leches cake soaks in cream, milk, condensed milk, and evaoprated milk for two days. The density of the cake was proof of that. Despite the cake's heft, it was light and buttery. The chocolate one was good and not too sweet.

I like the idea of Bar Jules. I like the small space, the small, constantly changing menu. I like the friendly servers. I like that the banquette is at a decent height for the table and doesn't make one feel shorter/taller than those seated in a chair. I like that it's two blocks away from my house. It has the possibility for greatness, but the food isn't quite great yet. Good, yes. But, not great.

A New Year

2008-01-02T22:57:00.000-08:00

I had my second meal of the new year alone, at a McDonald's. I was driving up the I-5 back home to San Francisco after more than a week spent in LA with my family, when I was struck by pangs of hunger and the need for a bathroom break. After miles and miles with no rest stop in sight and contemplating just pulling off to the side, I spotted activity in the distance. I took the exit and saw my two food options: McDonald's and Foster's Freeze. I started to hate myself for not taking my mom up on packing me a lunch before I left.

Not wanting to make a meal of soft-serve ice cream and a hot dog, I opted for the McDonald's. The parking lot was packed. The restaurant was packed. I was a little frightened but stepped up to the counter and ordered a chicken nugget meal with fries and a Coke, my go-to meal on those rare occassions when I find myself in the middle of nowhere and my only option for quenching my hunger is a McDonald's. My number was called a second after I placed the order. I took my bag of food and my cup of soda to the only open seat, a single-spot in the corner.

I pulled out my New Yorker, squirted ketchup from their packets, and began dunking fried food into the various assortment of sauces and putting them into my mouth, when I noticed how wonderful McDonald's can be. Sitting there alone and slightly spiteful about the fact that I was eating processed food from McDonald's, I saw how, all around me, were families, generations of people eating together. There was a Chinese family with a mom, dad, two kids, a grandfather, and a grandmother eating hamburgers and fries. Next to them was an Indian family--mom, dad, kids, and a grandfather--eating, possibly, not hamburgers. And, yes, there were those obnoxious families with kids running around sticking french fries in their parents' faces, but they, somehow, didn't seem so annoying.

Summer rundown

2007-09-04T10:41:00.001-07:00

Wow. Even I am amazed that I've gone so long without posting something new. And, it's not like I haven't been eating. I've been eating plenty and had some great meals, some not so great ones, and some pretty random ones.

Here's an uber-brief rundown of the last two months. (Hopefully, I'll be able to catch up with more details sometime soon...but don't hold your breath.)

I met Mayor Gavin at the Cafe's two-for-one drinks in the Castro. Three days were spent at Lake Tahoe, where I cooked all the meals for our work retreat. My college dining hall tour continued at UC Berkeley's green facility, UC Santa Cruz's hall featuring organic and local foods, and San Francisco State University's food court, where there was no mention of green, sustainable, nor organic. Spork, which took over the KFC on Valencia and Hill, was kitschy and fun with some seriously good food, including Mussels and Pork with a Spork and an heirloom tomato salad with a huge slab of bacon. I would be willing to give up my first child for ice cream from Bi-Rite Creamery. It's nice to know that I have friends at Piccino. A road trip to Canada, including many meals eaten in a car, took me through the gorgeous, green landscape of the northwest. Portland's rock-n-roll Voodoo Doughnuts serves up one mean Mango Tango and future visits will include the Bacon Maple Log. I want to be Canadian. Being introduced to fried Snickers from Wunder Brewery means that I will now make excuses to go to the Sunset. I'm on a mission to find the best burger in the San Francisco and try all the prepared meals from the Nijiya Market. I've had my first hot dog from a cart on Mission Street and it was heavenly.

Curry Off 2007

2007-06-24T23:54:00.000-07:00

When Prasad and I had drunkenly challenged each other to a curry cook-off almost a year ago, I doubt either of us imagined that our friends would be urging us to make this a yearly event. Our last Curry Off ended in a tie, and so a rematch was in order. And, to make it interesting, we would cook lamb.

I had never cooked lamb before; neither had Prasad. And, because I didn’t have an Indian mother who telephoned in with her recipes, I spent several weeks before the scheduled date--which, admittedly, I kept pushing further and further away--trying out different recipes trying to find a winner. One practice run tasted like some weird British-style lamb stew, another wasn’t spicy enough and lacked that richness you feel in your mouth and on your tongue from the introduction of fat, and a third had an unappealing grainy texture. There was only one practice run curry that seemed like a possibility. It was time to cook.

Because we scheduled Curry Off 2007 as a Sunday night supper, I planned on prepping and cooking Saturday night. Jeanne was in town and since she was so hungover that she couldn’t rouse herself to go out again Saturday night, she helped with the preparation. I started by creating a curry paste. Onions, garlic, ginger, paprika, cloves, black peppercorns, red chilies, cumin seeds, poppy seeds, fennel seeds, ground cinnamon, and dried coconut went into the blender with a little bit of water. The mixture was pulsed, chopped, and blended until it became a smooth paste.

I sautéed some chopped onions in oil until they were nearly brown, which took much longer than I had assumed. Next, went in the curry paste along with some bay leaves and an armload of constant stirring. Then, the cubes of lamb were added, seasoned with salt and pepper, and browned. The chopped tomatoes were thrown in. And, finally, I poured in some water and let it simmer away. I put the lids on the pots (I had to use two because of the large quantity), turned off the heat, attached notes reading “Do Not Uncover” to prevent Scott from peeking underneath (although he ignored the notes and was stopped by Jeanne), and went to bed. When Sunday rolled around, I heated my curries back up, let it simmer away to evaporate some of the extra water, added some coconut milk and a touch of cream, and adjusted its seasoning. It was ready.

We headed over to Prasad’s house a little early with curry, rice cooker, and my favorite wooden spoon in tow, and set up shop on Prasad’s stove. Prasad was shit-talking, calling my curry a fancy-looking bean dip and even taking jabs at the rice cooker my mom bought me when I moved into my first apartment. Although he was barely just turning on the fire on his curry, I was nervous. He had a whole crew of folks, all on his side, in his house, and I only had my wooden spoon. Was my curry really just a fancy-looking bean dip?

When our friends arrived, we started serving. Ryan, thinking ahead, had numbered opposites sides of paper plates with 1 and 2. Rice went down the middle of the plate, flanked on both sides by the two different curries. Ballots with a numerical rating system that judged curries on taste, texture, and spiciness were made; however, the curries on the ballots were labeled “Susan” and “Prasad”--so much for a blind competition. Eating, and judging, began.

Our friends mmm’ed as they sweated in the living room. With about 20 people in that room all eating spicy curry, it felt like a sauna but our friends trucked through, even going back for seconds and thirds.

And, it was a tough decision. Prasad’s curry was good; it was spicy but not too spicy (last year’s chicken curry nearly knocked me to the floor with its intensity), the lamb chunks were still lamb chunks (my lamb had nearly disintegrated with all that slow simmering), and it tasted like Indian curry. Eleanor, Colin, and Carlo were huddled together in a corner discussing the merits of each curry, and I wanted to listen in, but they stopped talking when I approached. The Australian neighbor and the barbeque chef with an accent both said they enjoyed the texture of the meat of my curry. What did this all mean? I was still nervous.

When all the ballots were placed and counted up, Prasad’s friend came into the kitchen, where he and I were sitting, and announced the winner. After a little speech and some explanations that no one understood, it was deduced that Curry #2 was the winner by a one-point differential. People asked whose was #2, and I responded that my last name spoke for itself.

Even with all of Prasad’s trash talk earlier in the evening, I couldn’t gloat in my victory. It’s not my style. And, as Ryan had mentioned, the voting system was flawed. But, even more importantly, there was talk of a Curry Off 2008 with seafood. Prasad even came up with a campaign slogan, “Can’t wait for ’08!” We’ll see.

Fair-weather barbeque

2007-05-06T21:25:00.000-07:00

I remember warm days in LA. The thick layer of brownish-gray air pollution, which made the sunsets so gorgeous, blocked the mountains from our valley view. Walking home from school, I would notice how the heat radiating off the pavement created mini mirages at the end of the street. At night, my family and I would set up a dining area in our driveway to have dinner in the cooler outdoor air and we would sleep on mats in the living room where, with all the windows and doors open, it was less suffocating than our bedrooms. We would escape to the malls, movie theaters, and even the supermarkets to find solace in air-conditioned spaces. It was a part of everyday life throughout a good portion of the year, and there was no hoorah about the arrival of warmth.

Only when I moved up here did I notice how the warm weather brought out some strange behavior in people. Strangers would lie out in the park together in bikinis, short shorts, and no tops to bask, sweating, in the sun. Frisbees would fly everywhere there was enough open space to throw one around without hitting anyone or anything. And, of course, where there would be open space for Frisbees and sunbathers, there would undoubtedly be a barbeque nearby. So, when the mercury peaked at over 90 degrees this weekend in San Francisco, I was not totally surprised to be invited to a backyard barbeque.

I showed up to Bill’s buddy Nate’s place after waking up from a warm Sunday afternoon nap. I was a little confused when I arrived. Standing outside the numbered door that Bill had directed me to, I saw an apartment with several cats wandering about inside. I wondered, “Could Bill’s buddy Nate be a weird cat guy?” But, peering into the inside of the neighboring door, I saw a middle school aged girl sitting on the couch. I wondered, “Why would a young girl be at the barbeque of a group of twenty-somethings?” I called Bill and he came to open the door with me. (It turned out that Nate wasn’t a weird cat guy and that the young girl was the daughter of one of the guests.)

Downstairs in the backyard, a grill was on its final legs. I had shown up much later than the other guests but helped myself to the carne asada that was freshly off the grill and an ear of corn that was wrapped in foil. Bill handed me an apricot-flavored beer, and I was set. I dug into the piece of meat with my knife and fork, and it was tender, very well cooked, and quite tasty, with the seasonings not overpowering the flavor of the beef. I tore off the foil wrapping of my corn and bit into the yellow kernels. I can’t recall ever having barbequed corn that was more deliciously spiced than that ear. The spice rub on that corn was fantastic, strong and smoky while playing well with the natural sweetness of the corn itself.

We headed upstairs afterwards for mocha almond fudge ice cream from Mitchell’s, video games in the living room for the boys, and card games in the kitchen for the girls and one of Bill’s guy friends. The two adolescent girls wanted to play BS and, after a quick refresher, I said I’d be game too. I won. I beat one of the girls at a game of Speed too. No one wanted play cards with me after that, so I knew it was time to go home. It was a pleasant warm-weather afternoon.

Russian Cinco De Mayo

2007-05-06T02:03:00.000-07:00

I had been limiting the amount of time I spend with hipsters and in places that even hint at hipsterdom. All that irony and cheap beer can be too much to handle. But, Ryan called and said that he was going to a house party hosted by the best-looking guy he knows, which coming from Ryan (who himself is a good-looking boy and therefore has good-looking friends) is quite astounding. I had to check it out.

I met Ryan and his friends at Kilowatt, where they then told me a joke that I didn't get. ("How many hipsters does it take to change a lightbulb? Oh, it's some number that you've never heard of.") After a drink, we headed around the corner to the party. Ryan introduced me to the host who, although was an attractive fellow, I didn't think warranted best-looking guy status.

However, his cooking abilities made up for the lack of drop-dead gorgeousness. Just as soon as we helped ourselves to some drinks (yet more vodka tonic for me), Mosha came by with some crispy bread stuffed with something brown and smothered with cream cheese. It was crispy, creamy, and salty--the perfect combination with drinks. Apparently, the theme of this Cinco De Mayo party was Russian delicacies (because, of course, at a hipster party you can't celebrate a holiday in its traditional ways), and what I was eating was a piroshki. I had no idea what a piroshki was or what it was doing at this Cinco De Mayo party, but I knew it tasted good and I wanted more.

After making batches of piroshkis and telling all the guests to eat more of them, our kind host started melting some butter in a pan for what he called pirogis. He had strained the boiled dumplings and was about to fry them up, but, sadly, I never saw nor tasted the end results. I don't know where I was--maybe getting some PBR from the keg or having a puff of someone else's cigarette on the balcony or dancing to Prince.

As we were getting ready to leave, we made a final round to the kitchen and picked up some more piroshkis for the road. They were just as good at the end of the party as at the beginning, although I still coudn't figure out what they were doing at a Cinco De Mayo party.

Cookie disappointment

2007-04-27T22:20:00.000-07:00

After spending my Sunday afternoon reading the newspaper and editing, I had grown restless and was overcome with a strange urge to bake cookies. I had no reason to bake cookies. And, more importantly, there would be no way I could eat two dozen cookies. But, I baked away anyhow, needing to do something other than look at my computer screen.

I measured and mixed away, making chocolate and butterscotch chip cookies because that was what I had in the pantry. And, when it was all done, the cookies weren't as good as the ones from a few weeks before, when I baked for Manoella. They were too sweet and not as soft and chewy this time. Very disappointing.

So, I packed some in a Tupperware container, rang Ralph's doorbell, and asked if he wanted some. Scott had one too. Just 14 more cookies to go.

Curry test run #2

2007-04-19T23:48:00.000-07:00

I’m getting closer at finding a lamb curry winner. Tonight was the second trial run in my quest to win the Lamb Curry Off and, quite possibly, the start of Curry Thursdays. And, this curry, unlike the last one I made, tasted like Indian curry.

Once again, it was a pretty straightforward recipe, as I’m starting to believe that most curry recipes are. It started by cleaning out my coffee grinder so that I could use it as a spice grinder. In it, I ground up some dried red chilies, black peppercorns, cumin seeds, fennel seeds, poppy seeds, paprika, cinnamon, coriander, and cloves. The ground spices then got moved to the blender where I also added garlic cloves, fresh ginger, dry coconut, and some water, and turned that into a smooth paste. I browned two onions, diced up, in some oil. Then, I scooped in the spice paste and cooked that for about 15 minutes. After, went in the cubes of lamb for about five minute and chopped tomatoes for another five. Finally, I poured in some water and let it all simmer for about an hour. And, when it had finally thickened up (it had looked very soupy and I added some more dry coconut to it at the end, which ended up added an unappealing little bit of textural bite to the curry), I poured in a little bit of coconut milk.

Eleanor had come over to help with the tasting and eating of the pot full of curry, and Scott had invited one of his work friends. They all mmm’ed and scooped up spoonfuls of rice and curry. Eleanor said it tasted like Indian food. And, it was spicy enough to make me sweat but not cry.

I smell a possible winner.

Vietnamese homecoming lunch

2007-04-07T17:40:00.000-07:00

It used to be that every time I would go home to LA, I would make a ritual homecoming jaunt to the local In-N-Out. I would go from the airport to the In-N-Out and then home to my parent’s house; I was that slightly obsessive. But, that was back in the day when In-N-Outs were a rare breed anywhere outside of Southern California and back when I didn’t work just a few blocks away from one. Now, In-N-Out has been replaced by Vietnamese food of all sorts--banh mi sandwiches stuffed with questionable pork products, big bowls of pho, vermicelli noodles with mung bean sprouts and a salty, lemony sauce, spring rolls filled with shrimp, lettuce, and mint. I love it all. So, during this visit to my parent’s place, I hand not just one, but two Vietnamese lunches.

Friday Lunch
The first stop Jeanne and I made when we got back to the city where we grew up was not at our parent’s house to say hello to them or to drop off our stuff, but to the Vietnamese restaurant next to the In-N-Out on Mission Drive and Rosemead Blvd. across from the high school where we spent four years of our lives. It was already past one in the afternoon, and she and I were starving (those faux cupcakes baked in a Madeline mold eaten during the drive did nothing to satiate my stomach).

We were promptly seated and started to flip through the pages of the laminated color menu with pictures. I knew what I wanted by sight alone—there was no need for words when a color photo of the food I was about to order could do the job. I ordered the vermicelli noodles with pork, fried shrimp rolls, and shrimp paste, and a preserved plum drink. Jeanne ordered the bum boa hua, a spicy noodle soup with beef, pig’s feet, and pork blood, and the lemon juice with soda water. We also ordered the fried shrimp rolls along with the shrimp spring rolls.

We were set. We just had to wait for it to come. And, just as quickly as the waiter swooped away with our order, he came back with a plate of fried shrimp rolls and another plate mounded with lettuce leaves, mint leaves, and cilantro. I was in awe. We dug in—wrapped our lettuce leaf with the fried shrimp roll, mint, and cilantro, and dunked it into the gelatinous orange-colored sauce. It was crispy, salty, spicy (from the chili sauce we mixed into the orange-colored one), and refreshing. It was perfectly what I had craved for months.

Next, came our big bowls of noodles. Jeanne’s was pouring with steam from the dark soup. And, mine was cool and composed, with each corner of the bowl sectioned off for pork, shrimp patty, shrimp rolls, or greenery. I put some chili into my lemony sauce, spooned it onto my noodles, mixed it up, and put chopsticks to mouth. The pork meatballs were garlicy and good. The shrimp paste was tender and salty. And the fried shrimp rolls were crisp. None of the meat products actually tasted like the meat they were made from (the other flavors and textures were so pronounced as to sort of mask the natural flavors of the meat) but that was okay; I had no problem that my pork meatball tasted more like garlic than pork or that it was shaped more like a flat log than a ball. The whole bowl of noodles was a well-working combination of salty, spicy, and sour, crispy and chewy, and pungent and refreshing. I ate it all up.

Jeanne’s noodles were good too. It’s what she always ordered from this restaurant. And, her bowl of noodle soup had the same blend and balance of flavors as mine. The saltiness of the broth worked with the slight spicy flavors which sought a balance with the squeeze of lime added at the end. Each taste sensation could be distinguished from the others without being overbearing.

Our spring rolls were wonderful, as always. The spring rolls here are different from any that I’ve had elsewhere, and mainly for the fact that these are also stuffed with the fried shrimp rolls. So, there’s an extra bit of crunch. They also come with the gelatinous orange-colored sauce, which I have yet to figure out of what it is made. And, they’re skillfully wrapped, so that the thin rice-paper wrapper is tight enough to keep all the noodles, sprouts, and lettuce in one neat package while being eaten.

I washed all that food down my preserved plum drink, which is a slightly bizarre combination of preserved plum, soda water, and sugar. It’s salty, a little sour, and only hints at sweetness, but it’s refreshing and works as a palate cleanser. Delicious.

Saturday Lunch
Jeanne and I had plans for lunch again. We would go to the little Asian restaurant and order chicken with rice and crispy fried noodles topped with stir-fried vegetables and seafood (something I had forgotten that I used to adore eating). We had driven over to the place, parked the car, and were walking toward the restaurant when Jeanne’s phone vibrated. It was our dad. He said that our cousin was at our house, that he wanted to take us out to lunch, and that we should come home. Jeanne and I were only steps away from the restaurant, but we turned around, got back in the car, and drove back home.

Once at home, the four of us (Jeanne, Dad, our cousin, and I) got into our dad’s van and headed off for another Asian restaurant for lunch. Our cousin was sick so he didn’t want to eat fried noodles, as Jeanne and I were hoping he would, but wanted something soothing, so we went to get Vietnamese noodles, again. We went to Pho Pastuer, a Vietnamese restaurant that took over the space where the Round Table Pizza (the place where I spent many afternoons after school as a middle school student) once stood.

None of us had to look at the menu. We all knew what we wanted, the special combination pho noodles, or, what may be more commonly known as Number One. We also asked for an order of the pork spring rolls and one of the shrimp ones. Our noodles came out quickly since, as our dad mentioned, everything was already made and the workers merely had to pour soup of noodles.

The bowl of noodles was huge, with pieces of pink meat floating on top. I poked at them with my chopsticks and pushed them into the hot soup to cook. I tore up pieces of mint and put that into my bowl along with mung bean sprouts, a squeeze of lime, and a squirt of chili sauce. I stuck my face into that bowl, slurping up noodles and drinking up soup. The noodles were thin and chewy but soft, and the soup was strongly flavored of beef without being too salty or too heavy. And, there was a lot of meat in my bowl, so much that I didn’t think I could eat it all (but I did).

The spring rolls were good too, although of a different variety than the ones before. These were more quotidian, the kind you’d find at almost any Vietnamese place. The shrimp one came with the standard peanut sauce, and the pork one with the salty, lemony sauce.

As we sat there finishing up the last bits of our food, I remembered one of the last times I had lunch in LA only just a few months earlier. I was with my cousin, my dad, Jeanne, and Karen. They had argued over which Vietnamese restaurant was better as I said I didn’t care where we went since I knew nothing of the restaurants in LA, and we drove to a few of them before we finally settled on a place to eat. Our dad taught us how to count in Vietnamese and how to order by number in Vietnamese. And, this time, watching my dad order his food in Vietnamese as I was left confused in his conversation with the waitress, I was glad we were having lunch at this place that was once a Round Table Pizza. My dad would never have lunch with us at In-N-Out but he would gladly oblige to have lunch here (he even changed his shirt before we left the house).

Pinkberry

2007-04-06T23:17:00.000-07:00

After our sushi meal, we walked over to Pinkberry, a new frozen yogurt chain that’s popping up all over Southern California. When Jeanne first told me about it, it didn’t sound too impressive. There are frozen yogurt places everywhere, so why would this one be worth a visit? And, frozen yogurt was so early nineties. I had my doubts. But, Jeanne assured me that it wasn’t that kind of frozen yogurt, nothing reminiscent of college dining hall soft-serve. That this was actually frozen yogurt, which tasted tangy like the yogurt that comes out of a carton. Upon hearing this, I was intrigued, especially after hearing about the delicate yogurt sorbet of a similar sort that the Greek restaurant Kokkari in San Francisco makes.

We made it over to Pinkberry, and there was a line out the door. It sure was popular. We played with the gadgets along the wall as we made it up towards to the counter. Jeanne ordered one medium-sized cup of yogurt with kiwi, mango, and strawberry toppings. The white yogurt was extracted from the frozen yogurt machine, which looked very much like those I saw back in my dorm-dining days, and the worker spooned on our fruit.

We took our seats at one of the tables with trendy but uncomfortable-looking chairs. The yogurt looked like any other sort of frozen yogurt / soft-serve food. It looked like what comes out of the Dairy Queen machines, what comes out of the machines at McDonald’s, and the stuff that comes out of those ubiquitous machines in college dining hall cafeterias. But, looks can be deceiving, and when I took a spoonful off the tip of the yogurt it tasted like nothing that comes out of those machines. This creamy white yogurt tasted like yogurt, tangy and slightly sweet, but colder. It was refreshing and fruit trio that Jeanne had chosen added a nice touch of juicy tartness. The yogurt and fruit was delicious and smooth and sweet and altogether perfect. And, Jeanne also mentioned that it’s fat free and good for you. I was in yogurt heaven.

Hide sushi

2007-04-06T23:15:00.000-07:00

Jeanne took me to Hide, a sushi restaurant on Sawtelle in mini-Japantown only a few blocks away from her apartment. We were finally getting hungry, two hours after we had originally intended on eating dinner, and drove the six blocks to the restaurant. The sweet Japanese hostess sat us immediately, after we had already missed our name being called. She put us next to the door and next to a couple who were very obviously on their first date.

Jeanne and I perused the menu, and place our order with another very sweet Japanese woman. We wanted the tempura vegetables, the albacore and yellowtail sashimi, the unagi, the salmon, the fish roe roll, the tuna roll, the spicy salmon skin, one bowl of miso soup, and two bottles of Asahi.

All the food that came out was delicious. The yellowtail and, in particular, the albacore sashimi were splendid, fresh and buttery and soft. The tempura batter for the vegetables was crisp and light, and was overall very good (although I refrained from the green bell pepper tempura due to my dislike of bell peppers, green ones in particular). The fish roe roll was a little weird, mainly because of the texture of the very tiny fish eggs, though not bad. The salmon skin was interesting as it had quite a bit of crunch and a nice fried flavor. And, the unagi, was fantastic—tender, salty, a taste of toastiness, richly textured on the tongue; I could’ve eaten nothing but unagi and had been satisfied.

Throughout the meal, Jeanne and I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation of the couple next to us, which felt so awkward. We wondered and questioned in Cantonese whether all first dates are all that lame, and I was slightly enraged when the couple questioned why anyone would chose to live in San Francisco since they didn’t see any appealing qualities of the city. Jeanne and I left before the couple did, so we don’t know how their date ended. But, they both seemed equally boring, so perhaps a good match.

College eating tour--revisited

2007-04-06T22:29:00.000-07:00

For the love of lox

2007-04-05T11:28:00.000-07:00

I had eyed that Noah’s Bagels as the bus turned the corner into our hotel parking lot the first night we arrived in El Segundo. There it was, across the street from where we would be staying, luring me to get a bagel with lox and cream cheese everyday for breakfast. But I couldn’t. I had to do breakfast duty with the kids. Or, I was too tired to get up early enough to make my way across the street and back in time for departure. So, Noah’s had to wait. And, so did I.

But, finally, on the last day in El Segundo with all the kids safely on the bus and driving back to San Francisco and with me staying behind with Jeanne to come to pick me up, I would have my bagel breakfast. I told Jeanne of my breakfast plan and how I had thought about it for days and dreamt about it for nights, and she was all aboard.

She came to the hotel to get me, we drove across the street, and we stepped into that Noah’s Bagel. I couldn’t see so Jeanne had to read the menu board for me (my eyes had gone all blurry on me, everything was in doubles, and I was slightly nervous). We thought we wanted the lox schmear until we heard the man who had actually cut in front of us in line order a lox sandwich. I wanted that instead: a toasted Everything bagel with cream cheese, lox, tomatoes, onions, and capers; it was perfection in sandwich form.

Our bagels came with pickles and a choice of salad (we chose fruit), which I thought was odd but I ate them anyhow (the pickle first). I rearranged the toppings of my bagel and re-spread the cream cheese, and took a huge bite. It felt like I was now, finally, complete, that that bagel was what I was missing my whole life.

College eating tour--revisited

2007-04-04T23:32:00.000-07:00

I've eaten at a lot of college campuses over the past year and a half. I guess it comes with the territory of my line of work. This week, as I traveled with a group of 38 high school students and several co-workers, I added five more college visits to my list, eating at three of them (as well as at some other places that I'm not too proud of).

Monday
We had an early morning, leaving San Francisco at 7AM to be in San Luis Obispo to visit the California State University there at 11AM. We all had an Odwalla juice along with an Odwalla bar for breakfast, courtesy of the parent of one of our students who works for the company. Billy offered all the staff vitamin C and echinacea tablets, which we all gladly accepted.

Our drive along the 101 brought us through green fields and rolling hills, with the Pacific Ocean along our right-hand side. It also brought us to our first rest-stop, with a McDonald's, Starbucks, donut shop, and all the other requisite rest-stop eateries. I was hungry already and knew that there was no way that juice and breakfast bar would last me until one o'clock, when we had lunch scheduled. So, I dashed off to the Starbucks to use their restroom and ordered a latte. Allison, Billy, and I then walked across the parking lot to McDonald's, where I ordered a Sausage Egg McMuffin.

I can't remember the last time I'd eaten a breakfast sandwich from McDonald's, although I thoroughly recall the last time I ate at McDonald's and was disgusted by the taste of their oil coating my tongue and mouth, being sure to never eat at McDonald's again (something that I do very, very rarely to begin with). But, I was hungry, lunch was hours and hours away, and I wanted something salty. McDonald's was my only choice. And, Billy urged me on to order the sandwich. So, with all that pressure and an empty stomach, I ordered my sandwich. Two seconds later, it appeared on the counter. I ate that sucker on the bus, and it wasn't too bad. Sure, grease coated the paper wrapper and, sure, I knew how bad that so-called food would be for me, but it was salty, warm, and hit the right spot in my stomach. I followed that with a handful of pretzel and cheese Combos from Billy, and a small stack of sour cream and onion Pringles from one of the students. What was I doing?

We made it to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo safely. And, after a tour and a presentation by an outreach staff there, it was time for lunch on campus. I followed a group over to the Chick-Fil-A and ordered a chicken club sandwich and some fries. The sandwich was okay, although a little salty and the chicken had a strangely too-soft texture, and the fries could have been more crispy. I was not impressed. Although, after hearing what everyone else had and reading the evaluations, I may have chosen the best food option that Cal Poly SLO had to offer. So, overall for SLO, the campus was nice, the food wasn't.

We got back on the bus to make the final leg of the journey down to El Segundo, where we would be staying for the next several nights. I was exhausted, as was everyone else, but I had volunteered to go pick up our dinner at the El Pollo Loco. That was an adventure. David, our very kind bus driver, had offered to drive Martha and me to pick up our food, so that we would save on cab fare. The three of us go into that 56-passenger bus and made our way through the streets of El Segundo and Manhattan Beach, trying to find the El Pollo Loco that had our food. The first El Pollo Loco, the one which the hotel staff had directed us to, was not the one. The second one, up the street and a 45-minute drive with confusing directions from an El Pollo Loco staff away, was. We made a couple very large U-turns, pulled into a McDonald's to ask for directions, made a few phone calls asking the whereabouts of this Crazy Chicken, and got a little tour of El Segundo, which had developed into quite a city of strip malls since the last time I had been there, only one year ago.

David asked us if the chicken was really that good to warrant the hour-long journey it took us to get the food. It wasn't, but I was hungry and tired and would have eaten anything. The hotel staff was nice enough to bake cookies (although probably from frozen cookie batter) for us for dessert. That was nice.

Day One done.

Tuesday
Day Two took us to San Diego. When we made it to the campus of UC San Diego, I noticed that there were stalls of food vendors, grilling up chicken and who knows what else. I knew where I was going to have lunch later.

We took a tour of the campus and had a presentation from a couple of UCSD students where our students got to ask them whatever questions they wanted. Then, it was time for lunch, which, undoubtedly, was something both the students and the staff all looked forward to. I went with Cindy, one of my sophomores, over to see the Tamales Ladies, and ran into a former student on my way over there. It was random that in a school with 25,000 students, I should run into one that I know. I said hi and chatted with her briefly, and anxiously made my way to find the tamales alone, as Cindy had left me.

But I found her at the tamales stall with Jesus. They were eyeing the menu and chatting with the ladies in Spanish. I envied their skills and ordered my green chile and chicken tamale in English. I took a seat on one of the cement blocks that lined the walkway, and ate my tamale in the sun. The tamale, sadly, was just okay. The masa was nice but the entire thing lacked flavor. For a green chile tamale, there was no spice. There was barely enough salt. I wanted to slather that sucker in salsa, but there was no salsa to slather it in. I missed the Tamale Lady from the Zeitgeist, and was left still hungry.

I headed back to the food stalls to see what else there was on offer. The lines had gotten more crowded and was about to pass more food, but I noticed Ken, Allison, and Nancy in line at the Thai food booth. They were just two people away from ordering, so I made a quick decision and asked Nancy to order a green chicken wrap for me. And, it was worth the wait. The wrap was stuffed with succulently juicy and well-seasoned grilled chicken, grilled zucchini, cucumber spears, and lettuce. I wondered if this wrap would be best thing I would eat throughout the trip. [It turns out that every Tuesday, UCSD hosts a farmer’s market sort of food vendor fair, which is where I got my tamale and chicken wrap--a nice little perk for UCSD students and staff.]

Our dinner in San Diego was at Dakine’s, a small Hawaiian food restaurant in Mira Mesa. Nelson, the owner, was very kind and obliging to us and our large group of high school students. Our group took up the entire restaurant, save for a four-seat table in the corner where a small family was already eating when the restaurant was inundated with our students. The small tables were already set up with plates, utensils, and food. The to-go containers were opened up for family-style eating, and were filled with macaroni salad, a tossed green salad, teriyaki chicken, grilled mahi mahi, and kalua pork with cabbage.

I’m no connoisseur of macaroni salad, but this one was pretty darn great. For someone who asks to have sandwiches with no mayonnaise and will only eat tuna salad knowing how mayonnaise-y the salad is, I ate this macaroni salad up, which is a huge feat, considering that the salad was simply a mixture of boiled macaroni noodles and mayonnaise. This one didn’t leave me feeling heavy and gross afterwards, and I was so bold to even have help myself to a second serving of the fat covered noodles.

The chicken was good too, tender, well-cooked, nicely flavored, and hinting of char. The mahi mahi was a little dry, but decent. And, the kalua pork with cabbage was a tasty combination of shredded, slowly cooked pork and thin strips of cabbage. The salad, dressed with a deliciously sweet miso dressing, was my favorite of all. I picked at the last bits of iceberg lettuce right out of the shared dish, it was that good.

We finished the meal with a cake that Martha had bought from the conveniently located bakery next door to the restaurant for one of our student’s birthday. We lit candles and sang “Happy Birthday” in that small Hawaiian restaurant for Doloris. She was so surprised. This had been the first time anyone had ever surprised her on her birthday, and she looked a little overwhelmed. Nelson helped us slice that cake into 40 small slices and we passed them out. It was a good cake from a Philipino bakery. It was a combination of chocolate and yellow cake that was soft and fresh, and had a nice, light cream frosting.

It was a nice touch to the end of our meal, which had been so easy to just have everyone come in and have food laid out and ready for us. I thanked Nelson and his family staff over and over again.

Day Two done.

Wednesday
This was our last day of visiting schools, and I was glad. I had been constantly exhausted with not being able to sleep through the night and wanted to be done. Rather than feeling invigorated by the trip and by the excitement of the students, I felt tired. So, I was counting down our hours at Pomona College and UCLA.

Our tour and presentation at Pomona College were disappointing, hardly exciting any positive reactions from the students. But, they all raved about our dining hall meal there, noting it as the best part of the college on their evaluations. Our hosts at Pomona College were generously kind enough to help arrange a free meal in one of the dining halls for our entire group, and it was funny to watch them in the dining hall. They entered the large room and sat at down at table in the corner, waiting. I didn’t know what they were waiting for, and told them that no one would be coming around to serve them. They got there food and piled on their plates were French fries, burgers, and pizza slices with a side of cookies and brownies. I was nervous; we had forgotten to tell them to take only what they would be able to eat.

For myself, I had some cheese ravioli, a slice of pineapple and ham pizza, a salad, and vanilla ice cream with toasted almonds and a small brownie. The ravioli was good, though not anything particularly special. The pizza, however, was surprisingly wonderful. It was freshly baked (you could watch it as it cooked), it wasn’t greasy, the cheese tasted like real cheese, and the crust was light and chewy and had granules of cornmeal stuck to the bottom. I was impressed. My salad was wonderful too, topped with all the salad fixings of my dreams: corn, spinach, beets, garbanzo beans, carrots, olives, broccoli, and mushrooms. It was hard to beat a free lunch that good.

After lunch, we headed out to UCLA. Once again, our tour and presentation were disappointing, but Jeanne met me and our group on campus, so I had a nice little distraction. We had dinner plans at Buca Di Beppo in Santa Monica, and Jeanne met us there for dinner. We started with the pizza margherita, which was followed by a rather lame green salad that tasted like salad tossed with water. Our fettuccine alfredo was equally bland, requiring a heavy dose of salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese. But, our chicken parmesan was too heavily salted (it had a nice crisp crust though). I ended up mixing the alfredo noodles with the extra tomato sauce from the chicken parmesan to come up with something decent tasting. We ended our meal with a huge slice of chocolate cake, which was the best part of the meal since it was something that actually tasted good.

We were done, and I was done. The next day would be a drive back to San Francisco for them, as I would remain in LA to see my family.

Late-night taco truck

2007-03-07T23:32:00.000-08:00

When Scott asked me if I wanted to take a drive to Oakland, I asked him if he had eaten and if we could go to the taco trunk. With his answers, I said yes.

We got in his car, drove across the bridge, dropped off some ski equipment, and navigated our way around Lake Merritt to the intersection of International Blvd. and 22nd St., where the Sinaloa taco truck sits.

For someone who sports a “I Hella [Heart] Oakland” t-shirt, Scott had never been there. And, as silly as it may seem, I was slightly nervous, and not so much about the fact that it was 9:30 at night and we were standing on a street corner in an Oakland neighborhood that has a history of violent crime. But, rather, I was nervous that Scott wouldn’t like it, that he’d wonder why I’d drive across the Bay to eat from a truck in a dicey neighborhood.

I stepped up to the truck, raised my head high, and ordered two carne asada tacos and an horchata for me, and a carne asada burrito and a Squirt for Scott. As we waited for our food, a man of questionable sanity kept mumbling stuff to us and gestured for us to look at his leg. I tried to pretend that he wasn’t there.

We took our food to a table nearby and dug in. My tacos looked small. There was no pilings of lettuce, beans, rice, sour cream, guacamole, diced tomatoes, or any other sort of extravagance you might find at a San Francisco Mission taqueria. There was no need to eat these tacos with a knife and fork either. These small tacos were tacos at their simple best: two warm corn tortillas that are chewy and just barely crisp around the edges, a small mound of chopped grilled beef, a dollop of salsa, a sprinkling of chopped cilantro, along with sliced radishes, a whole pickled jalapeno pepper, and a wedge of lime on the side. It was delicious. Scott’s burrito was just as simple, with just meat, cheese, beans, and rice. It felt like LA.

We finished up, cleared our table, gave the mumbling man with a story about a leg a dollar, got back in the car, and drove back to across the Bay Bridge. Scott thanked me for taking him there. And, I wondered aloud who else would have been up for a late-night taco truck run in the heart of seedy Oakland?

Lamb curry off test run #1

2007-03-03T23:44:00.000-08:00

This time, I wasn’t drunk, but Prasad might have been. We were at his house, standing around in the hallway as people were leaving after watching the Superbowl on a very nice television screen, when we set a date in the spring for the next Curry Off. And, so, I would have a couple of months to prepare, to do test-run of curry recipes, to refine spice mixtures, and to learn how to cook lamb, since this time around it would be a Lamb Off.

Today, was Test Run #1 of lamb curry. (It was actually also the first time I’ve ever cooked lamb.) And, I invited Colin and Eleanor over to help me judge the worthiness of the curry.

The recipe was straightforward. Cook some chopped onions in some oil until brown. Add in chunks of lamb until brown. Sprinkle in ground black peppercorn, whole cloves, and green cardamom pods. Then, add a puree of more onions, garlic, and ginger. Cook that down until almost no liquid remains. Then, pour in some plain yogurt, along with some cayenne and ground coriander. After, add some water and garam masala and let it cook until the lamb is tender. Once it’s done, toss in some chopped cilantro and a drizzle of heavy cream. It was pretty easy, and I made some brown basmati rice with whole cumin seeds to go with the curry.

But, the curry was just okay. The level of heat from the spices was subtle, as were the spices themselves. And the lamb was tender and fell apart nicely when poked at with a fork. But, the curry itself was just okay; far from being a Curry Off winner. Its flavor lacked depth and distinction. It tasted more like an Irish lamb stew than an Indian lamb curry. There was no way that I would put this up against anyone’s curry. So, next week, I’ll try again with another lamb recipe and another hope at finding a winner.

Weird Fish

2007-01-17T10:25:00.000-08:00

Having dinner with Bill reminded me of how I need more guy friends, friends who will get drinks with me on a Tuesday night, eat fried food dipped in a mayo-like sauce and not flinch, and get me home safely.

We started our night at Weird Fish, a tiny, new place on Mission at 18th that makes you notice that it serves sustainably raised fish and that, according to some internet research on my part but no real-world tasting, serves a good tempeh version of fish and chips.

The space is narrow and long, only seating about 20 or so. The walls are painted a pale blue and there are funky, nautically-themed nick-nacks hanging about. The care the owners took in the details of creating an inviting and unique space really show, especially in the design of the small menu (I wanted to stick one in my purse). Bill was happy to see the fancy bottles of beer displayed beyond the bar area in the back.

The menu is as eclectic as the space. There's a section for "Fried Food," a fish and chips section with meat and non-meat versions, a section for "Lonely Sandwiches," and a section at the bottom of the small menu reserved for the "Suspicious Fish Dish." I was intrigued.

We started with the fried food: fried green beans, fried pickled, and fried calamari. It turned out to be a lot of fried food (these weren't no small appetizers) and our table was quickly covered in fried goodness. The green beans were good, although I couldn't really tell that they were green beans. The green The fried pickles were a fantastic treat--crisp and salty on the outside but juicy and sour just underneath that batter. The calamari was the worst of our fried food trio. It was a little tough though well seasoned.

I couldn't resist ordering the Suspicious Fish Dish. That was the only description of what would be coming to me. And, once it arrived, it turned out to be poached trout with a cactus and caper sauce over a bed of quinoa and zucchini. It looked very healthy and had the taste of hippie, if hippie could be a flavor. It wasn't bad and it was probably what my body needed after all that fried food, but I wanted a burst of flavor not poached trout.

Bill, on the other hand, continued the fried food trend by ordering the fish and chips. He also had a large bottle of beer and I had an Anchor Steam. We finished it all off with a slice of lemon tart.

[Off the subject but supposedly relevant: Our hostess was a woman who used to come into 826 to drop off a young girl for tutoring but whose name I can't recall, and Mo and Janice turned up at Weird Fish too. Small world.]

Bill and I continued our Tuesday evening down the street at Bruno's, where I had two vodka tonics, and we impressed our waitress with our cocktail-napkin-rose skills. And, then we journeyed further down the street to Lazlo's. I should have learned my lesson earlier in the night from not choosing my dining options based on names, but I couldn't help myself and order the Incredible Lightness of Being, which turned out to be too sour and too tart. I ended the night with one of my old man favorites, a whiskey sour.

[Off the subject yet again but supposedly relevant as well: The man sitting next to me at the bar of Lazlo's was the Asian Man from Street Wars. He had on the whole get-up--mustache, hat, long black shirt with white cuffs--and had with him envelopes of what must have been the profiles of players. I asked him about his moustache, and his response was kinda dirty and not fit to type but involved his girlfriend. He, however, wouldn't divulge details of the game.]

Piccino

2007-01-15T18:03:00.000-08:00

Carlo started working at a new restaurant Piccino about a month ago. I had been hearing talk of it, all of which came from Colin and Eleanor since it’s co-owned by Colin’s dad’s wife, and wanted to pay a visit. But, because it only serves lunch (no dinner yet) Mondays through Fridays, getting there would be tough. I started to plot sick days, long lunches, half days, fake doctor’s appointments, anything to be able to eat there some time between the hours of 11:30AM and 3PM. But, thanks to the holiday that is Martin Luther King Jr. Day (god bless his soul), I got my chance. Shari picked me up, and I took my directions (no thanks to Google Maps) and we drove out to the Dogpatch.

Piccino is a bright blue place with a cheery façade and large windows on the corner of 22^nd and Tennessee. We stepped inside and were warmly welcomed. I was surprised at how small Piccino was. It looked like it could hold no more than 15 people and even those seats were placed snuggly next to each other. Shari and I chose a small table next to the bar and under the coffee menu.

There are only four people who run the show at Piccino. There’s Carlo, Margherita (she’s Colin’s dad’s wife), Margherita’s sister, and the tall, gray-haired Blue Bottle Coffee Man (at my last visit to the Blue Bottle garage-door stand on Linden the gray-haired man was not to be found and three people who I had never seen there before were making my latte and cappuccino; I now know where he’s gone). And, it makes for very unique and charming service. The Blue Bottle Coffee Man handed us our menus from behind the coffee bar and told us to “holler” with our order when we were ready. I’ve never had to holler my order over a coffee bar before in all my dining experience, and if it was someone other than the Coffee Man with his gray locks covering his eyes and his nice smile that reveals teeth adorned with braces I might not have so charmed. But, I hollered away, “We’d like the Piccino Special and the Margherita pizza please.”

As we waited for our food, we watched Carlo bring out dishes to the other tables and greet other friends. I felt like a spy watching him without him knowing that we were there but I wasn’t about to yell out his name while he was at work. And, he noticed us anyhow and said hello. He then brought out a cauliflower and radicchio salad with raisins, pine nuts, and balsamic vinaigrette along with a small dish of green olives. The salad was spicy from the radicchio, sweet from the raisins, and slightly tangy from the vinaigrette, and delicious as a combination. And, those olives were amazing—subtly salty for olives, tender, and not heavy on the tongue.

Shortly after, Margherita’s sister brought out the first of our pizzas. The Piccino Special has a white cheese of some sort that wasn’t mozzarella (I can’t remember what and feel that if I guess wrongly I may cause offense), Meyer lemon, and arugula. It was an interesting combination but one that worked. The thin, crisp crust was barely topped with the toppings but there was no need for a heavy-handed onslaught. The cheese, lemon, and arugula acted not as the stars of the dish but as equal players with the crust, and there was something remarkably fresh about the flavors that needed neither further adornment nor piles of excessiveness. In a world filled with Extreme Pizza, subtlety has become a lost art form but it seems like it is being well appreciated at Piccino.

Our tiny table was full already when Margherita came out next with the pizza which shares her name. She asked if we were Eleanor’s friends and introduced herself with a firm shake of a flour-dusted hand. We looked at the pizza in her hand, then to our table, back to the pizza, and then up at her. There was no space for the pizza on our tiny table, so she placed our pizza just an arm’s reach away on the bar. The women on the other side of the bar eyed our pie, which made me nervous. Shari and I needed to stake a claim to that pizza, so we piled it on top of our other one and took a slice. Once again, the pizza was remarkably simple—cheese, sauce, and crust—and delicious. The sauce was fresh and tasted of sun-ripened tomatoes, the crust crisp, and the cheese just chewy enough.

As if that wasn’t enough, Carlo then appeared again with a plate carrying a small round sandwich of some sort. I’d never called a sandwich cute before, but this was definitely a cute-looking sandwich with pieces of green sticking out from the sides, white sauce oozing from a hole in the golden baked dough (I can’t quite call it bread), and pink-tinged roast beef inside. And, not only was it a cute sandwich, but a tasty one too, and one that I gladly ate up. The dough was crunchy, the beef tenderly soft, and the sauce salty and tangy. If only all roast beef sandwiches could be made with such love.

We cleared our plates (something we didn’t expect to accomplish) and ordered cappuccinos. It’s nice knowing that because the Blue Bottle Coffee Man is there making Blue Bottle Coffee, our coffee needs would be taken care of and expertly so.

It was four o’clock when we left. We had arrived before two. Somehow two hours just slipped away easily eating pizza. But, as if Piccino was telling us that we had left too soon, Carlo called me to say that Shari had left something behind. You would never get such good lost-and-found service anywhere. So, we turned around and headed back to the bright blue building on the corner.

The un-hip hip

2007-01-14T23:41:00.000-08:00

Manoella had described Ritual Cafe as too cool, and she was right. I met her there before we headed off to dinner at La Rondalla, and as I waited for her arrival I sat through a procession of uber-hipsters. The boys were all in jeans so tight they must have been stiched on. And, of course, everyone in the place, including myself, donned hoodies. A couple even rode their bicycles right in through the doorway and up to the counter.

I was glad to leave Hipsterland and walk over to La Rondalla where the servers and cooks know nothing of the term hipster, other than dishing out food to the drunken sort, and care not for pretension. I ordered the birria de chivo, which is a goat stew, Manoella ordered a fried beef dish, and we both had margaritas.

When the our waitress came with our food, she placed the birria in front of Manoella, perhaps assuming that no Asian girl would dare order a goat stew when there were so many taco, burrito, and fajita options. But, I'm no regular Asian. I know how to eat goat and roll my R's. I spooned on the diced onions, squeezed on some lime, rolled my tortilla, and dug in. The stew was thick with piles of tender goat meat in a rich broth. And, for those who've never eaten goat, it tasted like lamb.

The margarita was good and strong, so strong that Manoella actually asked to have more mix put in hers.

Hoodie or not, this was more my style.

Cheese puff gal

2007-01-11T15:50:00.000-08:00

I asked one of my students to buy my lunch for me today. I asked for a pastrami sandwich and a bag of Sunchips. When she came back, she had my sandwich but no Sunchips. Instead, she had a bag of Cheetos Cheese Puffs, not even the crunchy kind. She had forgotten what I had asked for and guessed at what I would like. Apparently, she thought me to be a cheese puff kinda gal. I can't remember the last time I had a cheese puff.

Changed but the same

2006-12-31T15:03:00.000-08:00

I think in almost each entry I write when I'm in LA, I remark on how odd it is to be back. And, it is. Especially, when driving along the streets where I grew up on, the things that were once familiar are no longer there. The McDonald's where Natalie and I would stop on our walks home from middle school to order ice cream cones is now a Chinese restaurant. The Del Taco where we went for a snack after a trip to the library is now a Vietnamese sandwich shop. The corner store where I would sneak off to for an occasional sugary treat is now a bank. And, all this change seems to be happening right now and it seems to be happening at a rate far greater than I had ever noticed before.

One place that still stands where it did when I first went there at least a dozen years ago is Jim's Famous Burgers. My friends and I would go there after school to order humongous bags of French fries, chili cheese fries, and my favorite, fried zucchini. And, even after more than a decade since my first visit, I still go there whenever I'm in town.

But, this time, when Karen, Jeanne, and I went there for an afternoon snack, I was surprised by how much it had changed. The most remarkable difference about the place was its appearance. The parking exit and entrance had switched sides, so that now the drive-thru window was properly positioned so that the driver could pick up his order out of his window and not have to lean across the passenger seat; this change made sense. What didn't make sense to me was why the owners decided to strip the place of all its charm and turn it into a building that looked like all the other restaurants that flanked the street.

Jim's was an old-fashioned-looking diner with outdoor patio seating, with a walk-up order counter as the barrier between the outside and the inside and an arcade area. The outdoor seating , which made up most of the restaurant space, was the most charming aspect of the restaurant, aside from the friendly workers who on several occasions have called me "Smiley." The outdoor eating area was composed of round tables with orange plastic umbrellas as the only shield from the sun and the rain, and they were the perfect hangout spot for young teenagers.

But, when we pulled into the parking lot, most the outdoor seating was gone. In its place was a wall with a door that led inside. I was confused. This looked like any other restaurant. Where was the eccentricity, the charm?

Even though the outer appearance changed, the menu remained the same. We ordered a club sandwich, chili cheese fries, and fried zucchini. And, our food was served to us by the same friendly staff. The food was nothing fancy, just simple diner food with no pretension about it. And, though it was strange to be sitting inside in a proper seat, it was still nice to know that somethings don't change.

Spaceland sickness

2006-12-31T13:20:00.000-08:00

There has only been one time in my life when the real fear of possible death (or a visit to the hospital, at the very least) crossed my mind. It was a little more than a year ago and I was on a plane flying to Philadelphia to catch a connecting flight to the Virgin Islands. I was traveling alone (as it tends to be), I had been sick for the past several days, and I was overcome with sudden cold chills, sweat beading on my forehead, and the need to vomit. As the passenger sitting next to me was sleeping under his blanket in the darkened cabin, I thought I was going to die. Should I press the button for assistance? Should I pull out my barf bag? Would they land the plane and rush me to the hospital? Just as quickly as the nausea and panic came, it went, and I was left to wonder what the hell just happened.

Since then, I’ve had a couple of encounters when I had to throw up, but none so pronounced and none so full of fear that something was really wrong with me, until last night.

The evening started innocently enough. Jeanne and I met Karen, Gabe, and some other people at the Silver Mug. After a couple of vodka tonics, some great and not-so-great karaoke renditions of “Paint It Black,” “Under the Bridge,” “I Want You to Want Me,” and “Under Pressure,” being called Gabby throughout the night be an older Latino man, and a couple of Vietnamese spring rolls, Karen, Jeanne, and I drove over to Spaceland to see Andy’s band play. (Note on Andy: He was a substitute teacher for my 12^th grade English class and was the one to introduce me to Haruki Murakami.)

We were late and the band had already gone on so we ordered more drinks, ran into yet another RHS alum, and played pool with some random men. Andy and I ate some Chips Ahoy cookies from a bag that we saw on the counter and had some cigarettes. Some man told me that I had nice lips and that he didn’t want me to take it the wrong way; I told him thanks, that I was leaving, and to have a good night.

After losing at pool, we left and decided that food was what was needed. Andy directed us to a Mexican food thing (I don’t know exactly what to call it since it wasn’t a Taco truck, it wasn’t a restaurant, it wasn’t anything I had seen before—everything was outdoors, kitchen and all, and all under a tent of some sort) on Santa Monica at Hawthorne. I ordered a carne asada quesadilla, Karen and Andy ordered Cubano sandwiches, and I can’t quite remember what Jeanne ordered although I am tempted to say that it was a chimichanga (it was something fried, I am sure of).

Because it was near freezing, we drove over to the house where Andy was house-sitting. We watched The Warriors as we ate and as cats climbed on me (for someone who isn’t too fond of pets, cats somehow are drawn to me). We ate and I was happy, for a little while.

Then, it came. Nausea. The feeling of utter sickness. The desire to want to rip your insides out and dump them down the drain.

We drove home and I rushed to the bathroom. I lied in bed trying to fall asleep, trying to find any comfortable position. But, each time I moved, I felt that churn in my stomach creeping up my throat. I lied there and wondered how many more hours until morning and if an ambulance would have to be called for me. I wondered if they’d have to pump my stomach. I wondered what was it that made me feel so ill. The drinks, the cigarettes, the quesadilla, the Vietnamese spring rolls? I guess I’d never know.

High school reunion (not the musical)

2006-12-29T09:39:00.000-08:00

About two months ago, at Gabe's birthday party at Luca's, my boss Ken said to me, "You're from LA, right? You have a very San Francisco vibe." I thought this was a bit random. He and I were just standing at the bar, waiting for our drinks, and he's known me for at least a year and a half, almost two now, and he knows that I didn't grow up in the Bay Area. And, I too forget sometimes how long it's been since I moved out of my parent's house in LA, how long I've lived on my own in Berkeley and San Francisco, and how rarely I return to LA. And, when I am in LA, there are only just a few people outside of my family that I see, so I wasn't quite ready for a night of high school reunions.

Sophia picked me up and we drove over to the BJ's on Huntington (the restaurant's name never fails to stir up even the slightest of giggles), where we met up with Millie, Linda, and Annie, all friends from high school, some of whom I can't remember the last time I had seen them.

I had the Santa Fe Chicken Salad and their Brewhouse Blond, which was a pale, golden beer. The chicken salad was fine, nothing special. The blackened chicken has an incredibly white color to it and the texture looked a little too smooth, but I didn't question it. The dressing was a creamy salmon-colored concoction. The five of us split the white chocolate and macademia Pizookie for dessert.

Over dinner, we chatted about former high school classmates. I strained to pull up recollections of people's faces (I wished someone had brought our old yearbook) and struggled to think of my own stories of having seen so-and-so. And, as it always seems to inevitably happen when talking about former classmates, we scoffed at who got fat, wondered why divorces were pending, and laughed at the same people who we laughed at when we were teenagers (don't get me wrong though, I was far from the popular cheerleader in high school). I had little to share. I, apparently, had fallen out of touch.

After dinner and a quick drink at the Brass Elephant, Sophia and I met up with Jeanne and her friends at Dave and Buster's at the mall. I had been here only once before and after quickly being overwhelmed, left. But, this time, I was there with people who knew the drill. I still felt out of the place though. I wasn't decked out in my Asian hoochie gear, I wasn't there with my Asian gangster boyfriend, I wasn't 5'4" and 105 lbs, and I wasn't drunk off my overly-sweet Comopolitan (the first thing on the menu that looked decent to me when the waiter came around for our orders). Apparently, I hadn't gotten the memo.

Sophia and I sat there with Jeanne's friends watching and wondering about the people around us. "Why are there so many Asians?" "Why are there so many teeny-boppers?" "Are these kids old enough to drink?" It seemed as if everyone there had just turned of legal drinking age and were home from college for winter break. Sophia and I looked at each other, knowing that we were probably the oldest ones in the crowd (until some fifty year-old-looking lady showed up, who we thought was there to snatch her child back, like what had happened at the Silver Mug a few days earlier).

Jeanne saw tons of people she knew: the Asian gangster with his cronies, some girl from high school who got fat, our neighbor's daughter who was hoochie-gone-clean. Sophia and I saw no one we knew.

It was a little after midnight and I was tired--of feeling old, of feeling out of place, of feeling far from drunk enough to stay there any longer--so, Sophia and I, the two geriatrics of the crowd, went home.

The McDonalds of Vietnamese sandwiches

2006-12-26T17:03:00.000-08:00

Karen said she didn't want to hype it up too much, but how could she not? Vietnamese sandwiches that were good, made with bread freshly baked in-house, in a space that was clean and spacious, and only a few blocks away from my parent's house in LA. I tried to not be excited as we drove over to the Lee's Sandwiches.

My eyes widened as we entered the sandwich shop. Karen was right. This was no ordinary Vietnamese sandwich shop. This one was huge, with a large, colorful, brightly-lit menu board, rope that partitioned off the line, at least half a dozen workers wearing matching uniforms, large standing ovens and rolling racks stacked with fresh baguettes, seating for at least forty people, and, to top it all off, a large, real Christmas tree complete with lights and decorations in the middle. I grabbed on to Jeanne's arms, as we walked toward the line and eyed the menu board.

I was overwhelmed, and asked Jeanne what to order. We got three #11 (Special Combination) sandwiches and a meat pastry called pork chaud. I had no idea what the pork chuad was; it looked familiar but I couldn't remember if I had them in Paris or with my dad's old Vietnamese friends. It was a round of pastry with a ball of savory pork filling inside. The pastry alone was good; it was flaky and buttery, like puff pastry, and had picked up the flavor of the meat filling. I wished there were more savory meat pastries.

The sandwiches were good too. The sandwich was long and narrow, filled with various pork products. There was smidgen of pork pate smudged atop the bread, slices of an almost fluorescent pink headcheese, and slices of a pork loaf. The pickled carrots and daikon radish were crisp. And, the cilantro and thin slices of jalapenos added an extra bit of freshness and spice. The bread was great too, chewy with a crisp outer crust. I rounded off my meal with a cold and refreshing chrysanthemum tea. The whole meal (three sandwiches, one pork pastry, two coffees, and one tea) totalled a little more than $15; what a deal! I was in Vietnamese sandwich heaven!

As we sat there eating, I couldn't help but notice all the people coming in and out, ordering sandwiches, and leaving with loaves of baguettes. They weren't your usual Vietnamese sandwich shop customers (or, rather, none that I'm used to seeing around here). There was a group of four high school-aged, hipster-looking (a couple were even wearing an outfit similar to mine: brown blazer with grey hoodie underneath, jeans, and Chuck Taylors) Latino kids . There was an Asian dad with two young girls, both wearing convertible sneaker-rollerskates and who skidded across the floor. There was a middle-aged Latino man who carried four baguettes wrapped in paper out the door. And, there was us. For just the slightest moment, it felt like I was at the United Nations of Vietnamese sandwich shops.

But, with the growing number of Lee's Sandwiches across not just Southern California but the entire US, would they eat up all the little mom and pop Vietnamese sandwich shops? Sure, I'm a fan of clean dining spaces, food made in-house, order and routine, and regulated quality control, but I also am fond of the dinky sandwich shop that only seats six and has only one lady working the counter that I go to in San Francisco's Tenderloin. Lee's Sandwiches is the McDolaldization of Vietnamese sandwich shops, and I don't know how fond I am of that.

We'll see what happens. There's a Lee Sandwiches that was scheduled to open in San Francisco in December 2006. It's down the street from the other Vietnamese sandwich shops on Larkin in Little Saigon. I Google mapped it; it's only about a mile away from my house. I have it scheduled to be one of my first meals in San Francisco for 2007.

Yet another wedding banquet

2006-12-24T22:02:00.000-08:00

I've been to plenty of Chinese wedding banquets in my life, and they're all the same. Same food, same people, same clinking of dishes to make the couple kiss. This time, I had no idea who the bride and groom were, as is true with most of the wedding banquets I've gone to. But my parents had asked if we wanted to go because, afterall, it would be a free dinner, and how could we really say no to that.

We showed up at 888 Seafood Restaurant where the banquet was being held and greeted and congratulated the couple on our way in (the bride had on a very pink dress with lots of taffeta that didn't seem appropriate for her age or the occasion). My parents, Jeanne, Karen, and I got seated a table with four old men who my parents didn't know. We got the bottle of wine open and started pouring drinks. My dad poured Hennessey for himself and the other old men at the table. I asked for some too, and as I was sipping my drink he warned me that if I were to drink on an empty stomach that I'd get drunk and lightheaded, and that the best way to not get drunk is to eat foods rich in fat as I drink. He poured me a glass of wine too (and, I got a beer from him later in the night). Thanks, Dad.

Jeanne and I tried to guess what food would come out and in what order. We hit the target with the appetizer. It was the usual appetizer plate--a cold platter of roasted duck, roasted pork, barbeque pork, and a this crunchy, slimy thing that I never knew its English name. Next came deep fried seafood balls with a sweet and sour sauce; we didn't get that one. Then came sauteed scallops with snow peas; I hit that one right on the nose. Sharkfin soup was the net course; guessed correctly at that one. Mustard greens with abalone and mushrooms followed; I got that one too. Stir-fry lobster was next; we scored that as well. Out came the steamed fish; nailed that one. Next came the fried rice; we guessed that it would either be fried rice or noodles next. And, after the fried rice, came dessert of a taro paste with lotus seeds and dried dates; Jeanne got that one. Platters of slices of cake on plastic plates with plastic forks piled up slice after slice came out after the dessert. I guessed the cake but not the presentation.

We finished our drinks. My dad took the unfinished bottle of Hennessey with him, and we walked home.

Vacation eating

2006-12-22T23:36:00.000-08:00

Karen and Jeanne are in town for a few days before we all drive down to LA for Christmas and New Year's. And, as we're apt to do when they visit, we eat more than any normal person could possibly imagine. But it's all so good and so worth it.

Tuesday
Spices II. 7:30PM.
Jeanne and Karen arrived in time for dinner. After they had a couple of beers and a few rounds of pool at Place Pigalle as they wait for me to get home from work, we had dinner at Spices II in the Richmond. There are very few times when I get spoken to in any Chinese dialect, let alone my native one of Cantonese, but when we entered the door of Spices, the hostess greeted us in Mandarin, the language I learned during countless childhood years spent in Chinese school. It took me a little while to figure out what she was saying but realized that she was telling us to sit wherever we liked (the fairly vacant room and her hand gesture tipped me off).

We tried not to be greedy and showed some restraint in placing our order. We had the fried squid, which was crisply fried on the outside yet succulently tender. The squid pieces were spicy, salty (in a good way), and hinted of basil. I think it was the best dish we had.

The cumin lamb, one of the house specialties, was nice too. The thin slices of lamb were stir fried with cumin and green bell peppers, which I was careful not to eat in case they were jalapenos or seranos or any other green chili that would have stung my mouth, tongue, and insides.

I couldn't stop eating the dry braised green beans with a black bean sauce. They dish was placed in front of me and my chopsticks kept going back to them. They beans were somehow, miraculously both smushy and crunchy. They beans were a little salty, but for this dish, salty equaled tasty.

Our last dish was the spicy seafood noodle soup. The bright red soup came in a large white bowl. A layer of what appeared to be chili oil slicked the top, and through it peaked pieces of squid, fish, shrimp, and mussels. The egg noddles within were good--chewy and tender--but nothing really spectacular. The soup itself was spicy ad quite flavorful, although having to wipe the grease from my lips after each bite proved rather annoying.

Karaoke in Japantown. 9:30PM.
After dinner and a brief jaunt to the Green Apple Bookstore down the street, we drove over to Japantown for a round of karaoke. It was just the three of us in the large room for twenty in the Korean restaurant and, apparently, karaoke house above the Denny's. Jeanne and I had some Heinekens, Karen ordered a bottle of soju, and we sang until we were bored, which can be hard to do.

Wednesday
Breakfast at the Hickory House. 9:30AM.
Our mom had packed 16 steamed meat buns for us--two for each of us (Jeanne, Karen, Scott, and me) for two days. I steamed some of them and we had tea.

J's Pots of Soul. 11:45AM.
I'd been passing J's Pots of Soul for more than a year now. Every time I walk back from the MUNI station to my house, there it is and always closed (it closes at 2:30 in the afternoon). So, I was determined to eat there. Jeanne, Karen, I drove over there (we had to move the car) and squeeze into one of the spots by a window. There was only one other man in the small restaurant. I ordered the salmon croquettes with beans and homefries. Jeanne ordered the meatloaf with cabbage and sweet potatoes. And, Karen ordered the pancakes with sausage, bacon, and eggs. Everything was incredible. That meatloaf rivalled Scott's, and I could have drank my bowl of beans in one gulp.

Snacks in the Car. 3:30PM.
We had planned to hike Muir Woods and stop at the Tourist Club for a cold drink. After a little bit of help with the directions, a little bit of driving around, a bit of huffing and puffing, and then a little bit of more help with directions, we found the Tourist Club. It was closed. Instead of cold beer in a Swiss-style chalet, we had water, almonds, and dried cranberries in a Toyota.

Swan's Oyster Depot. 5:00PM.
Our way back to the City landed us at Swan's Oyster Depot. Jeanne and I had bowls of clam chowder, while Karen had half a steamed crab.

Nick's Crispy Tacos. 5:45PM.
Still unsatisfied with our snack, we found more food up the street at Nick's Crispy Tacos. I had a carnitas taco "Nick's Way." Jeanne ordered chips with salsa and guacamole (both of which were delectably fresh-tasting), corn on a stick smothered with cheese (which smelled quite pungently of cheese--I had to scoot away), and a fried fish taco (oh, so good). Karen had a bowl of soup and a carne asada taco.

E & O Trading Company. 8:45PM.
I hadn't seen Quressa since before she left for New York, but she was back for the holidays and I met her for dinner at E & O Trading Company for dinner as Jeanne and Karen shopped. We shared the peanut chicken, the duck imperial rolls, the char siu style smoked black cod, and steamed Jasmine rice. All the dishes were delicious, but the cod was especially so. The meat was velvety smooth and the char siu sauce that stickily coated the fish fillet was sweet and salty without overpowering the flavor of the fish. I had a Thai basil martini too.

Olivia's Godparent's House. 10:30PM.
We had to make a stop at Olivia's godparent's house to drop off a box of fruit that our parent's sent with Karen and Jeanne. We looked at wedding photos and watched a video of the dinner banquet as we ate Asian pears and grapefruit.

Baking Cookies at the Hickory House. 11:45PM.
Jeanne wanted to bake cookies as a gift for Ross' parents. She made chocolate chip cookies with walnuts. Scott even got out of bed to have one at one in the morning. She wasn't done until almost two.

Thursday
Breakfast at the Hickory House. 10:30AM.
I steamed more meat buns and we had more tea.

Koi Palace. 1PM.
We were hoping to have dim sum as an early lunch, but as we were slow and as we had to wait an hour for a table for three in this 500-seat restaurant, we didn't eat until a little after one in the afternoon. For just the three of us, we managed to do pretty well: shrimp dumplings, steamed egg custard bun, soya tofu, egg custard tart, mushroom shiu mai, chicken claw in black bean sauce, bee's nest taro puff, shrimp stuffed eggplant, Shanghai dumplings, sticky rice in banana leaf, and something that looked like a Chinese version of a beignet.

More Baking. 5PM.
Thanks to a little inspiration from Michelle Tea, Jeanne and I made peanut butter cookies with Hershey kisses stuck in the middle. Needless to say, we ate peanut butter cookies for the next several days.

Little Star at Home. 6:30PM.
We had a stay-at-home dinner. We ordered chicken wings, a Little Star pizza, and a Classic from the Little Star on Divisadero (Jeanne and I figured out that my house is equidistant from both Little Stars--the one of Divisadero and the one in the Mission). We made a green salad too. Scott and Eleanor joined us for dinner as we sat on the rug in the living room with Red Stripes on the floor.

Grapefruit. 9PM.
I needed fruit. I ate a grapefruit as Karen and I watched Dear Frankie.

Friday
Breakfast at the Hickory House. 11AM.
I steamed more of my mom's buns (we still hadn't finished them) and a couple of leftover ones from Koi Palace. I made some tea and did math problems.

Bill's Place. 3:30PM.
After a trip to the De Young Museum, Karen craved a burger, so I took her to Bill's Place, where I had only been once before but loved. She had a burger topped with beets and onion rings with a side of coleslaw and fries. I had a cheese burger with avocado and bacon with a side onion rings. We split a vanilla milkshake. Simply put, it was good.

No Name Sushi Place. 9:30PM.
We headed over to the No Name Sushi Place on Church at 15th for a relatively light dinner. We had miso soup, pickled daikon, the rainbow roll, the rock 'n' roll, some sashimi, and the spicy yellowtail roll. As we sat at the counter, we watched the interactions between the workers there and realized that they weren't Japanese. On our way out, we learned that our server was a Cantonese-speaker and that the woman was from Shanghai. He was so apologetic for not knowing English and having to use other means to communicate with the mostly non-Asian diners. We told him that we enjoyed our food and wished them good business.

Chevy's no more

2006-12-17T23:50:00.000-08:00

I've eaten too many meals at the Chevy's in the Embarcadero Center. Someone, please, please tell whoever manages that randomly-placed shopping center that they need dining options other than Chevy's and Tony Roma's.

This time, I was with Sara. We had a movie date. After picking up a bicycle on the side of the road under a freeway, we drove by the Metreon to see what was showing there and drove right on by, down Mission and toward the Bay.

After considering our options, we decided that Chevy's would be the better choice, mainly because we could get large margaritas. After trying to make sense of the overly large and ridiculously colorful plastic-y menu, I decided upon the chicken enchiladas with black beans and a jumbo-sized Classic Margarita.

I forgot how large their large margaritas are, so when that glass the size of my head was placed in front of me, all I could do was giggle, slide that sucker toward me, turn the straw to my mouth, and sip. It was cold and sweet, and I wished I had my dad's flask with me.

Our food came out quickly. My over-sized plate displayed two enchiladas flanked by a side of beans and a side of rice. I cut into the enchiladas with my fork and took a bite. The red sauce that topped my enchiladas tasted kinda weird and smokey but I kept eating anyhow, taking a sip of margarita after each bite. The beans were decent, as was the rice.

We ate quickly and drank slowly. We asked our server if the woman sitting in a booth across the aisle who looked as if she had passed out was okay. He told us, yeah, and that she was a regular. I was confused. We left and after my large margarita I felt just the slightest bit wobbly getting up.

Funky milk?

2006-12-17T10:54:00.000-08:00

It's the eternal question: How many days after the "Sell By" date stamped on a carton of milk is it still okay to drink the contents?

I pushed the limits today at breakfast. The date on the carton of milk was December 14. Today was December 17. Three days. The milk didn't smell funny but as I poured it over my Heritage O's and started eating, I thought I tasted something funky, something not quite right about those Heritage O's floating in a pool of white. I convinced myself that it was my imagination, that I was overly concerned for a date that read "Sell By" and not "Eat By," and that, even if it the milk was on the verge of funky, I could stomach it. I kept spooning those O's into my mouth, being careful not to scoop up extra milk.

Japantown snacks

2006-12-14T15:06:00.000-08:00

This week at work has been an office week. I've spent the past several days at our Japantown office catching up on paperwork, trying to write decent letters of recommendations for students I barely know, and making Excel spreadsheets. I'm starting to miss my students (even though a few visited me here). But, being in Japantown for office work has its perks, the best of which is that I can walk half a block to glorious Asian snacks!

I had some Pocky for Men--really, the best Pocky, as I've mentioned before. It came in new packaging. The green box now has a flip-top lid but the contents inside were just as good as before.

I purchased a bag of Hot Garlic Shrimp Chips. I was unaware of the fact that other flavors of shrimp chips existed. I thought it was just the one. But, when I wandered the small aisles of Ichiban, there was a slew of shrimp chips in different flavors. This hot galic one is kinda pungent in a questionably good way. I'll try the wasabi and seaweed ones next.

I ate an Asian version of the Drumstick ice cream as I walked in the rain. The ice cream part was vanilla-flavored and had the consistency of frozen yogurt that had been stuck in the freezer. The cone part wasn't lined with chocolate but it was still good.

And, Monday for lunch, my co-workers and I went to Sapporo-Ya for noodles. I had a bowl of the chasu ramen, which had quite a lot of pork in it (the menu described it as having "extra pork") although the pork was cold (I had to dunk it into the soup to warm up). The noodles were tasty (tender but chewy) but the soup was just a touch too salty. The pickled cabbage salad that came as a starter was too sour and too weird for me to really like it, although I ate it anyway. I noticed that they had okonomiyaki on the menu and might go back to try that. I'll be in the office again next week.

Sickness sustenance

2006-12-05T16:42:00.000-08:00

I've been sick for the last several days and have spent most of those days eating the leftovers of what I believe constitute salubrious sustenance--vegetable soup and rice porridge.

The vegetable soup was simple enough to make. Get a whole bunch of root vegetables (carrots, anise, turnips, potatoes), throw them with some other veggies (celery, onions, leeks, and garlic), put them in a pot of water, and cook away. It seemed gross when I explained it to Scott but it was actually quite good and hearty and vegetarian friendly (I even invited Shari over to eat).

I made the rice porridge earlier that Saturday (for some reason I thought an almost liquid diet would be the way to go, at least for the sake of my sore throat). The porridge was my usual favorite of pork and preserved duck egg. Ever since Jeanne and Stevie taught me how to make it, I've made it whenever the craving hit. I used chicken stock as the base this time, threw in a hefty handful of ginger, and let the dried scallop soak long enough to not be chewy. I still haven't quite figures out the water to rice ratio, but it didn't matter. It was still satisfying enough for someone with a lack of much of an appetite to want to eat it.

Giving taste to Thanksgiving

2006-11-23T23:28:00.000-08:00

I’m confused when it comes to Thanksgiving. People get freaked out by the idea of having to cook a meal for family and friends. From what you see on the Food Network and Martha Stewart Living Magazine, you would think that the holiday is a live-or-die situation, requiring weeks of advance preparation for the perfect meal. What confounds me is that all the undue stress is brought on by and event that should be a chance to spend time with the people you like, which seems ridiculous. But, a little organization and a touch of forethought can go a long way in creating a care-free cooking experience. I was so bored during my Thanksgiving Day meal preparation that Eleanor and Colin came by for a game of Scrabble in the middle of it. Here was my game plan.

Tuesday
I picked up my turkey from Bryan’s Quality Meats. He was a twelve pounder. When I got him home and out of his box, he seemed too small to feed about ten people. I pulled out my cookbooks and did some research. The Best Recipe said that a turkey in the 12-14 pound range should be able to feed ten to twelve people. But, Martha Stewart Living suggested 1 ½ pounds of turkey for every person; I would have needed a 15 pound turkey to be a good hostess by Martha Stewart’s standards.

I worried. Would I have enough food? Would Thanksgiving be a bust? Should I buy a ham? Should I buy sausages? Should I stuff people with carbohydrate-y side dishes? I called Jeanne, and we did some ham research.

I also made a double recipe of cornbread for cornbread dressing. I didn’t realize how ridiculously easy cornbread is to make. Take some cornmeal, some flour, a touch a salt, a bit of sugar, some baking powder, mix that with some milk, melted butter, and egg, and then bake it in the oven. This was simplicity at its finest.

Wednesday
It was time to prep my turkey. He got his plastic wrapper removed, his plastic tie keeping his legs together yanked out, his guts taken out, and a little rinse under cold water. I let him brine in an ice cold solution of two cups salt to about two gallons of water with some lemon and red pepper flakes for approximately six hours. I set off grocery shopping in the meantime.

There’s something I hate more than shopping at the Berkeley Bowl on any weekend--shopping at the Marina Safeway and the Whole Foods the day before Thanksgiving. I hate shopping at Safeway in general, but of all the Safeways I go to, the Marina one is the most organized, has the freshest-looking produce, has shelves fully stocked, and has nice workers, which is why I go there, usually on my way home from work. But, Wednesday showcased all the negative stereotypes associated with the Marina—people who seem over-privileged being very unaware of the fact that they’re blocking the entire row with their carts as they talk on their cell phones, and then who give you a dirty look when you gently nudge their cart to the side so that you can squeeze through. I got fed up, left in a fury, and drove over to the Whole Foods, which wasn’t much better. I made a mental note: never go shopping the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

I was glad to get home and unpack my groceries. I had emptied out the refrigerator the day before, so I had plenty of space in there for all my goodies. And, when time was up, I pulled my turkey out of his brine, gave him another rise, patted him dry with paper towels, and let him air-dry on the roasting pan in the fridge overnight. I chopped up his neck and gizzards so that they’d be ready for the gravy the next day. I prepped my green beans. I also roasted two heads of garlic by cooking the cloves with the skins intact on low heat on the stove top.

I baked a pumpkin pie.

Thursday
I told everyone that we would be having dinner around 7:30 or 8, which meant that I had to get the turkey in the oven by 4:30 and that I should start cooking by one. I finished up some last-minute shopping (I picked up some more brussel sprouts, some cotton twine, an extra baking sheet, and ice cream), and Scott and I had lunch of a frozen pizza and a shared bottle of beer. It was 11:30 in the morning and the first thing I put in my stomach was beer. This would be one of those days. It was just a little past noon and I was already bored. I decided I should start prepping the veggies.

I peeled and chopped some carrots. I cleaned all the brussel sprouts and cut them in half. I cut up some onions. I took the stringy part out of several stalks of celery and diced some. I removed the thyme leaves from the thyme stalk. I washed my green beans. I took my knife to a couple of granny smith apples. I also warmed up my cloves of garlic and blended them with two cups of half and half; this would be for my mashed potatoes later.

I had nothing else to do, so I started cooking. The brussel sprouts would go first. For them, I first cut up about twenty slices of thick-cut bacon and let them cook on two baking sheets in the oven 400 degrees for ten minutes. When their time was up, I tossed the brussel spouts in their rendered fat, sprinkled salt and pepper, and let them roast for another ten minutes. The apple slices went in next for another ten minutes. I tasted for salt and pepper, and tried not to pick at all the tasty bacon bits. I wrapped the brussel sprouts up in foil and set them aside. They would get finished off with a drizzle of red wine vinegar after reheating.

Carrots were next. The large pieces of chopped up carrots would be simply roasted with a drizzle of olive oil and a touch of salt. They spent 45 minutes in a 375 degree oven. They got wrapped in foil and set aside when they finished. They would get tossed with some thyme and cilantro at the very end.

It was cornbread dressing time. I slowly cooked the diced carrots, onions, and celery with a bay leaf, salt, and pepper, in some melted butter. When they were soft, I mixed that with the crumbled cornbread that was made two days earlier. That combination was then mixed with a few ladlefuls of turkey stock made from last year’s turkey, and seasoned with salt and pepper. It was then poured into a baking dish, topped with pieced of pepper, covered with foil, and set aside.

Colin and Eleanor by this time had arrived to help remedy by boredom. Usually, cooking doesn’t bore me, but I didn’t have enough to do to keep me sufficiently busy. We decided to play Scrabble as we cooked. Eleanor would be baking her pie and I would be finishing everything else up. Colin would concentrate on Scrabble alone.

It was turkey time. I stuffed him with some chopped up carrots, onions, celery, and thyme drizzled in melted butter, and tied his legs up. He then got rubbed all over with more melted butter, turned belly-side down, and went into a 400 degree oven. We would wait and rotate him on all sides for a little more than two hours. There would be no excessive oven door opening this time around. He would cook on time.

Jeanne wanted macaroni and cheese for Thanksgiving, and I had to oblige. So, I went at it with the usual mac ‘n’ cheese reciped. I cooked up some macaroni noodles until they were almost al dente. I mixed together some eggs, evaporated milk, hot sauce, dry mustard, salt, and pepper. When the noodles were done and drained, they went back into the pot with a couple pads of butter. With the heat on medium-low, I poured in the egg mixture and half of the cheese I grated earlier. I poured in more evaporated milk and more of the cheese and stirred until all the cheese melted and noodles were hot. This then got transferred to a baking dish, topped with a mixture of bread crumbs and grated cheese, and then finished off with more pieces of butter on top. The mac ‘n’ cheese was covered in foil and set aside.

People started to show up. I kept drinking my bottle of white wine. It was time to wait for the turkey to finish so that we could reheat the side, make the gravy, sauté the string beans, and cook up the turkey, cranberry, and apple sausages I bought for fear that I didn’t have enough meat. Guests crowded in the kitchen and talked of stoves as I peeled potatoes and put them to a boil.

More guests arrived and they were moved to the living room. The turkey still had more cooking to go, although he had been in the oven for more than the estimated him. I was finally starting to feel anxious. Jeanne worked on her gravy, browning bits of turkey, whisking in flour, and adding stock. When the potatoes were done, I drained them, added two sticks of very soft butter along with the half and half garlic concoction I made earlier, and gave them a couple of mashes; they were done. I boiled the green beans until just barely tender and tossed them in some garlic cooked in butter. I cooked up the turkey sausages and gave them a slice. Finally, the turkey reached its temperature, and was actually a little over in the breast (we would have dry meat). It was time for the sides to get reheated, and then time to plate up and eat.

Bryce and his twin Graham brought two jars of cranberry-apple chutney that they made and added that to the table of food, and I took out the cranberry relish I purchased from Whole Foods (I wasn’t about to spend time making cranberry sauce when I’m not particularly a fan). Jeanne carved up the turkey. I set out plates and utensils, and we were set.

The foods I made were all damn flavorful, which I didn’t realize until they all came together. This was no wimpy Thanksgiving but one that wasn’t shy from being tasty. The mac ‘n’ cheese was no bland mac ‘n’ cheese, but the hot sauce and dry mustard stood out strongly without being overly pungent. The mashed potatoes were creamy, buttery, and almost intensely and addictively garlicy. The green beans were crisp and had a not-so-intense-but-still-very-present flavor of garlic. The carrots, in contrast, were sweet and subtle. The cornbread dressing boasted of turkey essence, even though it wasn’t stuffed in the bird, and it was moist without being mushy. And, the brussel sprouts were tender, the bacon adding a salty bite, and the granny smith apples contributing just the nicest amount of crunchy sweet tang.

We ended the meal with three types of pie: my pumpkin, a pecan one from Bakesale Betty, and Eleanor’s apple with oat crust. Sample plates loaded with all three were passed around and coffee was made.

We all sat around the living room looking a little heavier than just a few hours earlier with stomachs bulging over the waist of our pants (er, um, at least mine). It was a tasty Thanksgiving and I was ready for bed. Karaoke would have to wait for another night.

No eats

2006-11-09T17:05:00.000-08:00

I must be some sort of crazy masochist or am deeply committed to my job if I won't leave my desk to get any form of edible sustenance. And, my TA wouldn't go get me a sandwich from the corner cafe. So, all day I have eaten: a cup of blueberry yogurt, a handful of pretzels, half an old pear, and two rice kripie treats with chocolates bits. I'm starting to feel lightheaded.

Just what I needed

2006-11-08T21:39:00.000-08:00

I never know when the craving for a rice krispie treat will hit. I was standing at the sink in my yellow rubber gloves scrubbing the wok when I felt it, that pang from within that told me my body wanted something sweet and crunchy, that it want a rice krispie treat. I degloved, went to the cupboard, and surveyed its contents. Marshmallows, check. Rice Krispie cereal, check. Butter, check. Chocolate chip bits (Hm, an extra perk? Sure, why not?), check. I was set.

I melted some butter in a pot, poured in what remained of the bag of marshmallows, and stirred it as it melted. I then added the cereal (I tasted a grain and it wasn't as crunchy as it should have been, but it wasn't horribly stale and I wanted my rice krispie so I kept with it). Then, I added about half a handful of chopped chocolate chips. I didn't think the chocolate would melt but it did (apparently, that's what happens when you add chocolate to warm melted marshmallows). After it all got mixed, I tranferred the warm marshmallow confection to a pan and let it cool.

Ten minutes later, I took my knife to it and cut myself a square. It was sweet and crispy (although not as crispy as it should be), and it was just what I needed.

Just plain not good

2006-11-08T20:32:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty handy in the kitchen. I can whip up a Thanksgiving feast. I can make a mean mac 'n' cheese with fried chicken. I can even take on an Indian guy at a curry cook-off. But sometimes I wonder about my culinary skills. Tonight’s dinner was the first dinner in my recent recollection when I didn’t want to eat it.

I wasn’t making anything out of the ordinary. I pan-fried two small pork chops seasoned with salt, pepper, and a touch of garlic. I sautéed some spears of asparagus with minced garlic. And I made some wild rice in the rice cooker.

In the process of cooking of the pork chops, I set of the smoke detector. The rice managed to stick to the non-stick pot of the rice cooker. These weren’t good signs.

And, when I plated up my food and sat down to eat, I didn’t want to. The pork chop was too tough and too dry. It scraped as it went down my throat. The asparagus just tasted funky, and for someone who quite enjoys asparagus as a vegetable I couldn’t finish the several spears that were on my plate. The rice, however, even for having stuck slightly to the pot, was fine. It wasn’t too mushy but still had some bite to it, and it tasted nutty.

I finished the rice and the bits of dry pork, merely for the fact that I was hungry and didn’t want to waste food. I put the asparagus in a Tupperware container, thinking that I might want to eat it later but knowing that I wouldn’t.

Nick's Crispy Tacos

2006-11-06T15:30:00.000-08:00

A taco shop named after a guy named Nick doesn’t quite have the authenticity appeal as a place with the word taqueria in it. But we would try it out anyhow. Sara met me at my office and we drove along Polk to Broadway for lunch at Nick’s Crispy Tacos.

When we stepped through the doors of Nick’s, I was immediately confused and was trying to piece together what the appropriate procedure was. This happens to me quite often when I’m at a new restaurant and don’t want to stand out like an obvious newbie. I saw a menu posted to the wall. I saw people lingering around the entryway. I saw a lady standing behind a cash register. I think I figured it out. I’d choose something off the menu, step up to the lady behind the cash register, place my order with her, and then I stand around and wait. Simple enough.

The menu had the usual taqueria items -- tacos, burritos, chips -- in various flavors --chicken, carne asada, fish. For a place called Nick’s Crispy Tacos I thought I should try a crispy taco, but then memories of those “crispy tacos” from all those late-night post-bar trips to the Jack In the Box crept up on me, and I decided against it. I had ordered two carne asada tacos with guacamole, not crispy. The lady handed me a plastic number attached to a metal stand. I took the number and a seat, and was once again confused.

It seems as if Nick’s Crispy Tacos moonlights as a dance club of some sort. Amongst the tables covered with floral-printed plastic table cloths, plastic folding chairs, and squeeze bottles of salsa, were red leather booths, a disco ball, glass chandelier, and a large bar area. It seemed odd but right at the same time, as if it was the perfect combination of Friday night fun housed under the same roof--dancing, drinking, and tacos.

As I was admiring the décor, my tacos arrived in a little red basket and wrapped in sheets of parchment paper. The large globs of guacamole glowed bright green, and I doused the tacos with splashes of sauce from the mysterious red and green plastic squeeze bottles on the table. I took a bite and it was yummy. The two corn tortillas that blanketed the meat and guacamole filling were warm and soft. The meat was well-seasoned with hints of a smoky flavor. And the guacamole tasted of fresh avocados.

I scarfed down my two tacos and wanted more. I didn’t even have chips to satisfy me. But, we didn’t order more food. We left with thoughts of returning, perhaps when the sun was down, now that we were no longer Nick’s Crispy Taco newbies.

Stale bread confection

2006-11-05T13:59:00.000-08:00

I love stale bread. I think I tend to buy more bread than I actually ever need in hopes that I’ll have extra and it will turn into a hard, brick-like loaf. There are so many opportunities available to make it great: croutons, stuffing, bread pudding. This morning, French toast was what was in store for that quarter loaf of Italian bread.

I sliced what was left of the loaf (I had made toast with it a few days before and spread those golden, crispy slices with the creamy Mt. Tam cheese) into thick three-quarter inch slices. I whisked together an egg, some milk, some flour, a touch of sugar, a smaller touch of salt, a dash of vanilla, and some melted butter. In went the bread slices for a little egg mixture bath. My cast iron skillet was hot and I swirled a dab of butter around the pan. Then, in went the wet bread. One and a half minutes on one side and another minute on the over, and they were done.

I didn’t have any maple syrup so I ate the French toast unadorned (although now that I think of it, I don’t know why I didn’t use honey). It was still good and just sweet enough from the sugar in the egg mixture. The outer edges of the toast were crisp and the middle was soft, although not as custard-like it should have been (I should have soaked the bread a little longer). But, overall, pretty darn good. Hooray, for stale bread!

Pumpkin pie test run

2006-10-29T23:47:00.000-08:00

It’s almost November, which means it’s time to start with the Thanksgiving test runs. I only have a few weeks to come up with a menu and practice recipes for this year’s Hickory House Thanksgiving. The first test run would be pumpkin pie.

I made a pie crust a few days ago, thinking that I would have time to make it earlier in the week. But, I stuck the dough in the freezer and didn’t get back to it until three days later. I hoped it would be okay. It sat in the refrigerator to defrost as Scott and I were at the neighbor’s house eating hot dogs (these were the best and fanciest hot dogs ever, purchased from Whole Foods and with noticeable flecks of fennel), drinking Coronas, and playing with their adorable dog Lulu.

When we got back, the dough felt soft enough to be rolled. I cleared off the table, dusted it with flour, and started at the ball of dough with my wine bottle rolling pin. The dough didn’t want to flatten out and it cracked all along the edges. This crust would have issues. I worked as quickly as I could and as gently as I could to try to shape this mass of dough into a circle just slightly larger than my Pyrex pie pan. I had to cut and paste bits of dough to cover up the hole and to eliminate the cracks. And, my lack of crimping abilities was quite noticeable. When the dough was set and in place in its Pyrex pan, I stuck it in the freezer. After about twenty minute, it went into the oven to partially cook and I started working on the filling.

The pie filling would be pumpkin-y goodness. I started with a can of pumpkin, brown sugar, nutmeg, dried ginger, cinnamon, and a touch of salt, and gave it all a whirl in the blender. That then got moved into a saucepan over medium heat and cooked for a few minute. I whisked in some milk and cream, and brought it to a bare simmer. Then, four eggs got their spin in the blender, and then the pumpkin and cream mixture got slowly incorporated. The pumpkin, cream, and egg mixture went into the pie pan, and then into the oven some more.

The house smelled like Thanksgiving, and I would have to wait until the next day to taste my pie (damn that cooling time). I whipped up some cream and added some sugar (which turned out to be too much sugar), sliced myself up a piece of cooled pumpkin pie, and took a fork of it to my mouth. The pumpkin filling had a creamy, custard-like consistency and texture but the amount of spice was slightly overbearing. The ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon were battling with the flavor of the pumpkin, and that triumvirate seemed to be winning.

The crust itself was flakey and crisp. However, the portion of the crust that lined the bottom of the pie was noticeably very thin, barely providing any sort of foundation for the creamy filling. The crust to filling ratio was totally off. I must have been too enthusiastic with my rolling.

Adjustments would have to be made for the real Thanksgiving pumpkin pie. And, because I wasn’t proud enough of that pie to share with other and because the pie itself wasn’t non-edible, I would have to eat the pie myself, incorporating pie into every meal.

The wrong oyster company

2006-10-28T21:28:00.000-07:00

I was nervous about how well I would be able to handle a drive up the windy roads of Highway One up to Marin and how my stomach would manage raw oysters after a night of drinking and dancing and a morning with a pounding headache. But Jeanne and Ross were coming from Modesto to get oysters with Scott and me, and I couldn’t disappoint them by saying that I was too hungover to make the trip. So, I sucked it up. I showered and had some coffee (I refrained from the aspirin since the last time I took it after a night of drinking left me with an afternoon of vomiting). The four of us packed up our snacks, drinks, and oyster tools and made our way across the Golden Gate Bridge and north to Marin.

Scott sat shot-gun as I was behind the wheel, trying to steer us safely in a car that wasn’t mine and trying to concentrate on not being queasy. Jeanne, Ross, and Scott all tried to grasp on to something as I weaved around the tight corners. I swore to them that I am a good driver while squealing, “Whee...where’s the road?”

We made our first stop at Point Reyes Station, heading straight for the Cowgirl Creamery. We picked up some cheese (a wheel of the creamily smooth Mt. Tam and a wedge of a goat cheese), some more drinks (an Orangina for me), and some steamed artichokes with a lemon mayonnaise sauce. After a photo-opp with a miniature-sized blue Datsun pickup truck, we were back on the road.

The drive didn’t look familiar to me but Scott said we were going the right way. After driving for a few more minutes and being very convinced that the path we were on was not the usual path I take to get oysters, we pulled over and referenced the map. Scott showed me where he was directing us and I showed him where I thought we were going. Our locations were on opposite sides of the Tomales Bay. We were both thinking of oyster farms on a bay but we were thinking of different bays and different farms. Oh, well. We decided to go to Scott’s oyster farm since we wouldn’t have to journey around a body of water to get there. We turned off Sir Francis Drake and headed onto a very narrow dirt path, casting clouds of dust along our way. I wondered where Scott was taking us but soon enough we found a parking lot and made our way out of the car.

This looked nothing like the Tomales Bay Oyster Company nor the Hog Island one. I wasn’t sure what to do but the sign told us that we were at Drakes Bay Oyster Company, certified by Marin Organic. After scoping out the place and our different oyster options, we ordered four dozen small oysters and took them to go. We got back into the car and drove to what somehow got referred to the “end of the world.” On the map, this “end of the world” spot appeared to be the western most point of California, but we could’ve been wrong.

When we finally got there though, it did seem like we were on the edge of the earth, or at least of California’s western coast. We unloaded the trunk, made a little hike up towards the lighthouse, and set up shop on one of the two picnic tables. We unpacked our picnic amongst the tourists who had come to enjoy the view on this ridiculously gorgeous and warm day. I felt bad that were drinking beers, gorging on creamy cheeses and crusty bread, and eating oysters as the people around us were huffing and puffing after a climb to the lighthouse, but I didn’t feel bad enough to offer them any of our food and drink. And, it was beautiful out there, dining with the entire Pacific Ocean in view and with the warm sun on my face. I couldn’t have thought of a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon, even if I still was hungover.

Oakland burger

2006-10-26T16:22:00.000-07:00

I’d been eyeing that In-N-Out off the Hegenberger exit on the 880 for at least a year now. Every time I go to the Oakland Airport, that In-N-Out taunts me, standing there in all its meaty glory knowing that I don’t have time to stop off for a burger since I barely have time to make a mad dash through the security check with shoe laces still untied. But, today was different. As Simron and I headed off the freeway at the Hegenberger exit, I was determined to have lunch at that In-N-Out, and, that determination paid off.

We were going to Oakland for a training session at the Oakland Airport Hilton, an odd place for a financial workshop and an even more oddly laid-out hotel. After three hours of sitting in a freezing conference room being lectured on the intricacies of the federal financial aid process, we (really, all of us, bosses and all) were ready to ditch those FAFSA worksheets and head for the warmth of meat patties wedged between grilled onions, thousand island sauce, lettuce, tomatoes, and fluffy white buns. The second we were released for lunch, we hurried to the car, zoomed out of the parking lot, and made a bee-line straight for the In-N-Out.

We maneuvered our way around the crowded parking lot with a line of thirty cars waiting for the drive-through. I wondered where all these people were coming from since there isn’t much in terms of businesses or homes near the airport. We squeezed inside the In-n-Out white building, and I stepped up the counter, “Could I have a Number 1 animal-style with extra pickles, please?” It’s a well-rehearsed line, one whose origin dates back to my high school days, when I went to a school that was situated across from the twentieth In-N-Out to be in existence (the first one is located in the nearby city of Baldwin Park).

This Oakland burger was just as good as all those that I’ve had on homecoming trips to LA. The lettuce was crispy, the grilled onions were the perfect color of translucent bronze, the bun had just the slightest bit of crunch around the edges, the cheese melted into everything, and the meat was, eh, okay (the meat patties aren’t anything to write home about, but I think it’s the combination of all the other burger elements that makes an In-N-Out burger so good). I inhaled my burger, pushed those bits of meat into my mouth with those crisp French fries, and tried not to choke as I sipped my Lemon-Up.

Sitting there outside on those round tables covered by those red umbrellas on a warm day like today made me feel, just for the slightest moment, that I was in LA again. Too bad that bit of daydreaming reminiscence was brought to a halt when the reality of two and half more hours of financial aid fun was awaiting me.

Hipster park

2006-10-23T23:15:00.000-07:00

My friend Bill apparently has been on a hipster eating tour of San Francisco restaurants. And, this time around, with me as his companion, he crossed Luna Park off his list.

So, first off, what makes Luna Park a hipster restaurant? Let’s discuss.

1. Location: Luna Park is located right at the epicenter of the San Francisco hipster kingdom on Valencia at 18th.

2. Clientele: The people who eat at Luna Park tend to be on the young-ish side and don the requisite hipster attire. Let’s take for example Bill’s and my outfits. Him: A red button-down collared shirt (but not like the type you’d wear with a tie to a business meeting), dark jeans, Converse All Stars, and a black leather wrist band. Her: Short brown skirt over black tights, fitted black tee-shirt, cute flats, and chunky plastic-framed glasses.

3. Atmosphere: The dim lighting in Luna Park makes it hard to see the person who’s sitting across from you, which is good for first dates. The unnecessarily loud music of the indie-rock persuasion makes it hard to hear the person who’s sitting across from you, which may also be good on first dates. The red walls eerily make you feel like you’re in The Shining. And, for a cute touch, the women’s bathroom sign is an arty-looking piece rather than the usual triangular-bodied white figure.

4. Waitstaff: Not only do the waiters and waitresses of Luna Park exude an “I couldn’t care less” attitude, they also demonstrate it by lounging around chatting as guests walk through the door hoping to be seated and also as they wait for their order to be placed. The waitstaff is also uniformed in the ways of the hipster. The boys, of whom I am known to be fond, are displayed in dark non-loose jeans, black tee-shirts, shaggy mop of hair, prominent and non-sleazy facial hair, thick plastic-framed glasses, and tattoos.

5. Food and drink: The dinner menu is nothing fancy but boasts some well-made comforts--pork cutlet with mashed potatoes, baby back ribs, and macaroni and cheese. And, Pabst Blue Ribbon (“in a can!”) can be purchased for $3.

As Bill and I were properly attired, we were set to walk through the red curtains and enter the dimly lit lounge that is Luna Park. We started with the goat cheese fondue with grilled bread chunks and green apple. The cheese had the texture of the bright orange version that tops the nachos of some of the neighborhood taquerias, but it was a tasty addition to those toasty cubes of bread and a salty, creamy counterpoint to the crunchy, sharp tang of the apple slices.

I ordered the grilled salmon with black lentils and a salad of mandarin orange slices, kalamata olives, cherry tomatoes, and watercress. The salmon was nicely cooked with a crispy skin and a velvety rare interior. It, however, was heavily seasoned with salt and pepper (and not much else), which wasn’t the most pleasant experience. The black lentils were also a little more salty than suits my preference, but they were tender and a satisfactory accompaniment to the fish. The salad was the highlight of my plate, with refreshingly clean and fresh flavors.

For dessert, Bill and I shared the bourbon pecan chocolate cake with mint chip ice cream. It was my choice of dessert, and I chose it because it seemed to the most interesting combination of flavors. I should have known to stick with the classics, such as the crème brulee. The cake we had was okay but nothing spectacular. It was quite dense though, taking a good amount of arm work trying to cut my spoon through the slice. I could have eaten the mint chip ice cream all night long though.

To drink, because you can’t have a hipster meal without drinks, neither Bill nor I ordered the $3 PBRs. I had a glass of the It’s Okay Rose, and it wasn’t only because of the name, although that was a huge draw. It was because the season when it’s still socially acceptable to drink roses is soon coming to an end. My rose was more red than most, but it had a fruity and clean flavor.

We headed across the street to the Elbo Room afterward for more drinks: two vodka tonics with extra limes for me and two PBRs at $1 a piece for Bill. There we were, two twenty-somethings drinking vodka tonics and PBRs on a Monday night—it couldn’t get more hipster than that.

Citizen brunch

2006-10-21T14:45:00.001-07:00

I don’t know why I don’t go to Citizen Cake more often. It’s 4.5 blocks away from my house, so it’s within a more than reasonable walking distance. It has delicious food and even more delectable desserts, so the edibles alone would be worth the short journey. I think it might have something to do with the crowd who eats there. This afternoon, when I met Winnie for Saturday brunch (even though we had seen each other just two hours earlier), this seemed even more pronounced.

As we were waiting outside for our table, dozens of people wearing suits, crisply ironed shirts, and shiny pointed and heeled shoes were coming through the Citizen Cake doors. I was wearing my favorite pair of dirt-and-grease-stained jeans cuffed up at the bottom with a tank top and striped 80’s-looking polo shirt, and Winnie, who just came back from a run, was wearing some gaucho pants and a tank top. We both were feeling a little self-conscious.

But, we got seated amongst the older crowd who looked as if they were on their way to an afternoon at the symphony, and perused the menu. I decided on the shitake mushroom, Fontina cheese, and arugula omelet with a side of bacon (I don’t usually order bacon but I eyed the bacon heading toward the man next to us and it looked heavenly). And Winnie had the Dutch baby, which I didn’t now is a puffed up pancake.

My fluffy yellow crescent mound was topped with some leafy greens, and on a separate smaller plate came three strips of thick, crisp pig meat. The mushrooms of the omelet tasted very distinctly and strongly of shitake mushroom, which has a much more powerful flavor than that of the bland button, and I was surprised by its intensity. It, quite honestly, overpowered the other flavors of the Fontina and the arugula, which were both playing second fiddle to the shitake. And, though the egg was light and fluffy as a good omelet should be, the richness of all the butter that was used made the final few bits a challenge to eat.

My bacon, on the other hand, had no such problem going into my mouth. The strips on my plate tasted just as good as I thought them to be. They were crisp, meaty, and salty. And eating them with my bare fingers left just the slightest shine of grease on my tips. How I wished bacon didn’t have such a Midwestern obesity stigma to it.

And, the bit of Winnie’s Dutch baby that I had tasted like a warm apple pie, although Winnie assured my that there were no apples to speak of in her dish.

We left Citizen Cake delightfully full, but not so full as to pass up getting a scoop of plum sorbet on our way out, which was a refreshing finish to the heavy eggs and pork.

Oh, and Elizabeth Falker and her Citizen Cake cooking team will be battling Cat Cora on Iron Chef Sunday, October 29th. Go San Francisco!

Project dinner

2006-10-18T23:32:00.000-07:00

For the past several weeks, if it’s a Wednesday evening I’m sure to be found sitting on my couch in front of the television. I would say that I’m not one who watches much television, but I’ve been noticing lately that I’ve been sitting and staring at a black box for more hours of a day than I’d like to admit. And, my recent obsession has been Project Runway, the real-life competition where 16 fashion designers duke it out to see whose designs and sewing skills have the edge to beat out their competitors.

This Wednesday was the season finale, the grand showdown where the four remaining designers would show their collection at New York’s Fashion Week. And, for this momentous event, we had to have an equally momentous dinner, which obviously meant fried chicken and mac ‘n’ cheese.

The last time we made fried chicken in this house, Jeanne did it so I had no idea how it came about. But this time, I was frying solo. When I got home from work, I prepped the chicken pieces and soaked them in buttermilk with some salt, pepper, and Tapatio for seasoning. I dunked my hands into the pot of chicken and buttermilk to make sure everything was coated, and didn’t realize how numbingly cold chicken and buttermilk could be. I stuck the whole pot in the refrigerator as I made the cheesy casserole.

After cooking the macaroni to a super al dente, I poured in the mixture of evaporated milk, eggs, dry mustard, and more Tapatio, along with about half the grated cheese. After that got mixed in and melted together, I poured in the rest of the evaporated milk and the rest of the cheese. When its cheesy goodness looked like it had melted, I seasoned with salt, pepper, a little more dry mustard, and a little more Tapatio. It then got poured into a baking pan and topped with bread crumbs and more cheese (I had forgotten the butter on this batch too, making the top crust a little more bread crumbly). It then got put in the oven to get a nice golden brown crust but it got a little more brown than I would have liked. Scott had to remind me that the mac ‘n’ cheese was still in the oven, and he did so just in time since another few minutes in the oven would have been a catastrophe. Ryan spent the next few minutes scrapping off the darkened bits of cheese and bread crumbs.

As for the frying the chicken, I started by first scooping out cups of Crisco into my cast iron skillet and watching that heat up. Then, in went the buttermilk-soaked and floured-dredged chicken pieces skin down. As I put in piece after piece, I noticed how the level of melted Crisco was climbing very closely to the top of the pan and decided to ladle out some of the liquid Crisco. Mmm…how appetizing that bowl of melted fat looked. Ten minutes on one side, ten minutes on another, and the chicken was fried to a dark tan deliciousness.

Scott sautéed some spinach and made some brownies from a box. Prasad brought over some chips. And Ryan came with pink lemonade. We were ready to sit in front of the television for hours and to scoff and marvel at the designs.

Hamburger help me

2006-10-17T20:24:00.000-07:00

Scott and I just had dinner. We had Hamburger Helper Beef Stroganoff. I hadn't had Hamburger Helper in probably more than a decade at least. I don't know what we were thinking when we bought it--maybe that it would be funny. But, as we were eating it, we weren't completely disgusted.

On the side was an organic spring mix green salad, which I dressed with Annie's Organic Goddess dressing.

Birthday homecoming

2006-10-09T23:49:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember the last time I spent time in Los Angeles in the month of October. Actually, I take that back. It must have been October of 1998. That’s the October before I graduated from high school and the October before I moved to Berkeley and never moved back. That October birthday was probably also the last birthday I celebrated with my parents.

I went back to LA again this weekend. I had originally planned the trip to see Olivia, who is newly pregnant. And, as it happened, my birthday fell just a few days before I was to land at LAX. My mom would undoubtedly, at the very least, want to have a birthday cake along with the obligatory posed photos. And, Eleanor, who flew down to LA too, would have to endure this and my family for the weekend.

Here’s a brief rundown of the weekend:

Thursday
-Yet another meal at Oakland International Airport: a fried chicken strip sandwich with French fries.
-Vietnamese rice noodles with eggrolls, shrimp skewers, and grilled pork with a lemon fish sauce in a restaurant full of students (probably from UCLA) a few blocks away from Jeanne’s apartment in West LA.

Friday
-Breakfast at The Corner Bakery: a soggy Panini filled with scrambled egg and ham.
-Afternoon tea at the Huntington Library Tea Room: raspberry tea, finger sandwiches, scones, cucumber salad, fruit, and desserts.
-Dinner with the family, Asian dinner banquet style in Monterey Park: cold meat appetizer plate; scallops with asparagus; lobster; fried shrimp covered in preserved egg; golden shark fin soup; fried rice; abalone and sea cucumber with sautéed mustard greens; Peking duck; beef and butternut squash; mango pudding.
-Birthday cake with obligatory photos.
-Drinks and karaoke at the Silver Mug: two vodka tonics with extra lime, “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” “We Belong,” “Rebel Rebel”

Saturday
-Breakfast at the parent’s house: pork and preserved duck egg rice porridge.
-Afternoon at the Santa Anita Race Track: two Heinekens, an overly cheesy sausage pizza, $20 lost on the ponies.
-Pre-dinner snack: two fish tacos from Wahoo’s.
-Dinner at the parent’s house, minus the parents: fish stomach soup; boiled chicken; mushrooms and sea cucumber; fried noodles; fried fish; bok choy; stir-fried green beans; shrimp with walnuts and mayonnaise-y sauce.

Sunday
-Dim sum at Happy Harbor Restaurant: the usual dim sum delicacies, plus exploding steam buns with sweet yellow filling.
-Afternoon snack / lunch: warm bubble milk tea and spicy popcorn chicken.
-Dinner in Koreatown: Seafood tofu soup.
-Drinks and karaoke at The Smog Cutter: Two vodka tonics with extra lime, “I Want You to Want Me,” “We Belong,” “A Little Prayer,” “Dancing Queen.”

Birthday morning cupcake

2006-10-04T16:54:00.000-07:00

I hadn't written in a while, and I'm not exactly sure why. Life, essays to edit, grad school preparation has gotten the better of me, apparently.

But yesterday was my 25th birthday. I wasn't planning on doing anything on the commemorating day of my birth. Birthday dinner would happen in a week and a half, and I would be going home to LA to visit my family and pregnant sister, so I'd celebrate there too. But Scott didn't think not doing anything on the actual day of my birth was right. So, he remedied that.

I woke up as usual and took my usual morning shower. What was not usual was the knock on my bedrdoom door. It was Scott, in his boxer shorts with sleep still in his eyes and a plate carrying a cupcake with a lighted candle in his hand. Still in my robe with wet hair dripping, I asked in usual Susan fashion, "Do we have to sing or can I just blow it out?" We didn't sing and I had a cupcake for breakfast as I walked to the bus stop.

Maybe the new 25 year-old Susan, hopefully wiser and more responsible than her former self, will be able to make more of a blog commitment. I feel like I say that every six weeks though.

Battle curry

2006-09-10T23:44:00.000-07:00

It’s amazing what some drunken boasting can lead to. However, never before has it led to a battle of culinary skill. I must have been rather toasted at Ryan’s party if I somehow thought it was reasonable for Prasad and me to go head-to-head in an Indian curry challenge. What was I thinking? He’s Indian and actually from India. Sure, I’m pretty handy in the kitchen but I’m no sub-continent native. I don’t have spices running through my veins. I don’t eat raw green chilies as a snack. And, most importantly, I don’t have an Indian mother who, for sure, knows how to make awesome curry. I would get clobbered at a curry off. But, I was drunk, I said I could cook, and there was no way I was going to back down from a curry off.

Prasad and I chose a day. We chose a place. We invited friends to be the judges. All we needed were the chicken curries.

I started mine early in the afternoon for a seven o’clock showdown. It’s a pretty basic chicken curry. Toast some spices (green cardamom, black peppercorns, cumin, coriander, cinnamon, cloves, dried red chilies) in some oil. Then sauté some garlic, onions, and ginger until brown. Toss in some green chilies and some cayenne and tumeric. Add some chopped tomatoes with a couple of tablespoons of tomato paste. Then, blend the mixture. Put the chopped chicken sprinkled with tumeric, cayenne, and salt in the hot pot. Add some plain yogurt. Stir in the blended tomato mix along with some water or stock. Simmer until it’s done. Then finish with some lemon and chopped cilantro. It’s not too tough, and I was ready well in advance.

Prasad showed up with his pot of curry with the lid duct-taped secure. As he went to park his car, Scott removed the duct tape and I had a quick peek. His was a darker color than mine and looked foreboding. I took a quick taste too. The first thing that hit me was the intensity of the spiciness. My eyes widened and my nostrils flared. I make a spicy curry and I can handle heat, but his curry was about to knock me down flat. I was nervous.

Prasad came back and we made several pots of basmati rice. We had beers as Scott stirred our curries over low heat. We chatted about hot sauce and chilies. We discussed cooking methods and ingredients. We waited for rice to cook and guests to arrive.

When the guest judges arrived, all 18 of them it turned out, we ladled up the curry. Mine was on one side of the plate, Prasad’s was on the other, and in between was a barrier of basmati. The visible difference between the curries was the color. One was dark with tinges of brown and green, whereas the other was more of an orangey-hued brown. We referred to them as “light” and “dark.”

Our judges dug in, mmm-ing at the curries while wiping sweat from their brow and reaching for more beer, water, or, in some cases, milk. They asked whose curry belonged to whom, but we kept tight lips. They went back for more rice. They went back for more curry. They went back and forth in their contemplation of whose curry they liked better. And, they were adamant to put the curries to a vote.

As Scott spearheaded the tallying of curry favorites, Prasad and I were relegated to the confines of the kitchen, amused and surprised at the intensity at which our friends were taking the judgment of curry. After all the drunken boasting of how awesome my curry is, I didn’t care that much anymore. We had friends over for food and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Or, maybe I didn’t care because I was anxious that my curry wouldn’t be the winning one. Maybe that was Prasad’s reason for not caring so much for the vote either. Was he nervous about losing a curry off to a Chinese girl?

Scott returned to the kitchen with the results and it turned out to be a dead tie. Eight votes for Prasad’s and eight votes for mine. Four people refrained from the vote, only because they knew who made what. There couldn’t have been a more unbelievable outcome and when the results were announced, no one believed it.

In the end though, I think our friends were the winners. They had a free dinner on a Sunday evening, and what’s not to like about a free dinner? But, we do have Curry Off 2007 in the works. It’ll be lamb.

Curry off

2006-09-03T00:33:00.000-07:00

Somehow, I was challenged by (or I challenged--I can't remember exactly since I was probably a little drunk when it happened) Prasad, Ryan's friend, to a curry off. We'd each make our version of Indian chicken curry and see whose is the finer fare.

Curry Off will take place at seven o'clock next Sunday at my house. We need judges, so if you want to exercise your taste buds in a battle of curries, let me know.

Hipster flavor

2006-09-02T23:55:00.000-07:00

I had forgotten how many hipster 24 year-olds there are in the Mission. And, I don't really think of myself as one, until Scott, or someone else, makes some remark.

Tonight Scott, his friend Jose, and I walked over to El Buen Sabor on Valencia and 18th for some food. On our walk there from our house, we encountered several groups of twenty-somethings. The first group (two boys and two girls, all of whom were wearing either tight jeans, hooded sweater/sweatshirt, and blazer or some combination of those items) were talking about how cool "Stairway to Heaven" is when sung backwards in Norwegian. The second group (a foursome of dingy-looking and kinda drugged-out girls) were walking by the community thrift store on Valencia when one remarked, "This is the best thrift store ever." The third group of three boys and two girls was eating at El Buen Sabor as well, was dressed in regulation hipster uniform, and looked as if, as Scott described it, they were on a group Mormon date.

As I sat there eating my super taco (it really was super, piled high with grilled steak, black beans, cheese, rice, and lettuce) and drinking my Modelo, I made a mental note to shop for non-blazer jackets, to not wear my Chuck Taylors quite as often, to not get my hair cut asymmetrically, and to be proud of the fact that few people guess that I'm as young as I really am.

Baking dish dinner

2006-09-01T23:08:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago, Manoella and I had dinners together regularly Tuesday nights. We’d cook at her house and watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. This was when we were both AmeriCorps VISTAs, earning a poverty-level living stipend, which amounted to approximately $800 a month, a pittance really and an almost impossible income to live off of in San Francisco. I don’t know how we managed and I don’t know what happened to those Tuesday dinners. But, making up for lost time and lost dinners, I invited Manoella and her boyfriend over for a Friday night meal of turkey lasagna and peach cobbler.

The last time I had Manoella over for dinner, I had also made a lasagna. That time I didn’t realize how much more salt the parmesan cheese would add to dish and had over-seasoned. This time, I would learn my lesson and not be so heavy-handed with the dousing of sodium. I started the lasagna by making a pretty basic tomato sauce. Sautee some onions and garlic. Toss in the turkey (Manoella was still not eating four-legged animals) and cook until brown. Then add some diced tomatoes, simmer, and season with whatever you find in the cupboard. I grated up some mozzarella and some parmesan and took out the ricotta. I was ready to layer. Noodles, sauce, cheese, noodles, sauce, cheese. Pretty easy stuff.

Next came the peach cobbler. I hadn’t initially intended on making dessert but we were given part of the afternoon off from work, which gave me time to bake a cobbler, something I hadn’t done in a few years and which I missed. It’s still prime pitted fruit season and I had some gorgeously succulent peaches earlier in the week, so I decided peach would be the way to go. I peeled and sliced my peaches, tossed them with some cornstarch, sugar, vanilla, nutmeg, and cinnamon, put them into a baking dish and into the over for fifteen minutes for them to release some of their juices. In the meantime, I set about making a butter cookie topping with a heart attack inducing amount of butter, sugar, flour, vanilla, egg, baking powder, and salt. This mixture got spooned all over the top of the peaches and then into the oven some more.

When Manoella and Connan arrived, the lasagna just needed to brown its top and the cobbler was cooling. Timing couldn’t have worked out better. I made a Caesar salad and used the croutons I had made earlier in the week, and we sat down to dinner. The lasagna wasn’t too salty this time and neither was it too cheesy (as the time Scott and I made one not too many weeks ago). The noodles were just the right amount of tenderness and the sauce was richly flavored. The cobbler, which I could have eaten the whole dish of, was delicious. The peaches were sweet but not sugary so. And the butter cookie topping, which had spread across the entire pan, was crisp, sweet, and chock full of buttery goodness. I was glad to have Manoella over for dinner again.

Cliff Bar revisited

2006-08-31T10:43:00.000-07:00

I remember one of my first posts. It was about a Chocolate Chip Peanut Crunch Cliff bar. As I was eating one this morning, it brought me back to those early blogging days, when I was much more on top of posting regularly, getting so anxious to even post multiple times a day.

Today’s Cliff Bar was just as I remembered that one more than a year ago. It was dry and had no peanut flavor to speak of, but it satisfied some very basic hunger craving. We’ll see if my blog posting frequency reverts back to 2005 times.

Little Star birthday

2006-08-30T23:51:00.000-07:00

I like birthday dinners. Food, friends, general merriment--what’s not to like? Last night was Ryan’s 26th birthday (I forgot how he described what it feels like to turn 26 but it surely warranted Hallmark status) and he had his birthday dinner at Little Star Pizza. I like Little Star Pizza and I like Ryan, so dinner with him and his friends was a definite must.

I met him at his place and we walked up the hill to Divisadero with his two teacher roommates. After a not-too-long wait in the cold (even for a group of nine) and a bit of a snarky remark from the hostess, we had a spot inside. We left the cold for the dark, loud, tomato sauce scented warmth.

We shared the Classic, the Mediterranean Chicken, and the Little Star deep-dish pies. And, Carlo ordered me a light beer. When the pizzas came, I had no idea which one was which and what had what in it. A slice got put on my plate and it was time to play Name That Pizza Topping. I tasted and felt the dry texture of overcooked chicken breast (it was the Mediterranean Chicken one, apparently). And, I tasted the saltiness of olives, although these weren’t the usual black rounds from a can that usually top pizzas but were green and tasted nothing of tin can. The next slice I encountered was the Classic with sausage and bell peppers. The flavors of the Classic were more robust than that of the Mediterranean and it’s by far my favorite of the two (I think this was a shared opinion among the others of our group as well).

When our pizza plates got cleared away, the waiter brought over a slice of cheesecake with a candle in it. We sang “Happy Birthday” to Ryan in what seemed like almost muted tones (I couldn’t tell if we were singing at all halfway through the song) and then dug our spoons into the cake and the rich chocolate ice cream that sat beside it. Both were great, as was hanging out with Ryan on his birthday.

Bodega Bistro

2006-08-29T22:32:00.000-07:00

Any Vietnamese restaurant that doesn’t have bins of green plastic chopsticks and a tin of paper napkins on the table will get a suspicious look from me. Those were staples of all the Vietnamese restaurants I ate at as a kid in LA and those items, to me, signal authenticity. So when Greg and I walked into Bodega Bistro in the Tenderloin and were met by a very welcoming host, plum-colored walls, folded cloth napkins, and a prominently displayed wine selection, not only did doubts automatically start registering in my head but I was just plain confused. What was this place? Were we really in the Tenderloin? I felt like Alice and this was my Wonderland.

We sat down and were handed well-worn menus. Not only did these menus not display color photos and weren’t covered in heavy lamination, but there was French on them--potages, canard, poulet. I sat there studying the menu for ages, drawing memories from three semesters of college-level French and a summer spent in Paris, and tried to match the English with their French counterpart. I was intrigued by almost all of the items and wanted them all. But, in the end, I went with what I knew--the pho with all those beefy configurations in it. Greg ordered the orange duck, one of the many French dishes, and the fried calamari. I assured him that we could share and that I’d eat the squid.

The calamari came out first. It was piled high on a bed of shredded lettuce and came with a sweet and sour sauce (the one that I saw many times over in Thailand). Each piece of calamari was a bit of the squid’s middle--no tentacles in this dish--and was delicately tender. The batter was light and super garlicky.

Our noodles came next. The man who I assumed to be the owner asked us earlier if we’d be sharing and offered to split the noodles into two separate bowls for easier eating. We took him up on it. The noodle soup was delivered in beautiful blue bowls, the most attractive pho presentation I’d seen yet. The soup was well-seasoned without being overwhelming. And there was a hefty--a bit too hefty--proportion of beef to noodles but no tripe. It was a good pho though not one that knocked my socks off (a strange expression, by the way).

The duck was slow to arrive at our table and when we asked about it, the waiter was very apologetic, told us that it was on its way, and assured us that the group of diners next to us, which had a duck dish landing on their table, did not order the same duck as ours. When our duck came, it was attractively presented. The rounds of duck breast were fanned out in a circle resting on a faint orange-hued glaze-like sauce. A plate of fried noodles also came with the duck, a surprise to me since there was no mention of it on the menu. The duck was moist and buttery soft, with a subtle hint of the sweet orange sauce. The noodles tasted of garlic, and the two went surprisingly well together.

When we thought we were done, our waiter placed a crème caramel on our table, compliments of the house, a nice touch and a pleasant surprise.

As we left, I wanted to tell our waiter that I loved him. The service was attentive without being fawning, and the whole atmosphere of the place was relaxed and welcoming. I didn’t tell our waiter that I loved him but maybe the next time I go there I will. Now that I know that I’m not in Wonderland but a Vietnamese restaurant that explicitly recognizes that country’s strong French influence, I’ll be less cautious about what I order.

Sisterly weekend

2006-08-20T23:23:00.000-07:00

Whenever Jeanne comes to visit, we do an inordinate amount of eating (and, this time, drinking). There’s so much eating going on that one wonders where all the food has room to get squeezed into our bodies. This weekend’s short visit was no different.

Jeanne and Stevie showed up at the house a little after two in the morning Saturday. We stayed up until after four doing who knows what and eating microwaved chicken and pork buns that our mom made. They were a little chewier than usual, probably due to the microwaving, but at three in the morning and being oddly hungry, anything will taste good.

We woke up late the next morning to make preserved duck egg and pork congee. I made a request to my mom that she make this for me and have Jeanne drive it up, but she didn’t. Instead, she sent up the necessary ingredients—pork, preserved duck egg, dried scallops—so that I could make my own. Jeanne started the pot off with three cups of rice and nine cups of water, a proportion that we would later learn was short on water. Dressed in our pajamas and still with crusty eyes and crooked hair, we stirred that pot of rice and water, sliced and seasoned pork, and watched as a miracle was about to happen. The rice kept soaking up water and we kept pouring more in. We dumped in the dried scallops that had been soaking in hot water. We dumped in the pork slices seasoned with fish sauce and sugar. And, at the very end, we dumped in the pieces of preserved duck egg. We seasoned it with some salt and a little more fish sauce. And, each individual bowl was topped off with a couple grinds of pepper, some chopped cilantro, and sesame oil. It tasted almost like Mom’s.

After breakfast, we headed over to Frjtz’s for a second breakfast, or first lunch, however you wish to see it. Jeanne and I split a crepe with crème fraiche, smoked salmon, and chives. As seems to be the case with almost all the savory crepes I order from Frjtz’s, this one was a little salty too. The fries, however, were yummy, as always. And, I think I’ve found my favorite two dipping sauces: pesto mayo and peppercorn ranch (yum, fat!).

We made our way to the Mission to do a little thrift store shopping (Jeanne found a cute pair of shoes, Stevie bought a pair of tiny shorts, and I scored with a top for $1.74) and a round of nachos at one of the taquerias on Valencia at 16th. Jeanne, Stevie, Eli, and I split a large plate of nachos with what seemed like fake cheese, refried beans, guacamole, sour cream, chicken and steak, and topped with a healthy squirt of hot sauce. It was messy and deliciously satisfying.

It was almost time for dinner but we had enough time before our reservation for drinks, so we went to Badlands in the Castro, where they were having two for one specials and where some strange music videos were playing on the several TVs hanging from the walls. Jeanne and I split a couple of vodka tonics.

For dinner, we ate at the Sausage Factory on Castro and 18th. We stupidly filled up on bread as we were waiting for the rest of our party, and decided to change our two entrée order to the caprese salad and spaghetti with spicy meat sauce to share. I’ve had better caprese salads. This one had salty, squishy olives, iceberg lettuce, and tomatoes that weren’t at the peak of freshness. The large plate of spaghetti was smothered with a red sauce that held up to its spicy description. I could feel my stomach gurgling with the pangs of spices churning in gastric juices as I put bite after bite of garlicky sauce covered noodles into my mouth. I was beginning to wonder how much spicy food my stomach could actually handle.

After dinner, we made our way to the Transfer for drinks. Jeanne and I were beginning to really feel the exhaustion of staying up until four in the morning the night before hit us, and after a round of vodka tonics and three sessions in the photo booth, we made our exit. We went over to Safeway to buy picnic supplies, and went home to eat ice cream and make rice krispie treats (one batch with marshmallows and one batch with marshmallow cream for our vegetarian guest).

We woke up early Sunday to prep for our picnic at Stern Grove, where Ozomatli would be closing out the season. We heated up some leftover congee for breakfast, packed up our wine and snacks, and left the warm house for the overcast San Francisco summer outdoors.

We met up with Gabe and some of my other coworkers and their friends, and squeezed our way onto a spot on the ground. It was eleven o’clock (the first band wouldn’t go on until two in the afternoon) but the place was packed (people apparently had started arriving at seven in the morning). All the lawn seating was taken and people were crowded onto the tree covered slope as well. We settled in, pulled out our roast beef sandwich with horseradish mayonnaise, our New York Cheddar Kettle Chips, and rice krispie treats, and had a morning picnic. Our neighbors shared their juicy and succulently sweet watermelon and their crumb cake. We shared our New York Times and marshmallow treats. By the end of the afternoon, we finished our bottles of the rose, the Riesling, and the chardonnay, danced until our bare feet were dirty and bruised, and ate until our bellies were full. It was time to pack up.

We drove back toward the house to meet Stevie and Eli for dinner. After going to Tu Lan to find out that they’re closed on Sundays, we met them at another Vietnamese restaurant in the Tenderloin on the corner of Larkin and either Eddy or Ellis. We shared the fried spring rolls, which were crisp and tasty. I ordered the extra large bowl of pho, only to eat three bites of it and took the rest home. I felt like I had failed, but I think my body telling me I had to stop eating. It was getting to be too much. The waitress kindly packed up my noodles as I said thank you in Cantonese, and we headed home.

Jeanne and Stevie packed up the rest of their stuff and made their way to the freeway to drive back to LA. I did some dishes and passed out. Yet another good visit.

Dot hearts

2006-08-13T23:41:00.000-07:00

The crowd of people, the long wait, the clanking of dishes, and the loud chatter of a roomful of Cantonese people can be a bit much to handle early in the morning, especially after having spent the previous night up late dancing and taking shots of tequila in a random bedroom. But, I braved it all for dim sum at Koi Palace in Daly City.

According to my Cantonese workers, this was the place to go for dim sum in the Bay and we had made plans to meet there for Sunday brunch. There were six of us—Billy, Jo, Alex, Katherine, her boyfriend Nick, and me—and a sea of other eager diners waiting, wrestling, for a table.

Trying to get a table at a busy dim sum restaurant on a Sunday morning is like a game of bingo. You show up, you get a number from the host, you clench that slip of paper tightly in your first, repeating the number over and over in a bare whisper, you anxiously wait for your number to be called, and when it finally is you feel like a winner. It’s high drama at its finest. Then, once table procurement is accomplished, you try to squeeze and maneuver your way around the room jam-packed with tables full of diners with chopstick weapons in their hands and servers carrying pots of boiling tea and trays of steam baskets with dumplings and buns barreling straight at you with no sign of letting you pass first or even of stepping to the side. Quick feet and a sharp mind pay off here.

I was happy to finally make it to our table, which was a little small for the six of us but manageable. We settled in, ordered a pot of jasmine tea, and waited for the food frenzy to begin.

There were items being walked around by the waitresses that I had never seen before. According to Alex, one of the reasons why Koi Palace is so popular is because they have tons of items on their menu, most of which you don’t see at other dim sum restaurants. I was wary of some of those plates being brought over to our table, but we got some things that I never had before in all my countless of times of going out for dim sum, including the duck tongue and egg custard tart topped with bird nest.

I’m a daring eater but there was something about the duck tongue that got to me. I don’t know if it was because the duck tongue looked so much like duck tongue or that they were so small and pale brown or that they were just something I wasn’t used to, but I had to really think about eating one before I took my chopsticks to the little plate of tongue, picked one up, and put it on my own. The tongue had a chewy consistency on the outside that tasted just slightly salty and in the middle was the inedible thick cartilage that got discarded. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t so good as to warrant me having to mentally psych myself up to eat more.

The egg custard bird nest tart was an interesting variation of something I’m used to eating, the plain egg custard tart. I’m not exactly sure what bird nest is made of, but I do know that the bird uses its spit to hold the nest together. So, bird nest is also sometimes referred to as bird spit, which was how my coworkers and I were describing it. It seemed like an odd combination but I tried it. The egg custard part was enjoyable; the custard was smooth and sweet while the crust was flakey and light. I couldn’t taste the bird nest that topped it and the jello-like texture just sort of melted into the custard, not adding much to the dish. But, apparently, bird nest has restorative qualities and its production is so costly that I couldn’t bear to waste any of it.

What impressed me most about Koi Palace was the quality of the dim sum standbys. The shrimp dumplings (ha gao) were filled with large and tender shrimps, and the wrapper tasted as if they were freshly rolled in-house. The pork dumping (xiu mai) were made of very finely ground pork (it was almost paste like) with chunks of shrimps for added texture, and the flavors were delicately sweet and salty. The chicken feet (fong jiao) were large, meaty (for chicken feet), and well seasoned. The steamed barbeque pork bun (cha xiu bao) had an airily light dough encasing a succulent pork filling. The steamed shrimp roll (ha chien) was a silky smooth rice noodle wrapped around the largest shrimp I had ever seen and the soy sauce was light enough to not overpower the delicately sweet flavors of the noodle and the shrimp. The eggplant stuffed with shrimp paste (my favorite dim sum dish) was just a little spicy from the eggplant and shrimp paste wedged between the two eggplant slices was delicious. And the deep fried pork dumpling (ham su gok) was crisp on the outside, not at all greasy, chewy within, and full of flavorful pork and mushroom.

We also ordered the beef tripe in a curry sauce, the Shanghai soup dumplings, the shrimp dumplings with chives, the old man tofu (this is how the Chinese gets translated, although it’s a fried tofu dish with a velvety smooth interior), and spring rolls. Each dish was good, and the flavors, compared to other dim sum restaurants, were fresh and clean. We finished all the little plates and left the restaurant just a little bit heavier.

Oh, I also have to mention that Nick, a non-Asian, and I think Katherine as well were both dim sum virgins and ate everything, including the tongue, the feet, and the intestines. That’s impressive.

Taste

2006-08-12T18:04:00.000-07:00

Scott and I woke up this morning unimpressed with the world and with no plans. We escaped the city and headed across the water to warmer parts--the East Bay. After a very brief trip to Ikea, which included an equally brief dash to the car and zoom out of the parking lot, we ventured over to North Berkeley, where we hoped beer and pizza at the Cheese Board would help soothe the world’s, or at least our, woes. But, to our dismay, it was closed, at lunch time on a Saturday afternoon.

But I was hungry (the wafting aroma of Sweedish meatballs at Ikea somehow did me in) and wanted food. We parked the car and walked over to Gregoire on Cedar. I had seen the one on Piedmont in Oakland and wanted to try it, but this one was crowded with no place to sit, and Scott, quite understandably, didn’t want to eat standing out of a box. We moved on.

We rounded the corner onto Shattuck. We passed Cha-am (home of many undergraduate Thai meals), and Chez Panisse (where Eleanor was volunteering for the day), and Cesar (where I once had the most decadently fabulous cheese and pear dessert), and settled on Taste, in what I later found out was called Epicurious Garden.

On our way to our seat on the little sidewalk patio, we passed a funky looking wine machine. It was a large circular contraption that held at least a dozen wine bottles attached to metal spouts with red digital numbers above each bottle. For a wine display, it was an impressive and intimidating one. But, we later learned from Greg, the house wine master, that Taste is a wine tasting bar, where with the purchase of a card that acts like a debit one, we could try as many different wines as we wished. The machine measures out each pour, debits our card, and keeps the wine fresh with, if I remember correctly, nitrogen. Greg also told us that Taste had opened only four months ago.

We didn’t opt for the wine tasting but Scott ordered a glass, which he didn’t like so much and which Greg replaced with a California Syrah that Scott liked better. To eat, we chose the flank steak sandwich with frisee salad and the day’s pizza, which was topped with bacon, roasted garlic, and grilled chicken.

The flank steak sandwich was delicious. The slices of steak were tender and full of beefy flavor. The meat seemed to have been cured beforehand since it was pink without the bloody taste of being rare. A generous but not disgusting portion of horseradish mayonnaise was spread on the thick, crusty toasted slices of baguette. And, the peppery and lemony frisee salad was a refreshing touch.

The pizza was good as well. The flavors of the garlic and bacon were overpowering compared to the chicken, but that didn’t matter since they worked well together in creating something tasty for my mouth. The crust was chewy, in a good way, although it seemed a little too heavy along the outer edges.

We ended our meal with the flourless chocolate cake (it seems like every restaurant has a flourless chocolate cake on their menu nowadays) with the mascarpone cheese topping and fresh blackberries. The cake was rather light, not too sweet and not too rich, as some flourless cakes can be. And the mascarpone cheese, with its slightly heavier consistency than whipped cream and velvety smooth texture, held up well against the cake.

We sat there, leisurely eating our meal in the sun and watching the people walk by. Sure, it wasn’t how we had originally had planned to spend our Saturday (we hadn’t really planned anything at all) but it wasn’t a bad way to while the hours away.