June 2006 Archives

Times like these, I suppose you're never sure really which will be your last meal together. With only a week and a half left before we leave our little cloudy, cliffside home near San Francisco, I can think of little else. For example, a few days ago I thought sadly, this is the last time I'll get to sit in my garden and have a proper giggle with Squeaky McGigglesworth (you know who you are!). And last week, as Milton walked a narrow plank from a rooftop into my arms, I thought, hopefully, this is the last time I'll clamber up a neighbour's house to rescue my curious, high climbing cat.

It's worst with Martha and Stephen. Today, as Glyn lit the coals for the grill, and Stephen distracted the cat from the raw fish and shrimp by twirling a dandelion, I thought, oh no, this will be the last barbecue here with Martha and Stephen. And so I felt a general sense of despair at the moving, and the packing (of which I've done no more than the gesture of dragging the suitcases out to the living room).

When Stephen and I moved to San Francisco, our choice of neighborhood was dictated largely by where we could afford. As recent college graduates with no jobs lined up, we ended up in the Outer Richmond. We have an apartment we love with a rent reasonable enough not to require giving up eating in order to afford it. That's a good thing, because what we lack in clubs and shopping here in the Richmond, we more than make up with food.

We've got great sushi, Korean barbecue, dim sum, a wee tiny place with unbelievable thin-crust pizzas, some of the best roasted crab with garlic noodles in the city, a bistro so classically French you'd think you need your passport, and an intimate Italian place where the owner will serve you the most tender gnocchi you've ever had. They run the gamut from dingy noodle houses to refined destinations, and our favorite of the latter type is Aziza.

At Aziza, chef Mourad Lahlou has melded Moroccan flavors and techniques with California ingredients and style; the results are simply enchanting. Aziza has become a favorite date spot for Stephen and me. The dé cor is dim and sexy with rich colors and just a hint of exotic flair, essentially an ideal location for long looks and holding hands over the table.

I'd been waiting for it to feel like summer, which used to be so clearly marked--with the last day of class opening, and my birthday party at the end of August closing it neatly--that I still need official, mostly edible ways of getting back my Original Summer Feeling. Which is actually a season, I have to remind myself, and not a feeling at all.

Well yes, technically, but for whom does crossing off the corresponding day in the calendar actually mark the change from Spring to Summer? OK, all people who've better things to do than construct situations that will remind them of the idea of summer, point taken. And the first heralder of summer this year was not the usual wafting barbecue smell in the neighbourhood, or a sweet little peach, but a sun hatted, grass-lounging, gin-toting Martha making the most of the sunshine in the city.

I may live a mere thirty miles away, but it's an entirely other weather zone. Her sunny days are usually my grey ones, and vice versa. I ogled the pictures of her strawberries in the sunshine, stared out the window into a dense grey mist, cursed a little, and boiled the kettle for another cup of tea. Soon, I told myself, soon.

Ever since I fell in love with gin, vodka has fallen far by the wayside. When I taste it, my tongue expects the bite of juniper, the perfume of citrus and spice. The straightforward alcohol hit of vodka just isn't the same. Luckily, that blank flavor makes an excellent solvent for a variety of fruits and vegetables. Unluckily, when fruit meets cocktail, all too often the results have more in common with a sugary punch than a dry martini, hardly an acceptable solution for a gin devotee.

When I've infused vodka in the past, I've stuck to pineapple, but lately I've been playing with making some more complicated infusions that don't taste like Hawaiian Punch. My first endeavor combined sweet strawberries with orange zest and basil for fragrance and depth.

The tricky part with these mixed ingredient formulas is the flavor ratio and deciding how long to infuse. Soft fruits and herbs obviously need less time, woodier fruits or vegetables, chilies, and dry spices take longer. I've given pineapple as long as three weeks and mint as little as a few days. It's important to taste every couple of days, just to see how things are coming along. If you use ripe fruit and rich, fragrant aromatics, you shouldn't need to add sugar. The final product should still be dry and refreshing, not syrupy.

I used eight ounces of sliced strawberries, the zest of one orange peeled off in strips, and two leafy sprigs of basil submerged in about three cups of vodka. Within a few hours, the vodka began to leach the color out of the strawberries, turning a deep pink. When I took off the lid for a taste after five days, the smell of the basil hit first, and I worried the final product might be excessively grassy.

After eight days, it seemed the strawberries had given their all, so I strained and tasted again. I mixed it with tonic water and wedges of lime and was entirely pleased. Tejal and Glyn stopped by before we all went to Aziza (which I swear I will eventually write about), and we all had a strawberry orange basil vodka and tonic, to general praise. The strawberry flavor was predominant, but the orange and basil gave a summery freshness. Next up is cherry and star anise, per Glyn's suggestion that the spice might be the ideal addition to those particular fruits. I can't wait to taste it with a splash of ginger ale.

I just finished reading the new Saveur. The pictures of Scottish berries have me decided on Eton Mess for dessert tonight--which is convenient since Glyn picked up the necessary raspberries, cream and meringues on the way home.

Another article that caught my eye: a story of an Indian restaurant serving Parsi food (Martha, remember my mum's dhansak?) called Britannia. It began in 1923 when the shopkeeper signed a 99 year lease and immediately afterwards, opened his doors to British officers stationed in Bombay. The relationship between the two is not explored. During WWII British officers occupied the restaurant and then returned it to the family in 1947.

It isn't mentioned that 1947 was a pretty big year, what with the last British Viceroy of India announcing the partitioning of the British Indian Empire into two countries: India and Pakistan. What with India's independence from Britain and all.

But neither side likes to be reminded too much of the more gruesome days of colonialism, and things did turn a bit ugly after that. So the writer is, as I so often wish I could be, appropriately subtle. Still, the writing's on the wall, so to speak. The insatiable Imperialist appetite that gobbled half the world not so long ago lives on as Britannia's (the restaurant, that is) slogan painted on the wall: "There is no love greater than the love of eating."

It's hard to say if I even would have given a thought to any of this--because so many other things happened in 1947, because nobody cares, because good things came from the British Empire's, and others' expansion too. I certainly couldn't have been without it, and we'd all be on much more limited diets for one thing, Nestlé reminds us.

Forgive the jumpiness, see, I'm reading The Omnivore's Dilemma. And to make matters worse, listening to a particularly jumpy Thelonius Monk album. I was, to be fair to both Pollan and Monk, rather jumpy to begin with--I used to be absolutely terrified, upon swallowing a slippery pip from an orange segment, that a tree would grow inside my belly. I had dreams of being walled in our garden trapped between citrus trees as my meals were lifted up to me in a dumbwaiter attached to the trunks.

Anyway, the next generation needn't worry (unless of course, their parents are buying all heirloom fruits and vegetables--in which case, watch out for those seeds!). Because most seeds spat out, even into a patch of Biblically fertile soil, and with the best rain, drainage, sunshine and a few hours of classical music a day, will not grow (at least, not true to type). They're all hybrids--bred for durability, speed, resistance to disease and chemicals and other things too.

I have also, as far as I can remember, felt an unsettling, urgent, high tempo anxiousness walking up and down the packaged meat aisles of the grocery store. Everything in bloody pieces. If it wasn't for good butcher shops and restaurant walk-in's strung up with whole goats--their tongues rolled out like the cartoon wolf at a hot lounge act--I might never get to see the whole, dead animal. And shouldn't everyone have to spend one afternoon catching a chicken, butchering, or carrying one limp rabbit by its long, soft, ears, to remind themselves of what they're eating. Er, maybe. Well, it isn't called The Vegan's Dilemma, is it?

Last year, I saw a recipe in Saveur for a grilled chili and shallot condiment meant to accompany steak. "Ooh, tasty!" I thought, then I promptly put the magazine into the drawer of no return, a.k.a. the place I put magazines I someday intend to clip the recipes from. Someday, like, if I ever come down with an illness that leaves me bedridden for a month, because at this point, I'm so backed up nothing less than invalidism will give me time enough to do it.

I hadn't thought about the recipe in months when I bought a huge ribeye steak on sale and needed to think of something to do with it. I knew I'd sear in it my trusty iron skillet and divide it between Stephen and myself, but what should I do to guild the lily? I'd nearly made up my mind to whip up a batch of Stilton-Shallot butter when I remembered the recipe from Saveur, and went for a dig through the magazine drawer.

Lacking a grill, I roasted the chilies and shallots on the hot iron skillet. I laid the ribeye slices on a bed of spinach, arugula, and slices radishes sprinkles with sherry vinegar, and spooned some of the chilies over, letting the oil drip down to dress the greens.

Stephen and i found the results yummy, but it was, how rarely do I say this, almost too spicy for us. Perhaps we aren't the chili-heads we think we are, or maybe it's that I bought the chilies at a Mexican produce market thus was in over my head, but this simple condiment was a challenge. Thinking they were just jalapenos, I retained most of the seeds and ribs, and I left the peppers in fairly large pieces. Even with the strong flavors of the beef and greens, and the relief from an icy glass of hefeweizen, we still ended up with pink cheeks and runny noses and a burn that just wouldn't quit.

One of the things I'm most looking forward to when I get back to London is Hampstead Heath. Though I didn't used to live near it, I often went for walks and picnics with Glyn in the summer. We saw baby hedgehogs snorting around the leaves, the pale skyline on the hill, Rachel Weisz frowning and gesturing, people from school secretly snogging, and a number of beautiful, friendly dogs.

I lived on Paddington Green, a tiny public park with a pink rose garden, a swing set, and a pen for the dogs to run around in. I could sit around all afternoon with a picnic checking out the cute dogs, snacking, taking in the sunshine, reading my book, and playing enough frisbee to keep Glyn happy. In the mornings when I had my breakfast and ironed my uniform, I watched the Tai Chi class from the window. After school, the same spot belonged to teenagers with their striped ties loosened, shirts un-tucked, smoking cigarettes and spitting. Smartly dressed couples read the paper on the benches while their little dogs sniffed the bottoms of other smartly dressed couples' little dogs.

Although my building had a private walled garden in the back, I never did go inside, not once--I love public parks and gardens in the city.

I am finding that beer is a vast and endless universe.

Do you know, for example, that there is such thing as the British Guild of Beer Writers? Their forthcoming events include a week long celebration of cask ale, an observance of cider and perry that takes place in "many pubs", and to finish off the season, a boozy little Christmas Reception at the Houses of Parliament. And you thought beer writers were just out to get pickled, sozzled, off their faces, elephant's trunk, drunk on beer? Why that's outrageous; the Wine Guild would never have to take that sort of talk, that's discrimination that is!

And Charlie Mopps? Nothing to do with the invention of the wonderful drink. Beer filled ancient pottery, prompted poems carved onto tablets of stone, took the shape of fertility and harvest goddesses, perfumed monasteries, and eventually industrialised when the steam engine was invented in 1765. To the brew masters, Louis Pasteur was not just That French Scientist. He was The One The Prophecy Foretold, understanding yeast's role in the fermentation of beer, and giving them the means to prevent souring. And as far as fizzy, intoxicating drinks go, that's about as exciting as it gets. Veiny nosed, red-faced sloshers across the world celebrated with a pint. Or two.

And that's it, everything I know about beer. Because apart from every now and then with a curry, I hardly ever drink the stuff.

Cooking for a family of two has certain challenges. These are not the same challenges as those my mother faced for so many years. I don't come home from work and have to wrestle three kids, two of whom are picky, to a dinner they'll all consent to eat, but I've got difficulties of my own. When you're cooking for two, you eat a lot of leftovers. I find if I want to cook anything more complicated than a turkey sandwich, the effort involved to make six servings is no greater than the effort to make two. Of course, that means Stephen and I eat the same soup/macaroni and cheese/tomato sauce for the next three days.

It also means that we sometimes get our courses confused. For instance, a while ago Stephen was craving crab stuffed mushrooms, a typical appetizer-type item where a person might eat two or three. I made the whole recipe and we had them for dinner with a little salad. The pea and asparagus soup I made recently followed a similar pattern. I envisioned the recipe as sort of a sophisticated first course, but we ended up having a large serving as a light a but somewhat elaborate meal.

My mom called just as I was garnishing the soup and preparing to take the picture. I had just burned my arm and I was trying to get the photo before I lost all the natural light. I rushed to finish before the soup got inedibly cold. "Mom," I said, "I'm kind of in the middle of something, I'll call you back!" For a two-person family, that's about as frantic as it gets.

Stephen and I met Tejal and Glyn at the farmer's market in Mountain View yesterday. It's a nice market, big enough for variety, but not so big that I become overstimulated and unable to make reasonable choices. Aside from the guy with an accordian and a box that made his voice echo playing polka covers of popular songs (including Santana's "Oye Como Va"), we had a lovely time. My fridge is so full of fruits and vegetables, I had a hard time finding room for Diet Cokes, truly a horror in my caffeine addicted household.

That evening, we had a sampler of many of the delicious things we bought. Rather notably, we managed to squeeze three different types of not-so-healthy animal fat, not to mention considerable olive oil, into what seemed like a light, summer-y meal.

We had pâté de campagne, an excellent source of delicious pork fat, butter on our radishes, goat cheddar with chipotle, and a mixture of goat crema and sage honey on our ranier cherries and white peaches for dessert. We particularly enjoyed the last course. Tejal was right; the goat crema was just fantastic. Maybe not perfectly healthy, but wonderful nonetheless.

I want to make excellent salsa, not just chopped or pureed tomatoes and onions in a bowl, but a truly nuanced condiment. I seek that elusive balance of chunk and puree, the perfect level of chili heat that lingers but doesn't overwhelm, the ideal acidity. My results have been mostly good, but I'm not happy yet.

I can't explain why it matters to me so much. Stephen is more or less content with (shudder) Pace extra chunky from a jar. He enjoys and appreciates the good stuff, but he probably wouldn't seek it out. To me, most salsa from a jar tastes mostly like jar. It tends to be either insipidly bland or membrane-searingly spicy, have an either watery or slimy texture, and a processed taste that I just can't stomach. I like the Rick Bayless Frontera Grill salsas, but they're kind of hard to find, to expensive to be a regular purchase, and frankly, a little thin to be ideal.

So I persevere, with my eye focused even more eagerly than usual on tomato season. I'm definitely developing some tricks. Charring (as in the above Roasted Tomatillo and Tomato salsa) under a broiler or in a hot cast iron skillet is helpful, particularly when the tomatoes aren't yet perfect. It also always makes tomatillos and chilies more succulent. I seed the tomatoes then chop them and the tomatillos roughly. Then I drain everything, lightly sprinkled with salt and placed in a strainer, like a mad woman. Getting rid of those excess juices has an almost magical effect on the texture and the intensity of the flavor. Also, I've found that I like to puree 1/2-2/3 of the tomatillos and tomatoes, as well as all of the garlic. I finely chop the remaining tomatos and all of the onion, drain it a little more, and mix everything together. I haven't yet achieved salsa zen, but I'm on my way. If I could only figure out the correct chili to tomato ratio, I'd be almost there.

Precisely 12:59 am last night, last order at the Daly City In n' Out Burger was ours: one thick strawberry milkshake, one double double with onions, and one cheeseburger.

I shouldn't have been hungry. Only a couple hours before, I'd met Greg for noodles on Haight street and loitered around the dizzying aisles of Amoeba Music a few blocks away. After standing on the corner long enough to realise the possibility that Haight's apparently crazy roamers--the ones that shout nonsense that every now and then makes a suspicious amount of sense--may in fact be paid to advertise products in their mutterings:

"Chicken nuggets," someone yelled at me a couple of times, and another, after a series of incomprehensible chatter, "Twinkies! Twinkies!" Well, how else do you explain the junk food cravings, the rumblings that came from nowhere, the swerve off the highway towards the neon lights of the In n' Out we expected to be closed?

No bilboards, no wafting aromas, no catchy jingles--human advertising is the sneakiest sort.