Food Woolf – Page 19 – Insights on hospitality from a restaurant professional

Hand me down cravings

Like a yawn, cravings are passed on. Almost anyone that spends time reading food blogs will at some time suffer from this culinary side effect. All it takes is one long look at a mouthwatering on-line photo and the craving is practically downloaded like an attachment.

Cravings, that undeniable hunger for a specific ingredient, are something I’ve been experiencing a lot lately. It seems that the more time I spend food blog hopping, the more I experience these acute longings for the strangest dishes. For weeks, I was tortured with the need to devour handfuls of home made granola after reading a post on Orangette. After a lifetime of fearing dessert making, my food-blog inspired craving motivated me to make a pot au crème from scratch. After eating a particular butternut squash dish in Italy, I spend a week buying different kinds of cheeses in hopes of perfecting the recipe, post about it and then, a few days later, discovered I had passed on my unique squash craving to a fellow foodie. And now, for the first time in a lifetime of cravings, I can’t get the idea of a sardine sandwich out of my head.

Sardines?

Yeah. I couldn’t believe it either. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I read Mattbites post on sardines. Fishy, up to this point of my life, has never been a word I’d use to describe any food I yearn for. But thanks to the Internet, things change fast.

But here I am, with the unmistakeable smell of sardine oil on my fingers, to tell you about the sardine sandwich that saved me from my non-stop culinary distraction.

With a craving for sardines firmly implanted in my mind, I set out for the Hollywood farmer’s market in search of ingredients for the perfect sandwich. While there, I stumbled upon a hydroponic farmer selling bags of perfect greens and herbs.

Their baby celery was unlike any celery I had ever seen before. It was so light and leafy, it almost passed as a bag of cilantro. Besides being mostly all leaves, it had thin, pencil-lead sized stalks that when sliced, created perfect little squares of color, like a thinly chopped chive. I had found the perfect center point for my long awaited sardine sandwich.

Sardine and market-fresh celery and radish salad sandwich
makes 2 servings

Half a baguette (or any other crusty bread)
1/2 cup chopped celery leaves and stalks of hydroponic celery (or, using a normal celery plant, use ¼ cup celery leaves and a ¼ cup thinly sliced celery stalks)
2 thinly sliced and halved radishes.
4 tablespoons of good olive oil
2 tablespoons of a great tasting, aged red wine vinegar
At least 1 can of sardines
salt and pepper to taste

Mix the chopped celery and radish in a bowl. Mix in the oil and vinegar and season with salt and pepper to taste.

Open face style is the easiest way to eat this sandwich, but you should cut your baguette any way you like. Add a heaping tablespoon of celery radish salad to the bread and top with one to two sardine filets. Sprinkle with salt and devour until your craving is satisfied.

March 17November 14

You know you’re a food blogger when–

1) Every meal inspires you to write.
2) Every meal requires a camera.
3) You are unavailable to meet or talk with friends because you are too busy to writing or photographing food.
4) You cook and re-cook several recipes a week in order to “perfect them”.
5) You read newly published cookbooks first, then you’ll start on best selling novels
6) You’d be more star struck if you ran into Mario Batali, Orangette, the Barefoot Contessa, Anthony Bourdain, Gordon Ramsay, the Amateur Gourmet, or Chocolate and Zucchini than if you saw a movie star at your local restaurant.
7) Spending an hour on the computer food blog hopping is like taking a multi-vitamin. It’s a daily requirement.
8) News about restaurant openings makes your heart race.
9) Going to said new restaurant is considered a fact finding mission.
10) You read a blog and suddenly you’ve dropped everything and are in the kitchen cooking up that very same dish. Because you crave it.

March 12

Feelin' it at Froma

Ask anyone that adores food what their secret passion is, and they’ll most likely tell you they long to open a restaurant of their own. They stumble upon a charming little hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the middle of nowhere, party in a great bar, see a cute white-tile bistro in France, or shop at a charming little cheese store in Napa and think with a gushing sense of pride, “I could do this.”

And lots of people with money do.

(via ddbraves)

Famous people like Eva Longoria, Phil Rosenthal of Everybody Loves Raymond, and Jeri Ryan open up their wallets and empty them (Jennifer Lopez, Brittany Spears and Wesley Snipes) in order to prove they actually can do restaurants, at least on some level.

And then there are the underdogs–the kitchen help, the service staff and the dogged managers–that save every penny they make working in restaurants in hopes of opening their own little place. These hard working people (Jason and Miho Travi of Fraiche, Karen and Quinn Hatfield of Hatfields, and Neil and Amy Fraser of Grace and BLD) take out impossible loans, gut their savings, mortgage their homes and sell anything they can think of, in order to make their dream of restaurant ownership come true.

FROMA ON MELROSE: Purveyors of fine foods
7960 Melrose Ave.

Owned and run by a chef and husband and wife that have dedicated their lives to the service industry, Froma is the kind of specialty food market that so many people dream of opening one day. People like me.

So when I stumbled across the newly opened Italian market, Froma on Melrose recently, I was overjoyed. And, truth be told, a little disappointed. Don’t get me wrong. Froma is amazing. But maybe it’s a little TOO amazing. The sandwiches taste as good (if not better, sometimes) as the ones I had in Italy. The cheese monger behind the counter loves to give me samples of the newest cheeses! The bags of gourmet chips taste of sausages or horseradish. And just when I think that maybe my idea of opening up my own place is still viable, I look around me.

With its long glass display cases filled with beautiful imported meats and cheeses, hot panini presses grilling up authentic Italian sandwiches, shelves of gourmet ingredients lining the store and a little seat by the window where I can enjoy a glass of wine, Froma makes me think that maybe my time to open my own little wine and cheese shop has come and gone.

Designed to appeal to the home chef and demanding food lovers, Froma offers hard to find ingredients like specialty sugars and International salts, bellini flour, carmelized black figs, Italian Parmesan, artichoke honey, radicchio pasta, Osetra caviar and Italian pasta flour. Francine Diamond, managing partner and General Manager, offers a broad range of imported and domestic olive oils and an area in which customers can try them all.

The cheese selection is diverse with Cow Girl Creamery cheeses, Chateau La Tur from France and hard cheeses imported from Italy. Diamond, also a sommelier, has put together an impressive, albeit limited, wine selection. From a $20 Morgon to a $100 Barolo, Diamond gives customers incredible values and amazingly delicious wines from California to Italy.

What I find most appealing about Froma (other than its proximity to my house) are the delicious, panini-pressed gourmet sandwiches.

The ingredients are fresh, the breads (from the Bread Bar) are undeniably perfect and the combinations divine. As a matter of fact, the first sandwich I ever ordered from Froma (a proscuitto and Robiola panini), required me to pull my car over and stop driving, for fear I’d crash into something because my eyes were closed in pleasure.

After that, my Husand and I went into a full-on binge and ate only at Froma for four days straight. In that time we made friends with all the nice people behind the counter, drank a few glasses of Morgon and tried nearly every sandwich on the menu. We haven’t made our way through the Crostini and all of the soups and salads…but we still have time!

Our favorites:

The Francese: Saucisson sec, a French cheese of the day, tomato, basalmic and mixed greens. $10.95
The Alpino: Bresaola, chevre, thinly sliced lemon and arugula. $10.95
The Castagno plus proscuito: Bosc pear, saint Agur blue cheese, chestnut honey. I ask them to add proscuito. $9.95 plus proscuito’s cost.
Plat de Fromage: a plate of ripened cheeses, dried fruits (fig, blueberries), candied pecans, and Savannah bee honeycomb. $12.95
A bag of Tyrell potato chips. Either Cider vinegar and salt chips or the Ludlow sausage with whole grain mustard.
A cappuccino afterwards. The Danesi Italian espresso is some of the best in town. Freshly roasted, pulled on an Italian espresso machi
ne, the drinks taste delicious.

Based on how many times I eat and shop at Froma, I don’t think I’ll be opening my store any time soon. But that’s okay. It’s nice to let someone else do all the hard work and be able to enjoy the bounty.

March 11November 14

Brown Butter is on everyone's lips

If you’ve recently found yourself in the dairy aisle of the grocery store unable to locate a delicious something called “brown butter”, you are not alone. There are lots of people out there, even smart food professionals like my friend Nick, that don’t know exactly what that lovely, nutty liquid is.

But don’t worry. Just this week, it seems, there are suddenly a ton of food bloggers out there just chomping at the bit to talk about brown butter and what exactly one should do with it.

B+H=BB*
(Butter plus heat equals brown butter.)

Brown butter is, essentially, butter that’s cooked just before it burns. Put it in pastries and they suddenly taste a lot better. Drizzle it over Italian spaghetti with fried sage and you have one of the simplest, most elegant pasta courses ever. Pour it on fresh from the garden vegetables and potatoes and watch people’s eyes roll back.

And now, thanks to Michael Ruhlman, author of the amazing book The Elements of Cooking, and a number of other bloggers weighing in on the subject, there’s plenty of information to be had about the glories of brown butter.

Check out the following great blogs:

Brown Butter can be broken down to its elemental parts to make some really cool stuff.
Use it to make an amazing cake by Suzanne Goin that’s so good you’ll swoon over it.

March 8

Toss a can on the roof for McNulty

Last year, on the eve of The Soprano’s finale, millions of viewers cleared their social calendars, bought Chianti by the case and pulled out their Italian cookbooks in search of a classic Italian meal that would comfort them through the final minutes of a much loved, six season drama. Soprano’s Finale parties were all the rage. Dedicated viewers and occasional visitors alike, all talked of what they planned to do the night of the show’s finale. Parties of Sopranos fans were organized. Whole menus were designed to celebrate the many meals witnessed by the ever-hungry mob boss, Tony Soprano. Baccala was served alongside lasagna and bowls of pasta brimmed with heavy meatballs.

On the night of the season finale, the Los Angeles streets were unusually quiet. Viewers gathered in groups or sat alone, breathless, watching the final seconds tick by as the drama crescendoed for the final time.

And now, the streets are about to get very quiet again, but for a much different reason.

The Wire, a much loved and too-smart-for-it’s-own-good, HBO series about down and dirty politics of politicians and drug gangs in Baltimore, is coming to an end. After this Sunday, David Chase’s narrative “wire-tap” on the whispered communications of a gritty city will be silenced. No more gritty insights and great one-liners for us arm-chair activists, too scared to get to know the realities of inner-city culture by hanging out with the gangsters on the corner. Anyone that’s ever watched The Wire, is often fond of saying “it’s one of the best shows ever written for television.”

And yet, only a core group of dedicated watchers are racked with anxiety over the show’s coming finale. Granted, the small percentage of us are talking about it, nay, obsessing over the potential final story points, but hardly no one at the breakfast counter or gas pump are talking about the show. Let alone planning their menu around the show finale.

Well, I certainly am.

While others wallow in street-ignorance, I plan my menu.

The Wire Season Finale Party Menu

One 12 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon (or cheap, domestic beer) per person.
Drink quickly and toss onto roof top. Do not remove.

At least one bottle of Jack Daniels.
To be served straight from the bottle, McNulty style.

Take Out Chinese food
To be eaten out of the box with a plastic fork, undercover cop style.

Take Out Wings
Hot and spicy. To be eaten with fingers, corner-boy style.

Alcoholic Roasted Duck
Borrowed and adapted from Food Network Kitchens

1 beer-and-bourbon fed duck (Baltimore Port), about 5 pounds
Six 1 by 3-inch strips orange zest
1 small onion, halved
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 tablespoons unsulfured molasses
1 1/2 tablespoons honey
1/4 teaspoon coriander seeds, lightly crushed
8 whole black peppercorns, lightly crushed
2 tablespoons fresh orange juice
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 large garlic cloves, crushed and peeled

A day before roasting, have bird drink so much it dies. Cry over your stupid, bone-headed mistakes. Pluck bird. Remove the giblets and neck from the cavity of the bird and discard. If necessary pluck any stray pinfeathers off the duck with tweezers.

Trim the neck flap and excess fat from around the cavity. Rinse and dry the bird well. Set the duck on a rack on a baking sheet, and refrigerate, uncovered, for 24 hours. Go to bar with buddies. Talk about the big score you just landed.

Sleep off hangover then wake up at the crack of noon and heat your mom’s oven to 300 degrees F. Pierce the duck’s skin all over (including the back), every 1/2-inch, with a skewer or small knife. Season the cavity with salt and pepper and stuff with 3 strips of the orange zest and the onion. Set the duck on a rack in a roasting pan, and pour a cup of water in the pan. Roast the bird for 3 hours, removing the duck from the oven every hour to prick the skin again.

Meanwhile, make the glaze: Combine the remaining orange zest, molasses, honey, coriander, pepper, orange juice, vinegar, and garlic in a small saucepan. Heat, stirring, over medium-high heat until warm. Remove glaze from the heat and set it aside at room temperature while the duck cooks. Try not to burn yourself.

Remove the duck from the oven and carefully, pour off the excess fat from the pan. (If desired reserve this fat for frying potatoes or wilting greens.) Raise the oven temperature to 450 degree F. Return the duck to the oven and roast until crisp and brown, about 30 minutes more.

Let the duck rest at room temperature for 10 minutes before carving. Brush the duck’s skin with glaze 4 to 5 five times during the resting period. Carve the duck and transfer pieces to warm serving platter. Serve the remaining glaze at the table to drizzle over the duck, if desired.

Eat bird. Do not try to rob the corner guys, whatever you do.

Baltimore Steamed Crabs seasoned with Old Bay
Cover tables with The Sun newspaper, use mallets or hammers to crack open the shells.

Dessert: Jack Daniels poured into a shot glass. To be drunk with friends.

March 2

Bang mi, Bánh mì

I grew up in a small, predominantly white town in Massachusetts where fear of “outsiders” was subtly encouraged and big city living was openly scorned. I spent my formative years avoiding anything unfamiliar, for fear it might turn me into some kind of a monster. It took a college education in the progressive town of Amherst, a semester in France and interacting with a diverse population of students to show me how limited my world view had become. Armed with a journalism degree and a hunger for knowledge, I vowed to explore the world beyond Massachusetts and discover all that I had missed.

The moving to LA part took me a while, but when I finally got up the courage to move west, I made a grand step in the right direction to broadening my perspective. I threw caution to the wind a handful of years later, and moved to New York City for a summer to work as a restaurant consultant.

While overseeing the opening of a LA based restaurant, I sub-letted an apartment in a six-floor walk up a few blocks north of the emerging culinary scene of the Lower East Side. When I wasn’t knee deep in construction and restaurant permiting, I explored neighborhoods on foot, sampled food I had never tasted before and realized that the song lyric “New York, a city that never sleeps” was actually true. And, unlike what I had been told as a youngster, New Yorkers weren’t all that rude (no more than Boston folk) and all the men lurking on street corners didn’t try to kidnap me or demand I take drugs.

But then, there was this one time I did end up trying something in the big city I got utterly addicted to…

Don’t worry, dear reader. I never do drugs. That ominous thing I’m referring to is Bánh mì.

Bánh mì, for the uninitiated small-town foodie, is a spicy, Vietnamese meat sandwich filled with pickled carrots, cilantro, daikon, hot peppers and onion that represents the blending of two cultures: French and Indonesian. Back in the day, the Vietnamese adopted the crispy baguette (Pain de mie) of the imperialist French colonists and made a sandwich filled with fresh ingredients all their own. Say Pan di mie with a thick Vietnamese accent and you quickly understand where the name came from.

Like any good street drug, Bánh mì is priced to sell. Costing between $2-$5 a pop, the contrasting flavors of salty meat (pate or marinated pork and chicken), spicy peppers, crunchy vegetables and crispy bread make Bánh mì’s unusual flavors completely addictive.

I’ll always remember my first taste. It was a rainy summer’s day and the chef went on a sandwich run to Nicky’s Vietnamese Sandwiches. I watched him carefully unwrap the paper around what looked like a pretty straight forward meat and vegetable submarine sandwich, and how his eyes rolled back as he took mouthfuls of the thing.

“What are you eating?” I innocently asked.

The chef stopped chewing and eyed me with surprise. “You’ve never had Bánh mì?” He swore under his breath and shoved the sandwich in my face. “Eat it. It’s gonna change your F*k’n life.”

My first taste of Bánh mì was tentative. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the possibility that this simple sandwich could possibly be as good as he said it would be. I took another bite. And then, much to his surprise (and mine), I became territorial. I stepped back, got out of Chef’s reach, and in just a few short delirious moments of spice, salty meat, and buttery baguette crunch, I had polished off the entire thing. Never in my life had I tasted anything like it.

I was hooked.

Just an hour later, after attending to the needs of my restaurant construction crew, I hauled ass to the nearest Bánh mì stall to buy the first of many Vietnamese sandwiches.

It’s a slippery slope trying to find the best Bánh mì. You get lost. You make mistakes. You add too much chili spice and break into a cold sweat. You get so strung out on spicy meat sandwiches you start saying “bang mi” to the counter person and they threaten to throw you out for talking dirty to them.

STREET LEGAL

Being the addict that I am, I am always on the lookout for the best street-legal Bánh mì out there. Unfortunate, there aren’t a lot of Vietnamese sandwich shops in the Hollywood area. The best and most convenient place I’ve found is:

Gingergrass, a modern take on Vietnamese cuisine, conveniently located across the street from my favorite wine shop in town, Silverlake Wine.

Because it requires a bit of a drive from where we live, my husband and I make an afternoon of it and on Sundays we drive east for the delicious pork Bánh mì with crispy Vietnamese rice crackers, the sautéed baby bok choy and the appetizer special of the day. After filling our bellies we roll across the street to our favorite wine shop, Silverlake wine, and buy amazing wines from Randy and George.

Thanks to a recent comment on my blog by culinary couple and food bloggers, White on Rice, I discovered I was not alone in Southern California in my Bánh mì obsession. White on Rice has a website called Battle of the Banh mi. BOBM is dedicated to finding the best Bánh mì in every city across America. Readers are encouraged to post their favorite Bánh mì restaurants and the site offers suggestions on how to make the addictive Vietnamese sandwich and where to buy it.

It’s true what my small town friends said. Living in the big city really can turn you into some kind of addict.

February 28

Fried Green Tomatoes and Parmesan Omelet

I wanted to write about fried green tomatoes. I wanted to write about the glory of using the heat of a fry pan and some oil to turn a hard, green, unripe market tomato into something completely unlike itself. Worked up the words to describe the process of finding ripeness and a hint of sweetness from the hard, unready-for-a-sandwich tomato. I thought about the simple recipe of tomatoes dusted with cornmeal and how they came to life with both crunch from the fried cornmeal and juicy goodness from the heat-induced ripeness. I wanted to talk about the juice of the tomato that ran down my chin when I bit into the fried wheel of goodness.

I planned on writing about the revelation of paring this classic southern dish with a simple omelet made with nothing more than eggs, grated Parmesan, salt and pepper.

But then, I spoke with my landlord. After years of planning and making ready for the big step of becoming a dog owner, my husband and I began the paperwork for adopting a pet. Even though the owner of the building (our landlord’s mother) said yes over a year ago, our current landlord wasn’t so sure.

But…

She says she’ll think about it.

So I say I’ll just sit here with my heart broken until she decides.

Fried Green Tomatoes and Parmesan Omelet
makes 2 servings

For FRIED GREEN TOMATOES:
One firm green tomato. Slice into 1/2 inch rounds
1/2 cup cornmeal
1/4 cup olive oil
kosher salt

Sprinkle green tomato with salt on each side. Let sweat for a few minutes. Meanwhile, pour cornmeal onto a plate. When the tomatoes have sweated a bit, place the tomato slices (one at a time) onto the corn meal. Coat the slices with corn meal. Repeat until all tomatoes are ‘breaded’.

Heat pan over medium temperature. Add enough olive oil to give a good layer of oil to cook in. Saute tomatoes until each side becomes a golden color.

Plate and keep warm under a tent of tinfoil in a warm oven.

Meanwhile…

for PARMESAN OMELET
6 eggs (2 eggs and 4 egg whites) *or use the whole eggs if you’re not concerned about too much cholesterol
splash of milk or half/half
half a cup freshly grated Italian Parmesan
salt and pepper

Whisk the eggs and a splash of milk (about 3 minutes) or until light and bubbly. Heat pan over a medium flame. Coat pan with a thin layer of oil. Add egg mixture when pan is good and hot. Use a wooden spoon to move egg mixture around in pan. After 3-4 minutes, when the egg mixture begins to firm up with cooking, add parmesan cheese. Turn on broiler to let heat up. When omelet is mostly cooked and just a little runny on top, put under broiler. The top should cook quickly and puff up under the heat.

Serve immediately.

February 26November 14

Adam Roberts is hot.

Back in high school I was a bit of a weird kid. I was an undefined artist. I wasn’t easily categorized because I never excelled at one thing. I was a photographer, an Olympics of the Mind science team member, a singer in chorus, an actor in every school show, a marching band dancer and flag spinner. I didn’t do sports. I was an average student. I liked to read but didn’t study. In the Madonna crazed 80’s I dressed like a bobby-sock girl from the 1950’s. Me and my closest friends were called “band fags.”

Once I got out of my small hometown and broadened my horizons, I began to realize that all my geeky artistic friends were some of the coolest people I knew. Unlike jocks and prom queens stuck in their glory days of senior year in high school, artists evolve and grow into their personas yet. Tilda Swinson may not have been the prettiest girl in the Oscar auditorium on Sunday night, but she certainly did exude a gloriously individual kind of beauty. Didn’t she?

So where am I going with all this? Well now that I’m an adult, I don’t have as many hang ups about being popular and what people think about me based on my looks. I am what I am and as far as I’m concerned, as writers go, I’m not that bad looking.

Which brings me now to my food blogging hero, Adam Roberts (AKA the Amateur Gourmet). Adam, most would say, is a nerd. He’s a nebbishy, fast-talking, glasses-wearing gay guy that likes to cook, sing, make musicals with eggs and writes show tunes about lasagna with his NY Broadway show loving friends. He’s got one hell of a sense of humor and he’s not that bad looking. What’s more, in the food blogging world, Adam Roberts is supremely cool. He’s so cool to food bloggers like me, that we’d call him HOT and then do a big double snap thing around our head once or twice. That’s how cool he is.

So when Adam recently became a virtual Food Network Star as the on-line host of the “FN DISH”, I rejoiced. Each week Adam interviews Food Network stars and gets the inside scoop of what happens behind the scenes– and in the kitchens of–the Food Network. The interviews are funny, pleasantly uncomfortable, and totally watch able. Finally, food blogging pioneers have not only found success in publishing (with the publishing of Julie and Julia, Chocolate and Zucchini’s book, and Orangette joining Bon Appetit) but now are joining the mucky-mucks of the television world! Hooray!

FOOD GEEKS UNITE!

On the Food Network Website, however, the tone of the comments left by FN Dish viewers is quite negative. “Where’d you get this guy?” a number of viewers asked. “The show is great,” one person wrote, “but why don’t you get someone more good looking?”

I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. Suddenly, I was back in high school watching one of my “band fag” friends get beat up by a thick-necked football jock. Who were these people? How could they not know how cool the Amateur Gourmet is? How could they be so cruel? So populist? Surely in the food world not everyone has to be good looking to be popular. Right?

In the name of all things right, I urge you to pay a little visit to the Food Network site and watch some of Adam’s shows and leave some positive comments about the FN Dish. Adam is a representative of food bloggers and food blogs’ power to connect to thousands of food-obsessed people through the printed word. Not the pretty face.

February 24

Oscar drama

From coast to coast tonight, millions of movie-loving people will get together to celebrate a year of filmmaking and raise their glasses (and bowls of popcorn) to the best of the best. There will be pre-show voting, red carpet discussions and, if it’s a good party, lots of yelling or cheering at the TV screen as the awards are announced.

No matter where you live, if you love movies, Oscar night is important.

But if you love movies so much that you’ve given your life over to the craft and live in the greater Los Angeles area, Oscar night is one of the biggest events of the year. In fact, for us Hollywood folk, Oscar night is bigger and more exciting than Christmas/Chanukah/New Years/and our birthday combined.

Here, on Oscar day, “No Parking” signs go up everywhere, traffic slows, stores are gutted of food and wine, nail salons and waxing booths are flooded with men and women primping for the show and whole streets become parking lots for gala attendees.

Of course, little things, like going to the Hollywood Farmer’s Market are made nearly impossible by the Oscars. My usual Sunday morning routine was hampered by street after street of NO PARKING signs. When I finally found a parking lot, I wedged my car between a tuxedoed Oscar night employee and a photographer with his arms filled with expensive looking cameras.

At the market I found half of the vendors missing. Was it the rain that kept them away or was it the Oscar drama? With my guest list in hand and a pocket full of tip money, I bought a bag’s worth of produce (green tomatoes, broccoli rabe, bok choy, cherry tomatoes, spinach and arugula), a bag of kettle corn (which I promptly left at a vendor’s stall and completely forgot about) and a loaf of bread for this evening’s festivities.

The menu? No, not caviar on brioche toasts. My Oscar party shall not compare to the Super Bowl party with Chef Travi. Oh no. Tonight, my guests will be eating orecchiette with swiss chard, broccoli rabe and cherry tomatoes. Nothing fancy, but that’s all the market (and my budget) would allow.

And in the meantime, we’ll be crossing our fingers for all those aspiring like ourselves, hoping that some day, maybe one or two of us will make it to the Oscars, too.

February 19July 1

Get Out of Dodge

Four years ago, back when Hans and I started courting (and WAY before the movie Sideways popularized wine tasting in Santa Ynez), we began a tradition of spur of the moment weekend getaways to Santa Barbara. We’d gas up the car, fill the trunk with a stack of New Yorkers and a weekend bag filled with casual clothes, grab a couple of latte’s to-go, and get on the 101 north before 10 AM. Once we make it the 1.5 to 2 hours up north, the specifics of the weekend are usually improvised. One necessary stop, however, never changes.

First stop, Superica

La Superica Taco
622 Milpas Street Santa Barbara
Cash only

Named by Julia Child as a required stop in Santa Barbara, Superica is probably one of the best taco stands in America. Simple and unpretentious, this tiny white and sea green shack serves the freshest meat and bean tacos this side of Mexico to lines of dedicated customers that are, more often than not, lined up from the door to halfway down the block. No matter what day of the week or time of day.

Guests sit at picnic tables in a tented “dining room” while they wait for their number to be called. For anyone interested in good food, the wait is worth it. The ingredients are fresh, the combinations classic, and the soft, spongy tacos are made to order by hand.
The kitchen is just large enough to hold the cashier, the tortilla maker that forms each round of dough in her hands and presses them in an ancient looking press, and two grill men that flip fresh onions, chorizo and steak with a huge metal spatula on the flat top.

In some ways, the long line of customers out the door is a good thing. By the time we get to the order window, more than enough time has elapsed for us to discuss our order, memorized our selections (each menu item has a number) and organized by number in descending order. Hans and I definitely have some favorites on the menu, but we always try to order at least one new plate in hopes of finding a new Superica gem.

With our living room floor under the final stages of re-construction, we were forced to leave town for a day in order to allow our newly stained floors 24 hours to dry. Happy to take a trip north, Hans and I left our apartment in the morning and were at Superica by Noon.

With our stomachs growling and ready for food, we carefully planned our meal. We ordered some classics:

The #11: Lomito Suiza:

Grilled chorizo and melted cheese served between two tortillas.
A gorgeous sandwich of pork and cheese.

the #13: Queso de Cazuela,

a bowl of melted cheese flavored with tomatoes and spices and served with warm tortillas. It’s a warm comforting dish that, despite having nothing to do with artichoke, strangely tastes of one.

The #16 The Superica Especial:

Roasted chile pasilla stuffed with cheese and marinated pork. I usually have to fight to get a couple of bites before Hans polishes it off in mere seconds.

The #18 Guacamole:

Another dish I have to fight to get my share of. Straight forward and supremely fresh, this guacamole is all about ripe avocado, a squeeze of lime and a hint of tomato. Perfect on its own, or revelatory when paired with other dishes.

This trip we tried a few new dishes:

The #1 Tacos de Bistec.

Strips of grilled steak served on tacos, this dish was a little disappointing to look at, but once doctored up with a little guacamole and a touch of cheese from the Queso de Cazuela, I was in heaven.

The special of the day: Tamal de Veracruz.

Truly a life-changing tamale. Soft, moist and undeniable elegant, this tamale was unlike any of the dense (almost dry) corn tamales I’ve eaten at the Hollywood and Larchmont farmer’s markets, Superica’s Tamale de Veracruz is a love letter to the delicacy of corn with its juicy corn kernels, zucchini and onion in a fluffy bed of corn masa. I was surprised by how light the cream sauce was and how balanced all the ingredients of this dish was.

After a fully satisfying meal at Superica, we headed north to Santa Ynez for some wine tasting. Big fans of the tasting room at Melville, we decided to mix things up and taste the wines of two unfamiliar producers.

First stop was the tasting room for Longoria.
Longoria Wine Tasting Room
2935 Grand Ave. Los Olivos

Established in 1982, Longoria is a family run wine business located in Santa Barbara county. The tasting room is small and intimate, located in a tiny room in one of the oldest buildings in he
art of the village of Los Olivos. The tasting fee was $10 and unfortunately, the woman helping us had no personality and dribbled something like a half an ounce of wine into our glass–barely enough wine to swirl or to properly taste.

We were impressed by the acidity and complexity of 2004 Syrah (chewy, spicy and had great acidity) and bought a bottle despite hating the woman that sold it to us.

Our next and last stop on our mini-wine tasting tour was Bridlewood Winery.
Bridlewood Winery
3555 Roblar Avenue, Santa Ynez

A much more impressive tasting room, we were greeted by a knowledgeable and skilled employee. With a $10 tasting fee we were pleased by the reasonable pour (a generous ounce) and the quality of the wine. Balanced and true to the varietal, the Bridlewood portfolio surprised us both with their delicately nuanced flavors. For someone that tends to stay away from palate punching Zinfandels, I found theirs to be quite pretty and actually surprisingly light–especially for a California producer.

We purchased the 2004 Six Gun Syrah—a silky red with nice tannin, a hint of spice and bright cherry with balanced acidity and minimal oak.

We drove back to Santa Barbara and checked into our favorite cheap motel, The Presidio.

Still under the final stages of a year long remodel, the Presidio has all the charm of a boutique hotel without a high price tag. The young couple that runs the place are charming and for under $100 ($89 to be exact) we stayed in a clean room with charming details.

We promptly hopped into bed, watched an hour’s worth of bad TV and took an epic nap before we headed out to town again for dinner.

The Hungry Cat, is, without a doubt, one of my favorite LA restaurants. Stripped of any fancy details, the Hungry Cat is dedicated to serving East coast inspired dishes (Maryland seafood is where it’s at), amazing wines, and incredible handmade cocktails. Now that Hungry Cat has a location in Santa Barbara, there really isn’t any other place we’ll go to. The cocktails are gorgeous, the food is fresh (we ate sea urchin so fresh and off the boat it practically walked on its spines across the table) and downright inspiring.

Thanks to the friendly staff and passionate kitchen staff, Hans and I had a memorable meal of off-the-boat oysters served with freshly grated horseradish and sea salt, Oyster chowder full of silky oysters and chunky potatoes, Tuscan Monkfish stew, a mind-blowing cheese plate and the I-can’t-believe-I’m-scraping-the-sides-of-this-dish-to-get-at-every-last-morsel chocolate bread pudding.

After a day of gorging and lazy napping, Hans and I return to the buzzing world of Los Angeles. I can’t wait for our next Get Out of Dodge.

February 18November 14

Chef Crush Confidential: Dario Cecchini

Over the past few years of living in Los Angeles and working in the restaurant industry I’ve become very aware that it takes a very specific kind of person to make me star struck. I’m nonchalant as rock icons shop at the local farmers market, blasé* when movie stars eat pizza at my restaurant, and giggle at the B-List actors hanging out at the neighborhood mall. But God help me when a famous chef or Food Network personality walks into the room. Get me a few feet from a great chef and I suddenly become a blabbering idiot.

(*With the exception of the appearance of Barbara Streisand, Bruce Springsteen, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen or any of the cast of The Sopranos, Six Feet Under and The Wire)

Take for example the night Gordon Ramsay came into the restaurant. The minute I saw Ramsay walk in, I almost swallowed my tongue, whole. Later, I tackled a busser, just so I could clear his table. The night that Scott, the Hell’s Kitchen sous-chef came in I spit on myself while describing a dish. I shudder to think what the poor man thought of that. Another, equally embarrassing time, I rubbed a note in my pocket while I waited on one of the Top Chef contestants just so I wouldn’t blurt out “you should have won!” during his meal. You should of heard me the day I waited on hand-crafted meat king, Paul Bertolli. That time I got a case of the stutters and c-c-c-could barely make it through a s-s-s-sentence.

So when Nancy Silverton told me that Dario Cecchini, the world’s most famous butcher was in town and planned to have lunch at our restaurant, I hoped that my previous visit to his butcher shop in Panzano, Italy had inoculated me from my chef-crush sickness.

Not so much.

MEETING THE MAESTRO

Let’s go back to 2007. After working several months at Mario Batali and Nancy Silverton’s newly opened restaurant, Pizzeria Mozza, I got engaged. My husband to be, Hans, shares my love of food, so it didn’t take long for the two of us to decide to get married at a vineyard and honeymoon in Italy. Hans and I thought that perhaps a part of our honeymoon would include a visit to Dario Cecchini’s butcher shop after reading Bill Buford’s New Yorker articles on becoming a butcher (“Carnal Knowledge”) and later, his captivating non-fiction account of working in Batali’s kitchens in “Heat”. So when my culinary guru Nancy S. sat me down and gave me the list of MUST VISIT restaurants and life changing pastry shops, I listened. And when Nancy insisted that we make the drive through Tuscany in the direction of Dario Cecchini’s butcher shop, we knew we had to go.

So with our list of restaurants and well wishes from Nancy to Dario, we packed our bags and flew to Italy. After almost a week in Florence, my new husband and I followed the voice of our GPS lady to our eastern destination. We followed the insistent voice through the twisting mountain streets of Tuscany and all the way to the little hillside town of Panzano. By the time we parked our car on a steep side street by the tiny town square, it was mid-afternoon and we were ready to eat some freshly butchered meat. Thanks to the long, Italian lunches of shop keepers and locals, we had an hour to kill before Antica Macelleria Cecchini (the Ancient Cecchini Butcher Shop) opened.

The day was Saturday, a crisp October day, and we took our time as we walked the perimeter of the town center—maybe half a block in total—as we watched the locals bundled up in scarves buy hot sandwiches from a truck and families eye clothing vendors shelves of socks and bargain garments.

When it was time, we walked up the cobblestone street to the open door to Dario’s shop. An older man with a bowling ball sized belly sat in a chair by the open door reading his paper. Once inside, we were surprised to find that we were the first and only people in the shop. As we waited for the store to come alive with customers and employees, no one was behind the counter, we scanned the shelves of the shop and ogled the contents of the display cases. Behind the glass were gorgeous salumi, plump sausages, sumptuous cured and freshly butchered meats and a breathtakingly large bowl filled with whipped lardo. With or without Dario’s presence, we were in heaven.

What pushed our happiness over the top was discovering the food covered table behind us. Unlike any butcher shop in America, at Antica Macelleria Cecchini almost all of the prepared foods are offered to the customer free of charge. The table held baskets of rustic bread lined with fat arms of rosemary, wood bowls of oil-soaked black olives and a butcher’s block lined with slices of prosciutto and salumi. While I struggled with understanding the etiquette of the butcher’s table (were we to pay to sample? Do we help ourselves?) my husband wasted no time in pouring himself a glass of Dario’s house red wine and piece of bread slathered in the whipped lardo speckled with Tuscan rosemary.

Behind me I heard a booming voice, loud like a ship’s horn, blasting orders to the man reading the paper. Behind the counter was a rather tall and imposing man in a black leather vest and a red bandana knotted around his thick neck. His short hair stood straight up off the top of his head, making him look like a devil from Dante’s poem, the Inferno. With the hands and broad shoulders of a super hero, this man was clearly Dario Cecchini. He was everything Bill Buford said he’d be.

As expected, I immediately became star struck. Gl
assy eyed and frozen like an Italian marble statue, I could do nothing but stare at Dario as he bantered with two gentlemen newly arrived at the store. I forced myself to grab a jar of house-made mostarda and a package of profumo dei Chianti off a shelf so I could give something for my strained brain to do. I pushed my purchase across the counter and smiled weakly as he rang up the order. I paid without saying a word. Luckily, my inability to speak Italian kept me from revealing the entire extent of my weakness as a star-struck foodie.

As I shuffled out the door, my courageous husband (an Italian speaker) introduced himself to Dario in order to pass on a message from our mutual acquaintance. I was surprised to watch Dario’s expression change at the simple mention of Nancy Silverton’s name.

“Naaaaaaaancy!” Dario grinned and threw up his arms.

When my husband explained that we were on our honeymoon, Dario hugged us both. “Braaaaavo!”

Through all of this, I maintained my inability to speak. I nodded like a bobble head.

Dario grabbed a jar of mostarda off the shelf, wrapped it in butcher paper and handed it to Hans. “For Nancy,” he explained. As we left the store, Dario called out to us in Italian—“I’m coming to LA soon! Tell Nancy I’ll come by the restaurant!”

VALENTINE’S DAY GIFT

Long after we returned to the states from our amazing honeymoon, I wondered when we might see Dario. Months passed and then, just last week, I heard that the famous Dante quoting butcher was spotted at the Santa Monica farmer’s market. It was said that Dario would be lunching at my restaurant on Valentine’s day. Of course, I immediately rearranged my plans for the day and invited fellow blogger, Leah of Spicy, Salty, Sweet, to join me for lunch at the restaurant.

With a box of chocolates and chocolate covered fruits from Susina Bakery clutched to my breast (more about the girls later), we patiently waited for a seat at the Pizza bar. Leah and I sipped crisp Fiano and kept an eagle eye on the door.

An hour passed, and still no Dario. Once seated, my very tall co-worker quickly swooped in to take our order. As he cleared our empty wine glasses he did a double take when he looked at me.

“Woah,” he said, eyeing my low cut dress. “Never seen those before…The girls are out in full force today.”

Well when the world’s most famous butcher comes to town, a girl has to represent. I might not be able to speak a lick of Italian, but the girls will do all the talking for me.

And talk they did. When Dario finally arrived (wearing a canary yellow down vest and matching yellow clogs) I swooped in. Doing my best hand gesturing, I mimed a “thank you”, a “great to see you again” and then shoved the box of chocolates into his hand. Leah, god bless her, saved me from the awkward silence and swooped in with her camera and snapped a picture. Thirty seconds later, we were back in our seats and I was hyperventilating.

I had done it.

I was, for the first time ever, a certifiable groupie. And, thanks be to sharing no common language, I was able to cover up my apparent star-struck symptoms.

February 10

Sunday Market Chicken Sandwich

It was a beautiful day in LA today. The streets were packed with runners, people walking their dogs and cars sped past with families eager to make the most of the warm weather. After weeks of unseasonably cold Los Angeles weather, things are starting to heat up again.

At the Hollywood Farmer’s Market this morning everyone had a smile on his or her face. The pedestrian streets were packed with happy families and hand-holding couples in short skirts and tee shirts–their bare limbs basking in the glory of our newly returned sunshine. With the cold snap a week behind us, the farmer’s fare looked lush and plentiful. Satsuma oranges and golden yellow Meyer Lemons glowed in the sunlight. Tomatoes were plump and avocados were soft to the touch. Carrots of all shapes and sizes–tiny sweet ones, large rabbit teasers–attracted hundreds of eager eyes to their bright colors.

I quickly emptied my pockets of singles and twenty-dollar bills with all that I loaded into my Mexican lobster market bag. I bought firm little Persian cucumbers, fresh mint, a heavy bunch of red and white Swiss Chard, a fat handful of green and purple scallions, sun kissed Meyer lemons, Japanese oranges, hand picked spinach, ripe avocados and a batard of freshly made bread from the Bread Man.

Back home, after showing my husband my market finds, we got inspired to make sandwiches. After frying up some fresh chicken breast and spicy chicken sausages from Trader Joes we had the freshest lunch in town.

Sunday Market Chicken Sandwich
Fresh French Bread–warmed in the oven
Sautéed chicken breast
Juice of half a lemon
Mayonnaise
Fresh market spinach
Whole grain mustard
Olive oil
Malden sea salt
Mild flavored cheese

Warm the bread in the oven at 250 while you sauté the chicken in a little olive oil. Squeeze half a lemon and a pinch of salt to season the chicken. When the bread is warm inside and has a bit of crunch cut into it halfway to create a pocket for the food to go into. Spoon May onto the bread, whole grain mustard then add spinach and cheese. Add chicken and drizzle with a little olive oil and salt. Put in oven for 3-5 minutes to warm up the cheese.

Persian Cucumber Salad

5 little cucumbers
A healthy drizzle of olive oil (your best stuff) to dress
A good-sized bunch of mint (finely chopped)
2 scallions (finely chopped)
Salt and Pepper
A splash of red wine vinegar

Peel the cucumbers and slice ¼ inch thick. Add finely chopped scallions. Drizzle the whole thing generously with olive oil—enough to coat everything and to make a nice dressing. Add a splash of vinegar (about 2 tablespoons) and season with salt and pepper to create a balance of acidity with the oil and salt. Put in freezer to make cold. Serve within minutes.

February 10

What I ate: Sunday, Feb. 10th

Persian Cucumber Salad

5 little cucumbers
A healthy drizzle of olive oil (your best stuff) to dress
A good-sized bunch of mint (finely chopped)
2 scallions (finely chopped)
Salt and Pepper
A splash of red wine vinegar

February 9

History of a Foodie

Food, whether we’re aware of it or not, seems to have always been a barometer of who we are as a people, as a nation, and as individuals. As I come into my own as an eater, I see how my relationship with food defines me and who I am defines the foods I love.

When I was a child, I ate like a child. I was born and breastfed. I was weaned late. I was spoon fed Gerber baby food and chewed on drool-soaked Cheerios. Until the age of five, I grew up in, and ate from, the back yard Victory garden my mother cultivated. After selling our New England farmhouse, my family moved into a commuter home and ate organic food my mother prepared in large batches for weeklong consumption.

Though my mother advocated macrobiotic cooking, I tended to reject freshly cooked vegetables and craved foods I wasn’t allowed to eat. I’d save my allowance, ride my bike three miles to the town general store, and buy a candy bar and a can of Mellow Yellow soda for the sugar buzz. Occasionally, my mother’s healthy resolve crumbled under the pressure of monthly hormones. I’d see that certain, cagey look in her eyes and I knew she’d soon forgo the naturally sweetened treats of the macrobiotic collective market and steal away to the local supermarket for a gallon of ice cream. Being a resourceful, food-driven child, I knew my window of opportunity was brief and took full advantage of my mother’s weakened state in order to guilt her into buying boxes of cookies and Kraft macaroni and cheese for myself and my processed food-deprived brother and sister.

Politics of Eating

When I was a twenty year old, I ate like a political twenty-year old. I was a vegetarian, a pesce-tarian, an occasional vegan, and a perpetually broke college student. I never ate meat, ate salads when I could afford it, had fish on special occasions, and consumed inordinate amounts of noodles and rice. I bought my first cookbook (The Silver Palate) and cooked every vegetarian recipe the book had to offer. I made soup and discovered pesto. I ate veggie burgers for almost every meal. I became lactose intolerant. I discovered Ben and Jerry’s and Lactaid. I was anemic, pale, had low energy, and was sick to my stomach most of the time.

Move West Young Eater

When I turned thirty, I ate like a person that had never tasted fresh food before. I was one of Los Angeles’ newest residents–eager to discover the incredibly diverse culinary world of California. After a lifetime of living and eating in Massachusetts, I moved to LA to attend film school and study screenwriting. I left the comfort of home to dedicate myself to writing. I didn’t move west to enjoy myself. I moved west to learn.

My writing was invigorated by the flood of cultural differences around me. Beyond the body revealing outfits and movie star good looks of everyone on the street, were incredible restaurants and markets selling foods I had never seen before. I ate my first soft taco and fought the haunting temptation to try the grilled birds at Zankou Chicken. In a single walk around the neighborhood I could drink freshly squeezed fruit at the neighborhood Jamba Juice and finish up with a plate of spicy Thai food from a scary looking strip mall. I filled farmer’s market bags with strange fruits (durian, Satsuma oranges) and vegetables (fennel, wild arugula) I had never tasted before. I devoured bagels fresh out of the oven on Larchmont, bought three dollar lunches from a burrito stand and spent my lean script-reader paychecks at the Thai town market. Between studio jobs as an assistant, story analyst and production coordinator I cooked Pad Thai, stir-fry, Thai basil salmon and made shrimp filled Vietnamese spring rolls.

When I realized my low paying jobs kept me from writing, I went back to the restaurant business. Despite seventeen years without red meat, I landed a bartending job at a steak house.

It didn’t take long before I became a meat eater. A month into the job, I forced myself to taste the dry aged steak so that I could describe it better to customers. Once that half morsel of steak touched my tongue —hardly even a mouthful to any serious meat eater—my resolve to remain a vegetarian was ended. That first bite was tender, juicy, salty, meaty, and so alive with flavor that any shred of guilt or questioning was immediately replaced with the gut wrenching feeling that my body NEEDED that meat and WANTED more.

Becoming an Eater

At the age of 31, with my first taste of red meat since I was a teenager, I discovered the love of eating. In that moment, I became an eater.

Nothing has been the same since. At 31 I was reborn. My health was restored. I felt energy I hadn’t experienced since I was a child. Cheese no longer made me ill. My face was flush. My heart beat faster.. Suddenly, I was no longer controlled by food.

The world of food has opened up to me. With no restriction on what I can or cannot eat, I am an eater of all things. I eat to discover the glory of food. For the first time in my life, I eat not just to fulfill an inherent need for sustenance, but for knowledge. I eat with gusto. I eat with passion. I eat to discover.

February 4November 14

Eating from the Super Bowl

I don’t follow sports. So for me, Super Bowl Sunday is a social event based around eating food, drinking beer and watching angry men yell at the TV. As non-holiday, sporting based events go, Super Bowl parties are cool.

Back east, super bowl Sunday is all about drinking domestic beer and eating subs. A ‘sub’, of course, is shorthand for a Submarine sandwich—usually a twelve-inch marvel of bread, heaping piles of meat, a sprinkling of vegetables (think iceberg lettuce and mealy tomatoes) and some sort of strong flavored sauce. In my almost 10 years in LA, I’ve been to plenty of Super Bowl parties that featured hamburgers fresh off the grill, a smattering of Bud light and handcrafted beers, bowls of chips, and huge aluminum take out containers filled with Mexican take-out.

But never, in all of my years of Super Bowl parties, have I experienced anything like the culinary get togethers that my friends Chef Jason and Miho Travi throw. Their Super Bowl Sunday fetes includes champagne, Osetra caviar, and savoy fois gras on toast. Granted, Jason and Miho aren’t your typical Super Bowl Sunday hosts. Jason and Miho, are the chefs behind Fraiche Restaurant, Los Angeles Magazine’s best restaurant of 2007.

I should also mention, that Jason is without a doubt one of the biggest Patriots fans I know. Born and raised in a town just south of Boston, Jason and his season ticket-holding father are so dedicated to the sport they have been known to fly to key games to route for their teams. And route for the Pats they do. Like they were family.

The first time Jason and Miho invited my husband and I over to their house for a Super Bowl party, I had very low expectations. Instead of chips and dip, Jason offered us caviar on tiny pancakes. Instead of cans of Bud, they poured rose champagne. It didn’t take me long to realize that in Jason and Miho I had met the right people to teach me how to truly enjoy watching a game of football.

So when Jason and Miho invited my husband and I over to their house for the Big Game this year, I spend a lot of time thinking about what kind of food we would bring to the party. Wanting to bring over something elegant and easy, I went to a specialty cheese shop and found a small jar of the funky and oozing St. Marcillen cheese, a flavorful Brie de Nangis and a bagette from the Bread Bar. Instead of carrying in the traditional six pack of watery beer, we brought a selection of cork topped, hand crafted Trappist beers by Chimay and pear cider.

As the game played, we enjoyed a Rabbit terrine, fois gras on brioche toast, and Italian cheeses with a sweet Moustarda di frutta. As we cheered the Patriots and their solid lead, Miho offered us delicious home made chicken and beef tamales. The tamales were so incredible I watched my husband, Hans, eat one after another while never taking his eyes off the TV screen. Our newly made friends from Nook Restaurant, brought home made salsas (spicy roasted red pepper, a spicy crèma and sweet spicy tomatillo salsa).

Later, as the game was drawing to a close and it looked like the Patriots were going to win, Jason whipped up some perfectly cooked scrambled eggs and topped some brioche toast with it.

He generously handed out a tin of Petrossian caviar and a spoon to each couple and wished us happy eating. But, as we slipped the first silky bite of eggs on eggs into our happy mouths, things turned ugly for our team. We watched in horror as NY got control of the ball and quickly jumped ahead of us in points. We stared at the screen in horror as the last thirty seconds ticked away.

The party ended rather quickly after that. Jason shook his head with shocked disappointment and everyone else paced back and forth in thwarted silence. We watched in shock as NY fans crowded the field and celebrated their victory over New England.

Though the brutal end to the game was more than a little upsetting to all, the party itself was incredibly enjoyable. I have to hand it to Travi, his food and his passion for the game has made me a huge Patriots fan.

I’m hungry for a rematch.

January 30

Success!

It’s official. It takes five days for the Finnish teaspoon cookie to become a cookie.

Leave it to the Finns to make a cookie you have to wait almost a week for to enjoy. But when those five days pass, something truly incredible happens. The flavors become cohesive, resonant, gorgeous and linger on the tongue for whole minutes. My friend Leah clocked it and she says that the flavor lasts for more than a minute. Personally, I love that she timed it. My friend Susan is already requesting a new batch be made.

What’s so different now? Before, the cookie just tasted “unready”. There was an imbalance with the sugar, the flour and the browned butter. But now…Now there’s a nuttiness, a smoothness, a rich-soft saltiness, a buttery sweetness and a certain je ne sais quois that the passing of days imparts. It truly is incredible what a difference five days make.

So, my food loving friends, the Finnish teaspoon cookie really does need that time to mature.

God love the Finns for teaching me a good, old fashioned lesson in patience.

January 24

Cold Cure

Though we here in LA don’t really get what most people call “weather”, we certainly get a mild version of such things. In place of snow, we get wind. Rather than the mind melting humidity of the east coast, LA experiences dry heat that feels like a sauna.

Rain, when it does fall, comes quickly, and without much warning. The streets flood and people with generally bad driving skills suddenly become like sixteen year olds on their first day of driving school. I know the streets get slick from the rain and all the traffic, but really…How ever is it possible that it can take more than an hour to drive five miles in a rain storm? Being from the east coast originally, I really have no sympathy for us year-round flip flop wearing sun bathers. But, I have to admit, now that I’ve lived out here for almost a decade now, I definitely feel the effects of our “weather.”

It is, in LA terms, cold outside. I haven’t checked the weather channel, but I’d say it’s in the 50’s. Which, for someone that’s used to 70 degree weather every day, is suddenly very cold. I’m embarrassed to say I’m currently wearing a scarf, three layers of clothes, and thick wool socks so my toes don’t freeze.

Okay, I admit it. I’m a wimp. And thanks to my thinned blood, I have this really nasty cold I caught from one of my co-workers. We at the restaurant have been trading colds and viruses like they were a valuable commodity. I’ve probably had something like 5 colds in the past year. I can’t tell you how many customers sneeze and spit on me with their over active super-excited-for-their-food salivary glands. Blech.

Anyway, instead of writing about the state of my cookies, I would like to post my current favorite cold cure:

GINGER TEA
Use the back of a spoon to peel off the skin of a big piece of ginger. Chop it up and put into a big mug.
Thinly slice half of a lemon and squeeze the juice into the mug before dropping it all in.
One yogi tea bag for respiratory issues.
Add a little honey and drink!

The key is to drink at least 2-3 cups of this and to also drink it fast, otherwise the lemon skin will turn bitter and make your tea taste terrible.

Here’s to getting well enough to eat teaspoon cookies!

January 23

Tea Cookies: an Old Family Recipe

I might have a pretty big sweet tooth, but that doesn’t mean I’m running to the kitchen to bake up dessert. I’d rather drizzle honey over a wedge of cheese, or doctor up a pint of ice cream I bought from the store. I might be fearless when it comes to cooking up a side dish, but I run scared every time I even think about baking. I’m too afraid I’ll ruin everything to even try.

Blame it on the number of pastry chef friends I have (I’ll let them make the hard stuff), or the proximity of my home to a handful of amazing bakeries and dessert shops (Susina Bakery and Milk), but I have had little to no interest in cooking desserts at home.

All that changed a few weeks ago, when I unexpectedly received a cookbook in the mail.

This was no glossy, food-porn cookbook. Rather, it was a culinary guidebook to my past: a plastic-covered, three ring binder with hundreds of recipes collected from the members of Gloucester, Massachusetts’ St. Paul Lutheran church. The cookbook (originally printed over 20 years ago), was a piece of culinary history from the home town of my paternal grandmother’s past.

Past the hand drawn cover of the church’s pulpit, I found the recipes of my grandmother, my Finnish cousins, and Greek and Finnish neighbors of the tiny fishing village I grew up in. This surprise cookbook was from my ever-caring step-mother: a woman that knows the power of food.

Inside, I found a recipe my Grandmother contributed (Greek Bread) and traditional family dishes like Nisu (a Finnish sweet bread), American “Chop Suey” and Haddock baked with mayonnaise. These were recipes I grew up eating whenever we visited.

One recipe that caught my eye was for a recipe my grandmother never got around to making for us.

Finnish Teaspoon cookies recipe was so straightforward, I decided to get over my fear and start baking. I’m so glad I did. The recipe suggest waiting a few days (THREE!) before eating, because flavor improves with time.

What kind of crazy people make a cookie recipe that you can’t eat until half a week goes by?

The Finns. My people.

After tasting the cookies from the moment they came out of the oven and a series of long, long days, would agree that the cookie requires some aging time. But boy, is hard to wait.

Allie Enos’ Finnish Teaspoon Cookie

from the St. Paul Lutheran Church Cookbook

1 cup butter

3/4 cup sugar

3 teaspoons vanilla

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

Strawberry Jam

Brown butter to a pale tan color in a small, heavy saucepan. Let cool. Pour cooled butter into a mixing bowl; Stir in sugar and vanilla. Combine flour and soda; gradually add to butter mixture. Stir until mixture is uniformly crumbly.

To shape cookie, press dough firmly into a teaspoon; level the top with the center of your hand. Tap side of spoon on cookie sheet to gently remove cookies or slide off spoon with the gentle push of a finger. Spread jam on flat side of half of all the formed cookies. Press second cookie to jellied cookies, to create a single, almond shaped “cookie sandwich.” Bake at 325 degrees for 6-8 minutes. Let cool. Put in airtight container and let sit for a few days before eating. Flavor improves with time. Makes several dozen cookies.

January 17

On Not Winning the Nobel Prize

If you’re looking for literary and creative inspiration, you should check out Dorris Lessing’s acceptance speech for her recently won Nobel prize for literature.

In her essay, she speaks of the marked loss in the appreciation for reading and the ever-fragmenting culture of those who read and those who find their entertainment on their (TV, movie, computer) screen. Being an impassioned reader, it’s hard to imagine a world where children aren’t inspired to read, or worse, can not find the books they want.

Lessing wrote:

I have a friend from Zimbabwe. A writer. Black – and that is to the point. He taught himself to read from the labels on jam jars, the labels on preserved fruit cans. He was brought up in an area I have driven through, an area for rural blacks. The earth is grit and gravel, there are low sparse bushes. The huts are poor, nothing like the good cared-for huts of the better off… He found a discarded children’s encyclopedia on a rubbish heap and learned from it.

I say a little thank you every time I walk to my local library just blocks from my house and borrow a tall stack of books. I really do know how lucky I am having access to a library system so flush with books. I’d never be able to pay my rent if I bought every book that I read. I’m abundantly glad I’m not in the position of having to choose between a roof over my head or a book in my hand.

Lessing is most certainly right when she says none of us would write if the only words to be found were printed on the containers of food stacked intermittently on the shelves at the market.

Just as food is important to fulfillment, so are precious words.

January 10

The Hulk vs. Leslie Brenner

Okay, so it’s been a while since Leslie Brenner “humbly” proposed her diner’s bill of rights in the LA Times’ Food Section. Yes, it’s true, I should be over it by now. I know it has been almost three months since she wrote about restaurant service and what diners ultimately “deserve” when they go out to eat. But the woman was just SO WRONG about what diners should expect from a restaurant and what is considered good service, that even after all this time I am still just-this-close to popping a blood vessel over what she had to say.

Look, I’ve tried to put it out of my mind. Believe me. I’ve probably written something like ten I-can’t-sleep-so-I’ll-craft-an-editorial-response-in-my-mind letter to Brenner herself and sent none of them.

The problem I have with Leslie Brenner the food critic is that she’s lost the joy of being a diner. In my personal opinion, Brenner is fed up with eating out for a living and wants as little to do with the restaurant scene as possible. Her articles show a growing pattern of disdain for what most LA diners would call “helpful service” and her columns show impatience for anything (i.e. service) that gets in her way of immediately sitting down and consuming her food. I bet if you asked Leslie Brenner if she would be interested in going to a beautiful restaurant where she could order her food on a sleek computer screen and receive a perfectly executed meal via a silent robot, she’d give you a big smile and ask if they could set up a standing reservation for her.

Though some of Leslie Brenner’s articles about food are insightful and well written, many of her critical columns about restaurants are devoid of objectivity and are bogged down by her obvious disconnect with the real needs of her readers. Most people that read the Food Section are hungry to learn about food and want information that will lead them to restaurants that they’ll enjoy. She and other old-guard restaurant critics say they should be treated like everyone else, and yet hyper critical of servers for giving descriptions of ingredients commonly asked about. Brenner once wrote critically of a server in a review because he included in a menu description what Burata was. She snidely stated that he was wasting the table’s time because “everyone in LA knows what burrata is”. I’ll have you know, Leslie, that unfortunately not everyone eats out as much as you (or I) do and most people have no idea what half the items are on any given menu. And to prove my point, I counted one night and I found that 9 out of ten tables I serve asks me what buratta is.

Up until now there was a certain level of professionalism that has kept me from writing any letter in response. That and time…this thing is going to go long…When it comes to responding to some of the unbelievably off-base attacks written by food critics, we in the restaurant business tend to keep to a vow of silence out of self-preservation. Sure, we restaurant folk could spend hours talking about all the baloney that’s slung our way, but we adhere to the unspoken understanding that we must maintain a vow of public silence in order to keep off the radar of angry food critics.

I was doing all right holding in my anger, until the other day I discovered the beautifully designed and gorgeously photographed food blog, Matt Bites. In looking through his beautiful photographs, I discovered a very thoughtful response to Leslie Brenner’s article. In it, Matt was critical of Brenner’s call for a sort of “culinary uprising” and wrote about his belief that in order to get good service one must be in the right mind set and be WILLING to get good service. Suddenly I was angry all over again.

Which brings me to the Incredible Hulk.

Despite moments of real frustration over injustice, inequality and bad reporting, I tend to be a really happy person. But if I hold onto my anger and don’t let it out, I tend to turn nasty. Swallowing anger is not only terrible for my personal life, it’s also really bad for business.

So just as the Incredible Hulk learned every week on his hit TV show in the 80’s, I’ve realized that a person (or half man/half monster) just can’t run away from anger. That person (or monster) must face their anger and conquer it.

First things first. I’ve got to put all that anger and frustration with the cock-eyed “bill of rights” down on paper before I really turn green. Who knows if any one else will appreciating my ranting, but god knows I’ll be a much better (and honest) person for doing so. In hopes of honoring Brenner’s initial premise of a diner’s bill of rights, I humbly suggest we add a few points, take a few away and lastly, do a LOT of editing.

1. Hospitality.Early in her bill of rights, Brenner waved the Danny Meyer flag of what is good service. She quoted his book “Setting the Table” with “hospitality exists when you believe that the other person is on your side.” I believe that getting great service at a restaurant requires the server and the diner to agree that they are entering into a business transaction* in which both people are required to give one one another respect and attention. A nasty server is no more accommodating than a guest with a bad attitude. Just as a server must show individual consideration to each guest and their needs, a diner must walk in the door with an open mind (and receptive stomach).

2. Restaurants are a business: I felt it was important to add this one because more and more I find that on average, most guests forget this. They ignore posted business hours (“what do you mean you can’t open 30 minutes early? My kid’s hungry!”, the lounge at tables for hours (“we’re catching up!”), bring in their own food (“look at the pretty cookies Grandma made!”) and get upset when we charge a “cake cutting fee”. Even though restaurants serve food and must offer good service, guests must realize that restaurants are a business. Tables have budgeted times, each restaurant has a set culinary style (i.e. don’t ask the sushi chef to cook you up some nice tuna), food is portioned and employees are paid minimum wage (however, in NY and Massachusetts, servers are paid less than half the minimum wage). Restaurants are not picnic stands and are not non-profit organizations. Just as a bank, hotel or retail store have certain rules (hours of operation, intolerance of thievery, procedures and protocols), so does a restaurant. Respect them.

3. Equal opportunity. “Restaurants shall not show preference in granting reservations to celebrities or their handlers.” Leslie’s words and I couldn’t agree more. However, her preposterously broad statement that “each di
ner has an equal right to any given table,” is ludicrous. If every two people that walked into a restaurant and demanded the equal right to sit at a table for six, than nearly every family dinner out or birthday celebration would be ruined.

3. Time of your choice. “You shall be given a reservation at or near the time you prefer when the restaurant has tables available. The corollary is that if you cannot show up, you shall cancel the reservation in a timely fashion.” Again, Leslie’s words. It should be mentioned that since empty tables drive customers mad, all diners showing up more than 15 minutes late (without a phone call) should not only be considered a no-show but they, the late customer, will take responsibility for their tardiness and not point blame elsewhere. Like missing a flight or a movie or any other business that runs on a time schedule, the customer pays the price for showing up late. Not the business.

4. Timely seating. When you arrive on time, you shall be seated on time. I agree with this idea as much as I agree with the philosophy of “paying it forward”. But if a diner expects to be seated on time, the diner will respect those who come after them and not sit at the table for an hour after the food is done so that they can “catch up.”

Restaurants budget between an hour to 2 hours (depending on the style of service) per table and book their rooms accordingly. Making other diners wait because you want a place to hang out is unfair. For clarity, see “Restaurants are a business” above.

5. Courteous greeting. “You have the right to be greeted courteously at the door.” Absolutely. Good service is all about good manners. So when a server says hello and greets the diners, the diners will have the common decency to respond with a look or a hello back.

6. Waiter’s anonymity. You have the right not to be told your server’s name.

I’m sorry, Leslie. I can’t even start to understand this rule. This one would make sense if we were talking about a firing squad.
Servers don’t want to be your friend. They appreciate being seen as human. Surely even Jeeves, the manservant, was allowed a name.

In the words of Bruce Banner just before turning into the incredible Hulk, “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like to see me when I get angry.

7. Wait at the table. Brenner believes that guests that “arrive at the time of your reservation and (the) table is ready, you shall be promptly seated, and not asked to wait for your party to be complete.” Not a bad idea if diners that are unwilling to wait for their party to be complete are respectful of the other diners with reservations following their dinner. If the diner’s reservation is for 7 o’clock and the table is needed back by 9, the diner will respect the restaurant’s need to sit the following guests in a timely manner.

8. Know your restaurant. Thought this was a good one to add. If you (or any of your fellow diners) don’t like meat, dairy, wheat or loud music at restaurants—don’t go to a restaurant that offers those things. If you think $30 is too much to pay for an entrée, don’t go to a restaurant that serves $30 entrees. If someone is willing to go to said restaurant despite their aversion to one or all of the above issues, they must either be willing to compromise or able to suspend judgment of said restaurant. Because let’s be honest, a person with wheat allergies in a noodle house, no matter how hard the restaurant tries to make the diner-with-restrictions happy, will not be experiencing an optimal dining experience. If a diner doesn’t like rock and roll and steak, they shouldn’t go to a rock and roll steak joint. Like any business, restaurants choose to do things a certain way for a reason. If you don’t like it, do go there. Save your money for another restaurant. No one is forcing you to eat out.

9. Tell it like it is. Brenner states that diners “have the right to a simple, accurate description of any dish you ask about.” The corollary to this clause should be noted that no food critic will criticize a server for describing an ingredient because they personally believe that everyone knows what “burratta” is.

10. Right of refusal: wine. Brenner is right when she says that “you have the right to refuse a wine that is not in good condition, and you shall not be required to pay for it.” If, however, you order a wine that isn’t corked, don’t feel it’s your inalienable right to change your mind twenty minutes (and ½ a bottle) later when all the glasses have been poured and your friends tell you they don’t like (your choice in) the wine.

So I ask you Leslie Brenner, with the list of demands minimized and reality balanced with expectations, do you think you could abide by these rules? True, the job of a restaurant critic is a difficult balance. One must be a talented writer, an educated diner and have an unflinching critical eye. But after years of eating out every day and writing about restaurants, there’s got to be more for you than getting through the meal so you can soon grind your axe at the newspaper. If you want to have a great experience at a restaurant (or in anything in life for that matter), you have to walk into it with a positive attitude and an open mind. Great restaurant experiences don’t just happen TO you.