While on vacation in Hawaii I did not indulge in one of my addictions, watching food programs on TV. In fact, I watched very little TV at all on my trip. Vacation is my big chance to catch up on my reading. This time around I brought two books I had received review copies of--Best Food Writing 2007 and Service Included. I was thrilled to see that my friend and Bay Area Bites colleague Shuna Fish Lydon was included in the book. Past Bay Area Bites writers to make the cut include both Catherine Nash and Stephanie Lucianovic. The book seems to be equal parts angst and humor with some thoughtful and sentimental pieces thrown In for good measure. It's a good vacation read, and provides an interesting snapshot of the food issues and obsessions of the day. Some of my favorite pieces were Cast Iron Skillet by Andrea King Collier, and A Grandchild of Italy Cracks the Spaghetti Code by Kim Severson.

The other book I read Service Included, is really a gem. It gives us the flipside to Bill Buford's Heat. It's the story of being a waiter at Per Se in New York. Phoebe Damrosch is a fantastic writer with humor, wit and a great sense of irony. She is brutally honest about just about everything, herself included. Throughout the saga of the opening of Per Se in New York are little tidbits about service and how to be a good diner. The book reads like a guilty pleasure. I have even less desire to be a waiter than to be a chef, but to be a fly on the wall is just plain yummy.

Labels: amy sherman, books, catherine nash, shuna lydon, stephanie v.w. lucianovic

One of my favorite things to do is go to Ghirardelli Square for ice cream.

I'm sure most of the locals just blanched at that sentence. The food snobs are horrified that I'd be common enough to let such "plebeian" ice cream pass my lips, and the regular snobs can't see hobnobbing with the tourists.

Before I moved down the street, I would have agreed with you. Smelly sea lions, tee shirt shops, and overstuffed tourists whose matching fleeces advertise their ignorance of San Francisco weather? Blech. I've never had much heart for the Wharf, and though I'm a chocoholic, Ghirardelli's middle-of-the-road milk chocolates don't do it for me.

But then we found an apartment that's so close to the Square that the smell of freshly made ice cream cones practically wakes me up in the morning. Add to that my boyfriend's obsession with ice cream, and we were bound to become regulars.

Instead of being dragged kicking and screaming, though, I've found that I adore having an ice cream at Ghirardelli Square. Nevermind that it's Dreyer's (the truck pulls up every morning, regular as rain). Everyone is happy on vacation, and so the place is just brimming with smiles and laughter and good vibrations. People are thrilled to death at the thought of stuffing a gigondo ice cream sundae in their bellies, and no one minds the wait.

As it happens, they also serve some of the best chocolate chip ice cream around. The secret is the size of the chip; if it's too big, the chip stays cold and it's difficult to taste the chocolate. But these chips are teeny-tiny flecks that melt in your mouth, imbuing the ice cream around it (mint, vanilla, or espresso) with chocolatey goodness.

If you live in the city, you owe it to yourself to head to the Square one evening soon. It'll put a smile on your face, guaranteed. Who says Fisherman's Wharf is just for tourists?

Labels: catherine nash, Ghirardelli Square, ice cream, San Francisco tourist attractions

Rose, lavender, and vanilla bean macaroons

I didn't like macaroons until I met Danielle Chong. She's the founder of Macarune, a one-woman baking operation, and macaroons are the specialty of the house.

A co-worker introduced me to Macarune's light as air creations, and even through the deadened fog of a headcold, I could taste the freshness of the buttercream and feel the juxtaposition of textures -- crisp, then soft and chewy -- on my tongue. I was intrigued. So I called Danielle up, and we met for coffee to talk about her budding bakery.

"I've always baked," explained the petite Malaysian. "I used to pore over mom's cookbooks. A lot of friends back home know me for my cheesecake with peaches on top."


Strawberry macaroons. Photo by Danielle Chong.

During a trip to Europe, Danielle tasted her first macaron from Parisian legend Pierre Hermé. "We'd buy a box with strawberry and pistachio and we'd eat them like Krispy Kremes."

When her boyfriend bought her a KitchenAid mixer two years ago, she started baking in earnest, gifting the sugary excesses to friends. Macaroons were a particular challenge.

"They're a pain in the butt to make," she says with a rueful smile. "I've thrown trays and trays away. I failed the first time and I failed the second time and it worked the third time. But I've failed many times after."

Danielle bakes her macaroons in a variety of flavors. My favorite is rose, which is made with rose water; each one is distinctly and intoxicatingly floral. There is also pistachio, vanilla bean, coffee, hibiscus, coconut, hazelnut, caramel fleur de sel, lychee, lavender, raspberry, black sesame, green tea -- and many, many more. She's currently playing around with cardamom, orange blossom, and elderflower. "Traveling has opened my eyes to a lot of different flavors," she says.


Lavender macaroons. Photo by Danielle Chong.

Danielle makes her macaroons in the French style, meaning that the buttercream sandwiched in the middle is made by pouring sugar syrup over egg yolks and whipping it to peaks. She prefers this method for most of the flavors because of the velvety texture it imparts. For the honey buttercream in her lavender macaroons, however, she switches to the Italian method, which uses egg whites in place of yolks.

The provenance of her ingredients varies. "I am pro-local," she admits. "I go to the Ferry Plaza farmer's market almost every week." But some things are better abroad, and she prefers Valhrona chocolate and culinary lavender imported from France.

She is equally fastidious about how she presents her dainty cookies. Strawberry macaroons come in a green plastic pint basket, just as they would at the market, and each order is festooned with a polka dotted ribbon.


Black sesame and pistachio macaroons. Photo by Danielle Chong.

Right now, Danielle bakes only to order -- one reason her macaroons are so unbeatably fresh tasting. (In comparison, the macaroons sold at everyone's favorite boulangerie look and taste like limp imitations.) In addition to macaroons, Macarune also offers custom cupcakes -- my favorite is the intensely fudgey chocolate soufflé -- as well as celebration cakes, shortbread and cookies.

Orders: $26 for 16 (1 flavor) or $42 for 32 (2 flavors). 72 hours notice required, not including weekends. Pick-up is in North Beach. For more information or to place an order, contact daniellechong@gmail.com

Labels: catherine nash, daniellechong, dessert, macaroons

On Monday, Sens opened to the public. It's located in the old Monte Cristo Cafe space at the tippy-top of a curiously exhilarating spiral staircase at Embarcadero Center 4. It's an odd place for a restaurant, but the cityviews from its windows -- of the Ferry Building, beautifully lit at night, and the Bay Bridge beyond -- are stunning. I hope the location will work for it, rather than against it.

The large interior has the feel of an elegant hunting lodge, with stone walls original to the restaurant, wooden beams, and cocoa brown leather armchairs at every place. Chef Michael Dotson (Evvia Estiatorio, Slow Club, PlumpJack Cafe) has crafted a menu focused on an area of the southern Mediterranean not well represented in San Francisco, traveling from Greece to Turkey to North Africa. According to the press release, Sens will pair "ingredients indigenous to these lands...with locally sourced organic and sustainable produce, meat and fish." The wine list, from General Manager and Sommelier Saeed Amini (Mondavi, Cetrella, Kokkari), includes biodynamic and seasonal selections.

At last week's Friends & Family preview, the menu included things like crispy-fried veal and olive meatballs, braised lamb shank spiced with za'atar, whole roasted sea bass, and cumin pot de creme. Eating there was a full circle moment for me, as I have been following along with Pastry Chef (and Bay Area Bites contributor) Shuna Lydon's (Aziza, Citizen Cake, Bouchon, The French Laundry) pre-opening jitters on eggbeater. Shuna has christened her "fruit and aroma inspired desserts" with intoxicating names like "soft & evocative", and though this is not a review, may I simply say that my heart stopped when I tasted the verbena brown butter on the peaches?

Sens Restaurant
4 Embarcadero Center, Promenade Level
San Francisco
(415) 362-0645
Open for lunch and dinner.

Labels: catherine nash, restaurants, Sens, shuna lydon, Southern Mediterranean

Despite the proliferation of excellent burritos and taco trucks worth chasing down, it's hard to find a decent sit-down Mexican place in San Francisco. While Mexico DF isn't quite perfect, it's good enough to overlook the flaws and welcome its addition to the city's restaurants.

They say you never get a second chance to make a first impression; visually, Mexico DF nails it. From an oversized rustic chandelier made from a lattice iron grill and hanging crystals to vivid back-lit artwork by Oaxacan artist Rufino Tamayo, Mexico DF is a beautiful space with refined nods to the country that inspired it. Tables are laid with brightly colored chargers, and the open kitchen is roofed with a cherry red canopy. On a recent Saturday night, though the bar was calm, the dining room had a pleasant buzz to it. Service, though rumored to be amateur, was anything but. Our server was friendly, full of recommendations, happy to answer questions (where the goat was raised, for example) and he changed out our plates and silver between every single course.

The name of the restaurant, which refers to Mexico's capital city, gives some idea as to the focus of chef David Rosales' cuisine. The dinner menu offers a bit of everything (except burritos), from ceviche to soup, tacos to whole roasted fish.



We started with the house guacamole. If you had asked me to rate the restaurant after only one bite, I would have awarded it an A. Thick, creamy, and judiciously seasoned, the guacamole ($9) arrived with a handful of tortilla chips architecturally arrayed in its greenery, as well as two kinds of salsa (sweet chile de arbol and peppy tomatillo-habanero, which are available for sale by the bottle). Our server brought us a back-up supply of chips so we could lap it all up.



Both the margaritas we ordered -- the sweet, midnight-colored Xochimilco with hibiscus and peach juice ($9) and the classic Polanco ($10.50) with Herradura reposado -- were well-made and easy to drink. Next time I'd like to try a version with muddled grapefruit just for kicks. After our guacamole, we switched to wine. The Tobia tempranillo ($12) was smokier than I liked, but the fruitier MAS malbec ($8) suited me well. Neither were particularly astute matches for the food, however.

It was the corn fungus that convinced us to share the chile relleno rather than one of the ceviches. A gigantic mild green pepper ($14) was stuffed first with corn, summer squash, and the musky sweet Mexican delicacy known as huitlacoche, then coated in breading, deep-fried, and drizzled in crema and Tangerine tomato salsa. The fried coating got soggy under the sauce, but its inner beauty shown through, and we gobbled up the the insides wrapped in their crisp pepper shell.



For our mains, we heeded the mighty call of the taco. The chuleta consisted of small pieces of lean pork loin ($9 for two), a confetti of raw white onions, and chile de arbol salsa on the side. They were only okay. I was craving a juicier meat, I suppose, so it's my own fault for ordering the loin. But it doesn't change the fact that they were no better than average. Next time, I'll get the carnitas.

The cabrito ($12 for two), however, were oustanding. Goat meat is popular in a variety of cultures, from Latin America to the Middle East. It isn't something we gringos eat a lot, and I can tell you we're missing out. The rich, juicy, slightly smoky barbacoa-style goat was the best thing I ate all night.

We're gluttons, so we also ordered a huarache corn masa "sandal" with grilled short ribs ($10). The meat had a great grilled flavor, but it was too fatty for me and I spit it out. My boyfriend devoured it, though, and I found myself compulsively picking at the queso fresco on top.

I'm not sure whether I loved or hated the house pickled jalapenos ($2) that arrived at my request with my tacos. The thin carrot slivers were sweet and tangy, but the peppers packed more punch than a heavyweight boxer in the fight of his life, and my poor palate got quite a scorching. I had to order a side of crema to cut the heat, and sat spooning it into my beleaguered mouth for quite some time. Still, I can't say that I didn't sort of enjoy the rush, and as soon as my tongue had cooled, I picked up another one and took another bite. (A much smaller bite.)

We ended our meal with a burnt caramel flan ($8). I'd hoped it would change my mind about flan, and though it was creamy and the sweet caramel sauce burnt just enough, in the end it was only flan.

Overall, we enjoyed an above average meal, tasty margaritas, superb service and a few standout bites. I really appreciated the more unusual ingredients on the menu, neither of which I can recall seeing on a local menu before. Our server told us that the goat is raised in Colorado for Niman Ranch, and the huitlacoche is grown for the restaurant by a local farmer. Next time I'm craving Mexican and I want to sit down and linger over dinner, I'll be back.

Mexico DF
139 Steuart Street at Mission
San Francisco
(415) 808-1048
Open 7 nights a week for dinner, M-F lunch

Labels: catherine nash, mexican, Mexico DF, restaurants, reviews

I flew to North Carolina last week for my grandmother's funeral. She was 87 and she couldn't do anything for herself by the time she died. A woman named Tonya would come by the house every day, and later the nursing home, and feed her and bathe her and turn on Andy Griffith for her to watch. Tonya was with her when she died, and the day before that when my grandmother had said, "Hold me," it was Tonya who pulled down the bed rails and put her solid bronze arms around my grandmother's soft, fleshy ones.

When I stepped off the plane in Raleigh, the air was hot and thick and I wished I'd changed out of my jeans before I left the airport. My brother picked me up, along with my mother and my sister, and when I got into his truck they started telling me about all the food people had brought over.

"You would not believe how much food we have back at the house," my mom began, shaking her head so that her graying hair bounced against her forehead. "Fried chicken, pecan pie," -- she pronouces it PEE-can -- "chess pie, potato salad, cole slaw. We have enough to feed an army."

My sister took up the litany, counting the dishes off on her fingers. "Barbecued chicken. Deviled eggs. Chocolate cake." Even in the darkened car, I could see her eyes sparkle, but not with tears. Eating feels good, even when everything else feels bad.

We spent much of the ride home talking about what they'd eaten the night before, and which neighbor or church friend or circle member had brought what dish. When we got home, everyone peeled off to bed but me and mom. We cut into a chocolate sheet cake made from Duncan Hines mix and store bought frosting. I ate a square of it standing up in my grandparents' red kitchen, and then cut off another small sliver just to even things out. It was fluffy and fresh and delicious. It reminded me of birthday party cake from when I was a kid.

I read over a piece of paper on the kitchen table that listed all the food that had been dropped off and by whom. The funeral house prints these forms up and brings them to the deceased's house, along with a podium with a light attached to it and a book that sits on top of it for visitors to sign.

The next morning, I woke up and took a shower. I put on a dress I'd bought with money my grandmother sent me for my birthday, and shoes I'd bought the previous summer for my grandfather's funeral. We drove to the cemetary and sat down on chairs covered in scratchy crushed blue velvet. My grandparents' ashes had been comingled -- that is the official term for mixing them together -- and they were held in a wooden box engraved with intertwining hearts and the words "Together Forever." They were both blessed and later buried in that hot, muggy air, and even as I cried, I couldn't help but notice that the preacher used a word I'd never heard before -- undergird. In the car on the way home I asked my brother and sister if anyone had ever heard it before. No one had.

Back home, my cousins immediately set about heating up the food. Most of us crowded into the kitchen; some of us were hungry, some tried to help, but I think most of us just didn't know what else to do. My cousin Sheila hadn't been able to sleep the night after my grandmother died, so she got up at 4:30 in the morning and baked a pound cake.

When we finally sat down to eat, we had three kinds of chicken (roasted, barbecued, and fried), deviled eggs, sandwiches, baked ham, yeast rolls, ham rolls, three kinds of potato salad, cole slaw, corn pudding, rice pilaf, broccoli casserole, asparagus casserole topped with Pringles (I kid you not), lasagna, baked beans, bread-and-butter pickles, and chicken salad. We all sat around in the living room with plates on our knees, sipping sweet tea, catching up with people we hadn't talked to in a year, complaining about the heat and humidity.

There were just as many desserts as anything else. Lemon chess pie, pecan pie, chocolate cake, the most marvelous chocolate fudge pie (it's basically gooey, nearly-cooked brownie batter in a flaky pie shell), pound cake, banana pudding. What we didn't eat, we wrapped back up and put out again for dinner that night, after the memorial service at the church, after I stood in the receiving line and met all the people who had fed us.


Grandma's Fried Chicken
Serves 4

Ingredients:
1 whole chicken, cut into legs, thighs, breasts, and wings
buttermilk (optional)
flour
salt and pepper to taste
Crisco

Method:
In my grandmother's words: "I'm not the fryer in the family," she started out by saying. "That's Margaret [her sister]. But I've fried a lot of chicken. What you want to do is salt and pepper and flour the chicken. Teri [her cousin] says you should soak it in milk before you flour it. He brought us some fried chicken one time and it was mighty good, but I don't know. Then you want to cook it in hot grease. You can use Crisco or you can use the liquid, it doesn't matter. We always used Crisco. But anyway, you want to cook it in enough hot grease to cover the chicken.

"Daddy called himself the Master Fryer, and Mother always said, 'I guess you are. All you do is stand there and fry it and I have to do all the rest of it and all the cleaning up.' We had fried chicken every Sunday morning for breakfast with biscuits.

"But anyway. The smaller the chicken the better. It's done when you can stick a fork in easily and no blood appears. Maybe 20 minutes, but watch it. Then just put it on a paper towel to drain."

Additional instructions:
All measurements are approximate because you really only need enough to suit you. Cover the chicken in buttermilk for a few hours, up to overnight. Pat it good and dry, then salt and pepper it to taste and dredge in flour, shaking off the excess. Or, you can toss the flour in a paper bag, season it to your liking (cayenne adds a nice touch) and then toss the chicken parts in one by one.

Heat the Crisco about halfway up a cast iron skillet until it's melted and a small piece of bread bubbles and fries on contact. Then add the pieces, one or two at a time to prevent the oil from cooling down. Turn them after about 5-8 minutes, depending on size and type of meat; keep in mind dark meat needs longer to cook than white meat. Drain on a plate covered with paper towels and serve hot. Also good cold the next day.

Labels: catherine nash, fried chicken, funeral food, Southern food

The Candy Store has but one decoration: candy. Despite its white walls, this tiny sugar-laden Russian Hill boutique is a veritable rainbow of color -- giant yellow swirly lollipops, chocolate bars in vintage wrappers, shelves stacked with jar after jar of vivid red and green gummy cherries, hard candy in pastel wrappers, and champagne gumdrops. With more than 300 kinds of candy to choose from, including nostalgia brands, hard-to-find chocolate, and double-salted licorice, there's something for everybody.

Owner Diane Campbell has always been a candy freak. "I was forbidden candy as a kid so it was on the sneak," she confesses. Her addiction got her suspended from school for selling candy out of her locker at age ten, and she was on a covert first name basis with the ice cream man. "When I was seven, I'd go to the ice cream man for candy every day. At 3 p.m. I'd ride my bike to the park, get candy, and sneak eat it at home. One day I'm playing outside with my mom and I hear the ringing of the ice cream truck. My mom says, 'I'll get you an ice cream cone today.' I'm panicked. I tell her I don't want one, but she insists. We walk over and of course the ice cream man says, 'Hi Diane.' And my mom says, 'How do you know my daughter?' And he says, 'Know her? She's my best customer!'"



Diane's passion for candy is contagious. On my second visit, she pushed a piece of licorice on me. (Yes, I hate it too.) But the "chalk licorice" -- a sugar-coated piece of black licorice with a creamy, peppermint-y center -- changed my mind. I walked out with a box full.

Every piece of candy in the store has been taste-tested by Diane and her husband, Brian (and samples of the bulk candy are free for the asking). Though they opened the shop in April of this year, they began their research three years ago with the goal of representing the entire world of candy, from sours and gummies to chocolate and licorice. One shelf is devoted to nostalgia candy, like wax bottles and candy lipstick, Big League Chew gum and Pop Rocks. Diane's childhood favorites get their due as well, with Zagnuts (crunchy peanut butter bar coated in toasted coconut) and maddeningly addictive Mallo Cups (milk chocolate and toasted coconut around a sticky marshmallow center). People also go crazy for Valomilk, Chase's Cherry Mash, Idaho Spud, and Zotz.



The Candy Store's chocolate collection includes edible chocolate boxes from local favorite Charles Chocolates, caramel-chocolate pretzels from Utah, four kinds of malted balls (chocolate mint, peanut butter, chocolate, and ultimate dark/milk/white chocolate combo), and 13 chocolate bars from the United Kingdom, including the ever-popular Cadbury Flake, Nestle's caramel-ly Lion, and the Mars bar (which is more like our Milky Way). Diane's hands-down favorite is an organic, fair trade butter caramelchocolate bar from Austrian chocolate maker Zotter. "It's the best chocolate bar I've ever tasted in my life," Diane swoons.

Perhaps surprisingly, what has a lot of people drooling the most is the black licorice selection. Diane stocks more than 15 varieties, most of which come from Holland, and she says the double-salted licorice inspires its own kind of addict. Diabetics also get their due, with nine sugar-free candies.


Chocolate-covered "river stones"

The most fun offering is the custom-made party favors. Diane will create something for any budget, from small Chinese takeout boxes full of gorgeous chocolate "river stones" (chocolate-covered apricots, marzipan, and almonds) and mini-martini shakers full of chocolate almond nougatine "olives" (the canister can double as a drink maker) to sugar-coma-inducing candy carts you can rent at big events where everyone gets to fill their bags from dozens of sweet treats.

The Candy Store
1507 Vallejo Street at Polk
San Francisco
(415) 921-8000

Labels: black licorice, candy, catherine nash, nostalgia candy, The Candy Store

When I was in college, my roommate introduced me to Kierkegaard's theory of the despair of infinitude. It was complicated in an existential sort of way, but over the years, I've adopted a variation on the term -- the despair of infinity -- to refer to the overwhelming sensation I feel when faced with too many choices. Trying to pickout an outfit for the first day of work after a big shopping spree? Despair of infinity. Time to whip up dinner and the fridge is full of food? Despair of infinity. Back from a year in Russia and sitting at a bar, perusing a beer list of 6 drafts and 20 bottles? Praise capitalism in all its glory -- but that's despair of infinity nonetheless.

The despair of infinity comes upon me almost anytime I have to decide where to take visitors to dinner. When I was new to San Francisco, it was easy. We simply went wherever I had not been and, especially if it was my folks, could not afford. Over the years, I've exhausted most of the San Francisco icons with repeat visitors, and moved on to personal neighborhood favorites.

Since Indian summer is the best time for visitors, I thought I'd share the places on my short list. Where do you like to take visiting family and friends out to eat?

The Icons

Zuni Cafe A perrenial favorite. Who doesn't love the copper bar, the Caesar salad, and the roast chicken? 1658 Market Street, (415) 552-2522.

Slanted Door Some people complain that it's gotten too big for its britches since moving into the Ferry Building, but the shaking beef still rocks, and the Bay views can't be beat. 1 Ferry Building #3 at the Embarcadero, (415) 861-8032.

Boulevard This feel-good brasserie sticks to seasonal California classics, and it has an old-world elegance that's irresistable. 1 Mission Street, (415) 543-6084.

The Regulars

Vivande This was a weekly stop when I lived in Pacific Heights. The pasta is handmade, the sausage comes from a 150-year-old family recipe, and the lemon tart is worth the visit alone. 2125 Fillmore Street, (415) 346-4430.

1550 Hyde The philosophy here is to cook with the Bay Area's best sustainably raised produce and meats, like cult favorite Hoffman Gamebirds' chickens. I've never had a meal that was anything short of extraordinary. 1550 Hyde Street, (415) 775-1550.

Antica Trattoria Though the atmosphere isn't as convivial as it is at Ristorante Milano, another favorite haunt, the food is more rustic and the servers remember their regulars. 2400 Polk Street, (415) 928-5797.

The Current Favorites

Nua This relatively new addition to North Beach is fast becoming a destination. I crave the roasted cauliflower with capers and pine nuts on a regular basis. 550 Green Street, (415) 433-4000.

Terzo If I lived in the Marina, I'd come here all the time for small plates like succulent, spicy chicken spiedini and the addictive crispy fried onion rings. As it is, I'm on a first name basis with the hostess. 3011 Steiner Street, (415) 441-3200.

Bourbon & Branch -- This modern speakeasy may not serve a single bite of food, but it is the coolest bar in town. Okay, so the secret password is a bit hokey, but once you're inside, inventive cocktails and the 1920's-inspired atmosphere cast their spell. Visit bourbonandbranch.com for reservations.

Labels: 1550 Hyde, Antica Trattoria, Boulevard, bourbon and branch, catherine nash, nua, restaurants, Slanted Door, Terzo, Vivande, where to eat in San Francisco, Zuni Cafe

A provocative question, especially for a food-loving town in a beef-righteous nation. It's a question that I can't even answer, really, not having sampled every burger in the Bay Area, or even the smaller list of San Francisco cult favorites.

But one thing I can tell you is that the burger at the newly opened Spruce is absolutely, unequivocally, utterly delicious.


photo by Jen Maiser

I met a friend there on a recent Monday night about two weeks after it opened. (Was this the most highly anticipated restaurant opening in recent memory or what?) We snagged two seats at the bar and settled in for drinks, I with my bourbon stone sour ($8) and Jen with her Clover Club ($8), a sweet-tart blend of gin, lemon juice, and Hangar One Aqua Perfecta framboise eau de vie. (The former: eh; the latter: double-yum.)

Even though we were splitting a burger at the bar, our meal started with an amuse bouche, a small gift of the world's best beet chips, vivid vermilion and perfectly salted, with a side of horseradish cream. They hit the spot.



We were in a nibbly mood so we shared two orders ($7 each) of housemade charcuterie -- which is surely now the most oft-typed phrase in my restaurant write-up vocabulary -- and enjoyed noshing our way through coins of soft smoked chorizo and glossy slivers of spicy coppa. I devoured the onion relish compulsively, and liked the sprinkling of smoked pimenton. We drank, we talked, we admired the view (chocolate mohair walls, soaring steel trusses, a glittering skylight) and took in the crowd, mostly couples and friends hungrily eyeing their food rather than one another.



When the burger ($12) arrived, it was draped, on request, with a melted slice of cheddar but otherwise unadorned, save for a small garden of lettuce, tomatoes, pickled red onions, and thin sheets of dill pickle on the side. Many regulars of the Village Pub, also owned by the trio behind Spruce, liken the "bun" to an English muffin, and that seems as apt a description as any for the thin, textured, somewhat porous bread. My only complaint is that they really overdid it brushing the bun with butter. Other than that, the burger was perfect -- hefty enough to feel good in the hand, satisfying, well-seasoned (an area where the kitchen clearly excels), juicy, and flavorful. Every bite was delightful and I would have eaten every last pickle if my mother hadn't taught me to share.




The fries that came with it were served in a silver cup, and assuming they are the same ones that accompany the bavette steak on the dinner menu, fried in duck fat. Holy Deliciousness, Batman! Crisp, just the right side of greasy, and perfectly salted; odd, however, that we had to ask for ketchup (and mustard). Is it really so rare to want these condiments when ordering a burger and fries? They should just slap them on the side and be done with it.

The service throughout the meal was spot on, though the lamp on the corner of the bar made it hard for our bartender to tell when Jen's drink had run dry. We passed on dessert, even though they were created by Bay Area wunderkind William Werner, formerly of the Ritz-Carlton Half Moon Bay; a girl has to save a little something for the next time.

I perused the dinner menu while I was there and, despite being written by a devoted minimalist, a few things on it popped out at me -- watermelon and arugula with cured sardines, for instance, and crudo with vegetables escabeche (did I call this new trend or did I call this new trend?).

I'm looking forward to my next visit.

Spruce
3640 Sacramento Street
(415) 931-5100
San Francisco
Open 7 days a week for dinner, M-F for lunch

Labels: burger, catherine nash, restaurants, reviews, Spruce, Village Pub

Earlier this year, I read about a jam made by two guys from an apricot tree in their backyard. It was seriously small-batch -- think 100 jars a year -- and the only way to get it was to sign up for the waiting list. "A waiting list, for jam?" I thought to myself. "That's nuts!" But I figured what the hell, and signed up.

Fast forward to the summer, when I got an email from Eric and Phineas at We Love Jam telling me their apricot jam was almost ready, and I could buy up to four 8-ounce jars. I bought the maximum, and sat back to wait.

When it arrived, it took a few days for me to try it. One morning I nonchalantly asked my jam-loving boyfriend if he'd tried it yet. "It's good," came the reply.

So I was in no way prepared for the unsurpassably delicious, unconscionably good, irresistably perfect taste sensation that hit my tongue when I finally tried it. I swear, I nearly fainted. It tasted like apricots, honey, and gold. It was so smooth, it glided over my tongue like a silk cloth over polished wood. I tossed manners to the wind and started eating it straight from the jar.

As I licked pure happiness off my spoon, I wondered about the guys who made this amazing stuff. I'd already been in touch with them a few times and I liked their sense of humor, hiding jars of jam in the San Francisco main library for people to find. So I decided to interview them and learn more about the operation. What I found out is that they are totally devoted -- to their jam, to small farmers, and to saving the Blenheim apricot. They are also a total hoot.

Who is Eric?
The son of crazy art collectors. My dad is Swiss, from the French region, so I grew up on French cuisine and desserts. My mom is an amazing cook and I grew up helping my mom in the kitchen where she spent lots of time experimenting. Our jam, and the food products we will be offering are all the result of relaxing and having fun in the kitchen.

Who is Phineas?
Former educator, barista, part-time writer, amateur baker. Up until the jam-making started, I always lived in places with a non-functional kitchen. It wasn't until being in a full working kitchen that I started to do anything other than microwave popcorn. Go figure, but I'm pretty good with food. One day it would be nice to open up a small bakery/cafe.

When did you first make your apricot jam?
We met in March of 2002 and took a trip throughout Europe shortly thereafter -- a true test of our relationship! Anyhow, [at] a tiny, deserted restaurant in Grasse, a mind-blowing white peach dessert Eric ordered lingered in our minds. When we returned from Europe, Eric ventured into Phineas' Santa Clara backyard and saw a fruit tree. "What is that?" he asked. "An apricot tree," Phineas responded. "What do you do with the fruit?" Eric asked. "Nothing. My mom eats it -- the rest falls on the ground and rots," Phineas said. "Let's make jam!" said Eric.

So we picked the fruit and took it up to San Francisco and cooked up a batch. The white peach dessert served as our inspiration and the rest is history.

Tell me about the apricots.
We didn't know what variety it was right away but did some research and discovered it was Blenheim -- the most flavorful but most delicate apricot variety. Most of the Silicon Valley area was Blenheim and cherry orchards. Only a few remain and Slow Food USA classifies the Blenheim as endangered. One of the orchards we called told us they ripped up all their trees and planted a more profitable crop. It was then we knew our jam-making wasn't just about making delicious jam, but saving a way of life. We feel passionately about keeping the Blenheim a viable crop and giving these farmers a reason to continue growing it and not selling their land for housing.

When did you start selling the jam?
We had been making this jam for almost five years from the backyard tree. Each year we made around 100 jars and just gave them away. For some crazy reason we decided to send out a press release to two food magazines about the jam being for sale -- just 100 jars for 2007. In November of 2006 we had a voicemail from Food & Wine saying they loved the jam and wanted to write about it. All of a sudden the idea that this was now a business hit us and we had no idea what to think. They had us ship a jar to be photographed. Several phone interviews took place with lots of questions like how we were going to sell it. We told them it would be online. We built the website in a weekend. They asked since we had so few jars if we had a waiting list. We said yes. When the blurb came out in Food & Wine we were simply deluged with requests. Thousands of people emailed us. It took us by complete surprise.

How much time did you spend making jam this year?
This year, between our tree and the fruit from the other orchard, we processed about 7000 pounds of jam. Completely by hand. Washing individual fruit, hand pitting the fruit, using water bath canning. This is a very labor- and time-consuming method. Our priority this year was to make people happy no matter the expense on our end. So far, we have succeeded with this and that has made all the disasters that happened (there were countless) worth it.

What was the hardest thing about jam-making this year?
The sheer stress and labor. We went from making about 100 jars in a few days to making around 6000 -- in three weeks. The fruit doesn't last very long in the refrigerator, so we had to work basically day and night to make the jam. There was a huge sense of urgency.

You also sell a BBQ sauce. Might you expand your food enterprise any further with more products?
We have a whole lineup of products planned, all based on what we have made for years for friends and family. These include not just jams, but our pickles, biscotti and cookies, a taste bud-shattering preserved Meyer lemon Mediterranean rub that makes any chicken dish an instant cult hit. We also want to sell products from very small farms or from farms that maybe just have a few trees. We want to establish relationships with farmers and get excellent quality stuff that normally would never be available. We also want to work with tiny vineyards selling wine. We know one farmer who grows his own grapes and makes only about 7 cases a year. That is what we are looking for -- extremely small production and extremely high quality. And to always have something new available that you can't get anywhere else.

I know there are still a few jars of jam left online, but how do you get on the mailing list for next year?
Anyone who purchased jam from us this year is on the waiting list for life. [Whoever] wants to be on the list just has to email us. It is all chronological, who emailed on what day. And we work down the list like that. There will always be a waiting list and our website will be the only place to buy it. We deeply value the personal connection with our customers through emails and phone calls and that could never be preserved if someone else sold our product. For example, if a customer says they like a certain variety of plum jam, we will find that fruit and make a small batch and put it up for sale. This very close contact with customers and working with them to make them happy is the greatest joy of this venture.

To join the mailing list, email contact@welovejam.com

Labels: Blenheim apricots, catherine nash, jam, We Love Jam

I grew up at the beach. While other kids were making do with garden hoses and sprinklers, I was cooling off in the salty waters of the Atlantic, whose surface shimmied a mere 15 minute drive from my house in suburban Virginia. I had my first swimming lesson when I was 10 months old, and I learned to body surf in the ocean by piggybacking on my dad's shoulders, tiny hands grasped firmly around his neck. (It's a wonder we didn't both drown, but this was in the risk-laden 1970s, an era before seatbelt laws, bicycle helmets, and common sense.)

Come summertime, my parents found that the best entertainment for three young kids was also the cheapest. Every weekend morning, my mom would wake up, slip on her swimsuit and beach coverup, and go downstairs to make lunch. While she spread white bread with peanut butter and jelly, pimiento cheese, or pepperoni, lettuce, and mayonnaise (my sister's invention), my dad would haul the old red cooler from the garage and fill it with ice. In would go enough sandwiches to keep us happy all day long, cans of coke and sprite, and pieces of just-ripe fruit. She'd grab a bag of Doritos and some napkins, fill up her sandy beach bag with Coppertone suntan lotion and meat tenderizer (in case anyone had a run in with a jellyfish) and bundle us all into the car along with beach chairs, a big umbrella, and enough pails and shovels for an entire elementary school.

We'd arrive at the shore early in the day and set up camp. The first order of business was to anchor the 400-pound beach umbrella in the sand. (It felt that heavy, anyway.) The closer you got to the water, the easier it was to do because of the way the water seeped into the sand and created a firm foundation. But you had to weight that against the danger of the tide, which was bound to come up up up as the day wore on, and wash away your toys and supplies if you weren't careful.

Once we were ensconced in our little patch of sand, the Most Horrible Part of the Day was upon us: the application of sunscreen. I don't know which of us sqiurmed the most, but none of us liked it. "Mom!" we'd all wail. "We need to get in the water!" These were days when we were happy to swim and play for eight hours at a stretch. While my dad would dig holes to China, we'd hunt for sand crabs, chasing them out of the sand near the waterline and squealing as their scrambling legs tickled our palms. We'd take turns burying my dad beneath rivers of sand, and fashion stalagmite turrets for our sandcastles by dribbling beach mud a bit at a time onto the ground below.

Our tummies always told us when it was lunchtime, and we'd rush back to the cluster of beach chairs and towels, plop down dripping wet, and reach for sandwiches with wet and sandy fingers. Even when we were older, no matter how much we cleaned up before hand, the sand got into the sandwiches, but we ate them anyway. I hated PB&Js, and ditto slimy cold cuts, so pimiento cheese was the way to go. Cold green grapes, misshapen pears, and bruise-colored plums were the fruits of choice, and we ate them with the sticky juices running down our chins.

When the sun was beginning to falter in the sky, we'd pack up our belongings, usually with several woeful pleas for one last swim in the ocean. Every attempt was made to dry off our feet before stuffing them back into our shoes, but inevitably we walked back to the car squashing all the way. We'd spread out the driest towel on the back seat, and once we were home, hose off before traipsing inside through the garage door. No matter what I did, my swimsuit bottoms were always heavy with beach mud, most of which ended up in the bathtub despite my best efforts. We'd shower off, taking care to avoid any sun-scorched skin, and look forward to doing it all again the very next day.



Catherine's Pimiento Cheese
Yield: 1 1/4 cups

It was only last year that I realized -- with a shock -- that many people, namely those who grew up north or west of the Mason-Dixon line, have never heard of pimiento cheese. You're missing out. This spreadable cheese is made with sharp cheddar that's been grated, then sweetened and spiced up with sweet red pepper and cayenne. It's great piled on to whole wheat crackers, inside a grilled cheese, or smooshed into a celery stalk, and it's especially good for beachfront picnics.

Ingredients

3 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 ounces cream cheese
2 tablespoons chopped roasted red peppers (you can buy them or make them yourself)
1 cup grated extra sharp cheddar cheese
cayenne pepper to taste (I suggest 1/8 tsp for the faint at heart, 1/4 tsp for the moderately experimental and 1/2 tsp or more for the bold)
salt and pepper to taste

Preparation

1. In a food processor (or a big bowl, with a spoon) blend together mayonnaise, cream cheese, and red peppers until combined.
2. Add cheddar cheese, cayenne pepper, and salt and pepper. Pulse (or mix) again until spreadable but still slightly chunky.

Labels: beaches, catherine nash, picnics, pimiento cheese, south, summer

When a new restaurant opens, it's hard to know ahead of time how things will turn out. Some places get a lot of buzz but never live up to it, others turn out fabulous food but can't make ends meet. Some places are packed night after night, even if the food isn't anything to scream and shout about. Unless you have a trusted crystal ball in front of you, sorting out a restaurant's fate is usually the job of Father Time.

But with Laiola, even before I stepped inside I knew that the place was going to take off. Mostly, because a mere four days after opening -- without a liquor license, no less -- it already had.

I rolled up to the old Pizza My Heart location on Chestnut Street near 8 pm on a weekday night. The narrow storefront is all windows, and it was packed full of P.Y.T.s, with more hanging around outside, madly texting friends to meet them there. A faint pinkish glow emanated from within thanks to the stunning pressed copper ceiling; it's a very flattering light for all the pretties (and the not-so-pretties, too).

When I walked in, I was smacked in the face by the cold, hard truth: Laiola couldn't serve any wine yet. I looked behind the bar at all the shiny wine bottles and sighed. The good news? They were waiving corkage, and Nectar Wine Lounge down the street was kindly selling their retail wines at 10% off. I turned to my friend Karen to discuss who would go fetch a bottle, when I got even better news: My friend Brett was just finishing his meal at the bar, and he had more than half a bottle of albarino left. Would Karen and I like it?

Let's see. Is Thomas Keller a perfectionist?

We plopped down next to Brett and, from our perch at the bar, watched one of the cooks drape thick slabs of succulent-looking slow-roasted piglet over a pile of gigante beans ($19). Plate after plate, the aroma was enough to reverse my unfavorable impression of roast suckling pig formed years ago in a heavy wooden-beamed restaurant outside Madrid. I vowed to try it again one day.

Laiola bills itself as a "California restaurant inspired by Spain" -- and it's heavy on the Spain. A glance at the wine list showed it's all Spanish-grown or Spanish varietals, with most offerings by the individual miniature carafe or the bottle. A clever touch, those carafinas, which hold one-third of a bottle of wine. They look to be a great value, too, hovering near $10 apiece. Rumor has it that cocktails created by Camber Lay (Range, Frisson) will rock the house soon.

Chef Mark Denham (42 Degrees, Hawthorne Lane, Manresa, Postrio) has created a flexible menu, with a small selection of house-cured charcuterie, a dozen appetizers, a handful of entrees, and a few quick desserts. We opted to share a series of tapas, and loved the spicy salchicon ($6), five fire-engine red coins of pork sausage served on a slab of wood. Laiola's website says it's made from "a mix of coarsely ground Niman Ranch pork shoulder and back fat seasoned with plenty of Pimenton garlic, chile powder and cayenne pepper." Mmm.



We also oohed and aahed over the marinated local sardines, garden vegetables in escabeche ($11), crisp local sardines roasted and served atop baby vegetables like carrots, shallots, and cauliflower, each pickled in their own brine. I'm calling this the dish of the summer. Like the equally good version at Nua, it alternates between salty and sweet, cool and hot, crisp and soft.

The deep fryer was down so we didn't get to sample the patatas bravas ($6), a classic Spanish dish comprised of thick wedges of potatoes dressed with spicy aioli. But the bacon-wrapped Medjool dates stuffed with chorizo, grilled, and drizzled with aged Balsamic vinegar more than made up for their absence. They looked like small brown lumps when they arrived, but they were so smoky-sweet and good that I didn't mind burning my fingers or my tongue to finish them off.

Service was adept, and our knowledageable waitress was full of passionate recommendations. Not all of them paid off -- the side dish of rapini, for example, was undercooked and fibrous -- but given that Laiola was only four days old and besieged by malfunctioning kitchen equipment, delinquent paperwork, and masses of hungry diners, I forgave them their trespasses.



We didn't have dessert, but I was sorely tempted, especially after watching Brett slather toast with thick chocolate ganache drizzled with fruity Arbequina olive oil and a dash of Maldon sea salt ($7). It's a dish I've had before, even made before, and I speak from experience when I say it is the epitome of divine simplicity.

When we left Laiola, it was still buzzing (still!) even though no wine could be sold on premises in this notoriously "thirsty" neighborhood. It is already a place to see and be seen, but it is also a place to eat -- and eat well -- and, like the patina on the copper bar, I expect it will only improve with age.

Laiola
2031 Chestnut Street
(415) 346-5641
San Francisco
*No reservations*
Open 7 days a week, 5:30 - 10:30 pm (bar open till 11 pm)

Labels: catherine nash, Laiola, Marina, Mark Denham, restaurants, reviews, Spanish food, tapas

When I arrived at the San Francisco Chocolate Salon, I made a beeline for the Poco Dolce booth. Besides being madly in love with their salt-sprinkled burnt caramel and chocolate tiles, I wanted to say hi to chocolatier Kathy Wiley and her peeps since I'd recently written them up in Edible San Francisco. As I nibbled on a small bite of the aforementioned heaven, I decided to hit Kathy up for a recommendation on where to head next, since being caught in a large crowd that is slowly shuffling from side to side is my idea of hell. I wanted to get in, get the goods, and get out.

"Try the blue cheese truffles. They're in the back corner," she replied. My friend wrinkled her nose but I was off like a shot. (Or, given the thick swarms of humanity clustered around us, like a hippopotamus through mud. But a very fast and hungry hippopotamus on the scent of an unusual treat.) It wasn't that I thought the combination sounded good; the truth is, it sounded sort of horrible. But it also sounded interesting, and besides, if Kathy liked it, how bad could it be?

When I arrived at the Lillie Belle Farms stand it took me a minute for my eyes to focus amidst all the pretty truffles. But the second I spotted the shimmering silver-blue packaging, I knew I'd found what I was looking for. I quickly popped a sample in my mouth, half expecting to spit it out a moment later. Instead, my entire body began to slowly quiver, overcome with a taste that was positively angelic and a feeling that was stronger than happiness and more powerful than simple satisfaction.

This was an absolutely perfect chocolate.

The San Francisco Chocolate Salon agreed, and awarded it best new product at the show. The truffle is made by a small artisan chocolatier by the name of Jeff Shepherd, who is also the farmer/proprietor of Lillie Belle, an organic berry farm in southern Oregon. He got his start making truffles in the kitchen at home and selling them at the farmers' market. Today it's a full-time operation.

The Smokey Blue Truffles combine organic milk chocolate, local Oregonian cream, and toasted almonds with award-winning "Oregon Blue," an artisan cheese from The Rogue Creamery that is smoked over hazelnut shells. The result is a surprisingly mellow chocolate. The texture is smooth and silky, and the blue cheese and chocolate blend harmoniously into a flavor that is ethereal, and far more than the sum of its parts. Though both the sweet chocolate and the tangy cheese are clear and strong, neither overpowers the other.

According to Shepherd, "Many people are skeptical at the beginning but after the first bite peoples' faces light up and they are immediately reaching for another one." That's exactly what I did. I promptly bought a box, tossed it into my purse, and greedily devoured the five truffles nestled inside at home later that night. It's hard to believe, but in the right hands, blue cheese and chocolate are a match made in heaven.

Lillie Belle's Smokey Blue Truffles are available for purchase online. $11 per box.

Labels: blue cheese, catherine nash, chocolate, Lillie Belle Farms, San Francisco chocolate salon, truffles

I have a love/hate relationship with wine bars.

On the one hand, I love a good one. Give me a glass of something silky and bold, a plate of nibbles, and a comfy seat where I don't have to read lips to hold a conversation, and I'm as happy as a paparazzo outside the LA courthouse.

But these days, the term "wine bar" is bandied about so frequently, it's lost its meaning. Too often it's just a marketing ploy to encourage folks to frequent the bar of a restaurant that doesn't have a liquor license.

So when Nua opened as a restaurant and wine bar, I was suspicious. And rightfully so: though the wine list is long and esoteric, it's more restaurant than wine bar (and they've since dropped the term from their website). But I've forgiven them for hopping on the bandwagon because the food is utterly superb.

Chef Anna Bautista takes her cues from the Mediterranean, hopscotching from Provence to Andalucia to Italy, and the laidback charm those places are famous for has rubbed off on the four-month-old restaurant. On two of our visits, we made a reservation at the last minute -- I'm talking 4:30 pm on Saturday for a 7:30 table that night -- and on the third we changed the time. (Twice. What can I say? I'm indecisive.) Every time they were accommodating, and even sat us early.



Nua is clearly cultivating a neighborhood vibe, and when the weather permits, they fling open the front windows accordion-style to better channel the energy of their North Beach surroundings. The comfortable interior is what I'd call retro-modern, with color-blocked orange and cream leather banquettes, and shades of cool blue, orange, and honey-brown throughout. The staff is friendly, they split plates and glasses of wine without being asked if they know you plan to share, and they're knowledgeable about the wine list. On each visit, we enjoyed unfamiliar wines, like a Spanish Crianza from Bierzo to a white wine from Greece. My only quibble with the wine service is that the pours were on the small side our first two visits, but by the third they'd normalized.

The food, however, is outstanding, and it's why Nua has become my new favorite restaurant. Each meal began with a small plate of foccacia bread and a pool of golden-green olive oil. The menu is loosely divided into small and large plates so you can go the appetizer-entree route, or graze on a series of small plates (though the waitstaff doesn't explicitly advertise that option).



We ordered the sardines escabeche ($10) twice. Two meaty slabs of fish were arranged on a landscape of crisp Blue Lake green beans, miniature cauliflower florets, sweet pickled shallots, and currants. The sardines tasted light and fresh, and the dish teetered pleasantly between crisp and soft, tart and sweet, surf and earth.



We also ordered the side of roasted cauliflower with capers, pine nuts, and parsley ($5) each time. If you aren't a cauliflower fan, a bowl of this will change your mind. Roasting caramelizes and crisps up the tiny white florets, and the zesty dressing of olive oil, capers, and parsley makes them positively addictive.



Initially I balked at ordering the endive salad with white peaches, blue cheese, and hazelnuts ($9); it just sounded humdrum. But one bite changed my mind. The peaches were Platonic examples of their species -- sweet, juicy, floral, and full-flavored. There was just enough champagne-tarragon vinaigrette to match the bracing blue cheese and bitter endive.



The piquillo peppers ($9) we ordered on visit two were stuffed with a whipped salt cod and potato brandade, flash-fried, and served with a sauce of garlic, shallots, and parsley as well as some frilly frisee fronds. They were good, but they didn't get my tail wagging as much as other things did.

The Parisian herbed gnocchi ($14) melted in my mouth, and the baby artichokes and mushrooms created an earthy stew around them. The best part about the gambas al ajillo ($11) weren't the plump shrimp, but the fiery broth they were bathed in. When the prawns were gone, I used the foccacia fingers to soak up the robust juices.

Housemade merquez sausage offset with a cucumber, fennel, and tomato salad ($13) tempted us on the first visit, and I loved the contrast of hot and cold layered within the dish. But the veal and pork albondigas ($8) may have edged it out as my favorite meat dish. The meatballs were soft but held their shape, and the flavor was so clean and subtle that I could almost taste the milk fed to the little calf. The almond bread sauce was a revelation -- no tomato to strongarm the delicate morsels.



Like the small plates, entrees are lighter than they are heavy, and bursting with flavor. A recent seafood risotto with corn ($20) tasted of summer, while the quail
was accented with a plucky plum sauce and crisp green beans. Though portions were generous, neither left us feeling like we'd overeaten.

The blueberry fromage blanc tart ($7.50) was a light, fresh way to end the meal, but it was the butterscotch pot de creme ($7.50) we found ourselves oohing and aahing over time after time. Unlike its beloved Zuni cousin, this is a plain pot de creme, flecked with vanilla and covered in a layer of rich, supple butterscotch sauce. The creaminess of the custard is the perfect canvas for sweet butterscotch, though they ought to think carefully about the cookies served alongside. The almond cookie complimented the butterscotch beautifully, but the rich chocolate brownie battled the sweeter pot de creme all the way.



At Nua, the food isn't flagrantly experimental, but it is flawless. The wine list is full of surprises, the staff is easy-going, and the atmosphere is pleasant. No matter what you call it, that's my favorite kind of place.

Note: This review was based on 3 anonymous visits.

Nua
550 Green Street at Columbus
San Francisco
(415) 433-4000
Open 7 nights a week

Labels: catherine nash, mediterranean, North Beach, nua, restaurants, reviews

From the world of food writing, only a scant cup's worth of articles slip into my unconscious and remain there year after year. Sometimes they're so indelibly imprinted that I need no reminding they are there; it still smarts to think about Daniel Patterson's declaration in the New York Times that culinary creativity was all but dead in Northern California, and I have Bill Buford and the New Yorker to thank every time I look mournfully at my pot of pasta water knowing that, unless I boil batch after successive batch of noodles in it and accumulate all that lovely starch, I will never produce anything as good as they do at Babbo.

Other times, the things I read become stowaways in the deserted cargo hold of my mind. Just like I didn't know I remembered all the lyrics to Xanadu until my sister bought me the DVD last year, I hadn't the foggiest notion just how much my gray matter had absorbed of Calvin Trillin's ode to pimientos de Padron until I spotted a bag of the knobby green peppers at the farmers' market a few weeks ago.

In an instant, Trillin's words were dislodged much in the way that Anton Ego's first bite of ratatouille transported him years into the past. I felt some unknown force take over my arms and command them to reach forward, tossing bag after bag of bite-sized peppers into my carryall. Despite never once having enjoyed them late at night in a tapas bar in Spain, I sensed the sky darken to the purple of nighttime, and a warm summer breeze rustled past, carrying with it the faint music of espanol. I looked down, surprised not to see a glass of sherry in my hand.

What makes these humble peppers so magical? Well, biting into one is always a surprise; it could be sweet and nutty, or fiery hot. Only one in a dozen packs a punch, but you never know which one you've got until it's too late. They're also hard to find. In 1997, when Happy Quail Farms started selling them, they were the only grower in the country. They're still the only farm in the Bay Area that cultivates them.

When I got home, I fried the pimientos de Padron up in olive oil, tossed on a few generous pinches of salt, and bit in to one, still hot from the pan. A tingling heat flashed across my tongue -- the kind that comes from the power of capsaicin, not flame. I went in for another. The next few were mild, but it was the elusive spicy ones that kept me coming back, bite after bite.

Fried Pimientos de Padron

Ingredients:

olive oil
1 bag pimientos de Padron
coarse salt

Preparation:

1. Cover the bottom of a skillet with olive oil and heat over medium-high until very hot.

2. Toss the peppers in whole. Shake the pan occasionally. Once small black and gray blisters appear (about 2-4 minutes in) they are done.

3. Pour them onto a plate, sprinkle with plenty of coarse salt to taste, and serve hot.

Serves 2-4 as a starter

Labels: catherine nash, Happy Quail Farms, pimientos de Padron, stuffed peppers, tapas

The thing that struck me speechless was the salumi.

I know what you're thinking. "Salumi?" you're thinking. "That is so, like, 2006." Maybe. But when it's as good as it is at Bar Bambino, it never goes out of style.

The small salumi plate ($9.50) was the first thing my boyfriend and I settled on during our inaugural meal at Bar Bambino. The selections, which change daily, were chosen for us by Alex Potter, Bar Bambino's salumi guy. He and his batons of porcine goodness occupy a small corner of the main dining room, just to the right of the bar, where he works feverishly to keep up with the plates that circle 'round and 'round the room.



Clad in an impeccable white chef's coat, Alex himself delivered a wooden tray to our table that glistened with creamy pork fat. It was stacked five rows deep with three kinds of housemade salame as well as prosciutto and pancetta. He walked us through each one so that there was no doubt what we were eating -- an oversight too many good restaurants make.

"This is the ciauscolo," he said, pointing to the one farthest from me. As owner Christopher Losa explained via email, ciauscolo comes from the Marche region of Italy, just south of Emilia-Romagna on the eastern seaboard. "Ours is done in a bit firmer form than most (it's traditional in the Marche to have ciauscolo spreadable, not unlike French rillettes) because I like to have the purity of the meat flavors and seasonings be fully accessible and not competing with bread," he wrote. Bar Bambino flavors their version with garlic and allspice.



Next there was a salame toscano, made with red wine and black peppercorns, and a finocchiona, distinguished by fennel seeds, lavender, and other aromatic herbs. I picked up a sliver and held it up to the light. It was sliced so whisper thin, I could have read the menu through it.

We happily munched our way around the plate, letting slices of barely crisped pancetta melt on our tongues and fighting over the last slice of finocchiona. Christopher says that all of Bar Bambino's own salame is made from Duroc pork that is raised naturally in Iowa. "But we recently found a Duroc-mix locally (Sonoma) that our next batches will be from. I'm excited to see how the local pig fairs [sic] from a taste/consistency perspective."

In addition to Bar Bambino's housemade salumi, all of which is made in a curing room in Geyserville, Christopher offers a sopressata from Salumeria Biellese, a New York-based artisan producer that's been around since the roaring twenties, and plans to expand his selection by offering goodies from other like-minded producers.



"I am an avid supporter of the renaissance in cured meat artistry that is occurring locally and I want to offer the best of Italian-style cured meats that we can source," he continued. "Just as I can't make the best wine, cheese or bread to offer my customers, I know that somebody can do more than we can alone."

My boyfriend and I enjoyed the rest of our meal equally well, from the "al ginepro" bruschetta ($8.00) -- creamy chunks of chicken liver enlivened by a sprinkling of fleur de sel -- to the polpette ($14.75), meatballs in a light sauce of tomatoes, onions, and chard. My only real complaint was the chintzy wine pours (I noticed punier than normal glasses at Nua, too -- a disturbing new trend?). As annoying as it is to pay good money for a Lilliputian glass of vino, it's even more frustrating to be constantly waving down your server.

But the meal was lovely, and the salumi some of the best in the city. This little piggie cried "whee, whee, whee" all the way home.

Bar Bambino
2931 16th Street
San Francisco
(415) 701-VINO
Open for lunch and dinner Tuesday-Sunday

Labels: Bar Bambino, catherine nash, charcuterie, Christopher Losa, mission, restaurants, reviews, salumi

I have always been a snacker. When I was a kid, I preferred white bread spread with cold butter and folded in half, or an oatmeal creme pie. In high school, my snack varied according to whether or not I was on a diet; when I was, I munched Wheat Thins and grapes, and when I wasn't, I was partial to eating ice cream cakes right out of the box. Regardless of the menu, though, I always had a snack between lunch and dinner.

Now that I am older and my metabolism no longer operates at the speed of light, I am constantly looking for healthy alternatives. I've tried foregoing the afternoon snack altogether, but it's impossible. Like a newborn baby, I simply cannot go for more than a few hours without eating.

Over the years, I've thought a lot about what constitutes the perfect snack. I've whittled down the list to four key components:
1. Tastes great.
2. Fills you up.
3. Takes a long time to eat.
4. Salty, not sweet.

Let's examine these in reverse order.

Salty, not sweet. This criterion is self-explanatory. It just comes down to personal choice. If you want to get phreaked on a sugar high at three o'clock in the afternoon, knock yourself out.

Takes a long time to eat. I have read time and again that it takes 20 minutes for my brain to realize that my belly has had enough to eat. On top of that, I'm a supersonic eater. All together, that means that if my snack is a string cheese, it's gone quicker than you can say mozzarella. When that happens, I have a choice: I can either spend the next 19 minutes listening to my tummy buckle and howl, or plant myself in front of the fridge and desperately shovel in anything that isn't stuck to the shelf. That's why it's crucial that the snack eating itself can last a long time. That might mean a snack with lots of individual parts (popcorn) or one that demands constant reassembly (cheese and crackers).

Fills you up. The whole point of the snack in the first place is to keep me out of the kitchen until dinnertime, so it's no good eating a handful of carrots or grapes (see also: face-stuffing fridge scenario, above). On the advice of my personal trainer, I started working in some fat or protein, and that helps a snack stick with me. So does eating triple-digit calories.

Tastes great. This is a snack's most important quality. Healthy eating is all too often a sacrifice. Either you eat something delicious, but in such small quantities that it wouldn't satisfy an anorexic celebutante, or you eat a lot of something that tastes like salted cardboard, minus the salt. Since I'm a girl who likes to have my cake and eat it too, when I find something tasty that doesn't increase the likelihood that my thighs will be assigned their own zip code, I'm in heaven.



That's why I was so delighted to discover popchips, a brand new chippy snack that is popped rather than fried or baked. It meets all of my criteria and then some. They start with potatoes, organic white corn, or brown rice and apply heat and pressure to "pop" the chips without any oil. The crunchy nibbles come in nine flavors like Parmesan garlic (potato), cheddar (corn), and sea salt (rice). Each bag is a good solid serving, enough so that I don't have to resort to desperate measures like pouring the crumbs into my mouth or running a damp finger around the inside of the bag to snag every last flavor molecule. Each serving weighs in at 120 calories with half the fat of regular potato chips, and there isn't a single gram of trans fat, saturated fat*, or cholesterol to be found. There are no fake colors, flavors, or preservatives, either. In fact, the ingredients in the sea salt corn chips, for example, are all things I can understand: organic white corn, safflower oil and/or sunflower oil, and sea salt.




The company sent me samples of each flavor and I've been working my way through them. So far my favorites are barbecue (potato) and salsa (corn). The only one that I don't care for is wasabi (rice). I'm just not a big wasabi-lover, unless it's the real deal. But the others are compulsively delicious, with just the right amount of flavor locked into every crevice and cranny.

Is it snack time yet?

popchips are available at Bristol Farms, Mollie Stone's, Safeway, and online through Amazon.com

*Except in the cheddar corn chips, because they use real cheese and real cheese has trace amounts of saturated fats.

Labels: catherine nash, healthy eating, popchips, potato chips, snacks

One sip is all it took to hook me. Intent on feeding my caramel fixation one recent morning, I stopped by the La Cocina stall at the Ferry Plaza farmers' market for some alfajores. As I made my purchase, culinary director Jason Rose handed me a miniature paper cup filled with steaming Morning Glory Chai.

Cue the (food) porn soundtrack: boom-chicka-bow-wow chicka-bow-wow. The chai was spicy with a soupçon of exotic sweetness, and almost unbearably creamy. It was, hands down, the best chai I've ever tasted. I had to learn more.

Chai means tea in several languages, including Turkish and Russian, but it also refers to the intoxicating blend of warm milk, black tea, and aromatic Indian spices that has become a familiar drink on coffee shop menus. Most chais incorporate cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, freshly grated nutmeg, and pepper into the mix; Morning Glory adds all of those, as well as less common seasonings like vanilla bean, coriander, and orange peel. But what really sets Morning Glory apart is the inclusion of Chinese herbs, which give new meaning to the term "pick me up."

According to Laura Smailes, a certified clinical herbalist and the San Francisco manufacturer of Morning Glory Chai, there is astragulus to build the immune system and galangal to increase circulation. Gotu kola is good for the brain and, in conjunction with ginkgo, adds oxygen to the blood. Foti is added for longevity. "The Chinese say it will keep your hair black," she explains.

The Morning Glory Chai recipe dates back 12 years, when Seattle-based herbalist Jessica Vidica-Neisus brewed the first cup. "She chose herbs that were safe for anyone to use. There are no contraindications in these small doses. It's a way to get medicine into a tasty beverage." Put simply: "It increases circulation, brain function, and digestion."

Laura and Jessica met while Laura was apprenticing at an herbal apothecary and working at the Chai House in Seattle. When she moved to San Francisco to study ayurvedic medicine, she was looking for a way to support herself.

"I realized there was no good chai in San Francisco," Laura says. "I started the chai business to put myself through school." Two and a half years later, her chai is served at places like Farley's, Ritual Coffee Roasters, and Bi-Rite Creamery, where it is incorporated into a hot drinking chocolate.

Laura makes each batch by hand. She starts by filling a 30-gallon pot with filtered water. Once it's boiling, she simmers the herbs and spices for 45 minutes, then removes them and adds fair-trade black tea and ginkgo. Finally she adds honey, vanilla, and organic maple syrup to sweeten the chai. (A decaf version is brewed without tea.)

Laura's use of natural sweeteners means the chai is safe drinking for people with blood sugar problems such as hypoglycemia. It's also dairy-free, which gives people a choice of how to drink it. "It's traditionally drunk with steamed milk in India," Laura says. But some people prefer it straight up.

And the name? It is named for a flower known to induce an alternate state of consciousness. As Laura says, "It's the tea of dreams."

To brew at home: Combine equal parts chai and milk. Drink cold, or steam and serve hot. Once open, refrigerate and consume within three weeks. Refrigerate decaf chai immediately, whether open or not.

Available at Brickhouse Café & Bar, Farley's, MotoJava, Ritual Coffee Roasters. Also available in half-gallon jugs ($11) at Ferry Plaza & Alemany farmers' markets.

Labels: catherine nash, chai, herbalist, La Cocina, Morning Glory

Last week, a friend from cooking class tipped me off to B Star Bar, the month-old offshoot of Burma Superstar that's located two blocks away on Clement Street. B Star Bar offers a blend of Burmese, Asian, and Western dishes, and though it doesn't outshine the Mother Ship, it's worth a visit if you can't bear BSS's legendary two-hour wait.

Though they don't take reservations for parties smaller than six, when I called they were kind enough to take one anyway for the three of us. A nice touch, I thought, and smart for a new restaurant that's trying to attract customers. There's no sign up yet, but if you look for a swash of yellow paint you'll see the words B Star Bar stenciled on the window. We walked in last Saturday night to find some friends killing time (and taking the edge off their hunger) while they waited for their table at Burma Superstar. "Order the croquettes!" they advised.



I didn't linger in the large, spare front room, but headed straight to the back patio, which is the place to be. Buddha statues and lush green foliage create an exotic, jungle-y feel for the dozen or so tables, and a few glimpses of the night sky peek out from the tent. There are enough heat lamps to keep everybody comfortable in shirtsleeves.



The menu combines traditional Burmese preparations with Asian and Western classics. Sometimes the dishes are a mix of several traditions, but more often than not each one sticks to its own. We started with spicy edamame ($3.95), a bowl of green pods slick with red chilies and chunks of garlic. They were fiery, and after a few bites my battle-damaged tongue begged for a break.




I was dismayed when everything we ordered arrived at once, and though the wait staff were attentive, the coursing made it clear both they and the kitchen are inexperienced. The Kabocha croquettes ($5.95) came three panko-dusted orbs to a plate. They're filled with Kabocha squash and seasoned with tomatoes and curry before being deep-fried. They were sweet, as was the addictive sticky sauce that accompanied them. Though the result wasn't quite one-dimensional, I wouldn't have objected to a bit more crunch.



I was eagerly anticipating the tealeaf salad ($7.95), a BSS classic. I was disappointed that it wasn't tossed tableside, and it was missing some of the complexity I loved due to the omission of dried shrimp and jalapeños. But the uniquely bitter tang of tealeaves was unmistakable, and we polished off every last bite. A desperate plea to the management: please, please, please, bring back the original.

We ordered two kinds of noodles, and my favorite dish of the evening was the kau soi ($8.95)- ramen-like noodles mixed with ground chicken and pickled mustard greens in a coconut curry sauce. The menu calls this bordertown food; I don't know if that refers to Bangladesh, India, China, Laos or Thailand, all of which butt up to Myanmar. It's similar to BSS's nan pia dok, a dish that I once said I would walk through crushed glass to eat, and I would do the same for the kau soi.



The other noodle dish was see jyet ($7.95), thin, long noodles with fried garlic, shredded duck, and cucumbers. It wasn't garlicky enough to wow me, or to surpass its virtuoso cousin, but my dining companions lapped it up.



The Asian Niçoise salad with grilled cod ($10.95) is one of the few creations that blends culinary traditions. Field greens were topped with lightly blanched asparagus, fanned avocado slices, shiitake mushrooms, hard-boiled egg, and grilled cod and tossed with miso dressing. My favorite part was the pile of handmade sweet potato chips on the side, but I'd probably skip the entire thing next time.



Short ribs with Hawaiian-style pineapple fried rice ($9.95) were hit and miss. The rice was built with juicy chunks of grilled pineapple and grains moistened by a slippery fried egg yolk. The kimchee was bracingly hot, but the short ribs were tough and fatty. If they'd upgrade the meat, however, I'd order it again in a heartbeat.

We brought our own wine, but they have some decent options by the glass, carafe, and bottle, as well as soju cocktails and the famous Burma cooler, beer spiked with ginger and fresh lemon. After gorging ourselves on noodles, we passed on dessert.

Though I applaud the Burma Superstar crew for wanting to spread their wings, by far the most successful dishes were the Burmese-leaning ones. If B Star Bar can tighten up the menu, incorporating intoxicating Burmese touches with better-executed pan-Asian and Western ideas, they could have a good thing going. For now, keep them in mind if you simply can't stomach the wait up the street.

Note: This write-up is based on one anonymous visit.

B Star Bar
127 Clement St. b/w 2nd & 3rd
San Francisco
(415) 933-9900
Open every day but Wednesday for lunch and dinner

Labels: B Star Bar, Burmese, catherine nash, restaurants, reviews