No, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. My recent lack of posts simply means that life is actually far more amazing than usual. However, I do plan on getting this blog back on track, starting this week. Thank you for your patience. For now, I’ve got a [... read more ...]]]>

As a professional cook, I've seen lots of mushroom varietals over the years, but somehow I had never seen pink oyster mushrooms. Really amazing colors, but I wonder if they retain their brilliance after cooking? Probably not. Snapped at Far West Fungi in the San Francisco Ferry Building.

No, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. My recent lack of posts simply means that life is actually far more amazing than usual. However, I do plan on getting this blog back on track, starting this week. Thank you for your patience. For now, I’ve got a few long-overdue photos that have been lingering in my “to do” folder. Enjoy!

If you live in wine country, then you know that this photo is a few months old. The wild mustard has mostly passed, and I'm sure this fallow vineyard looks quite different today. It may even have vines by now. Snapped during a Sonoma wine-tasting session.

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Even though it's located in the Oxbow Market, I feel that Ca' Momi is often overlooked. In the kitchen where I work, all the cooks are really bullish on these pies, and for good reason. We were just discussing this pizza today during a quick break. This is their Margherita pizza.

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I've covered the Boon Fly Cafe's chicken and waffles before. It's something that I keep revisiting, since it's my favorite fried chicken in Napa. You just can't top Thursdays, when this dish goes on special. Boon Fly needs to carry a Louisiana-style hot sauce though, preferably Crystal.

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The Boudain sausage I brought back from Cochon in New Orleans was vanquished at a barbecue last week. I served it to friends on Saltine crackers with Crystal hot sauce, the proper way. This red neon sign is a beacon on Tchoupitoulas Street.

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I used to call myself a “long-suffering” San Francisco Giants fan — until 2010, when the team won the World Series, and I then promised myself that I would never again disparage the Giants, at least not in that sort of fatalistic manner. I’ve made good on that promise so far, and even though the 2011 campaign was a bit disappointing, especially from a defending-world-champions perspective, the memory of the 2010 honeymoon still lingers fresh in my mind (and besides, the 49ers’ improbable run last year really helped to ease the pain of the [... read more ...]]]>

$16 at the ballpark.

I used to call myself a “long-suffering” San Francisco Giants fan — until 2010, when the team won the World Series, and I then promised myself that I would never again disparage the Giants, at least not in that sort of fatalistic manner. I’ve made good on that promise so far, and even though the 2011 campaign was a bit disappointing, especially from a defending-world-champions perspective, the memory of the 2010 honeymoon still lingers fresh in my mind (and besides, the 49ers’ improbable run last year really helped to ease the pain of the Giants missing the playoffs). But as a Giants fan, I endured many lean years growing up — the Candlestick Years — years that I shall never forget: I was at Game 3 of the World Series in 1989 when the earthquake struck, and I’d be a liar if I said that I didn’t think about that night every single time that I drive over the Bay Bridge. When is the next Big One going to hit the Bay Area? I will always wonder.

As a young lad, I had Giants season tickets with my dad in 1984, a year in which the Giants lost 96 games, finishing 26 games behind the San Diego Padres (with their Taco Bell uniforms) in the NL West. The season was absolutely abysmal on many levels, and the sheer futility wasn’t lost on me, even as a child. Of course, things became even worse in 1985, when the Giants lost 100 games, and finished 33 games behind the Los Angeles Dodgers. Talk about hitting rock bottom. Statistics help to fill in the hazy memories of my youth, but one vivid memory that I do retain from the 1984 season was the Crazy Crab, the short-lived, ironic (not iconic) Giants mascot that served as the martyr of Candlestick Park. It was a mascot designed for despisal, something to divert attention from the team itself, no doubt. I can still recall fans raining full cups of beer on the Crazy Crab; the ‘Stick was plenty uncouth in those days, but in an innocent way, if that makes any sense.

Fast forward to the present, with a new stadium and a winning team, and we’ve become sophisticates in San Francisco. We now have grilled sourdough crab sandwiches, like the one pictured above, which is sold at the Crazy Crab’z food stand, located behind the outfield of AT&T Park. Although times have changed, I view it as a vestige of my early years; the food stand is branded with the image of that goofy-looking mascot from 1984. I sneer at it while I’m in line. I have to. It’s in my blood. However, the sandwich itself is tasty, with about as much crab as you might expect for $16 at the ballpark. Not a total rip-off, but they’re certainly not giving these sandwiches away, either. On the upside, the grilled sourdough bread is saturated with butter, which adds to the richness, and least makes the sandwich more filling.

I couldn’t imagine growing up with this kind of food at the ballpark. But then again, in those early days, I couldn’t have ever imagined that the Giants would win a World Series.

Will bone marrow become the new foie gras in California once SB 1520 comes to fruition on July 1st? Hmmm. I hadn’t really considered that idea until Bob, one of the bartenders at Goose & Gander (and former fixture behind the bar at Bistro Jeanty), had mentioned it to me this afternoon. It’s an interesting notion, and certainly something to mull over. And while I don’t think that bone marrow can actually “replace” the venerable [... read more ...]]]>

The G&G Burger @ Goose & Gander, St. Helena. See that impressive sheen on the patty? That's melted bone marrow. Don't question it.

Will bone marrow become the new foie gras in California once SB 1520 comes to fruition on July 1st? Hmmm. I hadn’t really considered that idea until Bob, one of the bartenders at Goose & Gander (and former fixture behind the bar at Bistro Jeanty), had mentioned it to me this afternoon. It’s an interesting notion, and certainly something to mull over. And while I don’t think that bone marrow can actually “replace” the venerable foie gras at every level, there does have to be some sort of ingredient that can fill that “decadent” void here in California. Typically, if any chef wished to take an otherwise ordinary item and elevate it to something more hedonistic, foie gras was always the staple go-to ingredient. Foie gras on a burger, or even inside a burger, is something I’ve seen many times before; I’m also reminded of the duck confit and foie gras meatballs at Redd, or even the foie gras ice cream at Humphry Slocombe.

For many years here in California, foie gras has provided the means to an easy upcharge. Almost too easy. But what about after the foie gras ban takes effect, which is only a little over two months from now? What food will become our next source of decadence here in the Golden State? I believe that bone marrow might be as viable a contender as any — I certainly don’t think that caviar is going to become the next heir apparent, nor would I predict that sushi-grade uni is going to fill the void. And what about monkish liver? I can’t really envision that one, either (and that’s an ingredient that already has its own set of critics anyhow). Outlaw foie gras, and what else are we left with to supply us with fatty, caloric richness?

This discussion arose from the $3 bone marrow add-on that’s available with the G&G Burger, pictured above. Honestly, a burger like the G&G doesn’t actually need bone marrow, but that’s not really the point. If you want to splurge, then the bone marrow is there for you as an option, and who doesn’t want to splurge? That’s the point. And besides, a little melted bone marrow adds a depth of flavor and texture that sets this burger apart from most others. It’s a serious affair, and the G&G is definitely one of the best and messiest burgers in the Napa Valley. An instant classic, be prepared. In fact, word to the wise, I’d recommend folding up a cocktail napkin and placing it under one side of the plate, so that the excess juices (which are considerable) can pool away from the duck-fat fried potatoes. Yes, duck-fat fried potatoes.

Despite the abundance of great restaurants in New Orleans, there’s nothing quite like a backyard crawfish boil to really capture the spirit of Cajun culture. I have a theory that the less silverware present at a meal, the more the conversation can flow freely. And really, what can’t you talk about when everyone is circled around a newspaper-covered table with crawfish juice running down to their elbows? I would have to say that the highlight of my visit to New Orleans last week was the crawfish boil I [... read more ...]]]>

Crawfish, Stage 1: Still living, but not for very long.

Despite the abundance of great restaurants in New Orleans, there’s nothing quite like a backyard crawfish boil to really capture the spirit of Cajun culture. I have a theory that the less silverware present at a meal, the more the conversation can flow freely. And really, what can’t you talk about when everyone is circled around a newspaper-covered table with crawfish juice running down to their elbows? I would have to say that the highlight of my visit to New Orleans last week was the crawfish boil I attended in the neighborhood of Bayou St. John, where 40 pounds of the Gulf’s finest mudbugs met their delicious end. The following snapshots highlight the preparation. The beer-fueled conversations that followed must remain strictly off-record.

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Crawfish, Stage 2: A quick rinse with the garden hose.

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Crawfish, Stage 3: Lowering the basket into the boil. We used the seasoning mix provided by Captain Sid's Seafood in Metairie, with some slight modifications. Captain Sid's recipe and method are posted at the bottom.

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Crawfish, Stage 4: Fully submerged in a nice, hot bath.

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Crawfish, Stage 5: After boiling the crawfish for a few minutes, the liquid is chilled with ice to prevent over-cooking.

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Crawfish, Stage 6: After about 30 minutes of marinating in the warm liquid, the crawfish emerge red, dead, and delicious.

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Crawfish, Stage 7: Eat until they're gone. Aside from huge tails, these giant mudbugs even provided decent amounts of claw meat. Amazing.

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The standard recipe according to Captain Sid's Seafood. We didn't use celery, but instead substituted onions.

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During my five-day visit to New Orleans last week, I was fortunate to catch the beginning of soft shell crab season, which typically runs between April and October along the Gulf Coast, when the waters remain the warmest. I do love a soft-shell crab po-boy — there’s nothing quite like a sandwich that looks as though it might crawl off the plate — and the claws themselves serve as a built-in appetizer, which can be detached and snacked before devouring the sandwich. For the latter [... read more ...]]]>

Hermit Crab or Sandwich? The Soft-Shell Crab Po-Boy @ The Galley, Metairie, LA

During my five-day visit to New Orleans last week, I was fortunate to catch the beginning of soft shell crab season, which typically runs between April and October along the Gulf Coast, when the waters remain the warmest. I do love a soft-shell crab po-boy — there’s nothing quite like a sandwich that looks as though it might crawl off the plate — and the claws themselves serve as a built-in appetizer, which can be detached and snacked before devouring the sandwich. For the latter reason, I always recommend ordering soft-shell crab po-boys with a side of remoulade, or whatever seafood sauce the restaurant might offer.  The sandwich depicted here was the last meal of my vacation. It proved classic, quintessential, and delicious.

Reverse Angle: The Soft-Shell Crab Po-Boy @ The Galley, Metairie, LA

This is the last po-boy I’m going to eat for quite a while. It’s funny, I spent all of last week in New Orleans eating as many po-boys as I possibly could, only to return home to the Bay Area to eat a few more. Normally, on principle, I wouldn’t even follow a New Orleans po-boy with a California po-boy (at least not so closely), but I have an upcoming review for Pinchit, where I’ll cover a few of the Bay Area’s better po-boy [... read more ...]]]>

Technicolor sandwich: The Oyster Po-Boy @ Hog Island Oyster Company, Oxbow Market, Napa Valley.

This is the last po-boy I’m going to eat for quite a while. It’s funny, I spent all of last week in New Orleans eating as many po-boys as I possibly could, only to return home to the Bay Area to eat a few more. Normally, on principle, I wouldn’t even follow a New Orleans po-boy with a California po-boy (at least not so closely), but I have an upcoming review for Pinchit, where I’ll cover a few of the Bay Area’s better po-boy options. So even though I felt like I hit my personal po-boy quota while I was in the Big Easy, I battled through three more California po-boys earlier this week. And so that’s gonna be it for a while. Gimme a pizza.

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I actually covered the topic of Bay Area po-boys on these pages way back in 2010, but the local po-boy landscape has changed a little since then, including the addition of the Boxing Room in Hayes Valley and the “disappearance” of Yountville’s Bardessono Restuarant, which is now Lucy Restaurant (and without a po-boy on its menu). Therefore, thanks to Pinchit for giving me the motivation (in the form of a deadline), my po-boy article from 2010 is now back to being current, and with much better photos, as well.

Hog Island’s Oyster Po-Boy, pictured above, benefited the most from my recent po-boy re-shoots. My 2010 photo from Hog Island was an over-head shot that was pretty much all bun. Boring. Today, I captured more of the brilliant colors of this tasty sandwich, from the remoulade-dressed red cabbage to the bright pink hues of pickled cauliflower and fennel. The oysters themselves, Sweetwaters from the California Coast, are fried to a perfect golden brown, as well. This sandwich won’t take you to the Crescent City, but it will take you to a good place.

Don’t you just love it when something exceeds your expectations? How often does that even happen anymore? Perhaps cooking professionally has jaded me just a bit. Ever since I’ve been held to high culinary standards — Michelin-star standards — mistakes tend to glare at me, especially when I know that they’re easily fixable. Over the years, I’ve developed a list of pet peeves, but the most common transgression, at least for me, is unseasoned french fries. After all, what are french fries without the salt? [... read more ...]]]>

Possibly the best fried chicken ever. Click the photo to almost taste it.

Don’t you just love it when something exceeds your expectations? How often does that even happen anymore? Perhaps cooking professionally has jaded me just a bit. Ever since I’ve been held to high culinary standards — Michelin-star standards — mistakes tend to glare at me, especially when I know that they’re easily fixable. Over the years, I’ve developed a list of pet peeves, but the most common transgression, at least for me, is unseasoned french fries. After all, what are french fries without the salt? Bland, greasy potatoes, that’s what. I know there’s usually salt at the table, but here’s my problem: Any cook who sends out a batch of french fries without seasoning them either just doesn’t care, or they just don’t know any better. And then I jump to ugly conclusions. Well, if they couldn’t even be bothered to throw a little salt on these fries, which takes all of two seconds, do they even go to the trouble of ever washing their hands? Because if someone in the kitchen just doesn’t care, hygiene and food safety will be the first thing to slip, since both of these things actually take effort and consideration. Think about that the next time you’re served an order of unseasoned fries.

What I really meant to say, before I got sidetracked, was that expectations can be tricky sometimes. If left unfulfilled, they can sabotage an otherwise acceptable meal. And who do you even trust these days, anyway? Food critics? Bloggers? Even someone with so-called credentials may have different tastes than you do. What about that? There are certainly no guarantees: I witnessed the most disappointing meal I’ve ever been involved with while I was volunteering at the James Beard House several years ago. Yes, the James Beard House, where you think you wouldn’t ever get a bad meal. The person in charge of that dinner, who I will never acknowledge as a chef, still peddles barbecue in the Los Angeles area. He was a total hack, completely inept, and just plain stupid in the kitchen. And yet he’s got at least two James Beard dinners under his belt. That’s right. Even after serving people that embarrassing dreck, he got invited back to do it again. It just goes to prove, even the James Beard Foundation can get it wrong. Horribly wrong. I will never understand how that dinner came to pass. But again, I digress.

Why am I so negative tonight? Maybe I’m going through a trans-fat withdrawal. There’s a decent chance of it. I’ll go ahead and keep the rest of this entry short, so that I don’t slip into another rant: I visited Willie Mae’s Scotch House in New Orleans last week with the hope of eating something good. Instead, I ate something utterly transcendent. It was the fried chicken pictured above, perhaps the best I’ve ever tasted, or will ever hope to taste. Not only did it establish my new paradigm for fried chicken, it also established my new paradigm for fried food in general. But then again, that’s just my own humble opinion. If you’ve never been to Willie Mae’s, I wouldn’t want to set your own hopes too high, and at the end of the day, you may prefer the fried chicken over at Dooky Chase. Quite frankly, I couldn’t really argue with that, either.

Yes, please.

Find a girl who eats. You’ll know that she does because she will always have a half-eaten bar of artisanal fair-trade chocolate in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the produce at [... read more ...]]]> Date a girl who eats. Date a girl who spends her money on fancy food instead of clothes, who has problems with refrigerator space because she has so many variations of mustard (and don’t even start with all the hot sauces). Date a girl who keeps a list of faraway restaurants she wants to visit, who has been eating foie gras since she was twelve.

Find a girl who eats. You’ll know that she does because she will always have a half-eaten bar of artisanal fair-trade chocolate in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the produce at the farmers market, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the first morels of the season. You see that weird chick sniffing the leaves of vine-ripened tomatoes at the supermarket? That’s the eater. She’ll never ever buy that supermarket tomato, but the leaves will remind her of the garden that she’ll plant in the Spring.

She’s the girl eating while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the heavy cream has coagulated on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in the scrumptious world of a buttery, flaky croissant. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who eat do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the croissant.

Buy her a pain au chocolat.

Let her know what you really think of umami. See if she got through the first chapter of Escoffier. Understand that if she says she prefers early James Beard, she’s just saying that to test you. Ask her if she loves Alice Waters, or if she would like to be Alice Waters.

It’s easy to date a girl who eats. Give her fine wine for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of terroir, in oddly-marked bottles. Give her Petrus, La Tour, La Tâche, Montrachet. Let her know that you understand that wine is love. Understand that she knows the pros and cons between corks and screwcaps, but by God, she’s going to argue for real cork until the day she dies. She understands the ceremony of cork.

She doesn’t collect antique corkscrews for nothing.

Lie to her about picking out all the shrimp and sausage from the jambalaya. If she understands food, she will understand your greedy urge to horde the tastiest morsels for yourself. She will make due with an extra helping of rice, and whatever shrimp and sausage you’ve left behind. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail to leave her the last slice of cake. Because a girl who eats knows that the last slice is the bittersweet slice. Because girls who eat understand that the last piece of cake may have been a little stale anyhow, and that the promise of cutting into a brand new cake is really the best part. And that reminds her — she has a raspberry tart stashed in that closet where you never look. Sucker.

Why be frightened of foods you have never tried? Girls who eat understand that someone, somewhere, had to eat the first oyster. Or the first escargot.

If you find a girl who eats, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a slice of cold pizza and daydreaming, offer her a napkin and hold her. You may lose her for a few minutes but she will always come back to you. She’ll mention that sometimes, cold pizza can taste even better than oven-fresh pizza, because sometimes, it just does.

You will mock vegetarians together. And especially vegans. But never to their delicate faces. Only with sly knowing glances, as you hear them whining to the waiter at the next table over.

You will eat so much that you will wonder why your heart hasn’t already congealed with butterfat and seized up in revolt (don’t worry — it’s the French paradox). You will talk about lunch during breakfast, and dinner during lunch. She will introduce your children to braised pork belly and duck confit, maybe during the same meal.

Date a girl who eats because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most delicious life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale bread, and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone (and hungry). If you want to taste the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who eats.

Or better yet, date a girl who cooks.

[by The Accidental Wino, in response to Rosemarie Urquico and Charles Warnke]

I still toy with the idea of re-branding this blog as PigsAreDelicious.com. It may just happen one day — I may just fully commit to the almighty hog, and turn my back on all other forms of sustenance. I carefully weigh the pros and cons from time to time. So many proper porcine foods in my favor: Bacon, pork chops, sausage, prosciutto, chicharrones, bacon, carnitas, baby back ribs, Iberico ham. The list quickly becomes impressive. But then I always reconsider. I think about the taste of Louisiana [... read more ...]]]>

The Pulled Pork Sandwich @ The Fatted Calf, Oxbow Market, Napa.

I still toy with the idea of re-branding this blog as PigsAreDelicious.com. It may just happen one day — I may just fully commit to the almighty hog, and turn my back on all other forms of sustenance. I carefully weigh the pros and cons from time to time. So many proper porcine foods in my favor: Bacon, pork chops, sausage, prosciutto, chicharrones, bacon, carnitas, baby back ribs, Iberico ham. The list quickly becomes impressive. But then I always reconsider. I think about the taste of Louisiana crawfish, or a delicious slab of medium-rare prime rib, or a fresh piece of seared halibut, or a freshly-shucked oyster. No, although I do love the swine, I just can’t fully commit. But on days like today, when pork is foremost in my mind, I do entertain the idea.

There’s a decent chance that I’ll dream about pork tonight, especially after having attended the Butcher’s Happy Hour at Fatted Calf Charcuterie this afternoon. The folks at Fatted Calf Oxbow host this event on the first Thursday of each month (although their San Francisco location hosts a similar event every Wednesday), and if you worship the pig as much as I do, this is pretty close to church. For me, there’s something captivating about seeing an entire hog being carefully butchered into familiar cuts, and the practitioners at Fatted Calf will answer questions as they work and share their expertise.

But before I get to the photo set below, I need to mention the Fatted Calf’s pulled pork sandwich, pictured above. One might assume that, with so much pork and charcuterie at their immediate disposal, the Fatted Calf would attain scandalous heights with their sandwiches, like substituting pork rinds for bread, or something totally unheard of. But in fact, the Fatted Calf tends to stick close to the script, which is fine by me. Heritage pork shoulder, slow-cooked and succulent, smothered with a dose of bourbon barbecue sauce, and dressed with a little coleslaw? I can’t get mad at that. Ever.

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Prepping the side of pork by removing the rib bones. The hog in question is a Red Wattle, a heritage breed listed on Slow Food USA's Ark of Taste.

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The interior of the side of pork gives the appearance of ribs bones, but in fact, the bones have actually been neatly removed, leaving only the intercostal meat..

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Seasoning with salt, pepper, garlic, lemon zest, rosemary and fennel. Classic Italian flavors.

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Trussing and cinching the roulade.

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Porchetta!