Posted by Cameron on 09.20.06 3:03 PM
You’ve always wondered, and I’m here to tell you that yes, filing stories from remote locations is every bit as sexy as it sounds. One of my fondest memories of my days as a computer journalist is writing a column while sitting in a Paris café and then e-mailing it to my editor from the local cyber. Yep, just so long as there’s good food, strong drink, zero chance of bodily harm, and I don’t have to work too hard, I’m your effete traveling correspondent.
I suppose that there could be bodily harm in New York City, but you really have to go looking for it, especially in the Murray Hill/Gramercy Park area of Manhattan. Dangerous pigeons, I’d imagine. Strollers from hell. Aggressive art. I finally talked the company I work for into flying me back east for a week so that I could do little things like meet the man who I report to, not to mention the rest of the editorial team. Details.
But the truly important consequence of this trip is that I get to spend five nights in NYC, eating my little brains out. Fun, no? Lots of advance time with maps and Web sites and telephone calls, right? Perhaps for the ordinary traveler. The desperate truth is that despite my deep and highly valued organizational skills within the modern office milieu, I’m horrible at planning personal outings, trips, events, engagements, sideshows, meetings, and gatherings. True to form, three days before I had to leave, I had made zero reservations. “My god,†I thought. “This show is going to suck.â€
Note to self: hire producer on return to SF.
So. Lemons to lemonade moment. The theme for this adventure is now New York Without Reservations. I’m not going to eat anywhere that I can’t just walk into and sit down. And I’m going to nice places, dammit. Virtue, thy name is necessity.
NYC, travel
Comments Off on NYC without reservations
Posted by Cameron on 09.15.06 10:12 AM
I guess it’s nice to see the good ol’ U-S-of-A getting into the spirit of Noche del Grito, but perhaps food-borne illness caused by raw vegetables isn’t the best Mexican tradition to adopt.
All kidding aside, pass the word. The FDA has issued a warning that bagged fresh spinach may be the cause of an E. coli outbreak. More details in the NYT story.
news, shopping
1 Comment »
Posted by Cameron on 09.11.06 3:57 PM
The food took forever to come out. It wasn’t good when it arrived. The servers were tripping over each other. There was a waiting list as long as your arm at 9:15 on a Sunday morning.
But hang up the sarcasm phone for a second and listen: we’re really, really pulling for Toast Eatery, a contemporary diner recently opened in Baja Noe Valley.
Ever since we finally threw up our hands over Al’s Cafe Good Food on Mission street, we’ve been longing for a good breakfast place that didn’t require a visit to the peninsula. Anita had been hearing about Toast’s debut so we planned an early (for us) attack on the corner of Church and Day streets.
We were completely unsuccessful in beating the crowds that inevitably surround any halfway-viable brunch joint in Noe Valley. The interior isn’t large, but Toast boasts a number of sidewalk tables. A little flexibility bought a significantly shortened wait for seating: we scored two stools at the bar, a choice that paid dividends later in the meal. The interior is invitingly painted and tiled, and sports cute light fixtures and accoutrements. It’s a clean, well-lighted place for grinds.
The menu at Toast could be taken from any one of a million diners across the nation: scrambles, omelets, pancakes, french toast, eggs benedict, corned beef hash, and chicken fried steak. Lunch/dinner options include soups, salads, burgers, and sandwiches, with plenty of traditional favorites: french dip, club sandwich, cheese steak, hot pastrami, and chili.
We chatted with one of the proprietors who was running herd on the front of the house and handling the counter traffic. I asked if they had real maple syrup, and he said that they were planning on adding it for an extra charge, but they hadn’t yet. Major points. I encouraged him to follow through. In my book, real maple syrup is one of the simple things that a breakfast joint can do to rise above the crowd. I’m happy to pay the extra buck, and I won’t order pancakes without it.
The servers were obviously still getting their act together, but everyone was hustling and mostly friendly. Anita ordered chicken fried steak and some orange juice, while I went for eggs benedict and coffee.
Half an hour later we’d finished the Sunday paper, I was on my third cup of coffee (not bad tasting, nice big cups), and we were hungry. When the food finally appeared, it became clear that the kitchen is still getting its act together, too. The hollandaise was a strange dark brown color, watery, grainy, and inedibly salty—as if it was made from a mix and someone used a cup of powder instead of a tablespoon. Anita’s food was no better: Sysco battered steak patty cooked with zero love and covered in gravy from a mix. Our hashbrowns were just barely cooked. Finally, in a barely believable bit of irony, the english muffins on both our plates were completely…wait for it…unToasted.
Sigh.
I complained (nicely) about the benedict and our seating choice paid off. The man in charge got instant feedback, and I was quickly supplied with a replacement (bagel with lox and cream cheese). Anita struggled through her plate, as there wasn’t anything returnably wrong with it. The scrambled eggs weren’t bad, at least.
We’ll almost certainly return, for two reasons. First, we badly need this kind of place nearby. With the exception of Joe’s Cable Car, it’s impossible to get a non-ethnic meal in our neck of the woods for less than $70 (for two)Â that doesn’t suck five different kinds of ass…and even then you’re taking your chances. Emmy’s Spaghetti Shack doesn’t count because you have to be on the ice to score and if you don’t take credit cards, you get to stay in the penalty box. Plus you can end up waiting for an hour for a table if you don’t whack someone first.
The second reason that we’ll return is that I think the folks at Toast have their heads on straight and they’re very obviously still sorting out their kitchen. The response to my complaint was fast, professional, and there was genuine interest in what went wrong. Plus, there were lots of positive little we’re-paying-attention details: organic, Fair Trade coffee served from thermal carafes instead of left cooking on burners; a small, low-end, but intelligent wine selection; very cool silverware; and, of course, real maple syrup on the way.
No guarantees (witness the continued incompetence and eventual fall of Chez Maman Bernal), but consider this review a bug report and give Toast a try after they’ve had a chance to pump through a few release candidates.
breakfast, Noe Valley, restaurants
9 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 09.10.06 8:57 AM
I’ve been on an old movie binge for the past couple of months, but after trying and failing to make it all the way through “The Third Man” and “Some Like It Hot” over Labor Day weekend, I decided to give Cinema Appreciation a break for while. Instead, I queued up season two of The Wire, a police drama set in Baltimore.
I think that when there’s a scene in a screenplay that involves food, the writer might as well wave a big red flag and yell, “Character development!” Why else would anyone ever film one? Food scenes are messy and hard to coordinate, and it’s almost impossible for anyone to look good while they’re eating. But because of the intimacy and specificity of food, it’s a great way to establish a character or add context.
The second episode of the The Wire is titled “Collateral Damage,” but it might as well be called, “What’s to Eat?” Early on, two of the main police characters share a meal in an interrogation room. Once partners and still friends, McNulty and Bunk gnaw their way through a mess of crabs that McNulty caught while on duty in a patrol boat. Seafood is expensive, but if you have access and knowledge you can harvest your own, and the meal is sloppy, unpretentious, and obviously delicious. The shells are strewn in piles across a table covered with newspaper, washing up against a rack of cheap beer in cans. McNulty is the founder of the feast, and it’s at least partially an apology for having recently added to Bunk’s responsibilities. Bump is both fastidious and a connoisseur of carnal pleasures. At one point he corrals a crab body and, after razzing McNulty for letting it go to waste, dips his paw into the shell and dispatches a handful of guts, unselfconsciously licking his fingers clean. The entire process is quick, neat, and something that only Bunk could make look graceful.
The next food scene is set in the prison cell of a drug kingpin caught and sentenced at the end of the first season. When one of his foot soldiers visits from another part of the prison, Avon Barksdale offers him food from a spread of Kentucky Fried Chicken. The message is clear: Avon is in control and plans to stay that way. He has the contacts and money to make his stay at least slightly more comfortable. And, even though he has been sentenced to seven years in prison, he intends to find ways to shorten that time, and he is determined to live his life as normally as possible.
In the last food scene in the episode, we catch up with members of the stevedore union at their favorite bar at 9am after a spectacular booze-up the previous night. The dock workers huddle around the bar, nursing hangovers until one man shows up with a carton of eggs. The men crack raw eggs into glasses of beer and then gulp the mess down: breakfast and the hair of the dog in one go. This, we gather, is how they live — hanging on from paycheck to paycheck while the port dies around them.
movies & tv
Comments Off on They are what they eat
Posted by Cameron on 09.03.06 10:18 AM
Joni Mitchell Syndrome is one of the hazards of having lived in several different neighborhoods in the same city. The main symptom is the unconscious romanticization of old stomping grounds (see “Both Sides Now (Clouds)”). It’s particularly frustrating around mealtime, when the first option that pops into your mind–and will not be dislodged–is a favorite nook that used to lie within walking distance but now entails a 30-minute trek by car, motorcycle, or public transit.
With that in mind, you’ll understand how excited I was on Friday night. I was suffering from an acute case of JMS, longing for a quick, informal dinner. “Oh, that I still lived in the Lower Haight,” I moaned (to…to myself. Like Mick.), “I could grab a falafel at Ali Baba and wash it down with a few pints at the Toronado.”
Happily, at that moment I remembered VinoRosso, a wine-bar-plus-nosh that had opened recently on Cortland, the high street of Bernal Heights. Wine instead of beer…salumi instead of chickpeas…sold!
It was awful.
The space was cute enough, and I thought that I’d scored when a couple along the banquette got up to leave just as I walked in, opening a cozy nook that seemed ideal for a light, relaxed, dinner (I’d brought a book). I remember noticing a couple of babes-in-arms at other tables but didn’t give it much thought, as it was early. I could not have been more wrong. I’d only just ordered a glass of pinot grigio and a caprese salad when the little one to my left started screaming…followed by a chorus from the three at the table of parents in a window seat. Mind you, this is not a large restaurant. My table in the back of the main seating area was no more than three or four strides from the door.
I’ve watched very young children melt down in restaurants. Once the volume goes up and the tears start, the civilized thing to do is to gather the bairn up, walk outside, and commune with the night air until the tantrum has waned. Playing airplane, making whooshing or cooing noises, and offering favorite toys or foods are all acceptable variations, so long as they occur outside.
But while the parents at VinoRosso were in full distraction mode, it was all happening inside the enoteca. Everyone was determined to plow through whatever bottles of plonk that they had just overpaid for. The din was horrific. It was so loud that I couldn’t taste the wine. Much to my dismay, I did taste the caprese when it was delivered: rock-hard supermarket tomatoes accompanied by mozzarella so old that it had developed a rind.
A rind. On mozzarella. Ew.
VinoRosso
629 Cortland Avenue
San Francisco, CA 94110
415.647.1268
Bernal, Italian, wine & bubbly
Comments Off on Italian horror
Posted by Cameron on 08.23.06 6:11 PM
A few years ago I walked by a restaurant that caught my eye. The name promised a fusion theme and while I don’t remember the two cusines being fused, I do remember that the combination was unlikely enough (Japanese-Greek? Mexican-Scandinavian?) to make me stop and check out the menu in the window.
For sheer entertainment value, it was a great way to blow five minutes. The proposed fare sounded like the restaurant owner had asked a sixth-grader to combine the signature ingredients from two violently different culinary traditions. Lutefisk Gazpacho, that sort of thing.
One might make the same argument about chicken and waffles. I certainly did the first time that I was introduced to them. Individually, they’re great, but together? They turned out to be delicious. It was one of the rare moments where two completely different things mesh together perfectly.
other stuff
4 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 08.21.06 3:30 PM
This has to be the worst way possible to transport and drink beer (click on the pic to see the whole thing).
And yet, I’m strangely compelled.
beer
1 Comment »
Posted by Cameron on 08.21.06 11:35 AM
Don Carne is the gangster name of my good friend and sometime bandmate; the “Don” is an honorific. He sports a sticker on his car that says “Animals are tasty.” Every now and then he catches a hand-wringing PETA zombie in the act of trying to peel the sticker off. Hilarity inevitably ensues.
The Don also likes to say, “You don’t make friends with salad,” which is why we all froze in shock when he told us that he was planning to marry a vegetarian. However, such is the power of his meat fu that his lovely bride is now a fan of hamburgers and cheerfully experiments with all but the gooshiest animal parts.
I feel like I’ve been channeling Don Carne recently. This weekend we had some friends over for a small dinner party and I grilled a slab of Prather tri-tip slathered with a paste made up of roughly equal amounts of garlic powder, pepper, and salt brought together with olive oil. Sear, and then roast on indirect heat until done. Wow, wow, wow. I can’t wait to do it again.
Right now, I’ve got some beef ribs sozzling in a dry rub in the fridge, and they’re destined for the grill tonight. Yabba dabba doo, baby!
cooking, entertaining, meat
3 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 08.18.06 6:13 PM
Somehow, this became the week of braised meat. In addition to the oxtails mentioned previously, I made carnitas.
I didn’t really grok carnitas until very recently, and I certainly wasn’t capable of cooking good ones until I found this recipe. It’s my all-time favorite Internet find for three reasons: It’s practically idiot-proof, it really works, and right in the middle it reminds you to call your mom.
That said, I often feel odd when I cook carnitas. I live near the Mission district in San Francisco, and there are roughly 2.3 million taquerias within a mile of my house. In fact, some of the best carnitas that I’ve ever had are at the taqueria that Anita and I consider our “local.” For an investment of five minutes and two dollars paid to a local business, I can get a carnitas taco that doesn’t have to step aside for anyone. Compare that with $15 or more, plus five hours of cooking. Given, it’s easy time that you can do other things with and it makes the house smell great, but five hours is five hours.
This is the same kind of thinking that eventually made me pull the plug on brewing my own beer. The scale was a little different: three days of work scattered across six or eight weeks of waiting, plus time spent cleaning and storing the gear. But the theory was the same, and the argument was completely insupportable when I could go down to the store and buy a six-pack from local boys who done good.
But what I suspect it comes down to is that I like to do things that I’m good at, even if they’re completely superfluous. Much to my chagrin — as it seems like something that a competent man should be able to do — I was never very good at brewing beer. But I can say with a total lack of modesty that my carnitas kick ass.
beer, cooking, literary, meat, Mexican, The Mission
2 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 08.16.06 3:48 PM
Anita and I were chatting about charcuterie as we sat down to dinner on Monday night when she allowed as how she always thought of pâté as a winter dish: something hearty for blustery weather.
Of course she’s right. Charcuterie evolved as a way of both using scraps and preserving so that it could be eaten when fresh meat wasn’t on the menu…say, when the winds of winter blew.
But for me, charcuterie is linked with summer, not winter. The natural place for a sausage is sizzling and popping on the grill, leaking fat onto the flames. When I was a kid, it wasn’t summer until we were piling ham, salami, and whatever else onto sandwiches for lunch with cold Cokes and crunchy Fritos. And pâté insists on a picnic basket, grass prickling your legs, and French white wine poured from a bottle that’s ice cold and slick with condensation.
Should you find yourself with a picnic basket to stock, do yourself a favor and include a slice of pâté maison from The Fatted Calf. They appear at farmers’ markets on both sides of the SF Bay and you can order from their Web site. We’ve liked everything that we’ve tried so far (don’t even talk to me about Aidells anymore), but the pâté is especially good. It’s well balanced, not heavily spiced, and tastes fresh, which is an odd thing to say about a preserved dish, but for you I’ll make an exception. Now waggle your eyebrows and read that last sentence in your best Groucho Marx voice.
meat, shopping
3 Comments »
