2-24-09

When I sat down with a menu at Park Kitchen tonight, I had no idea I’d end up having pork three ways. Three dishes ordered – an appetizer, “salad,” and entree, each featured pork. I didn’t intend for that to happen. I was enthralled by all of the interesting possibilities offered that night - chickpea fries, sizzling baby octopus, parsnip soup, and duck in a licorice sauce. But when I asked the for the waitress’ favorites (as I often do), I ordered what she recommended. When I was a server, I was guilty of consistently recommending pork dishes too. What can I say? Bacon is better.

Once the dishes began to arrive, it became evident that this restaurant takes on a whole pig at a time. First there was the tesa - almost like a brined, pickled pork belly - but crisp on the edges. It was served at room temperature, with a housemade kim chee, in which I tasted maybe a little fennel, and definitely orange rind. One of my dining companions ordered a salad of endive, sweet potato, shredded pork (shoulder?) and dungeness crab, which actually turned out to be surprisingly light, despite the pork.

My entree was a show stopper though - the kind of richly comforting dish anyone would want to tuck into on a rainy winter night like this. Thin slices of juicy pork tenderloin lay atop a nest of browned spaetzle, chopped chesnuts, dark roasted pork, and braised cabbage. Around all of this was a shallow pool of sweet and savory pumpkin puree. The dish was a bit sweeter than I expected, with just enough salt from the bits of crispy roast pork to balance it (a vinegary salad on the side would have been the perfect complement-or a glass of white burgundy).

The flavor of the browned chesnuts had a caramel character to them, which recalled a meal I had this autumn, at a cooking school. The menu was comprised entirely of ingredients grown within 100 miles, and it was my job to prepare a dish of chesnuts and brussels sprouts to pair with venison, our centerpiece. The chestnuts were made with a caramel sauce, poured over the greens. Among all of the premium ingredients comprising my meal tonight, I felt most privileged to dine on chestnuts. Like fava beans, they are a humble ingredient that are actually very labor intensive to prepare (they must be cracked, roasted, then meticulously peeled before cooking). But I digress – back to pigs.

Indeed, butchering a pig, and carefully curing its various cuts in entirely different ways requires much skill, time and knowledge, and I appreciate that. But it seems that lately it’s been sneaking its way into everything. The other night I ordered scallops, in the mood for a lighter dinner. And what were they served with? Lentils and shredded pork. Two weeks ago I had an amazing wild salmon, alongside was a root vegetable “hash”, studded with bacon (okay, I’ll admit that this one was my choice - the side looked so good that I subbed out the quinoa that was supposed to go with it). What’s next? I’ll tell you - one of Portland’s newest restaurants created a stir late last year with an apple pie that, instead of a lattice pastry crust, had a lattice of bacon over the top. You know what – it looked completely disgusting, but I’m sure it tasted like heaven.

I was wandering around Seattle this morning before we headed up to Whistler. My friend lives near Seattle U., so I let nostalgia get the best of me and decided to have breakfast in my old dining hall. It was horrible. How I let myself get fat on rubbery omelets and hard pastries during my college years is a mystery to me now. I wasn't about to have a bad coffee though, so I went walking through the neighborhood where I first fell in love with coffee shop culture. And that is where I found Cafe Presse. A French cafe with a tall marble bar, a rack of international magazines, and a sweet little menu with things like baked eggs and simple salads (and a baguette with butter for you, Mele). I loved the décor, with one of those big clocks that you'd see in a train station and soccer match schedules posted on a chalkboard. I only wished I hadn't eaten that institutional breakfast-I tried to forget it with a Cafe Vita americano and a thick issue of the New Yorker.

Cafe Presse
1117 12th Avenue
Seattle, WA
www.cafepressseattle.com

Since I’ve tried it all , and can’t eat ANY of this right now (don’t ask), I thought I’d share my list of the my 25 favorite things to have for breakfast in Portland, the breakfast-craziest town I’ve ever known. They are not ranked in order of greatness:

1. The mini-egg sandwich at Detour Café (scrambled egg, thick cut bacon, tomato and basil on a scallion cheddar biscuit - it’s perfect, and I don’t think it’s on the menu).
2. The Oregon croissant at Ken’s artisan bakery (their quiche is pretty killer too).
3. Seasonal fruit hand pies at Baker and Spice.
4. Pig in a blanket at the Portland Farmers Market from Northwest Heritage Pork (see photo below).
5. Eggs Benedict or granola (two items most likely of the same caloric content) at the Heathman.
6. Homemade sausage on a biscuit at Pine State Biscuits on Belmont.
7. Scones at the Lavender Tea house in Sherwood.
8. Espresso drinks and the house recipe chai at Crema.
9. Organic decaf espresso from Portland Roasting Company (first decaf that tastes like the real thing!)
10. French pressed coffee from Blue Gardenia roasting company and bakery (I like the Brazilian the best).
11. Bloody Marys at Broder.
12. Broder.
13. Hot drinking chocolate at Cacao.
14. Simpatica Dining Hall, I mean, they make their own bacon, among everything else.
15. The two egg breakfast at Petite Provence Bakery on Division—fresh baked bread for toast, a homemade herbed pork sausage patty and a little potato cake beside.
16. Zell’s for an oldie but goodie (I love the fluffy mini scones they serve when you sit down and all the savory choices of daily specials).
17. A poppy seed bagel with scallion cream cheese, cucumbers and mixed greens at Kettleman bagels.
18. Dutch Babies and the crazy apple German Pancakes at the Original Pancake House.
19. Voodoo donut’s apple fritters (and I admit I really like the Tang one).
20. One of the countless coffee cake variations at Jim & Patty’s. And their “Pig Newtons.”
21. Breakfast sandwiches and all of the interesting pastries and drinks at Moxie Rx on Mississippi.
22. Bacon (thick cut, pepper) Egg (free range ) croissant (the flakiest, butteryest in town) sandwich (with homemade tomato jam) at Grand Central Bakery.
23. Pancakes at Fuller’s coffee shop (they make their own white bread, old-school style!).
24. The Garden Scramble at genies (I don’t usually like fake meat, but their garden sausage is delicious)
25. Toast. The best breakfast in Portland (they are the ultimate in local with all of their purveyors listed on the menu - they even serve Courier Coffee).

Return of the MAC?? (Sorry, couldn't resist)

News of Chef Philippe Boulot's departure from the Heathman kitchen for the Multnomah Athletic Club, left a wake of sadness and confusion. For many who've worked with him, the absence of his dominating presence and skillfull hand left questions as to what the restaurant would become. It was also confounding--why would a chef leave his own restaurant to work in a cafeteria style kitchen at an elitist athletic club?

In any case, by odd chance, I attended a luncheon at the MAC today, about a week or so after chef Boulot took charge. I've never been there before, but had heard and read that the food was horrible, institutional.

So, when my meal was served, I paid attention, and didn't expect much. What I saw, seemed like a replating, revamping of what could have been awfully standard dishes.

A spinach salad starter, instead of being leaves of prepackaged baby spinach dropped on the plate and dressed, was cut in a chiffonade. This added an elegance and attention to detail. The dressing wasn't very nice, but there were slices of fresh citrus on it, and I was pleased with the texture.

What I first feared would be a beef stroganoff was actually beef tips simmered in a rich mushroom gravy, with a depth of flavor not normally encountered in places like that. It was plated, again, with care--carrots and parsnips (yeah, not celery), were cut into dainty cubes. They were perfectly roasted, and very sweet and fresh, perfect to off-set the beef. Not too salty either. And it was all set on top/around a neat little mound of Boulot's famous super creamy mashed potatoes.

I'd like to follow up on these observations, but unfortunately I'm not a member...

BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

This was, for sure, (get ready for huge claim...)the best pancake I've ever had. It didn't hurt that the pork sausage on top (not too salty, or too greasy) was made by the same farmers who raised the pigs, and that the fluffy eggs were fresh off the farm too. But the pancake itself was perfectly puffy, yet not heavy or dense, made with a recipe that was clearly from scratch. So good that it was almost perfect without syrup--that just brought the moment closer to heaven.

I enjoyed this thing with Michelle when she came to visit, at the Portland Farmers Market. Yes, we each had our own. These guys who make the "pig in a blanket" also serve carnitas tacos for breakfast and sell their own pork chops, bacon, etc.

It's too bad that the market is closed until spring, but then again, it'll be that long until I eat things like this again--after breakfasts like these, it's no wonder my body's crying for a break!

The November pastry case at Pix Patisserie, up Division street from my apartment. Note the rosemary, and the slice of brie on top of the chocolate dome--a dessert called the "Royale with Cheese."

Finally, food in Portland. I always wait too long to blog, after I've consumed countless delicacies and memorable meals. With all of this swirling in my head and only a few minutes, I'll just share an incredible, beautiful, seasonal pastry that I had yesterday, while out for work.

Called the "Ichabod Creme" (hee hee) at Pix Patisserie, this gorgeously decadent treat begins with a buttery shortbread tart crust, topped with a chewy caramel layer studded with toasted pumpkin seeds and pecans. On top of that is a thin layer of spiced almond cream, and "pumpkin creme brulee" (a.k.a. spreadable heaven). THEN there is a tangle of deep dark chocolate ribbons swirling around the top like a bee hive, and garnished with star anise and curried pecans. Exotic autumn deliciousness...

Hawaii Part 2--Noon

Walking around the back streets of Waikiki, I felt like I was in Asia (with perfect timing--who wouldn't welcome a spontaneous trip abroad?). Vendors are squeezed tight against one other, with alleys and walkways leading to discount souvenir shops selling fabulous costume jewelry amongst other useless things. Signs everywhere in Japanese, illegible to me, on the walls near the shopkeepers who are fluent.

Sure, on Kalakaua Avenue it's all Louis Vuitton and Dior, but I like the fact that there are real ramen counters and dive bars in there. I asked the concierge at our hotel, who turned out to be from Japan, where she would go if she wanted authentic ramen close by (I had a cold, and was obsessed with soup). She responded, "well, that depends what I'm in the mood for," and proceeded to describe three different restaurants specializing in different types of ramen (miso-oxtail, pork, or shoyu/sesame). I was impressed. We ended up eating Thai food that night, but still...

The COOLEST thing on the backstreets that I found though, was Henry's Place--a fruit stand on Beachwalk drive. Like the vendors that I loved in Singapore, Henry's sells chilled fruit--pineapple, watermelon, papaya, etc. cut and wrapped up for your convenient, palate refreshing pleasure. I love that! (Okay, don't look to close--yes, those are cans of Vienna sausage--it's Hawaii! Gotta love it...).

HAWAII PART 1--MORNING

I woke up this morning craving rice. Eggs and rice. Portuguese sausage, eggs, and rice. When I went back to Oahu at the end of September for a wedding, my friends and I had some variation of that breakfast almost every day for a week. It was so ono. A couple times were at the hotel buffet, but the more memorable moments were in Honolulu's old-school coffeeshops. The first was Anna Miller's out in Pearl City where I had breakfast with my cousin and her new born baby. Looking like an American family restaurant at first (pies in the front case, kitchy aprons on the waitresses), but feeling like Hawaii a few steps in (local serving staff, and classic local-style dishes on the menu). I had fried rice and eggs and man, have they perfected that dish--tiny bits of ham (or spam) in there with the green onions and shoyu.

Later that week we stayed in Waikiki, and couldn't resist breakfast at the famous Wailana Coffeehouse across from the Hilton Hawaiian Village (where we were staying, conveniently). The FLUFFIEST banana pancakes were had there, along with, of course, the eggs, and, I'm sure, somebody got rice. Somebody ALSO got half a papaya that cost $5, which I couldn't believe (a $10 papaya!).

This morning, brunching on my favorite breakfast sandwich in Portland*, I flipped through New York Times travel section. It was all about visiting New York on a budget. It seemed to be written not only for tourists, but for New Yorkers who had forgotten what it's like to explore their home city with fresh eyes. What really struck me though, were not just the restaurant recommendations, but the specific dishes that were noted throughout the section (in multiple articles). BRUNCH dishes such as a quinoa-octopus salad, and the "Dominican Farmers Breakfast" of "mangu, fried cheese, fried eggs and fried salami." The creativity of these options intrigued me, but not only that, is the presumed sophistication that the editors expect from their audience. Mangu was not even defined. It turns out to be a dish native to the Dominican Republic of mashed plantains, but it seems that most New Yorkers already know that. Another article, specifically focused on the frugal angle, wrote about another breakfast experience--"we indulged in that classic New York brunch of dim sum at the shiny Pacificana, where the vast spread of dumplings, radish cakes, and really, really good chicken feet came to a puny $11.75 a person." Radish cakes! Chicken feet! He wrote about these things in all seriousness, and in an article not directed at foodies, but the general traveler. This level of comfort with food adventure amazes me.


*That would be the "mini-egg sandwich" at the Detour Cafe. Not listed on the menu, this thing is perfect in every way. Small, but packed with flavor. It starts first with a homemade buttermilk biscuit, seasoned with scallions, corn, and cheddar cheese. In between is placed a single scrambled egg, sliced roma tomatoes, fresh basil and pepper bacon. See the detail in that? Perfect every time for $4.75.

HOUSE OF NANKING

The food at this restaurant came out so quickly that within 20 minutes of sitting down, it was like the nine-course meal never happened. Luckily, this was food that could not be forgotten.

One wouldn’t know upon arriving at House of Nanking that it is famous, but you utter it’s name and any self-respecting foodie who hears you (like the bellman at our hotel) will moan in recognition. Not exactly located in the most savory section of San Francisco (the apartment above the restaurant had long strips of meat drying in laundry bags on the fire escape--some might find this grotesque, I thought it was awesome), don’t be afraid to surrender your control of this experience. What I mean is, when you sit down, there are no menus on the table. Peter Fang, the chef and owner, walks over to your table with a pad of paper and asks if he can order for you. He asks you how many dishes you’d like, and within minutes, the day’s specials start landing on the table. Beverages? Steamy and greasy in there, what else was I to do? I ordered a can of soda.

The food is amazing. Chinese food San Francisco style—each dish was fresh, colorful, and filled with al-dente vegetables. I was impressed. There were six of us, and the feast proceeded as follows:

1. Zucchini just barely cooked, sauteed with chili pepper, red onion and Thai basil.
2. “Shrimp Cakes:” Wonton-like (but bigger and more delicate), filled with tender shrimp, peas and drizzled with a hot peanut sauce.
3. Fried calamari—a dish I’ve had many times, but which my cohorts called “the best calamari” they’d ever had. Sprinkled with hot chili oil, this was the only dish without vegetables.
4. Congee with crispy fried beef, zucchini, basil and spicy chili oil. At the time, we were calling this “white soup” having no clue what was in it, but slurping the thick stuff down hungrily. It was indeed however, congee, or savory rice porridge.
5. Garlic Pork—my favorite dish of the entire meal. Pieces of steamed pork with lots of bitter wilted greens and a hot vinegar sauce poured over the entire thing. Spicy, savory piquant goodness.
6. Sesame Chicken—fried chicken strewn with raw pieces of bitter melon and cooked sweet potato.
7. Sauteed whole mushrooms with Thai basil and red onion.
8. Spring rolls—now, these were the best I’d ever had—full of roasted chopped pork, no filler.
9. Onion Cake--the shrimp cake wasn't enough for our party, they had to have the onion cake (that they tried there the day before). Same thing--delicate fried won ton wrapper filled this time with scallions and drizzled with peanut sauce.

Everything came and went so fast and furiously--hot, crisp, fresh, salty, sour and alive. We left the restaurant stuffed, and as we walked out, I glanced up at the beef jerky hanging off the balcony of an apartment overhead and smiled, wondering when I'd eat something that authentically flavorful again.

House of Nanking is located at 919 Kearny Street, San Francisco

As many of you know, I had a fantastic trip to San Francisco a couple of weeks ago. The smell of that city (of cool ocean, cedar and eucalyptus) was permanently etched into my sensory memory when it first blew into my nostrils as a child on family vacations. To me that scent embodies the city’s feeling of freshness. The sun shines on it. People smile there. People wear color.

The California sun seems to bestow upon it’s kingdom the promise of hope, new ideas and thus, innovation. These things in a way are true of much of the West Coast, but in California there is a lightheartedness that prevails—a feeling that allows people to try new things without too much seriousness. For example, a discussion over a light dinner led a friend of my Mother’s to state that to her, a European ex-pat, California is where one can reinvent themselves numerous times over the course of their lives, and that’s okay. Earlier that day, I met a friend for lunch, and afterward strolled over to her boyfriend’s office, where I met him and found that he runs an entire company (at the age of twenty-eight) wearing a t-shirt and jeans. There are grown-ups running and raising families in cooperative businesses (The Juice Bar collective, The Cheese board, etc.). In Berkeley, it’s a system that works.

Anyway, coming from cold, grey Portland, I was easily seduced by all of this. There's the weather, and then all there's the food! I mean, within moments after I arrived at at the airport, I was enjoying a delicate shrimp and avocado salad at the Cliff House, taking in the a breathtaking view with the sun gleaming high above the sea.

There is so much delicious, fresh and inventive food to consume in the Bay Area, that my strategy was not to seek out large, extravagant meals, but instead to nibble my way through those four days. Which I did with satisfaction.

One place that is a mecca for this type of grazing is the Ferry Building, which houses a mall of gourmet shops and restaurants of the highest quality. Two days a week they hold one of the most beautiful farmer’s markets that I’ve ever seen, with chef’s demonstrations on Saturdays. We arrived there mid-morning on our first day in the city, and didn’t have much time before we were to catch the ferry to Sausalito (which honestly bears an incredible resemblance to the island of Capri, or the Italian Riviera—a little piece of Europe in America). So we grabbed a couple of lattes and I got a cinnamon roll from Acme bakery (the famous bakery that supplies most of the most esteemed restaurants in the city with their table bread). That cinnamon roll was my favorite kind—not the grotesque bready or gooey kind, but the type that seems like the baker took some croissant dough, sprinkled it with cinnamon and sugar and just rolled it a different way. Mmm...

When we returned from our ferry ride, it was, conveniently lunch time (okay, I planned it that way). We poked our heads into the various restaurants, open kitchens bustling with cooks preparing daily specials. My mom chose some chicken soup, but I decided to try Japanese food from the most impressive Japanese deli, DelicaRf-1.

I think I’ve mentioned this place before—bustling, efficient, clean and healthy, their cases are filled with mounds of seaweed salad and trays of beautiful delicacies. They sell bentos for super-speedy lunches, or pick-your-own combinations at the counter. I had a chicken-tofu cake (a dense and flavorful patty laced with onion and hijiki and topped with daikon), hijiki seaweed salad (rich and black, decorated with bright green soybeans and chewy mountain yam gelatin), and mizuna greens with carrot and marinated lotus root salad. They also had these amazingly alien looking things that were messy balls of veggie tempura—check ‘em out...

A few weeks back, my best friend came to Portland to attend her Grandfather’s eightieth birthday. Her grandparents live out on the Oregon Coast, and I was lucky to be invited to the party as well. I jump at any chance to see the ocean, or to spend time with good people, so I was really looking forward to this event. Little did I know what a treat the food would be...

We arrived early to set-up at the Newport Visual Arts center, which was a small room with two huge walls of glass, perched high above the coastline. From high above, you could see seagulls diving in the air against layers of grey clouds moving over miles of beach. It’s an incredible spot. The room itself was decorated with colorful glass, flowers, and desserts. Two women made at least ten different desserts, set around the room on cake stands and platters. Each homemade confection was labeled with personal attributions like “Mrs. Regan’s Persimmon Pudding,” and some not-so-personal, such as "Grammercy Tavern Gingerbread." I thought this was incredibly sweet—the love and care in preparing each of these treats, and the thoughtful presentation.

The desserts were set out during the dinner service (passed hors d’oeuvres catered by Local Ocean Seafood in Newport—fresh oysters, salmon, shrimp, etc.) so that all of the guests could admire (and salivate) over them throughout the evening. I was lusting after the least beautiful of them all (but most gluttonous)—the pumpkin trifle. And, I guess so was someone else, because an hour into the party, there was a huge spoon stuck right through the middle (and one portion missing). I guess an enormous bowl of whipped cream is impossible for some to resist.

Apparently, the trifle was an accident, as Victoria, who made many of the desserts, told me that she started with a pumpkin cake that didn’t turn out as she wanted it to and ended up turning the thing into a trifle (speckled with walnuts, spice and cream, maybe some vanilla pudding--this thing was heaven and hell at the same time—I went back for seconds).

Another treat was that a close friend of the family is a goat farmer and artisan cheesemaker. I met her at a Thanksgiving on the farm when I was in college, when she just began making her cheese and only sold it locally. That year we had suckling pig instead of turkey (luckily my friend’s Grandpa is a welder, because it required a custom-made baking pan). She now goes by River’s Edge Chevre, and sells her cheese at Whole Foods and New Seasons in Portland. She had at least five different cheeses out on a marble block, but my favorite was her smoked chevre. She smokes a maple leaf, spritzes it with bourbon, then wraps the chevre in it and smokes that. It was amazing—reminiscent of the flavor of smoked gouda but softer, silkier and earthier. By the end of the evening, I had stuffed myself sick with all those tasty finger-foods, but isn't that what being with family is all about?

4-30-08

Today I became the proud parent of my very first musubi. Yep, that’s it there in the picture. Isn’t it cute? I made it with brown rice and everything.

I had to laugh when I finished it this morning, because I didn’t intend to make just one precious little musubi. I just didn’t make enough rice. I’m so used to making such a small little pot of rice for my meals that I thought nothing of it, and little did I know that the whole pot would fill up just one musubi mold!

See, the thing about musubi is that it is a food created to use up excess—to recreate leftovers into something different to eat later. Usually (for those smart enough to own a rice cooker—now #1 on my kitchen wish list, sorry blender, you’ve been out ranked), there’s always extra rice left in the pot after dinner. So you take that, some protein (teriyaki chicken or beef, tofu, sausage, egg, whatever), add a little drizzle of shoyu, press it in the mold, and wrap it up in nori. I used smoked salmon and a little sprinkle of furikake—I’ll see how it tastes when I bring it to work tonight. Musubi is the perfect travel food—compact and contained, they stay good for hours, and they’re meant to be eaten at room temperature.

I’m proud of my little musubi, especially because I made it with the old musubi mold that my Tutu (grandmother) gave to me years ago, and the sight of its little box conjures memories of her cooking in her kitchen. Next time though, I’ll make a bigger batch (and try not to burn the rice).

5-1-08

You really don’t know what you’ve got till...you can’t have it anymore. A naturopath prescribed an anti-inflammatory diet for my recent onset of “digestive issues,” and it’s been a mess of cravings ever since. I have a fairly healthy diet, I think—mostly organic, mostly whole foods, little processed or packaged foods, and a decent amount of fresh produce. Little did I know, that somewhere in between the lines of my healthy diatribes, I had become a sugar junkie.

Yep, now that I can’t have sugar (in it’s true form, or corn syrup or artificial sweeteners), I try to get my fix in anyway that I can. I think about sweet stuff all the time. I can’t wait for my morning oatmeal with maple syrup (the amount that I pour on is surely not allowed in the diet, but I have to give myself some slack somewhere, right?). I squeeze honey over my almond butter smeared on crackers, order the poached pear salad at work every other day, and have been eating more fresh fruit than ever before. I’m about to go online to see if there’s a recipe for sugar-free macaroons (stevia anyone?), if those even exist.

But sweets aren’t even the worst. The worst craving is for golden-outside, soft and chewy inside, warm-and-waiting-for-butter baked goods. The desire that I feel for croissants, muffins, bagels, ciabatta bread, foccacia and even whole wheat toast, is overwhelming. Especially, when I see them, round and ready, in glass pastry cases just about everywhere I go. Rarely have I ever really thought about these things as special, or lusted over the many varieties of sandwich bread. As bread is such a standard element of the American diet, I had never even thought about what life would be like without it, or the emotional comfort that it provides. When it’s cold outside, and you’re tired and hungry, home late after a nine hour shift at work, not being able to throw a piece of toast into the toaster and eat it warm with butter is almost painful.

I was inspired to note this as I’m sitting in the coffee shop at Powell’s bookstore, sipping on my caffeine-free rooiboos chai (which probably contains some form of sugar, hopefully honey, but really, I don’t care), after to summoning every element of willpower I possess in order to suppress the compulsion to give in and buy one of the glistening pastries in the case at the register (is it just me, or are the double-wheel cinnamon rolls there the best looking ones you’ve ever seen?).

Walking in here, I stopped at the cookbook aisle and flipped through one of the Moosewood cookbooks, reading through recipes. As I really got into the details of one of the pancake recipes (envisioning them warm and brown and...), I almost dropped the book. My body tripped for just a second as I got lost in the idea of those delicious treats, and, just like a strength test at the chiropractor’s office, my weakness was pin-pointed.

Well, I think now is as good a time as any to talk about avocados. I love them, I mention them often. Their gorgeous image graced the cover of Saveur magazine about a year ago. I'm holding on to that issue. But, unfortunately don't get to enjoy them often enough. See, here in Portland, an avocado the size of, mmm, a really small pear, is three dollars. That's a lot. And often, they're not even ripe. Even when they're soft.

In Hawaii, the avocados are so huge (bigger than a softball), and buttery, and yellow--not light yellow, like, mustard-yellow. So good. Great on tacos, salads, sandwiches, or just on toast. Avocado toast--putting ripe avocado on a piece of toasted bread with a squeeze of lime and Spike seasoning=heaven. They serve avocado on whole grain toast at my favorite cafe in the world, Cafe Gitane (NYC). I think I've just identified a comfort food. My mom's been preparing that snack combination my whole life, and she still eats it a couple times a week. I did the same when I was on Kauai in February.

When I was a kid (little--maybe three?), I was even permanently scarred from this food--the lime juice dripped off the avo onto my leg and, it being Hawaii, I went out into the sun and got this birthmark looking burn. It's gone now (okay so it wasn't exactly permanent), but I had it all through childhood. It was on my leg. Maybe I just wanted a birthmark. I used to say that I was allergic to lime juice. Ask my friends. Paranoia still prevents me from touching any kind of citrus if I'm in the sun--you'll never catch me taking that lime wedge from the side of my margarita and squeezing it poolside.

Back to avocados. I think the avocado sandwich is also a perfect food. Avo and monterey jack cheese on a sandwich is just so tasty. Or that as a quesadilla with salsa. I think all this must originate in Southern California, the land of citrus, and Mexican food. And a good sandwich. They know how to make a good sandwich in California. They don't here. To me, the ultimate sandwich has got to have sprouts on it. Avocado, and sprouts. On hearty, whole grain bread. I don't care too much about the rest--it could have turkey, it might have cheese. It might have grated carrots. Andy's in Manoa (Oahu) understands this--they serve their turkey avo sandwich with about three different variations. They roast their turkey on-site and shred it daily. Their customer base is so strong that they are somehow able to be closed on Saturdays. What I wouldn't give for one of Andy's sandwiches right now--I guess I'll have to settle for avocado on spelt toast.

A few weeks ago a friend and I took a gustatory day trip, but this time it wasn't about the food. It was about beer. We went to the source of the taste of beer. On a photo assignment for a local magazine, we drove a couple hundred miles out to the Yakima Valley in southern Washington to photograph the man in charge of this commodity. It is in Yakima where farmers harvest most of the country’s hops—that herbacious flower that gives India Pale Ale it’s distinguishable taste (and many beers their bitterness). We met with the President of HopUnion, the company that supplies most of the nation’s craft breweries with their hops (and given t-shirts and keychains bearing slogans like “Hop-Blooded!”). This may seem esoteric to many of you, but here in Portland, beer-speak is everyday lingo. Everybody knows the difference between an IPA, a lager, Heffeweizen, porters, stouts and ales. If they don’t know the difference, they can taste it, and they know what they like. No self-respecting Portlander is drinking Heinneken out here, that’s for sure. That would be of a category that I’ve come to refer to as “yellow beer.” I don’t drink it either (in fact, lately I’ve gotten into Belgian beers, but that’s a whole different story).

The issue at hand, and what put us on assignment in the first place, is that there is a hop shortage in this country right now. Craft brewing (microbrewing--the good stuff) has increased in popularity, and businesses have multiplied faster than the hops can grow. Farmers are depressed because there just isn’t enough to go around. The harvest is allocated a year out, and HopUnion has a long waiting list. In the winter, the fields are fallow, but the warehouses still have stock from last year (as well as imported hops from Europe). We were able to peak into these giant refrigerators (their cold storage areas are kept at 32 degrees, in the desert), and the moment we stepped in we could smell that distinctive floral scent that only hops can deliver. I do like hoppy beer, so of course my sensory memory immediately dreamt of a cold IPA. It still takes me by surprise sometimes how much a smell can conjure up such an acute association.

The whole trip was so fascinating—to see how this one plant can be the source of flavor, and joy and sorrow (not the kind caused by beer drinking--the hop growers are truly saddened by the shortage situation).

The Yakima Valley happens to be part of the Columbia Valley wine growing region—known primarily for cabernets and syrahs. We drove high into the hills above the hop fields to a brand-new tasting room in a renovated farm cottage. Surrounding the structure are vineyards recently planted with over 15 varietals from around the world. Quite ambitious and intriguing, I thought. The winemaker will wait years to see how these all pan out, how these grapes behave in those conditions.

Upon arrival, we were greeted by the vineyard manager, then the tasting room stewards—an extremely welcoming and friendly couple, who invited us in to taste wines from Wilridge and Harlequin. We even chatted with one of the winemakers, who was just finishing his day tending to the property. More than with the wines, I was impressed by the hospitality of these people, and the beauty of the land up there. With the farms and vineyards in the distance, the steep hillsides were reminiscent of Italian hilltowns. The backside of the property dips into a wildlife preserve—Cowiche Canyon. Gorgeous. We watched the sunset with them, said good bye to our hosts and the sagebrush, and drove back home to Portland.

2-13-08

I woke today to the repetitive buzz of a small domestic appliance. My peaceful morning quiet was broken by this odd sound, and it took me a few sleepy minutes to recognize that it was coming from the kitchen. It turned out to be the motor of an electric citrus juicer, as my mom was making me a tall glass of tangelo juice.

I often feel frustrated by the poor quality and low standards of food in restaurants here in Hawaii, but man, you can't beat the ripeness the fresh tropical fruit. Since I arrived back in the islands, I've sampled a good amount of my local food favorites--shave ice at Matsumoto's (lilikoi-guava-li hing), Furikake crusted ahi plate lunch, portuguese-sausage-eggs-and-rice, and the blueberry-cream cheese scones at Diamond Head Grill. I made it to a few trendy and classic spots around Honolulu too--lunch at Mariposa (love those popovers with guava butter, and the consomme is always an elegant touch), dinner at Vino, Formaggio's, a cocktail at Nobu in Waikiki, breakfast at Town.

All of these are good spots, and time well spent with friends and family, but my favorite meals have been those enjoyed in someone's home. My friend Leah made me fried rice one hungover morning, which, along with a couple of ibubrofen, hit the spot. She whipped up some tasty curry one night too with Japanese eggplant and tofu that was simply satisfying. I wanted to make grilled-cheese on her fiance's "snackmaster" iron, but we just never got the chance.

Back at home on Kauai, I've started to cook a bit myself again, and wanted to share a bit about the fantastic meal we made tonight for a couple of family friends. Our guests arrived with a bottle of Groth 2001 Oakville cab, and while that opened up, we poured some Cloudy Bay Sauvignon blanc that my Mom had saved from her store. They also brought (and this is really what inspired me to type these notes in the first place)a chunk of sausage from Salumi in Seattle (Mario Batali's dad's place). It was mexican mole salami, and that stuff was incredible. Nice and dry, the sausage's richness is still apparent alongside the slight chocolate and spice in the mole. SO GOOD! (I might sneak into the kitchen for a tiny piece right now--even at 11 pm). Our dinner was delicious as well--my stepdad made a coriander rubbed pork tenderloin with "calabacitas" (see recipe below), what he describes as a "poor people" dish that his mother used to make when he was a kid. The original recipe uses Velveeta cheese, but suggested jack cheese and it was great. I made a salad with local mixed greens, cilantro, oranges, and red onion dressed with olive oil/lime juice/honey/cumin/salt/pepper. That's a good simple dressing when you don't want to use vinegar. For dessert I made pineapple soaked in basil simple syrup with a curl of mango sorbet on top. Mmm...It was all very simple but just so fresh and island-style.

Calabacitas:

Ingredients:
3-4 medium zucchini or yellow squash
1 medium yellow onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1/2 cup chopped, peeled roasted green chile (or canned, drained and rinsed)
1 cup cooked corn
1/2 shredded jack cheese

1. Saute onion in olive oil until softened.
2. Add squash and garlic until cooked.
3. Add cooked corn and season with salt and pepper.
4. Sprinkle cheese over the top, turn off heat, and cover with a lid until melted.

2-2-08

So I’m sitting at Tabla on a cold, misty Saturday night at about nine, picking moist meat off of duck bones, and telling my friend about the vacancy sign hanging in the Mercury’s food department. At that point, I figured that it was as good of a time as any to write a review.

We jaunted down NE 28th from the Laurelhurst Theater, a little hungry after seeing a movie about a seriously disfunctional family (“Margot at the Wedding”). Walking, we talked, divulging secrets of our own ancestors, and appropriately sought a restaurant that would offer us warmth and comfort. Portland’s restaurant row isn’t too bad a place to be hungry--last weekend we hit up Noble Rot for a meal comprised of a superb (albeit pricey) roast duck surrounded by liquefied pate, and other delicious bites. On this night, we scanned the menu outside Tabla, for beckoning words like “radicchio,” “confit,” and “house-made.” They were all there, so we walked right in.

Surprisingly half-empty on a Saturday, the host gave us our choice of a table or the kitchen bar (they have two bars—the alcohol one and the food one—very nice), and chose to set up as close to fire as possible. The staff was extremely relaxed and friendly (even prompting comments out of my mouth like “this would be a great place to work”). We were offered tastes when it came to wine decisions (despite the fact that our server had a thorough knowledge of her wines, and could describe each with detail, and made decent suggestions), and the cook just handed us our dishes over the counter when she finished cooking them. Home-style.

The food was homey as well, but by this I mean homey like the way that someone can invite you to their house for dinner, and cooks you something good, that fills you up with no flash. We started with the mussels from Puget Sound (SO fresh) in a bit of broth with sausage, sautéed onions and herbs. The thing about this dish was, the flavor was SO subtle, SO mild, that it was almost flavor-less. I mean, shellfish will always provide a distinct taste, but the sausage tasted like...scrambled egg. Not bad...just unexpected? The dish could have been enhanced by salt, but we were ashamed to ask for it from the sweet cook behind the counter. The kitchen was pretty cool looking back there, like an Italian kitchen with white matte paint layered behind the knife racks and shelves of cookbooks. The aforementioned radicchio (salad) was deconstructed--two slices of whole d’anjou pear underneath a pile of the greens (can you use the term “greens” if they’re purple?) with currants, and a wedge of Humboldt fog (I love that cheese and it was a generous portion, but didn’t exactly pair with any of the other flavors there, which in a way resembled coleslaw). Finally, the duck confit. Whipped potatoes. Kale. The kale was good. Braised and slightly sweet, like southern collards. Again...salt? The duck was okay. Honestly, it was kind of a “the ingredients should speak for themselves” preparation...but these ingredients were, well...either shy or mute. That said, it was satisfying sustenance on a cold winter night with a good friend and our consoling conversation. Fortunately, she had more to say than the food, and the wine was good. A solid B. Service, A. Food, C+. One cool thing about Tabla is that they offer a $24 prix fixe menu, which is great—3 courses, your choice, with the option of wine pairings. Their sommelier also has a spot on the menu that features a rotating wine region, with four selections from that area available by the glass. This week it was Languedoc-Rousillion.

As an endnote, a server came into the kitchen as things were really slowing down, and as we started talking (about restaurant staff breaking into song), he mentioned that he was waiting on a table in their private dining room which included a freelance writer for Gourmet. I asked whether their menu was set or if they ordered off of the menu that we did. Provocatively, I found out that they ordered a la carte. I wondered if anybody ordered the breakfast sausage (in the mussels, that is).