tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-224094802024-03-13T21:56:46.970-07:00Restaurant Girl SpeaksThe shift is over.Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.comBlogger127125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-86168032424940718692011-08-16T13:13:00.000-07:002011-08-16T13:13:10.078-07:00Restaurant Girl in the New York TimesMy photo made it onto the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/08/14/fashion/street-style-polkadots-4.html">New York Times</a>' style blog today:<br />
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Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-28310332850934363652011-07-18T10:51:00.000-07:002011-07-19T15:29:34.301-07:00A lovely weekend at Milliken Creek<div class="MsoNormal">This last weekend, my fella and I were invited to stay at <a href="http://www.millikencreekinn.com/index.php">Milliken Creek Inn</a>, which is right on the Napa river. Those of you who are already familiar with my stories might know that I'm not the biggest fan of <a href="http://www.chow.com/food-news/54043/the-other-napa/">Napa</a>, finding it overcrowded with drunk tourists and cheesy tasting room employees, so I was skeptical of this invitation, but wanted to escape the San Francisco fog.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QxwjvzHJwkw/TiRyN1m3rkI/AAAAAAAAAY0/3XE80z-EMR8/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-07-18+at+10.33.59+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QxwjvzHJwkw/TiRyN1m3rkI/AAAAAAAAAY0/3XE80z-EMR8/s320/Screen+shot+2011-07-18+at+10.33.59+AM.png" width="320" /></a>How wonderful it is to know that there's still rustic charm in Napa! Milliken Creek Inn sits right on the river, which is a tide river, ebbing and flowing from both directions. There are several buildings on the property, which originally housed a tavern that stagecoach riders would stop at on their mail routes in the 1800s.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This was the first weekend away the Mister and I had since we were married last October, and Milliken Creek was such a sweet place--they are all about the romance. The Inn's lovely general manager ticked off the personal butlering services she's done for the Inn's guest over the past year: organized plane-writing in the sky for an anniversary, a butterfly release, bought lingerie, and procured a special bottle of wine of which there were only 10 left in the world. She joked, "The only thing I won’t let someone do is fish off my river bank!" (and you wouldn’t want to, nor would you want to swim in the river).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--zceFZQZxAY/TiRyJq-X8VI/AAAAAAAAAYk/kmQtwHhJbw4/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-07-18+at+10.32.56+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--zceFZQZxAY/TiRyJq-X8VI/AAAAAAAAAYk/kmQtwHhJbw4/s320/Screen+shot+2011-07-18+at+10.32.56+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">We dropped our bags off in the luxe room and headed into town for some oysters and beer at the <a href="http://www.oxbowpublicmarket.com/">Oxbow Public Market</a>, wandered around the <a href="http://www.ferrybuildingmarketplace.com/">Ferry Building</a>-esque food court and came back to the Inn for a spa treatment--one of the best this cynic has ever had. The line they use for facials is <a href="http://www.eminenceorganics.com/en-US/">Eminence Organics</a>, which I'd never heard of but is definitely on my list of skincare to recommend.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although the Inn kindly offered to make us a reservation anywhwere in Napa, we didn't feel like dining out and so bought all of the fixings for our favorite picnic dinner (baguette, boquerones, prosciutto, soft cheese, cornichons, and a 12-pack of Pacifico) and ate on our private deck.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LavSFF3yQIU/TiRyNYe1yZI/AAAAAAAAAYw/2biJApL6HEc/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-07-18+at+10.33.42+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LavSFF3yQIU/TiRyNYe1yZI/AAAAAAAAAYw/2biJApL6HEc/s320/Screen+shot+2011-07-18+at+10.33.42+AM.png" width="320" /></a>The morning brought a cute picnic basket packed with a hot breakfast (you order it the night before by hanging a tag on your door and they deliver it starting at 8am) and the daily papers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'd definitely recommend a stay at Milliken Creek for any couple who's looking for some romance, especially since the Inn is celebrating their 10-year anniversary this year, and offering <a href="http://www.millikencreekinn.com/packages.php">special packages</a> that include a driver, dinner reservations, chocolate and strawberries (um, did I mention they covered our entire room with candles, roses, and rose petals while we were enjoying the 6pm Winemaker Hour in the Inn's lobby?!?), and a few frisky treats that couples can indulge in when they come back to their room in the evening.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The <a href="http://www.millikencreekinn.com/packages.php">packages</a> range from $900-$1200 for the 2-night package, and regular room rates depend on the season, from $275 for a “Milliken” room in the off-season to $650 for a luxury room during the high season.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DA25gAw7C2g/TiRyMMNbINI/AAAAAAAAAYs/JtOkIYDmzko/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-07-18+at+10.33.32+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DA25gAw7C2g/TiRyMMNbINI/AAAAAAAAAYs/JtOkIYDmzko/s320/Screen+shot+2011-07-18+at+10.33.32+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-36391071253527108242011-04-09T19:46:00.001-07:002011-08-22T17:46:50.944-07:00So Much SakeOver 500 people showed up for the Japan fundraiser at Yoshi's this afternoon. Chef upon chef outdid each other with offerings of internal organs prepared in just the right proportions...and the live jazz made all the food that much more savory.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BZ7jjhRz7GA/TaEXPD-dUtI/AAAAAAAAAYc/LtsgAGbpYRw/s1600/IMG_1336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BZ7jjhRz7GA/TaEXPD-dUtI/AAAAAAAAAYc/LtsgAGbpYRw/s320/IMG_1336.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>More to come...</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-50314730094276966182011-04-05T17:33:00.000-07:002011-04-08T13:24:48.244-07:00Chefs United Raised $42K for Sendai<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P5OU32SVhkM/TZuzltTxLlI/AAAAAAAAAYM/iv3wZ6xoGL0/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-04-05+at+5.27.43+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P5OU32SVhkM/TZuzltTxLlI/AAAAAAAAAYM/iv3wZ6xoGL0/s320/Screen+shot+2011-04-05+at+5.27.43+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Sunday night's fundraiser at <a href="http://www.prospectsf.com/">Prospect</a> was by all accounts a smashing success, we raised $42,000 for the people of Sendai City and Miyagi prefecture, and it seems that folks had a great time.<br />
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Longer post to come, for now I've got to prepare for <a href="http://insidescoopsf.sfgate.com/blog/2011/03/21/two-big-personal-japan-fundraisers-at-prospect-and-yoshis/">Saturday's event</a> at Yoshi's! (Buy tickets <a href="http://www.yoshis.com/sanfrancisco/calendar?y=2011&m=04">here</a>)<br />
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If you're looking for posts about the trip to Japan that the hooligans above took in 2009, you can find them <a href="http://restaurantgirlspeaks.blogspot.com/2009_03_01_archive.html">HERE</a>.<br />
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** Update**<br />
A little more about the fundraiser on Sunday night:<br />
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<a href="http://restaurantgirlspeaks.blogspot.com/2009/03/japan.html">Each of the chefs that I visited Japan</a> with (pictured above) created a dish inspired by our trip to Sendai in 2009. They each gave their dish a name--the word that reminded them the most of Sendai.<br />
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Prospect opened its doors on a Sunday night, which is huge for a restaurant, so many many thanks to all of the waiters, bartenders, and amazing cooks who (I'm assuming) worked tip-free (which is basically for free) on Sunday to bring this menu to the 120 diners that showed up in support of the Miyagi prefecture.<br />
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Each course was paired by the chefs and their team with a different sake or wine (all donated, as was much of the food--the Albarino Amy Currens procured for Chef Ravi's asparagus/crab/uni dish was especially refreshing) and all were made with ingredients from Miyagi like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matcha">Matcha</a> (<a href="http://www.amerestaurant.com/lissa.html">Lissa Doumani</a>'s delightful green tea and strawberry dessert), <a href="http://www.umamimart.com/2011/03/japanify-sendai-miso/">Sendai red miso</a>, and Miyagi oysters. Having visited the farm where Miyagi oysters come from has given me such an appreciation for them, as we see them on most restaurant menus worth their salt in San Francisco.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-22562842007240773722010-04-27T12:00:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:55:04.364-07:00No Words Minced at Quince<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zpAMuaXOI/AAAAAAAAAXU/_hVImPvxzac/s1600/photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zpAMuaXOI/AAAAAAAAAXU/_hVImPvxzac/s320/photo+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Okay, so I just wanted to have a snappy title for a post about dining at Quince. But words *weren't* minced at the Oregon Certified Sustainable Winemakers' dinner last Tuesday, where a select few Oregonian winemakers showcased their current releases.</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zo-fDBKbI/AAAAAAAAAXM/8vCZPBofA_U/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zo-fDBKbI/AAAAAAAAAXM/8vCZPBofA_U/s320/photo.jpg" width="240" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When I hear "biodynamic" or "organic" wine, the word "sludge" flashes through my brain before it can help itself. It's unfortunate that the biodynamic/organic label can carry negative connotations in the haute wine world. Just as some of the city's best restaurants will use organic, local food and utilize green business practices--and not tout it--many of my favorite Californian wineries farm organically and produce their wine biodynamically, without making a big deal on the label. (<a href="http://www.quintessa.com/">Quintessa</a> and <a href="http://www.untivineyards.com/">Unti</a> come to mind).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.adelsheim.com/">Adelsheim Vineyard</a>'s and <a href="http://www.willakenzie.com/">WillaKenzie</a>'s Pinot Blancs were a refreshing way to start the meal, and the </span><a href="http://shop.montinore.com/servlet/ProductView?commodityID=42174&command=cp&supplierID=773"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Montinore Estate's Borealis</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> went wonderfully with the first course, a salad of raw, shaved asparagus with lardo and grana padano cheese. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The wine was an interesting blend of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">45% Müller-Thurgau, 24% Gewürztraminer, 18% Pinot Gris and 13% Riesling that worked well with asparagus--a hard vegetable to pair wine with.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zpEJ8u5bI/AAAAAAAAAXk/onhyNdw_Onw/s1600/photo+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zpEJ8u5bI/AAAAAAAAAXk/onhyNdw_Onw/s320/photo+4.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I paid more attention to </span><a href="http://www.bethelheights.com/pages/intro.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Pat Dudley</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">'s lively explanation of how the LIVE certification process works than to my second course of lasagnette, she was so animated when describing the different elements of the biodynamic treatments that were serving as the family-style table's centerpieces.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zpBiePsBI/AAAAAAAAAXc/0sCFKTkU608/s1600/photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zpBiePsBI/AAAAAAAAAXc/0sCFKTkU608/s320/photo+3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I helped myself to second's of </span><a href="http://shop.montinore.com/servlet/ProductView?commodityID=40475&command=cp&supplierID=773"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Montinore Estate's Willamette Valley Pinot Noir</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> ("It's WillAMit, dammit!," joshed the proprietor of </span><a href="http://panthercreekcellars.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Panther Creek</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> as I mangled the appellation's pronounciation). The spiciness of the pinot surprised me, but I suppose the cool climate there on the coast forces the grapes to grow a thicker skin, providing the resulting wine with a little spicier tannin.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">After the roast duck with quince mostarda course (which was great with the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.bethelheights.com/">Bethel Heights</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> estate-grown pinot noir), plenty of wines had been passed around the table and the vibe was a bit looser. So loose, in fact, that <a href="http://terroirsf.com/">Terroir</a> co-owner Dagan Ministero suddenly leapt up and seized a new bottle from the side table.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zpbZn-Q0I/AAAAAAAAAX0/H9-XHGayeYU/s1600/laguiole-corkscrew-blue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S8zpbZn-Q0I/AAAAAAAAAX0/H9-XHGayeYU/s200/laguiole-corkscrew-blue.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Conversation froze as Ministero removed his shoe and placed the base of the bottle inside, repeatedly slammed the shoe against the brick wall of Quince's private dining room and began to sweat a bit as the cork inched out millimeter by millimeter. Weak applause followed the pouring of the (possibly bottle-shocked?) pinot. While I'll certainly remember that parlor trick for my next camping trip, can somebody please send Mssr. Ministero a new Laguiole??</span></span>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-27697274021773880962010-03-09T15:13:00.000-08:002011-04-07T12:39:45.575-07:00Press Kit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bU4MM01iI/AAAAAAAAAV0/OttRQQmIHJY/s1600-h/picco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bU4MM01iI/AAAAAAAAAV0/OttRQQmIHJY/s400/picco.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Last night I dined at <a href="http://www.restaurantpicco.com/">Picco</a> for the first time, and chef Bruce Hill came out of the kitchen to sit down at our table after we'd finished. His iPhone rang, and he glanced at the photo of Brussels sprouts that popped up and excused himself.<br />
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"Hi sweetie," he said quietly. "Mm hm. Mm hm. Just put them in the pan until one side is crispy and then put on the lid to steam them until they're done on the inside. Mm hm. I love you. Bye."<br />
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He hung up the phone and smiled sheepishly.<br />
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"Sorry," he said. "Since I'm not home during the evenings, I try to set my wife up to eat well while I'm gone, and she had a question about the dumplings I froze for her." (Sweetest. Chef-husband. EVER.)<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bTo0FkfxI/AAAAAAAAAVM/_EpBVTdpbcI/s1600-h/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bTo0FkfxI/AAAAAAAAAVM/_EpBVTdpbcI/s200/photo.jpg" width="150" /></a>He put a small, heavy package on the table.<br />
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"Here's your press kit," he said.<br />
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I stared at the heavy rectangle uncomprehendingly--I thought he was going to be providing me with background materials for a writing project I'm doing for him.<br />
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I peeled open the square and burst out laughing when I realized it was the patented Chef's Press he invented last year, about to be released by Williams-Sonoma.<br />
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"This is so much better than the press kit <i>I</i> was thinking of!" I exclaimed as I tore the wrapper off the gleaming stainless-steel sheets.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bT2-mOi7I/AAAAAAAAAVk/JwVYZlwFslw/s1600-h/dd-tinykitchen02_0500309395.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bT2-mOi7I/AAAAAAAAAVk/JwVYZlwFslw/s400/dd-tinykitchen02_0500309395.jpg" width="400" /></a>Chef Hill showed us how it worked on my mom's hand. His invention is quite simple--it's a set of three stainless-steel plates with slats cut into them, so they look like jail-bar windows. The middle slat is bent up at a 90-degree angle to form a handle. Each plate weighs 9 oz., and they can be stacked on top of each other to weigh down cuts of meat (or anything that needs to be pressed) of different sizes.<br />
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Chefs have been using weights and the backs of spatulas to press items on a grill as long as there have been grills, but solid pieces of metal often make the pressed food soggy. The slats cut into Hill's Chef's Press allow for the food to release excess steam as it cooks quickly.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bUCXImHlI/AAAAAAAAAVs/EqPQk5nDOL4/s1600-h/gourmetburger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bUCXImHlI/AAAAAAAAAVs/EqPQk5nDOL4/s200/gourmetburger.jpg" width="160" /></a><br />
<br />
Hill invented the press because his tiny kitchen at <a href="http://www.bixrestaurant.com/">Bix</a> was struggling to keep up with the demand for his famous <a href="http://www.tablehopper.com/biz/the-quest-for-the-best-cloth-napkin-burger/">burgers</a>--turnover on the popular dish just wasn't happening fast enough. Before long, Hill's colleagues were clamoring for presses of their own (they've been being put to good use SF's high-end restaurant kitchens for over a year now).<br />
<br />
"Just take it home and test it out on a grilled-cheese sandwich," suggested Hill (possibly sensing my own culinary limitations). "Use two presses."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Today's lunch cooked so quickly I nearly burned it--the country bread I layered with aged Dutch gouda (my parents are notorious cheese-smugglers and I was lucky enough to have a visit from them in January) was pressed flat and evenly, with just the right amount of crunch to it.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bXPw-mXfI/AAAAAAAAAV8/Fi4jKgRPje0/s1600-h/photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline ! important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S5bXPw-mXfI/AAAAAAAAAV8/Fi4jKgRPje0/s320/photo+2.jpg" width="240" /></a>This little invention might be enough to start me cooking.<br />
<div><br />
</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-16824647675460595632010-02-22T13:38:00.000-08:002011-04-07T12:39:31.572-07:00Drinking Lessons<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4L-PIbBc8I/AAAAAAAAAVE/C-f8iWN6KpE/s1600-h/photo+5.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I bellied up to the bar at the Hunt Club inside the <a href="http://www.hotelsorrento.com/">Sorrento Hotel</a> just as the press preview of last night's Drinking Lessons with Duggan McDonnell and Neyah White was about to begin. Everyone else had a glass of water beside them, and the 2pm Seattle sunshine had made me mighty thirsty, so I grabbed the bottle in front of me, a pretty vintage alcohol bottle filled with water.</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Pouring myself a full glass, I quickly took a huge mouthful as a couple of Seattle's top food writers and editors gave me the curious side-eye. As my mouth began to burn, I realized I had--in fact--poured myself about five fingers of <a href="http://www.bevnetwork.com/monthly_issue_article.asp?ID=345">pisco</a>, the artisanal grape brandy that McDonnell had distilled down in Peru and wasn't even on the US market yet.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441190821398365314" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4L-OTCQxII/AAAAAAAAAU0/BHNxep2VWR0/s200/photo+3.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Turning bright red in shame, I swallowed the mouthful of pisco as the bar around me erupted in laughter and applause.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Yes, Ella, that's pisco," remarked McDonnell dryly.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Everyone, meet Ella Lawrence!" laughed Michael Hebb.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I wished myself anywhere but in front of a full bar of my colleagues, but the buzz I'd gotten from swallowing about three shots of the strong brandy in one go quickly evaporated my embarrassment and I was able to focus on McDonnell and White's lessons for the afternoon.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441190831067727634" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4L-O3DnhxI/AAAAAAAAAU8/X9iLAxfufxw/s200/photo+4.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 150px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">McDonnell's Peruvian pisco is "achelado," or mixed-varietal (like a wine from the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif,serif; line-height: 28px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Côte-Rôtie</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">). Red and white grapes (some of them from 90-year-old Peruvian vines) are fermented and distilled separately and then mixed and bottled--Pisco is never aged, which is why it's always clear--like water. :-/</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The taste of the new world segued into a history of the Old World as White, in full Professor Cocktail mode, discoursed on bourbon and scotch--two very different whiskys that share some common background. </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441190818594425378" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4L-OIlwCiI/AAAAAAAAAUs/6U-2Oux0kxo/s200/photo+2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Because, by Tennessee law, bourbon barrels can only be used once, bourbon barrels are used all over the world: I've spotted Jack Daniels' barrels in Argentinean and Chilean wineries, ageing reds. It turns out that sherry is a big influence in the making of Jameson, because sherry barrels are used to age that Irish tipple, and some Glenmorangie is aged in barrels that have held Chateau D'Yquem Sauternes, the "PhD of a whisky thesis," quipped White as he flamed a piece of orange rind over a custom-created cocktail called the "Barrel to Barrel," featuring Nocino, Jameson, and an Oloroso sherry.</span></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4L-NmemonI/AAAAAAAAAUk/JZl8kzdJnXI/s1600-h/photo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441190809437643378" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4L-NmemonI/AAAAAAAAAUk/JZl8kzdJnXI/s200/photo.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
<div><br />
</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-52673477144577744832010-02-20T14:03:00.000-08:002011-04-07T12:39:31.573-07:00Well Read and Well Fed<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Here I am in Seattle as a visiting "Cocktail Curator," having booked </span><a href="http://www.foodista.com/nightschool/neyah-white/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Neyah White</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> of NOPA and </span><a href="http://www.foodista.com/nightschool/duggan-mcdonnell/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Duggan McDonnell</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> of Cantina to be guest bartenders and lecturers at one of avant-garde chef provocateur </span><a href="http://restaurantgirlspeaks.blogspot.com/2006/09/liberace-and-debauchery.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Michael Hebb's</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span><a href="http://www.nightnightnight.com/2009/12/drinking-lessons-10-11-and-12.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">symposiums</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> at the Sorrento Hotel.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><a href="http://www.nightnightnight.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Night School</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> is a collaboration between Hebb and the <a href="http://www.hotelsorrento.com/">Sorrento Hotel</a> featuring the country's leading intellectuals, musicians, bartenders, and chefs. It's a modern equivalent of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algonquin_Hotel">Algonquin</a> (with Hebb channeling <a href="http://subwayphilosophy.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/large_parker.jpg">Dorothy Parker</a>). This weekend the lineup includes Sean Nelson and Erin Jorgenson tonight (a sold-out show of indie rock meets chamber music) in addition to </span><a href="http://www.nightnightnight.com/2009/12/drinking-lessons-10-11-and-12.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Drinking Lessons </span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">both tomorrow and Monday nights.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IrOW0g_vcF4/S3MBYfuMw3I/AAAAAAAAA0U/st-98sW-3Tk/s1600-h/erin_marimba.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436690695510082418" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IrOW0g_vcF4/S3MBYfuMw3I/AAAAAAAAA0U/st-98sW-3Tk/s400/erin_marimba.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(255, 255, 255); cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 364px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; padding: 4px; width: 550px;" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Last night we dined on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lesley_Hazleton">Lesley Hazelton's</a> houseboat. The dedicated drinker, smoker, and author ("<a href="http://www.aftertheprophet.com/">After the Prophet</a>" is her most recently-published title) had made Yorkshire puddings (crisp, freshly-herbed popovers that perfectly soaked up the sauce from her cast-iron pot of Bouef Bourguignon) for the group of six that spanned nearly five decades.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At the table was </span><a href="http://www.jonathanraban.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Jonathan Raban</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, correspondent for the </span><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/search/query?query=jonathan+raban&queryType=nonparsed&submitbtn.x=0&submitbtn.y=0&submitbtn=Submit"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">New Yorker</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> and the </span><a href="http://www.nybooks.com/archives/htsearch"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">New York Review of Books</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, among many other powerhouse publications, who regaled us with stories of his undercover dealings with the Tea Party Movement and Sarah Palin.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Next to me was </span><a href="http://nassimassefi.com/default.aspx"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Nassim Assefi</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, who was so sweet and gracious. I told her I'd been impressed by "</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persepolis_%28comics%29"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Persepolis</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">" as we discussed the trials that intellectuals have (and are) facing in Iran, and she said, "Oh yes, the author is a dear friend of mine." I listened more than I spoke after that.</span></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: nowrap;"><div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: 16px; white-space: normal;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4B83RvM5hI/AAAAAAAAAUU/s5s-yLgBFvo/s1600-h/persepolis-morceaux-choisis-2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440485638959588882" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4B83RvM5hI/AAAAAAAAAUU/s5s-yLgBFvo/s200/persepolis-morceaux-choisis-2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 134px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a></span></div></span></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><a href="http://www.gatesfoundation.org/press-releases/Pages/Global-Libraries-Deborah-Jacobs-080409.aspx"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Deborah Jacobs</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> had me cracking up (whoever propagates the stereotype of librarians as dry and boring has not spent any time in this woman's presence!) and left early a after a few glasses of grappa and accidentally prank-calling </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rem_Koolhaas"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Rem Koolhas</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My life has been lacking in the company of older intellectuals since I amicably parted ways with the crowd at </span><a href="http://restaurantgirlspeaks.blogspot.com/2006_09_01_archive.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Angelo Garro's</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> Renaissance Forge (the Alice Waters worship got old, and anyway I don't think she has very good table manners), so it was inspiring to dine with people who have first-hand knowledge of Hillary Clinton, Kofi Anaan, and Bill Gates. </span></div><div><br />
</div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4BnL2HyjKI/AAAAAAAAAUM/F4uiXYLM8sk/s1600-h/photo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440461803067968674" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4BnL2HyjKI/AAAAAAAAAUM/F4uiXYLM8sk/s200/photo.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4BnLWuBt9I/AAAAAAAAAUE/t3-LsBIXUs0/s1600-h/lesley.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4BnLWuBt9I/AAAAAAAAAUE/t3-LsBIXUs0/s1600-h/lesley.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4BnLWuBt9I/AAAAAAAAAUE/t3-LsBIXUs0/s1600-h/lesley.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4BnLWuBt9I/AAAAAAAAAUE/t3-LsBIXUs0/s1600-h/lesley.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Since everyone at the table had written many books, there was much gifting and inscribing (Nassim gave me a copy of "</span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Aria-Nassim-Assefi/dp/0151012938"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Aria</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">" after she dropped Hebb and I off--though neither one of us had a pen handy for an inscription--bad writers!), and it made me want to step up my act so I can soon inscribe a work of merit more important than a cycling anthology at my next dinner party.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4BnLWuBt9I/AAAAAAAAAUE/t3-LsBIXUs0/s1600-h/lesley.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440461794638411730" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4BnLWuBt9I/AAAAAAAAAUE/t3-LsBIXUs0/s200/lesley.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
<div><br />
</div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Not only is Lesley one of the foremost scholars of Middle Eastern religion, she covered the automobile industry for the </span><a href="http://www.freep.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Detroit Free Press</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> for 10 years and is a licensed pilot who is extremely down-to-earth and modest about her numerous accomplishments and awards. Plus she makes a mean stew.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: 16px;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440485644287894098" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S4B83llkYlI/AAAAAAAAAUc/eAIDywUst80/s200/boeuf_bourguignon.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 162px;" /></span></div></span></div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-89215479833635594482010-02-15T19:15:00.000-08:002011-04-07T12:14:16.515-07:00Everybody's Gotta Eat<div style="text-align: left;">Instead of lounging around eating bonbons and wallowing in roses this Valentine's Day (which is traditionally <a href="http://restaurantgirlspeaks.blogspot.com/2006/02/cupids-curse.html">cursed</a> for me anyway), I got out of bed and pedalled to the Tenderloin at 9am to volunteer with some friends at <a href="http://www.glide.org/">Glide Memorial</a>, bagging lunches for their meal program.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div>When I arrived, a sparse group of volunteers was seated on hard plastic chairs, watching the beginning of Reverend Cecil Williams' 9am service on a television being broadcast from upstairs.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We were trundled down a long dark corridor by a very large black man wearing a plastic apron and missing some teeth. We shuffled past the last seated recipients of the morning's hot meal handout in the dining room, spooning oatmeal directly from a plastic tray, and were introduced to a short man with a round chin and a squinty eye.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438681004616316018" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S3oTju7R9HI/AAAAAAAAATk/HCw8r0x_h8E/s200/Popeye.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 173px;" /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>"I'm Popeye," he said gruffly, "because I look just like Popeye." (He did). "We're going to make 1,200 sandwiches today, people, so just put these hairnets, gloves, and aprons on, and we'll get started."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>The 12 or so volunteers looked at each other apprehensively. Suddenly, a group of 40 teenagers poured in, directed loudly by a brunette woman who quickly realized that we'd do well if she directed us, too.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438683917715353346" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S3oWNTENrwI/AAAAAAAAAT8/EAu_UriTMEU/s200/lunchbag-main_Full.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 150px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>The teenagers began opening little lunch bags on the dozens of large folding tables and dropping cereal bars and packets of mustard into each one. Over more folding tables, six of us began to open large bags of sandwich bread.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Assembly-line style, we busted out 1,200 sandwiches in under an hour. Near the end of the sandwich-building, a volunteer came out from the kitchen, where she'd been placing sliced meat into the large flip-tubs that were then carted out to the room we were making sandwiches in.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>Barbara, a schoolteacher, was a regular volunteer at Glide with her husband. We asked her how the meals were allotted--Glide serves two hot meals a day, but the 1,200 bag lunches were getting packed in huge plastic garbage bags to go elsewhere. She told us that 50 here, 30 there, would go to different organizations.</div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438682546954127906" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S3oU9glRSiI/AAAAAAAAATs/W1hEcMbldv0/s200/bologna-main_Full.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 159px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>"Everyone's gotta eat, you know?" she asked as she tucked a sandwich into a plastic baggie and then placed it into another industrial-sized flip-tub.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>Yes, I do know.<br />
<div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438683104756287810" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S3oVd-jqyUI/AAAAAAAAAT0/s16vyfCxixs/s200/glideline.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 131px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></div><div><br />
</div></div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-89355702199615042582010-02-07T17:53:00.000-08:002011-04-07T11:59:14.923-07:00BeerunchWhat better way to kick off Superbowl Sunday than with a brunch featuring beer? This morning, as part of beer week, <a href="http://www.mateveza.com/">MateVeza</a> put on a "beerunch," a beer and food pairing brunch featuring morning-friendly brews.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S29x6srlfiI/AAAAAAAAAS0/0DA53LWyafQ/s1600-h/photo+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435688528499801634" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S29x6srlfiI/AAAAAAAAAS0/0DA53LWyafQ/s200/photo+2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></a>At the Mission Rock Cafe, mellow hipsters in their early 30s gathered to pair MateVeza's yerba mate-infused IPA with huevos rancheros. <a href="http://www.dogfish.com/">Dogfish Head Brewery</a> was well-represented; their spicy Pangaea Ale cut refreshingly through rich salmon.<br />
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<a href="http://www.shmaltz.com/">HE'BREW</a> ("the chosen beer") poured the Rejewvenator with a root-vegetable medley and <a href="http://www.21st-amendment.com/">21st Amendment</a>'s Belgian Doom offset glazed ham nicely with hoppy bitterness complementing the ham's sweet maple glaze.<br />
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<a href="http://www.goodbeer.com/SWF/index.html">Speakeasey</a>'s Payback Porter was pleasant and cacao-infused, but the real winner was <a href="http://www.magnoliapub.com/start.html">Magnolia Pub & Brewery'</a>s Smokestack Lightning Imperial Stout. The dark-roasted stout was rich and chocolatey, with a bittersweet bite that had everyone going back for seconds and thirds. Paired with bacon-y, pecan-studded roasted brussels sprouts, the ashy, intense stout became smooth and creamy.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S290zeNOHzI/AAAAAAAAAS8/z5ig-lDfe7Y/s1600-h/photo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435691702890143538" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/S290zeNOHzI/AAAAAAAAAS8/z5ig-lDfe7Y/s200/photo.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></a>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-17365839175541698902009-05-06T15:24:00.000-07:002009-05-06T15:54:13.974-07:00Blue Bottle is Taking Over the World<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/SgIUnZm5mVI/AAAAAAAAASo/ls9HaCG97Nc/s1600-h/IMG_0231.JPG"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/SgIUnPgnFUI/AAAAAAAAASg/MEZNDuY5hTw/s1600-h/IMG_0229.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/SgIUnPgnFUI/AAAAAAAAASg/MEZNDuY5hTw/s200/IMG_0229.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332847573170853186" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">When I first moved to San Francisco, a bike messenger friend turned me onto the best coffee I'd ever had, which could be found in a little alleway in Hayes Valley, in the garage behind an architecture firm. <br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/SgISlarNhGI/AAAAAAAAAR4/wxTW2tvJbyI/s200/IMG_0225.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332845342785111138" />Everybody knows that Blue Bottle coffee has taken off since then, and their latest venture is inside the MOMA's new rooftop sculpture garden.<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/SgIUnILt6bI/AAAAAAAAASY/T_wpr65OpzU/s200/IMG_0227.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332847571204172210" /> The sculpture garden is on top of the parking garage so it's not actually inside the MOMA, it's connected to the fifth floor via an enclosed walkway, and the space that Blue Bottle is inside is all windows, so the garden, and the sky, and the city, can be viewed from inside on a rainy <div><div>day (like this morning was). </div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/SgIUm9DZAvI/AAAAAAAAASQ/lbejSjxcYus/s200/IMG_0232.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332847568216457970" /><div>The nice part about it not being completely connected is that you can still go up there if the fifth floor is closed for an installation, which it often is.</div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/SgISlX7r38I/AAAAAAAAASA/Qj3tVAibIZM/s200/IMG_0235.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332845342048903106" /><div><br /></div><div>The garden has been really well designed to showcase the art there, which seems like a no-brainer (it's an art museum, after all) but so often museum architecture can be show-offy, which takes away from the art itself. At the press preview, the line was out the door for espresso at the Blue Bottle counter. Expect it to be longer when the MOMA opens the rooftop garden to the general public this Sunday, which is free of charge.</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/SgIUnZm5mVI/AAAAAAAAASo/ls9HaCG97Nc/s200/IMG_0231.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332847575881587026" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></span></div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-18112486211701310692009-04-14T13:45:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:56:28.828-07:00I've got something to say<a href="http://7x7.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/blog_w275/images/wine_pouring.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://7x7.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/blog_w275/images/wine_pouring.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 184px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 275px;" /></a><br />
For the next six weeks, every Tuesday I'll be opening my big mouth on on 7x7's "<a href="http://7x7.com/blogs/bits-bites/how-be-better-diner-step-1-toss-out-your-ego">Bits and Bites</a>" blog. Topics will vary but will always have to do with "how to be a better diner." If you have any ideas for what you'd me to write about, please leave them here!<br />
<div>eet smakelijk,</div><div>Restaurant Girl</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-5639416919676464492009-03-30T13:33:00.000-07:002011-04-07T12:39:45.577-07:00Last Night in TokyoWandering through Ginza on our last night was like being in Barcelona: a drink and a skewer here, a beer and a chicken ball there. First we went to a place that had exactly enough seats for all of us, and had some skewers of pork stomach, pork belly, and pork intestine, and really tender braised tripe, the leanest meat I’ve had so far on the trip, which says a lot about the richness of Japanese meats. I’ve really garnered an appreciation for meat fat here that I didn’t have before. I hope I impressed my chefs!Then off to a second place with a very strict mama-san (we didn’t have Jiro around to warm up the Mama-sans any more and we all missed him sorely) who spoke great English and served some tender chicken tail (a part of the chicken I never even knew existed), and some little peppers that were like Friuliano peppers that we’ve been seeing the whole trip. The place was literally built into the bridge that the city train ran over, so every time a train passed overhead (about every 2-3 minutes), it sounded like there was a taiko drum festival in our honor.<br />
<div><a href="http://www.transit-port.net/Galleries/Japan/images/Taxis%20on%20the%20Ginza.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="244" src="http://www.transit-port.net/Galleries/Japan/images/Taxis%20on%20the%20Ginza.jpg" style="display: block; height: 610px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 800px;" width="320" /></a>After that was sushi: the first time we’ve eaten sushi since arriving in Japan (I’m not counting the sushi we ate in the kitchen at “Grand Chef Suzuki’s” tasting demo...as a waiter, and I think as a chef, food eaten standing up doesn’t count. Which is probably why we all pack a few more pounds than we might need to.). I think Sho-san really wanted to impress upon us the fact that JAPANESE CUISINE DOES NOT EQUAL SUSHI, and we got it. We really did. This trip has completely changed the way I look at food, though it’s too close to the trip to really say how just yet.<br />
The best sushi (I thought) was the uni, which tasted like fresh, refined sea water, but super creamy. We also had a crazy red clam that was moving, and a white fish that was blowtorched and squeezed with lemon (TACHIUO, ‘scabbard fish’), not to be eaten with soy sauce. Also great and really fresh was a sardine.<br />
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One thing that's really interesting about this part of Ginza is the little streets and places full of character that when viewed from the outside lend this crazy party atmosphere to the streets. They’re all festively decorated and there are lots of people going in and out, and the energy of people eating and drinking and having a good time surrounds them all. Then, when you (literally) duck in, it’s a different world, and much more approachable. Real people, doing their after-work thing, and you could never even begin to try the food at all of them, though we did our best. We ate at least four meals a day, every day in Japan and most days we had a full dinner at one place and then went to another for a second dinner.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.oneinchpunch.net/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/chicken-butt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.oneinchpunch.net/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/chicken-butt.jpg" style="display: block; height: 314px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 420px;" /></a></div>It’s been really great listening to all of these chefs put their heads together and talk about different projects they could potentially do after being so inspired by this trip. Getting to see and eat all of the things we did, things that no ordinary tourist would ever even dream of doing, was an experience impossible replicate. As a travel writer, and someone who travels a lot even when NOT writing about it, it’s very rare that I get to just sit back and not make any decisions, and to have had a trip of this caliber without having planned any of it myself...I was REALLY impressed. And it was many of our first time to Japan.<br />
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The kinds of conversations the chefs were having about food almost seemed to make the world smaller. Think about it: cross-culturally, the heart and soul of food is the same everywhere. Things are skewered, they’re stewed, they’re stuffed. One thing we’ve all really liked about the back-room, family-style food we’ve been eating in Tokyo has been that that food has not taken the foreground. We’ve all been eating constantly, obvio!, but the kind of food we’ve been eating: simple, soulful, smoky (the “smoky” restaurants Sho-san referred to in an email early on was not regarding cigarettes, but rather the wood smoke filled with meat smells and pork fat that permeates everything), has not evoked the restaurant critic in any of us. Rather, it’s provided a great background for conversation and the ambiance of the evening and great fuel for creative thoughts that obviously revolve around food.</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-57992104232255741512009-03-25T01:29:00.000-07:002011-04-07T12:39:45.578-07:00Ichinokura Sake Brewery<a href="http://www.yumseng.com/images/daniel/Ichinokura%20Autumn%20TJN.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.yumseng.com/images/daniel/Ichinokura%20Autumn%20TJN.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 841px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 338px;" /></a><br />
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Growing up in Northern California, one has a pretty good grasp of how wine is made. I was glad to have this background when visiting the Ichinokura Sake Brewery on our third day in Sendai City, because I would have felt a little lost in this huge plant. For many Americans, an introduction to sake came while dining at a sushi restaurant. A ceramic pitcher of hot, high-alcohol sake arrived, it washed down the sashimi and the nigiri in little cups, and we thought that all sake was the same. That’s a little like drinking a glass of white zinfandel straight from a box and thinking that all wines are pink and sweet.Sake (which is technically a beer, because it’s brewed and is derived from a grain), is often compared to wine because of its alcohol content (higher than a beer at around 16-20%) and because it works so well paired with food.<br />
Sake’s flavor elements come from simple ingredients and a complicated process. The biggest factors that influence the finished product are water, rice, and yeast; other factors that have a hand in the sake’s flavor are weather and geography.<br />
Sake is produced by fermenting rice. <img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.wineterroirs.com/images/2008/02/09/rice_kernels_two_millings.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 398px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 570px;" />First, the rice is polished to remove the exterior of the rice grain (where protein and oil live), and the “pure core” of the rice is fermented. The more rice is polished away, the more high-quality the finished sake will be.<br />
The rice is then soaked and washed, then cooked and fermented by adding koji and yeast (which change the starch into sugar, and then the sugar into alcohol) for several weeks. Koji is a mold that converts the rice’s starch into a simple sugar, which feeds one of many varieties of sake yeast to begin fermentation. The fermentation is often slowed by lowering the temperature; either by refrigeration or in snowy winter climates.<img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.wineterroirs.com/images/2008/02/05/himonoya_sake_steamed_rice.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 380px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 570px;" />After the rice ferments, it is pressed, and the liquids separate from the solids. Some sake has distilled alcohol added: this sake is called honjozo-shu, and is the cheap warm sake that many Westerners remember as their introduction to sake. After filtration, the remaining lees are removed (except in the case of nigori, where it is left in the sake to add a sweet taste and a creamy texture), and the sake is filtered and pasteurized (in most cases). Then, the sake rests and is diluted with water to lower the alcohol content and is bottled and drunk.<br />
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There are several different classifications of sake, with the most important being:<br />
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Junmai-shu. This is "pure rice sake," made from only rice, water and kōji, with no other additions.<br />
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Ginjo-shu is made from rice polished to 60% or less of its original weight. Sake made from rice polished to 50% or lower is called daiginjo-shu.<img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.tazakifoods.com/common/product_image.asp?id=455&size=l" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 300px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 300px;" /><br />
The term junmai (“pure rice sake”) can be added to ginjo or daiginjo, resulting in junmai ginjo and junmai daiginjo.<br />
Sake can be served chilled, at room temperature, or heated, depending on the preference of the drinker, the quality of the sake, and the season. Hot sake is usually drunk in the winter, and high-grade sake like junmai daiginjo and junmai ginjo are not drunk this, because their delicate flavors and aromas will be lost through heating. Sake is often heated to hide the flavor of low-quality sake.<br />
Aside from being served straight, sake can be used as a mixer for cocktails, like a “saketini” or a “sake bomb.”<br />
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Sake is best consumed within 2 or 3 hours after opening the bottle. It can be stored (in the refrigerator), although it is generally recommended to finish the sake within 2 days.<br />
<div>Needless to say, we drank a LOT of sake in Japan. </div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-40605815266543290942009-03-25T00:52:00.000-07:002011-04-07T12:39:45.579-07:00Current Obsession: MUJI<a href="http://images.businessweek.com/ss/07/03/0315_muji/image/muji1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://images.businessweek.com/ss/07/03/0315_muji/image/muji1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 349px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 480px;" /></a>CURRENT OBSESSION: <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a><br />
Japanese minimalism and perfect design meets sustainability<br />
I’m currently obsessed with the minimalist eco-designs from <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a>, which translates from the Japanese into “No Brand.” I first discovered it in Sendai City on a food tour with a bunch of chefs. We’d been out to a super-homey yakitori (skewered meats roasted over an open charcoal grill) restaurant the night before, and our host had pointed out the groovy aprons that the yakitori chefs were wearing (in addition to dish towels wrapped around their heads, a standard here in Japan).Sho-san (our Japanese host, who lives and works in San Francisco) told us he’d take us to a place where we could get the same aprons for cheap, and the next day we went to <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a>, on the ground floor of a shopping mall (where it seems everything cool in Japan is located). <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a> is like a Japanese Ikea but with clothing: everything you could possibly need for home, body, and travel, but designed well, and it’s all made out of organic cotton and other sustainable fibers like bamboo.<img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.thefoodsection.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/11/19/muji.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 283px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 425px;" /><br />
At the end of the food tour, after our flight home from Tokyo to San Francisco was unexpectedly cancelled, we realized that we’d all brought just enough clothes to last us for an eight-day trip, not the nine-day trip we were suddenly faced with. Most of us had been wearing the same clothes juuuust enough to keep the funk at bay. The chefs didn't really care; a couple of them had bought a new pair of socks or a new t-shirt (stinky boys!) but I couldn’t face the thought of wearing the same clothes for the (x) day in a row.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>As the chefs were tucking into yet another fried meal in a mall (this time in Tokyo), I noticed another <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a>. We'd blown through the first store in a whirlwind, picking out aprons and chopsticks with a determined speed, and while I had bought my aprons with the intent of wearing them as modified dresses when getting back to San Francisco (they’re cute and well-designed, two hallmarks of Japanese culture that I’ve discovered, and fell in love with this week), I hadn’t really taken a look at all that <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a> had to offer.</div><div><br />
I could have stayed in there for much longer than the hour it took for the chefs to come wondering where the hell it was I’d got to. The clean lines and lack of any distinguishing labels brought to mind the understaded chic of <a href="http://www.yohjiyamamoto.co.jp/">Yoji Yamamoto</a>, and the amount of things available was mind-bogglingly typical of the quality of goods that the Japanese consume on a regular basis. What drew me in first was a series of well-cut striped shirts, and a linen shirtdress with a pintucked tuxedo front fit just right.<br />
<img alt="" border="0" src="http://urbanresearch.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/cimg4223.jpg?w=500&h=666" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 666px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 500px;" /><a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI's</a> prices are low: for $160 USD, I left there with the shirtdress and tights, a pair of grey leggings and a pair of striped socks, a striped longsleeve T, a pair of flat black booties with round toes and only four shoelace-holes that I don’t think we’d see the likes of outside of Japan, and those were only the clothes. </div><div><br />
</div><div><a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a> also equipped me with a selection of travel accessories that I haven’t been able to find anywhere else and have been looking for in all one place for years. Sure, there’s the Eagle Creek packers and the Rick Steves luggage dividers and the racks of German-made ergo-design stuff that you’ll find in the outdoors-equipment stores, but <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI’s</a> toiletries bags and packing inserts are made of the finest, lightest-weight nylon that squeezes down into wispy little balls of nothing yet can zip tightly around six pounds of dirty laundry (I know, I squeezed all mine in the second I got my brown-paper recycled <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a> bags back to the hotel’s concierge, where all of my luggage had been in stasis since we returned from our futile journey to the airport the day before).<br />
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Maybe I’m just an organizational freak, but a frequent traveler often has their rituals and their weird little tics that they can’t live without: mine are an oversized pashmina scarf, a series of earphones, eye-masks, and writing materials and several little bottles of in-air moisturizing liquids that keep me from suffering and prevent jet-lag once I’m on the ground. All of these are now neatly arranged into easily accessible little corners of my purse in black-and-white checked bags that weigh under an ounce each and are designs worthy of the <a href="http://www.guerrilla-store.com/flash.php">Comme des Garçons </a>label.<br />
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There’s a few <a href="http://www.muji.com/">MUJI</a> stores in New York City, but the across-the-pond prices have inflated and there was just something about buying it all in Japan that really satisfied that “I got something that’s completely utiliarian and that I can’t find anywhere else in the world” itch.<br />
Wait, am I the only one who has that itch?</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-79199565181554560602009-03-19T15:42:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:57:04.496-07:00A Nice Lunch<a href="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2276000_7354978.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2276000_7354978.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 604px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 453px;" /></a><br />
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Today we had one of the best meals we’ve had the whole time in Sendai City. After the food tasting we had yesterday (several different cuts of several different preparations of ueber-rich Sendai Beef and several different types of Nigiri sushi, and a camera crew) by the time I sat down at the table for the tasting menu the hotel’s executive chef had prepared for us, I wasn’t hungry in the slightest. That meal was an assault on our stomachs; large portions of in-season produce, fishes, and beef that just kept coming and coming--ten courses later I felt like I was going to die from too many calories; and I’d only had one or two bites of every different dish that was presented to me. <img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2276024_3705161.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 453px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 604px;" />There were only two chefs that ate every bite: Damon, and Ravi, and Shotaro did his best but by his last dumpling he was sweating and couldn’t eat dessert. But the presentation was lovely and I really enjoyed opening little bowls to see what was inside, especially the the main course, several pieces of thin-sliced Sendai beef that had been wrapped around different vegetables and steamed inside a bamboo tree trunk with river rocks that kept the beef elevated above the bottom of the slice of trunk so that the fat could drip down.So when I got on the bus today for our excursion to the sake brewery and then to the oyster farm, I hadn’t eaten anything and I was still feeling uncomfortably full from the day before (we had attended a ‘processed seafood tasting’ where we had to give feedback on several different kinds of frozen, smoked, dried seafoods; then we’d gone to a panko place and eaten fried things for hours; Bruce and Damon and I stopped after 9 or 10 skewers but the others went on and ate 17 skewers) and I was nervous about the meal. <img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2276021_6978159.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 453px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 604px;" />Yesterday was kind of an overwhelming day, food-wise, with a traditional Japanese breakfast in the morning, then that killer lunch that went on for hours and then all the fried stuff. I was not feeling well.The lunch we had was the perfect size and all the flavors were great. I was honestly scared of eating! but the sashimi was so fresh and the flavors were so perfect that I ate almost everything presented to us. There was a sashimi course, some pickles, miso soup (with seaweed from the lake that we were sitting on), local Miyagi rice which was amazing, for a bowl of plain white rice it had so much character and was really tender. The main course was miso-glazed mackerel that had been cooked for a long time and had a butter burr, sancho and miso paste on top and a little bite of cherry custard to the side.I loved the custard dish Cha Wan Mu Shi, which was egg and dashi steamed inside a teacup; with a little hidden piece of something (yesterday it was a shrimp and a piece of chicken, that custard was broken and the serving was too large) inside of that. Then we had slices of a delicious little thing, a couple pieces of fish wrapped in a shiso leaf and then wrapped in a skin of rice flour and egg yolk and deep fried.<img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2276042_403375.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 453px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 604px;" />Dessert was a tiny scoop of cherry-leaf ice cream that had been flavored with strawberries as well. Sendai strawberries are some of the nicest I’ve ever had.<img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-b.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2275993_3263952.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 453px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 604px;" />Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-39642919448222370532009-03-19T15:08:00.001-07:002011-04-07T11:57:17.192-07:00Maguro Bidding Market<a href="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2268213_1402864.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2268213_1402864.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 604px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 453px;" /></a><br />
This morning we were on a tuna battlefield! <img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2268173_466264.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 453px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 604px;" />The bidding market was amazing. I rolled out of bed late, after having slept less than two hours and having drunk all of the beer in my mini fridge and stumbled down into the lobby with my sunglasses on at 5:45am. We got into our bus with doilies (all of the vehicles here have doilies on some parts of them, our bus has doilies where people’s heads rest) where the mayor was waiting for us. We arrived to the market and changed into our white rubber boots and flourescent pink trucker hats that had “Sendai” printed on them and walked along a catwalk<img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2268210_5689856.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 604px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 453px;" /> above the bidding. I wish I had better words to describe how the auctioneer and the bidders sounded: an auction sounds funny in one’s native language as there’s a very specific intonation used by the people involved...in Japanese it sounds even funnier because the noises are so different. And I think Japanese sounds very ‘cute’ anyway, I like the short sounds and the way that vowels are drawn out, and the “HAI!” of agreement. It seems like people say things with as few words as possible, which seems very efficient to me. Down on the bidding floor, I was very happy to have been issued the flourescent pink hats (though sadly I was not allowed to keep mine, it would have been an awesome souvenir) as there were hundreds of people milling about, all with white boots, all looking at the fish as intently as we were. I enjoyed especially identifying some of the fish we had eaten the night before, and looking at the cuddly-looking Fugu swimming in shallow pans.This is a wholesale market, so it was interesting to see where the fish that consumers see in the fish market or the farmers’ market comes from. <img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2268226_6618435.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 604px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 453px;" />There were big prawns with their heads on and eggs in many colors stuck to their legs (some had green eggs, some had yellow eggs), and the huge tuna all lined up on the floor, that would be hooked through the mouth and wheeled away when they were bid on.Each tuna had a number painted on it, and potential buyers got there very early before the auction even started at 6am (they arrived at 4:30 am) to check with their own eyes the fish before bidding on them. <img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2268200_1426398.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 604px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 453px;" />The fish were absolutely gorgeous, all had their tails cut off, I think so potential buyers can see grade of the meatIKIJIMI is the method used of killing the fish, in which the gills are cut after the brain is spiked and then they cut the tail off to grade the meat. This method of killing stops all movement in the fish, so the meat does not get bruised by flopping around. Also tuna is the only warm-blooded deep sea fish so getting the blood out quickly keeps the meat from producing enzymes after death that would turn it brown.<br />
After the tuna are sold, they are brought to the maguro cutters who are employed by the wholesalers (their representatives are the ones doing the bidding, the brokers) and the tuna is sliced into loins. <img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2268195_1225690.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 453px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 604px;" />We visited a cutting table that had one man who had been cutting for 30 years, his boss had been cutting for over 40 years. Watching him cut with the two different kinds of knives was interesting; he de-boned an almost 200-lb bluefin tuna (the biggest at the auction was about 220lbs) with an effortless grace that belied the fact that he was basically wrangling a barrell.<br />
<img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-sf2p/v647/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2268171_1208009.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 604px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 453px;" />We had a really special treat: the maguro cutter sliced off pieces of tuna for us right there and somehow chopsticks and soy sauce and a plastic plate appeared, and us carnivores dug right in and felt as though we’d hunted something.Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-26716324454846752422009-03-19T14:57:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:57:28.755-07:00Sendai Beef<a href="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2586/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2266069_4499663.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2586/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2266069_4499663.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 604px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 453px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2586/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2266054_3905108.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2586/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2266054_3905108.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 453px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 604px;" /></a><br />
There are five thousand heads of cattle at the Hikadami Ranch. The beef is marked “Level A5” by the Japan Meat Grading Association (the highest grade possible) and is called “brand beef.” Sendai beef is considered to be the highest-quality beef in Japan. The cattle are grain fed for three years. Their primary food is corn and soybeans.There are 12 scales in marbling standard. The beef are a cross between Wagu and Japanese Black Angus, so all the cows are jet black. The meat is not graded until the beef is slaughtered, it’s like maguro: you have to look at the cuts of meat before it can be ranked.These are like the Ferrari of beef, very expensive but you’re purchasing a “hand made” steak. It costs a lot to raise these beef for three years. The cost of Sendai beef is five to ten times higher than normal beef; it costs about $50/lb.<img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2586/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2266067_4308408.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 453px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 604px;" />It’s a myth that the cows are massaged, but they are fed beer if they’re not feeling well to give them energy.In 1973, growth hormones were banned in Japan. If growth hormones are used, the beef grows too fast to have a lot of fat marbling. It smells good at the beef ranch. There’s cedar sawdust on the floor and the beef (all male, all with their horns) are very calm as they greet us. They are not agitated like American cows and they kick their poop out of the back of their pens. There are five beef per pen and they have plenty of room.<img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2586/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2266059_8317367.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 453px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 604px;" />When my (now) ex-boyfriend was visiting me in California for the first time, he and I drove from San Francisco up to Healdsburg for the weekend to meet my family. He’s Argentinean, and his family had a large estancia where he spent weekends and summers growing up. As we drove through southern Sonoma County, where the dairy cows are kept, I rolled up my window as normal to block out the rancid cow smell.Che nearly gagged at the smell coming through the closed air-vents. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “We’ll be through this area in just a few minutes. It doesn’t last very long.”<br />
“What IS that?” he asked me. I told him it was cows, duh! hadn’t he ever smelled a cow before? and he rolled down his window to get a better sense of the smell.<br />
“Ellita,” he said. “That is NOT what a cow smells like. Those cows smell poisoned.”<br />
I realized that the beef we know in the US is, in fact, poisoned. I’d never thought of it that way before. The beef in Sendai is not like that.<img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos-e.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2586/176/69/610266473/n610266473_2266068_8015760.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 604px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 453px;" />Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-894462645693921272009-03-18T01:03:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:57:49.836-07:00Miso Pretty<a href="http://www.mitoku.com/recipes/image_recipes/miso_img_large.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.mitoku.com/recipes/image_recipes/miso_img_large.gif" style="cursor: pointer; height: 304px; width: 450px;" /></a><br />
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This trip is such a whirlwind of information and eating that I'm surprised my brain hasn't short-circuited from all the ingredients I'm learning about and that my stomach hasn't short-circuited because of all the never-before-consumed foods I'm putting into it.<br />
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</div><div>Yesterday we visited a miso-production factory and a Sendai beef farm. The miso is the same red miso that's produced for the label Eden Organics, and the moment our bus pulled into the parking lot an hour outside of Sendai city, the warm comforting smell of miso pulled us in.</div><div><br />
</div><div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314444905997180850" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/ScCzfCBYn7I/AAAAAAAAAQo/MSRmoKKamuc/s200/IMG_0788.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 200px; width: 150px;" />We were given a presentation on miso's origins (made in this spot under a feudal lord for centuries, then 400 years ago was 'liberated' to the public) and on how it's made (soybeans are cooked and koji mold and salt are added, then the starter ferments for different lengths of time: white miso is the mildest and ferments only a few months, while at the other end of the spectrum black miso has an incredibly extracted taste after 2.5 years of fermentation).</div><div><br />
</div><div>Interestingly, Japan can't grow enough soybeans for its miso production, so imports soybeans from the USA and uses them to make miso (in combination with soybeans grown in Japan). We tasted two different kinds of miso soup: one was made with American soybeans and had been prepared for us with spinach and bacon (!!) and the second was a traditional miso soup with seaweed and tofu, made with milder Japanese soybeans.</div><div><br />
</div><div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314444918285739698" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/ScCzfvzNJrI/AAAAAAAAAQw/jwR1xK-c5Io/s200/IMG_0796.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 200px; width: 150px;" />Everyone scrubbed up (white suits and white hairnets) and trouped onto a catwalk to peer through the windows onto the floor below, where we unfortunately weren't allowed. </div><div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314444926528514658" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/ScCzgOgb6mI/AAAAAAAAARA/LW6Kj-xzZn4/s200/IMG_0800.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 200px; width: 150px;" />The factory was almost reminiscent of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Willy Wonka's</span> chocolate factory, complete with 24-hour-a-day automated machines to monitor the bean paste's fermentation and beeping machines belching out strange brown pastes.</div><div><br />
</div><div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314444917017265202" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/ScCzfrExxDI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/AsdNF_0xjwg/s200/IMG_0799.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; height: 150px; width: 200px;" />One of the best things about traveling with a group of talented chefs (and there are many) is that every conversation turns into a think tank. Listening to them talk about different ways they'd use miso was fascinating--making a meat <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">jus</span> with miso and red wine or swapping out the anchovy in a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">puntarelle</span> salad with miso were just a few things that probably wouldn't occur to us ordinary mortals.</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-54191275974000065432009-03-17T08:52:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:58:02.945-07:00Japan<div style="text-align: center;">Somehow I've gotten lucky enough to be selected as the media person that accompanies several well-known San Francisco chefs on a food tour of Miyagi prefecture, Japan.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314194094182568914" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/Sb_PX3M7E9I/AAAAAAAAAQA/D2YuC1orkHw/s200/IMG_0769.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /><br />
<div><div>I'm getting paid to travel to Japan for a week, eat a few bites of perfectly formed; perfectly presented Japanese food over several long meals, and write about it. I'm writing this blog post from my hotel room, where there's a nightie provided, in Sendai City. </div><div><div><br />
</div><div>Sendai City is the capital of Miyagi prefecture. Sho-san, the executive chef of Yoshi's in San Francisco, recommended me as the media person to accompany this tour of Japan, a trip meant to introduce regional Japanese ingredients to people who matter; a.ka. San Francisco chefs, and I'm here to record the experience.</div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314194088119559986" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/Sb_PXgnY5zI/AAAAAAAAAP4/jmqmdGyfD5M/s200/IMG_0762.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /><br />
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</div><div>Here's who's on the trip:</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Shotaro "Sho" Kamio</span>, executive chef of <a href="http://www.yoshis.com/">Yoshi's</a> in San Francisco and Oakland.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Ravi Kapur </span>of <a href="http://boulevardrestaurant.com/">Boulevard</a>, a friendly acquaintance of mine since a few years back</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Bruce Hill </span>of <a href="http://www.bixrestaurant.com/flash/index.html">Bix</a> and <a href="http://www.restaurantpicco.com/">Picco</a>, and one of the calmest, kindest souls I've met in the food industry. He's been my go-</div><div>to for what to expect and how to act in Japan since I met him last week at a sake tasting.</div><div><br />
</div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314194101546172386" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/Sb_PYSoiv-I/AAAAAAAAAQI/XPG13xP_LJY/s200/IMG_0770.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314192726450668690" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/Sb_OIQAOhJI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/60gHeZeT14g/s200/IMG_0734.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /><br />
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</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Paul Canales</span> of <a href="http://www.oliveto.com/">Oliveto</a>; one crazy mo-fo who is always wearing a beret and always down for any kind of adventure. I've known Paul for three days and I already would trust him with my first-born.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Staffan Terje </span>of <a href="http://www.perbaccosf.com/">Perbacco</a>, a fellow northern European, with whom I can discuss rigid social customs and love of raw fish with; with no fear of judgement. He's also the only person on this trip who's taller than I am.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>There are also some culinary school instructor-chefs, who I have not yet gotten to know as well as I should have as, I've been busy gossiping and eavesdropping on the SF chefs. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Scott Saunder</span> and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Lars </span>are representing <span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://www.ciachef.edu/california/">Greystone</a></span> in Napa (where I just spent an amazing week at the wine writers' symposium, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Damon</span> is a chef-instructor at <a href="http://www.baychef.com/">Le Cordon Bleu</a> in San Francisco.</div><br />
</div><div><div>Dinner at Sho's family’s restaurant last night was one of the most amazing I’ve ever eaten. It was all served family style, with were huge steaming hot-pots on the table (long enough to accommodate about 25 diners, we only filled up about half the spaces, the other half which were filled by a rotating cast of Sho’s friends and family that stopped by here and there).</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The menu, copied from my Moleskine pocket notebook (Chef Hill asked me "How many of those do you use a month? Because it looks like you're BLOWING through that one"):</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Sea pineapple</span>, a “sea squirt” only found in Miyagi. It is kind of like a big, orange oyster that is extra slimy and tastes like cucumber. They grow whole on rocks, two meters down. There are two polyps on top and to cut it open, you stab a knife first in the polyp with the + sign, then the one with the - sign.</div><div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Mackerel sashimi</span>. The best I’ve ever had. </div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Pickled pig ears with kim chee</span>.</div><div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Skewers of beef and beef tendon</span> with hot mustard. They were boiling in a big square metal pan </div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314192735767309186" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/Sb_OIytfK4I/AAAAAAAAAPo/t-vDFhT9oio/s200/IMG_0751.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /><br />
<div>that was connected to a gas outlet. Delicious!<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Pickled pig skin in strips</span> with grated daikon. The daikon here is not spicy, it's fresh and grated.</div><div><br />
The textures were what really wowed all of us. In the same dish, there was chewy, slimy, crunchy, and every flavor delicious.</div><div><br />
</div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314192734316731538" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/Sb_OItTpHJI/AAAAAAAAAPg/diD5ecz20DQ/s200/IMG_0741.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /><br />
<div>There were <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">whole cabbage leaves</span> cooked in hot-pots. There were four different kinds of</div><div> hot-pots that started out with raw ingredients and were cooked by the time our second courses arrived on the table...unfortunately I was only able to taste two as my stomach is not as big as I wish it was.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>All the food is local, and the ingredients are surprisingly similar to what we find in San Francisco (Sendai City is actually on the same latitude).</div><div><br />
</div><div>The food kept coming and coming. Luckily I've been in the business long enough to only swallow what really appeals to me...unfortunately everything appealed to me last and I already have a stomacheache from eating too much.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Here comes a chicken wing.</div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314198113331811090" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/Sb_TBzsxkxI/AAAAAAAAAQY/Xf2Tcyd_G0I/s200/IMG_0747.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314198116033859778" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/Sb_TB9w_kMI/AAAAAAAAAQg/myyKc58t0z0/s200/IMG_0748.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /><br />
<div></div><div>The crowning glory of the evening was the two platters of horse sashimi that were brought out as our last course. Tenderloin, vein, ice-cold liver, and the neck fat from right underneath the mane were on the plate.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The pure flavors, the richness, the textures...the food here is almost overwhelming, but not quite. It's deeply satisyfing. I din't know if I could have been this open to strange foods if I wasn't already a 'food person.' I mean, pickled strips of pig ears and pig skin? tripe? weird chewy things that I have no idea what they are but am pretty sure they come from the inside of a pig? I've only been in Japan for three hours and I'm already obsessed.</div><div><br />
</div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314194113131047650" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-LVt_ylX160/Sb_PY9yl6uI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/UDaQrZj5fJE/s200/IMG_0790.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /><br />
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</div></div></div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-84350328851054561432009-02-21T16:31:00.000-08:002011-04-07T11:59:02.327-07:0065 Effing Covers<a href="http://www.news.com.au/common/imagedata/0,,5248700,00.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>I'm back in full force. With my A Game on. I worked my first Friday night at The New Restaurant last night and it was like getting kicked in the face. Some restaurants serve 65 people dinner and drinks in one night...I personally served 65 people dinner and drinks last night (and I'm only one of four waiters working at any given time there).<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>I arrived almost an hour before I was scheduled to; The Restaurant has more than 40 wines by the glass, all of which I'm required to know, none of which I knew before starting work there a few weeks ago. I have a growing stack of flashcards stuffed in my purple suede <a href="http://www.in-lan.com/en/0902/entrevista.html">Mariano Toledo</a> bag (a relic of <a href="http://restaurantgirlspeaks.blogspot.com/2008/06/last-day-in-sao-paolo.html">my life as a fashionista</a> in Buenos Aires), and when I went to retrieve them a thin gay coworker with a fondness for jazz hands shrieked at me, "Is that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">your</span> bag? I just <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">stole</span> it. It's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">mine</span> now." </div><div><br />
</div><div>I missed working in restaurants.</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-19159436197273306792009-02-10T02:33:00.000-08:002011-04-07T12:39:31.574-07:00I'm back, bitches!<a href="http://cappytan.files.wordpress.com/2008/04/waitress.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://cappytan.files.wordpress.com/2008/04/waitress.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 473px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 360px;" /></a><br />
For reasons that will be explained later, Restaurant Girl is back, after a two-year hiatus. When I left my last job and said I'd never wait another table again, <a href="http://restaurantgirlspeaks.blogspot.com/2007/02/from-outside-in_22.html">my funniest co-worker</a> said, "Honey, NEVER say NEVER!"<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>He was right.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm back working at a Restaurant, a really good one. Waiting tables fits into my life perfectly; so perfectly that I'm living in my first home in San Francisco and I'm not even having any <a href="http://restaurantgirlspeaks.blogspot.com/2006/10/waiter-nightmares.html">wait-mares</a> this time around. My focus lately has been <a href="http://blogs.sfweekly.com/foodie/the_unti_vineyard_chronicles/">on wine</a>, and this New Restaurant has a killer wine list.</div><div><br />
</div><div>This time around, I can finally speak Spanish. I spent the last two years living in Buenos Aires with my <a href="http://restaurantgirlspeaks.blogspot.com/2006/11/now-thats-fusion.html">Che</a>, and while it sadly didn't work out between us, I was left with a good understanding of Spanish--the reason I travelled to South America in the first place. I wanted to learn what my bussers were saying about me.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The bussers in the new Restaurant are great--the best I've ever worked with. Tonight, the The Wolf and Romeo were on the floor. They're the only bussers I've ever seen drink wine at the end of their shift (most bussers pound cerveza) while still on the floor (this Restaurant gives its employees the respect they deserve, which includes an end-of-shift drink). </div><div><br />
</div><div>I dropped the check on my last table and headed toward the bus station, rubbing my stomach. I've gained about 15 pounds since working harvest and being on vacation, and while it's mostly muscle it doesn't sit well. I've decided that this newest incarnation of Restaurant Girl will not pork out from late-night snacks and post-shift cocktails.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Hey, you feeling sick?" asked Romeo, in Spanish.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"No man, I'm not sick." </div><div><br />
</div><div>"So why you touching your stomach like that?" he asked.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I decided to go for brutal honesty. Latinos always respect the straight-up, especially when it comes to body image.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"I'm not sick in my stomach, just fat there," I responded in Spanish.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I began to struggle through my sidework (it's always hardest the first week or so) as the two bussers compared their glasses of Syrah.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Hey Lobo," Romeo said, as he peered at me over the rim of his Spiegelau Bordeaux. "You think the new girl is fat?"</div><div><br />
</div><div>The Wolf looked me up and down with an objective eye.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Where you think you look fat, New Girl?" he asked.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I thought about it. "Right here," I answered after a pause, rubbing my lower belly and muffin top. "I gained a little weight last month."</div><div><br />
</div><div>The Wolf and Romeo looked me up and down again.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Naw, you still look all right," said The Wolf (who could take on any street thug in any neighborhood in this city).</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Don't worry about it."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Thanks, guys..." I said as I turned back to my sidework. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I knew they would tell it like it really is. Bussers always do. I remembered a huge fight I'd gotten into with my busser at the last restaurant I'd worked at, two years ago. He told me if I got any fatter I wouldn't be cute anymore. I flew off the handle and accused him of sexual harassment...then dated a Latin man for two years and appreciated the honesty and objectivity he always presented me with. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Sometimes, things just come across better in Spanish.</div><div><br />
</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-60080165172700426542008-09-25T15:14:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:51:14.068-07:00Cellar Rat: Week One at Unti<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://blogs.sfweekly.com/foodie/2008/09/cellar_rat_week_one_at_unti_vi.php">Cellar Rat: Week One at Unti Vineyards</a></div>Fri Sep 12, 2008 at 08:53:07 AM<br />
<br />
(first published in the SF Weekly)<br />
<br />
When the price of a burrito in Healdsburg bypassed that of a burrito in the Mission, I knew it was time to hightail it from my hometown to the big city. That was four years ago, and I hadn’t pictured heading up north again any time soon. This summer, though, I was offered a job as a seasonal cellar worker during harvest and I wasn’t about to turn it down.<br />
<br />
Unti is a small-production (6,000-7,000 cases annually) winery in the Dry Creek Valley, making European-style reds like Barbera and Grenache quite well. I’ve always been a fan of their wines and I leaped at the chance to be winemaker Sebastien Pochan’s assistant, especially since I am the first female to ever work in the cellar at Unti.<br />
<br />
Healdsburg during crush-time is a flurry of activity, and it’s most apparent at this time of year where the town’s main revenue and tourism comes from. Wineries crank into overdrive, with big-production facilities like Kendall-Jackson and Clos du Bois working 24 hours around the clock to churn out millions of gallons of juice coming from<br />
thousands of tons of grapes. Unti is not like that.<br />
<br />
Saturday at 8 a.m. there was already fruit waiting for us--several half-ton plastic boxes of Sangiovese that had just come in from the vineyard. Unti has 60 acres of vineyards and all of their wines are made from estate-grown grapes. The winery also sells fruit to numerous other wineries and individual winemakers, including Boulevard Restaurant Wine Directors John Lancaster and Robert Perkins.<br />
<br />
Besides me (who is working 6 days a week), there are three part-time workers: two noted restaurateurs (one from Sonoma County, one from San Francisco)--friends of the owner and the winemaker--and an Unti cousin, up from Santa Cruz on the weekends.<br />
<br />
I climbed into a stainless steel tank and began hosing it down, learning how to sterilize the equipment we’d be using to crush and de-stem the fruit: tanks, hoses, clamps, and gaskets all had to be cleaned with a solution, rinsed, neutralized and rinsed again. Within an hour or so we were sorting through the grapes, raking the discarded stems and making sure none of the hoses or pumps backed up with fruit and juice that was rapidly getting dumped into a stainless steel tank the size of a Manhattan apartment.<br />
<br />
After we finished the first lot, the two tasting room employees came out onto the crush pad and the equipment ground to a halt.<br />
<br />
“It’s time! It’s time!” Sebastien called as he jumped down from the platform. “Time for tradition!”<br />
<br />
The six of us took seats at the picnic tables and George Unti produced a bottle of vintage Champagne.<br />
<br />
“We always have a champagne toast after we crush the first lot of the harvest season,” he explained, as the yeasty bubbles were poured into my glass.<br />
<br />
I clinked flutes with my new co-workers and looked out over the Dry Creek Valley: land where my family lived and farmed for more than five generations. I might be able to get used to being home again.Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-40955273004648129992008-07-20T20:59:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:50:54.255-07:00The Most Amazing Video. EVER.<object height="225" width="400"> <param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://www.vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=1211060&server=www.vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://www.vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=1211060&server=www.vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="225" width="400"></embed></object><br />
<a href="http://www.vimeo.com/1211060?pg=embed&sec=1211060">Where the Hell is Matt? (2008)</a> from <a href="http://www.vimeo.com/user484313?pg=embed&sec=1211060">Matthew Harding</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/?pg=embed&sec=1211060">Vimeo</a>.<br />
<br />
I got this video from Shreve at the <a href="http://dailycoyote.blogspot.com/">Daily Coyote</a> and it's maybe the best thing I've ever watched.Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22409480.post-4837675930573761562008-07-15T21:01:00.002-07:002011-04-07T12:39:31.576-07:00Tawdry Tales II: In which our debaucherous waitress flees her Sonoma County misdeeds, conquers San Francisco, crashes, and burns.<span style="font-style: italic;">This is a follow-up story to "<a href="http://www.metroactive.com/papers/sonoma/07.27.05/servers-0530.html">As The Creek Dries</a>," a piece of mine which ran in the <a href="http://www.bohemian.com/">North Bay Bohemian</a> three years ago. Though it eventually won an <a href="http://www.aan.org/alternative/Aan/AwardsView?awardCategory=Food%20Writing&year=2006"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">AAN</span> award</a> for food and wine writing, it ensured I'd never work in a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Sonoma</span> County restaurant again.<br />
</span><br />
**<br />
I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span>’t know when I moved to San Francisco that this would mean moments of mouth-agape wonder, making me feel so often like a Midwestern tourist that I’d go and get a giant tattoo on my arm to prove that I belong.<br />
<br />
I had one of those moments this morning as I returned from the artists’ enclave in Chinatown where I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> been spending nights without even wanting to sleep with any of its residents: a painter, a photographer, a hairdresser.<br />
<br />
Through the sun and the cigarette smoke produced by a small, clean man wearing slippers on the steps of Grace Cathedral, I saw the Bay Bridge. After three months, the same thing still happens when I see the water from a hill: I stop, I stare, my jaw goes slack and I have another San Francisco moment.<br />
<br />
It <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">doesn</span>’t matter that this town is full of guys who don’t call me and that my housemates are very much unlike me in many ways, because last night was spent reading aloud and then translating a letter from a heartsick Nazi to Gretel, dated 1942 as part of an upcoming exhibit where the early model tape recorder will be mounted on the wall with the letter and my voice will emerge, reading the lines to Gretel in German, then in English.<br />
<br />
I am considering a move into the pantry where I slept last night, because I now live in a big, beautiful, expensive space that I don’t use enough, and each time I put a personal object of decoration on the windowsill it is silently removed, although my roommate’s glass full of water and rocks is allowed to find permanent residence there.<br />
<br />
A lot has changed since I burned all my bridges, and a few creme <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">brulees</span>, in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Healdsburg</span>. After the price of a burrito shot up to six dollars and I barely recognized the town where my family had lived for four generations before me, it was time to get out. The plaza was filled with visiting yuppies antiquing and drinks were more expensive than in the Castro. It was time to leave the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Hamptons</span> of the Bay Area and move to San Francisco.<br />
<br />
Finding a job was no problem--when you grow up in the wine country, have your first taste of Dry Creek Valley zinfandel at the dinner table at age seven, and start working in restaurants ten years after that, the food and wine knowledge tends to stay toward the front of your mind. I took 5 shifts a week at a well-known Bistro and plowed face-first into the trough of San Francisco nightlife, honking it up like a greedy sow.<br />
<div><br />
Married bartenders? Hey, <span style="font-style: italic;">I’m</span> not breaking any vows. Hard drugs? Gimme more! Expensive designer shoes? A girl only lives once. But table after table, it began to dawn on me. This town wasn't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Healdsburg</span>. I wasn't waiting on dear old folks who found me charming. My transformation from cute young waitress to hard-edged professional server was happening, and the girls I was waiting on were starting to be younger than me, and cuter than me, and with more expensive shoes. I realized that <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> was where everyone had gone--I ran into more people from my high school class than I ever had back in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Sonoma</span> County. I was waiting on my peers, young people who'd left their small towns to actually make something of themselves, and I wasn't fooling them. Sure, my consistent $300 a night matched their junior corporate salaries, but to them it looked like I was wasting my life. And I was.<br />
.<br />
Something had to give.<br />
<br />
For two years, I drifted from hip new restaurant to famous classic bistro back to hip new restaurant, following the money shifts and blowing my tips the next day on Diesel jeans and dinners out with other waiters. My friend’s lip cracked because he he only drank coffee and beer for two weeks straight. Another waiter I knew went to rehab and lost all his shifts.<br />
<br />
The last time I entered the party waitress cycle, I got fat and fired. The chance of getting fired is less now; I’m too good at what I do. The change has to come from within, but the truth is that I don’t want to change. I like being bad. I like breaking the rules, smooching my married lover in the off-camera corners of the restaurant and making out with the doorman at the bar we all frequent. I like smoking cigarettes while it’s still daylight. But I also want to have a spectacular ass.<br />
<br />
I fear so much becoming a floozy; an old pro with a raspy voice who flirts with everyone because <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">she doesn</span>’t know how else to behave. When is it time to stop this lifestyle? At age 30, 35? Or was it time to stop it five years ago?<br />
<br />
Turning these doubts over and over in a hung-over haze, I began to drown myself with tables, thinking that if I could just work enough I’d be able to stay out of trouble. It worked for a colleague of mine: he stuck himself with the insane schedule of five lunch shifts a week at <a href="http://www.boulevardrestaurant.com/">Boulevard</a>, followed by five dinner shifts a week at <a href="http://www.jardiniere.com/">Jardiniere</a>; on his day off he worked at a <a href="http://www.ferrybuildingmarketplace.com/ferry_plaza_wine_merchant.php">wine shop at the Ferry Building</a> and on the one day a week he had to himself he was too tired to get into much of anything.<br />
<br />
I worked ten shifts a week between two restaurants/ working a shift every day or double-shifts, for five months. As summer crept in and the 200 people who had lunch at the business restaurant I worked in during the day wore fewer clothes and looked more refreshed, I began to get bitter.<br />
<br />
“I’m a <span style="font-style: italic;">writer</span>, goddammit,” I’d mutter to myself as the other waiters chattered about their most recent one-night stands. “I don’t deserve this shit,” forgetting that the shit had been my choice. I set myself an arbitrary savings goal ($5K) and told myself when I reached the goal I was going to travel somewhere. I made it to $4,500.00 before pulling a no-show at my night job and giving 2 weeks notice at the fancy lunch place and bought a ticket to South America.<br />
<br />
The decision to go to South America came out of nowhere, really--I thought I’d take off for a few months and learn Spanish, returning to the restaurant world with the secret knowledge that the cooks I worked with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">couldn</span>’t gossip about me any more without me returning a barrage of profanities, shocking them and forever earning myself respect and ditching the nickname “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" style="font-style: italic;">Guera</span> (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">blondie</span>).”<br />
<br />
South America cracked me wide open. All the feelings I’d been avoiding by partying too much and working too much came out, and I was really alive. Suddenly, it was okay to be overjoyed for no reason. It was okay to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. People celebrated with you, or patted your hand and said, “<span style="font-style: italic;">No </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" style="font-style: italic;">llores</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> mas, </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" style="font-style: italic;">linda</span>,” and that was that. I spent two months traversing the continent, staying with friends of friends and tagging along with hiking groups. I felt lonely, got ragingly sick, and walked four days to get to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Machu_Picchu"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Machu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Picchu</span></a> anyway. Then, just before I was set to fly back to San Francisco, I met someone.<br />
<br />
I quit the restaurant industry on December 30<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">th</span>, 2006; and realized during my first week off that I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">hadn</span>’t seen the sun go down in California in almost ten years--every day had been spent inside a dining room getting ready for service. The change from 5-2am-er to 9-5er was strange at first, but suddenly being in sync with the rest of the world actually felt nice.<br />
<br />
Plus, I discovered this thing called happy hour, which is almost as good as happily ever after.</div>Restaurant Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09290258263401562631noreply@blogger.com2