Carbohydrates and gender illusionists in the Bay Area

I just returned from a little jaunt to San Francisco, and let me tell you, the eating was good. Before I get to the carbohydrate-soaked food pornography, allow me to drop just a few restaurant names. I've stopped dragging my camera around to each and every dining experience I have (unlike this fellow!), so a short list of the divine meals I had will have to suffice. In no particular order:

Habana (SF) for halibut, daiquiris and coconut flan
Christopher's (Oakland) for lamb burgers with goat cheese
Bittersweet (Oakland) for dark chocolate macaroons and a stack of fancy chocolate bars
Fish (Sausalito) for a Saigon salmon sandwich and asian slaw
Le Colonial (SF) for lettuce wraps, pork ribs, spring rolls and viognier
Asia S.F. (SF) for pan-Asian appetizers, gender illusionists and my new signature cocktail: Absolut Limon and tonic
Arrizmendi (Emeryville) for an assortment of bread-related goodness
My sister's house for three-bean salad, chai tea and truffles

Of all the places I ate, Fish and Arrizmendi were my favorites. Both were unpretentious with a focus on quality ingredients. Fish was darn near perfect, except that all the deliciousness didn't come cheap. I don't often indulge in a $16 sandwich for lunch, but I daresay it was absolutely, positively worth it. Highly recommended!

And here's a selection of Arrizmendi delights, photographed in my car right after purchase while listening to two women have a screaming fight in the nearby Rite-Aid parking lot (fortunately this did not detract from the wonderfulness of the still-warm focaccia and the sugar-coated scone):


Fig fennel roll


Strawberry scone


Brioche


Arugula, onion and lemon pepper focaccia


Curry cheese roll

My final meal

Lately I've become aware of the fact that I am not normal. More specifically, I don't seem to have any sort of talent for or interest in repetition, routine or consistency. I look around me, and everyone I see seems to be fairly content to do the same sorts of things many days in a row. I must be stunted, because I can't even eat the same breakfast more than once. These traits of mine are drawbacks when it comes to jobs and relationships, but could possibly be considered assets in the food and travel writing fields. Now I just need to figure out how to exploit them...

In a halfhearted attempt to convince myself that I still have a shot at normalcy and that I am not in fact addicted to constant flux and over-stimulation, I am trying to document examples of routines or patterns in my life. So far, I've come up with two:

1) I take a shower every day
2) I eat at Akai Hana, in Wilmette, Illinois, at least once a month

I think I've eaten at Akai Hana more than any other restaurant over the course of my life thus far. For awhile I was addicted to this place in London called EuroTandoori, in a gross neighborhood right near the King's Cross tube stop, but that was truncated after one year when I had to move back to Ohio. Akai Hana has remained a steady habit despite my many migrations.

I won't testify that it's the best Japanese food ever, but it's solid. And it's close to home.

So, here's the meal that I frequently order; a meal that is so comforting and familiar to me at this point that I think I would elect to have it for my final meal if I was on death row: the beef teriyaki combination. 3 nigiri (salmon, tuna, shrimp), 1 California roll, a small cup of miso soup, sunomono, beef teriyaki, lots of sticky rice, a pile of shredded cabbage that soaks up the teriyaki so nicely, and a scoop of green tea (or chocolate, if they're out) ice cream.



What would your final death row meal be?

Prairie Grass Cafe in Northbrook

This evening, my mom and I experienced some moderately fine dining at Prairie Grass Cafe. I say moderately fine because it was fairly informal, but also because the food was just ...you know, moderately fine.

I was surprised at just how moderate the fineness was, because the Prairie Grass chefs apparently won heaps of awards when they worked for the Chicago Ritz-Carlton. I believe that this restaurant was also written up with great fanfare a few months ago in Food and Wine, or Bon Appetit, or one of the many other food magazines that are now just piling up on my nightstand unread because I work two jobs and basically pass out every night in bed still holding the biography of Alexis Soyer that I was supposed have reviewed for Saucy weeks ago, but can't seem to finish because my day jobs have once again commenced sucking away my energy and creativity.

But don't shed a single tear for me, because tonight my mother and I scraped clean a generous ramekin filled with lovely pate and served alongside a tiny pot of port wine reduction and a delicate fan of apple slices. We also made quick work of an overly salty fennel/pecorino/parmesan salad, two softshell crabs deep fried and served with an overly salty tomato and caper salsa, and two oddly dense shrimp cakes accompanied by a ginger-wasabi vegetable medley.

I rarely find food to be too salty. There seems to be a small contingent of the populace that bitches about saltiness in practically everything they eat, but I think the rest of us have established a pretty high salt tolerance level thanks to frequent restaurant dining and our highly processed food supply.

But wow, this food was really, really salty, and I'm not just saying that because there were capers involved. I know what to expect from them. That fennel salad was salted within an inch of its life, and I'm just not sure why. It made me sad. Fennel is so sweet and delicate, and it doesn't deserve to be brined like that.

The shrimp cakes were okay, but underwhelming, and my mom's crab was subjected to the same salt treatment as the fennel. For dessert, we tried the deep chocolate cake. It was lovely, but was delivered to us on a plain white plate. There was nothing else - no creme anglaise, no decorative strawberry or mint leaf ...not even powdered sugar. I don't mean to sound like a big whiner, but it just seemed a little strange. I could understand the plainness if we were in a stark, minimalist place that was trying to make a grand aesthetic statement, but that's not what Prairie Grass Cafe, in Northbrook, Illinois, is going for. At least, I don't think they are. I asked the waiter if this was normal, and he said yes, but that he didn't understand why either. Well, whatever.

On the other hand, the wines by the glass were great.

I'm not dying to go back. It just wasn't my scene, I think. The parking lot was stuffed with big cream-colored Lexuses slung casually across two or more parking spaces, and the diners tended more towards the custard-colored-pants-coordinating-socks-winter-in-Boca-geriatric set than towards whatever set I currently like to identify myself with.

So, it's getting late and it's time for me to pass out with Alexis Soyer once again.

Please don't be jealous of my sparkly pink spatula

I wish I could tell you that I bought my brand new Barbie-colored Le Creuset spatula so that it could drip with irony in the spoon jar on my kitchen counter and underscore what a pseudo-retro hipster foodie I am, but I must admit that this is not the case.

It shocks me to realize that somewhere along the way, I stopped buying pink items in order to reclaim the traditional color assigned to womanhood and use it for subversive feminist purposes. Nowadays I buy pink because I really just seem to like the color, you know?

Ok, maybe you don't. Maybe you think pink is nauseating and loathesome, and that spending good money on a garish, barfy-colored spatula smacks of selfish Western decadence. You're probably not wrong.

But then there might be a few of you (and I will know you by your Hello Kitty stickers and your My Little Pony girlie tees) who understand this form of attraction. Maybe you succumbed to that baby pink KitchenAid mixer a few years back, or you have a stash of 1950s hostess aprons in your closet that you thought would be funny for parties, but now you wear them cause they make you look sort of hot.

I don't care what the pink haters think. All I know is, I'm finding every excuse to bust out my beloved spatula. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, whipped cream, raw eggs, ganache - all are deserving of a few glittery caresses. And don't be fooled by the girlish appearance. It's tough and muscular, and because it's silicone, it can withstand temperatures up to 800 degrees.

If I have made you covet my pink sparkly Le Creuset spatula, you can get your very own at Sur La Table. And if my apologia on behalf of kitchen pink hasn't changed your mind, maybe the esteemed South Jersey Courier-Post can do a better job.

Or maybe not.