Andy's Orchard ...slowly

Because I am not presently at liberty to utilize my culinary education in a professional capacity, I have taken the step of joining my local Slow Food convivium in the hope of meeting others who want to talk about food as much as I do. Two weekends ago, Randy and I joined them on an orchard tour and fruit tasting at Andy's Orchard in Morgan Hill.

We buzzed down there (late, as usual - but hey, we were going Slow! Har har!) and arrived just in time to circulate with fellow Slow Foodists before the tour. Activity was centered around a series of tables that had been loaded with about thirty samples of heirloom stone fruits grown at the orchard. Here's how it was probably supposed to go down: we were to amble around at a leisurely pace, perusing informative packets and noting the unique characteristics of each variety while politely tasting pieces of any fruit that seemed particularly interesting.

I was on a different mission. After shoving my packet and any other burdensome items (camera, purse) that might come between the fruit and my mouth at my long-suffering boyfriend, I marched purposefully from table to table, muscling any slower members of Slow Food out of the way as I wolfed down as much fruit as my gaping maw would allow. Randy followed a short distance behind me, just far enough away to avoid unnecessary association with the pushy fruit-gobbling girl, but close enough to jot down notes as I crowed out the names of my favorites between bites. "Ooh, ooh. Write this one down! Panamint nectarine! Holy shit! Oh my god, this Laroda plum is insane. Write that one down too!" Needless to say, I didn't actually MEET anyone else from Slow Food that day; good thing, too, because my mouth would have been too full to talk.

Allow me to explain my poor conduct. You see, I am a rabid stone fruit fan. (Back in the Midwest, we just called them peaches and plums, but out here, they're stone fruits. Also, my dentist's office is now an Office of Dental Arts, but that's another story.) On my way to college in Ohio each August, I'd stop at farms along the way and buy bushels of juicy, fragile Midwestern peaches. Once installed in my dorm, I guarded those peaches with the snarls and dripping fangs of a well-trained rottweiler, even when swirling clouds of gnats began to descend upon my room, circling and eventually closing in on the bucket of sweet, bruised fruit carefully hidden under my extra-long twin bed.

There are few things more depressing to me than crappy fruit. Rock-hard nectarines, mealy peaches, sour plums--I long ago gave up trying to get my stone fruit fix in any supermarket. Michigan yields great peaches and that's usually where my dad and I buy our bushels in the summer. San Francisco has hooked me up with some great fruit, but I have been paying dearly for it. (Granted, it's not dosed with high-intensity pesticides like the fruit I buy in Michigan, but it still ain't cheap.) Nothing beats a summer peach ...or nectarine. The intensity of flavor, the incredible perfume, the sweet nectar that drips down your chin - even that wonderfully soft fuzz. Despite my firm, lifelong atheism, I sometimes sniff a juicy summer peach and think maybe, possibly, somewhere, at one point, there might have been some sort of deity in existence who invented such a thing.

I looked forward to the trip to Andy's Orchard with the zeal of a child who's been promised Disneyland. I imagined a fruit wonderland of sorts; a paradise of trees laden with fruits and flavors I couldn't even imagine. Part of the fantasy also included the possibility of eating myself sick. Like the annual All You Can Eat King Crab Festival at Salty's on Alki, I knew I only had one chance to indulge in copious amounts of something that's normally a rare and expensive culinary treat. Plus, I had driven over an hour and paid $13 for this visit, and I intended to get my money's worth.

By the time the tour began, I had managed to try every single variety, and some more than once. I almost felt stressed out; worried that I wouldn't be able to finish before getting yanked away to the orchard. And yes, I realize that my attitude probably violates most tenets of the Slow Food charter, but I couldn't help it. The fruit was just so good.

I was feeling slightly queasy and extremely sticky as Andy introduced us to his peach and apricot drying racks, his tidy rows of trees, and explained how this year's impossible conditions (too much heat) had stunted a huge portion of his crop. He grows rare varieties with complex flavors, and most are far too delicate to ship anywhere. The orchard's signature fruit is the Baby Crawford Peach, which I have to tell you is incredible.

We were invited to pick fruit off the trees and off the ground if we liked. Andy gave us a little speech about biting directly into the fruit instead of cutting it with a knife for maximum flavor, and gradually the group lost its inhibitions and everyone began joyously chomping into nectarines as he led us around.

I was really surprised by the texture of some of the fruit. We are all trained to look for a fruit that gives slightly - but not too much - when it's gently pressed. I picked up a nectarine that felt way too hard, but Andy encouraged me to try it. I was rewarded with an impossibly juicy, intensely flavorful bite that made me rethink exactly what defines a good peach, plum, or nectarine. We're so used to be mistreated when it comes to stone fruits, aren't we? Ridiculously tough, insultingly bad peaches at the supermarket, or soft, flavorful peaches that toe the line of mushiness at the farmer's market. Andy's fruit showed me that it's possible to have it all.

The trip to the orchard was bittersweet. Sure, it's possible to blame my ensuing funk partly on the inevitable crash after an enormous fruit-fueled sugar rush, but I think as visitors, we all sensed a slight tinge of doom about the orchard. Andy himself admitted that he probably wouldn't remain in the area for more than a decade, and it's easy to see why. His property is penned in on all sides by development: housing parks, office parks, Target, and all the usual chains lurk nearby. Already they've had to put up a few acres of the orchard for sale, and he said commuters honk angrily at him when he tries to drive his tractor anywhere.

When he told us all this, I started to feel intensely protective of him and his business. It made me furious. Where exactly do we intend to take this country? Is this really what everybody wants: a long line of chain stores and cookie-cutter housing developments stretching endlessly across the land? It seems like we've made this crazy Faustian bargain with development: give us convenience and low prices, and we'll sacrifice originality, individuality, flavor, passion, specificity. And what does all this bring us? More time to watch bigger televisions and avoid contact with our neighbors?

So, if there's anybody out there with a ton of money burning a peach-shaped hole in your pocket, give Andy a call and buy his parcel of land ...then let him keep up the good work.

Zzzzuni

At the IACP conference a few months ago, a single restaurant kept coming up in conversation. It seemed like the air was practically buzzing and hissing with this name as people murmured it back and forth in seminars, networking events, and happy hours.

That restaurant was Zuni.

Until last month, my only encounter with the food of the magical Zuni was in aromatic form. Specifically, I knew the smell of Zuni’s famous roast chicken with bread salad because my lovely friend in France made it one evening in her tiny portable oven while we were both recovering from a shared bout of food poisoning. Nothing like foodborne bacteria and Vin Diesel movies to bring two gals together. At that point I was still too green around the gills to actually eat, but it smelled delish.

When I moved to San Francisco, I really was more interested in trying Zuni than in unpacking my bags, but life got in the way. Eventually I got there with Alison, my oldest friend from childhood. We grew up about half a mile apart and used to meet up at the mid-point between our houses. Now we’ve ended up across the country together, still living about half a mile apart, and still meeting up with each other at the mid-point between our apartments. Thankfully, many other things about us have changed over the years (no more pastel scrunchies, braces, or in my case, permed hair matched with dangly tropical fish earrings).

So, Zuni. I had been forewarned. In spite of all the buzzing at IACP, a subsequent informal survey of the trustworthy eaters in my life produced the occasional rave, but more frequently a generous helping of apathy. “Inconsistent” and “underwhelming” were two common descriptions.

Atmospherically speaking, I give Zuni very high marks. It didn’t hurt that we had a fabulous table next to a big window looking out on Market St., right in the center of the action. The space is open, airy and bustling. I remember wood and white, and a pretty oyster bar.

I also give it a good grade for people-watching potential. It does feel like a generous slice of San Francisco life -- fashionably casual, quirky, sophisticated, but not super snooty. In fact, food aside, to me Zuni exuded a rich, well-loved feeling that you can’t construct in a place. It just has to happen.

But then the food happened. What can I say? I wanted to love it, I really did. I wanted to adopt Zuni and take it to meet my friends and relatives when they come from out of town looking for a representative San Francisco gustatory experience. But dinner was a big, mouth-wide-open yaaaawwwwnnn. A starter of ho hum anchovies (or were they sardines? It was a few weeks back...), olive oil and celery that didn’t taste like much. Stuffed squash blossoms that also didn’t taste like much. A pleasant piece of pork rubbed with a nice crust of dried orange, chilies and spices, on a lukewarm plate with some blah-tasting beans. The ideas were there and it all sounded great on paper…but somehow it just didn’t have any heart.

Yeah, we didn't order the roast chicken. We debated over it, but when we asked the server she said, "Well, it's good, but in the end, it's a roast chicken. If you want adventure, order something else." Fair enough. Also, apparently we made a grave mistake by not ordering any oysters. I am told that they are delicious at Zuni. Duly noted.

By this point, I was feeling a little deflated. And then… dessert arrived with a capital D. It was simple, perfectly executed, gorgeous. A nectarine tart and a nice deep dish of espresso granita layered with robust poofs of whipped cream. I doubt I will ever have another granita that wows me as much as that one did. Come to think of it, granita had never once wowed me until Zuni's version crunched under my spoon.

After dinner, we headed around the corner to Hotel Biron, the first wine bar I've visited in this city. We settled into our table with lovely, giant glasses of red and kept the conversation going. As far as I'm concerned, my wine bar search began and ended with Hotel Biron. It felt like a cozy little cave, complete with perfect music and a cute, hipster guy behind the bar.

After our topsy turvy dinner, I'm not yet prepared to strike Zuni off the master mental restaurant list that constantly hums in my head. Problem is, there are so many intriguing places to try in San Francisco that it may take a long time for me to get back there. But next time I do, that damned roasted chicken and oysters will be on my order. Then we'll see whether there's anything worth kvetching about.