Chips/crisps, the challenge of home manufacture

If you choose to make chips/crisps at home, there are some pitfalls (similar pitfalls restaurants can face, but more on that later). If you make them at home in a FryDaddy, the heat it accomplishes is set and unchangeable, so you cannot really be suave in chip-making unless you vary the thickness of the chips to match the temp, which is too hot for thin chips. In this cooker, the best you'll get are very nice chips if you let them overbrown so as not to be soggy, and throw some herbs in the oil along with the potatoes. And SALT!!!

If you use a modulated-heat method, such as oil on the stovetop, you can fry on somewhat lower heat and achieve a golden brown, crispy crisp/chip.

Which brings me to restaurants: So many fry their fries/frites/chips (that last int he British sense) at too low a temperature, and end up with soggy brown fries with a bitter texture, rather than the delightful, fluffy and resilient frite of one's dreamlife: That golden brown crispy fry with a steamy potato inside, quite ready for the mayonnaise into which it really should be dipped. Hate mayonnaise? No fear, there's vinegar there for you to have an also finishing effect.

Vinegar makes the world go 'round, unless it's good mayonnaise.

Bistro Jeanty, Yountville, CA

Last catch-up post of this batch, departing from the vegetarian respite of the past couple of posts: Lunch at Bistro Jeanty in Yountville was delish.

Marrow, generous, with toast...

Lentils, a little al dente, which is good — infused with pork belly and floated with a little foie. Some of the last foie in CA for awhile I hear.

A trip to the Cheeseboard in Berkeley, CA

All this cheese, and a cooperative, too!

Balance

Since it's been a little bit of a meatfest over here as I catch up on some posts, I thought I'd offer some vegetal balance: What an amazing pea salad served as room service at Meaddowood in Yountville a couple of weeks ago, at the height of spring (there.) Everything was so fresh and crisp!

Yes, yes, playing a little catch-up on posts. Sorry about that.

Here's a ridiculous product being aggressively sold at Market Place on 4th Street in Berekely. Perhaps the buyers regretted their purchase and just wanted to clear it out?

Rose petals in a jar, for "sprinkling over a lamb roast" or whatnot. $15— per jar.

In that vein...

If you're looking for soul food and find yourself in Columbia City (Seattle) please take the time to visit The Silver Fork for a burger that has !!! after the name (hot links on top) or a bone-in pork chop sandwich. You won't be sorry! Don't worry about the sketchy people in the parking lot, they have problems of their own :-( and shouldn't be a bother. I haven't been lucky enough to return for awhile, but here's a recentish write-up in the Seattle Weakly [sic] and their photo (credit Steven Miller).

Cold, rainy barbecue

Not known for its barbecue, Washington nonetheless strives to dish up some of that sort of goodness. Word has it some really great specimens used to be on offer underneath the 520 overpass on Northup Way in Bellevue. Dixie's Barbecue was the lovechild of a gent — Gene Porter — from Mississippi who named his hotter-than-hell sauce "The Man," and those who survived a tiny taste of The Man were given a bumper sticker to that effect.

Alas, 2010 saw his demise, and neither The Man or the man are around anymore. (Apparently you CAN take it with you.)

The joint perseveres nonetheless, and though I can't say the BBQ sauce is not too predominant and sweet, and the brisket a little on the tough side, it's nonetheless a pleasure to darken the door, order lunch, and feel the awesome past and better days of the place. The images below will show you why, when you go to Dixie's, you feel a million miles from Washington State, the Eastside, and its shadow of a software giant.

File under: Go at least once, miracles can't last forever, and have fun.

Sandwich of the day

When a boy needs a sandwich, sometimes it's a ham and cheese on brioche with house pickles.

Scenographic sandwich

when a 12-year-old makes a sandwich...it might be provolone, mayo, and overboiled, halved hotdogs on white bread. Sigh. At least he was proud.

Field trip to new Hitchcock Deli on Bainbridge Island

The Hitchcock Deli is now open, and it's amazing. I love both the working environment and the food. I've had two lovely sandwiches, and ca't wait to start buying dry-aged meat and fresh fish from the case. And some bread-and-butter pickles, they have those too from local cucumbers. I'm not alone in loving it in a simple, satisfied way. The top picture is of a house-made braunschweiger sandwich with butter, gruyere, and a little mustard on rye.

Minecraft cake!

This is a Minecraft cake, if you haven't seen one. Here's some info about it:

Cake is a special food item that allows for multiple uses. Cake must be placed to eat.

To enjoy a cake, once it is made, you must place it on the ground. Each use of it will take off a slice (6 slices total). Destroying a cake will yield nothing in return. If you are already at full health, no cake will be consumed.

Cake cannot be moved once placed.

Empty buckets will be retained after cake is made.

What does a 12-year-old want when he celebrates his birthday? Why, a Minecraft cake, of course. Here's what ours got, thanks to the efforts of his dad. It was declared to be the Best.Cake.Ever.

    

A buttery plate of rigatoni?

No. It's pineapple twizzler candy. Very, very good.

Night Kitchens

Walking through Belltown the other night, I passed the Macrina Bakery kitchen vitrine. I became used to seeing this kitchen bustling with baking and whatnot in the mornings when I passed by on my way to work a few years ago, but I'd never thought about it being visible at night. Nothing unusual about the kitchen, just a fun sight. Made me think of In The Night Kitchen, which I now learn was controversial because Maurice Sendak's illustrations showed a naked little boy. Sheesh.

Oysters, old school

Somehow, among all the other things going on, this weekend has been about oysters, some I had this weekend and others I have had in the past or will have in the future.

Saturday found us for the first time at Emmett Watson, in Pike Place Market, a remarkably hard-to-find oyster joint stuffed into a crawl space at the foot of a big engineered cliff. Menu on a paper bag, condiments in a Red Stripe 6-pack holder, and oysters on the half-shell adorned with nothing more that a plastic thimble of ketchuppy sauce and lemon. Rating: 2 stars. Rationale: The oysters were too big and not cold enough. I rank red sauces lowest on the totem pole with oysters, as I like to taste the liquor and will always prefer vinegar if I need tang. Points for charm: neutral; the vintage promise was appealing but the delivery was a little, well, (Calling Nina Garcia!) sad. Scuzzy is a word I heard bandied about.

In contrast, let's reminisce about just a few past oyster high-water marks:

1. Hitchcock: This is the very recent past, but Hitchcock has shown me a new oyster dimension in which herbs and a few molecules of berry or granita can bring into focus the plain oyster like no other dressing, even a shallot mignonette, which I also am a fiend for.
2. Oysterbar in Grand Central Station: Pan Roast. Perennial, though I am not lucky enough to keep going back; geography intrudes. Sigh.
3. Reading about the introduction of oysters into pre-revolution French Court life: barrels came, and hundreds were consumed with abandon in short windows of time. No restraint. Here's a blurb about the excess among nobles in 16th Century England:

In a period of three days, Elizabeth's court managed to consume 67 sheep, 34 pigs, 4 stags, 16 bucks (used to make 176 meat pies), 1,200 chickens, 363 capons, 33 geese, 6 turkeys, 237 dozen pigeons, 2,500 eggs and 430 pounds of butter, plus a cartload and two horseloads of oysters.

What/where are my oysters of the future? At the Taylor Shellfish Farms outpost in the Melrose Market. While I was up on Whidbey Island this weekend for some very fun hijinks, others were having a glass or two of wine and having delectable oysters on the half-shell brought to them with a choice of lemon, mignonette, and a tomato-based cocktail dressing — with the option of Tobasco. Buy 'em for $7/dz and they're shucked for $2.

The touch

Update from fellow diner, since we're picky around here: The smoked meat we had at Bisato wasn't Parma, it was Speck. Austrian-style, not Italian.

So yes we went to Bisato the other night, and yes it was as divine as always.

What was interesting? The menu had a lot of the same presentations as before, and yet each one was changed to suit the season and the whim of the chef. Cool.

(I also willfully made it happen hat I hugged Scott Carsberg, and though he seems distinctly non-huggy, he absolutely got it. I am a fanboy seeking expression of my gratitude, and there you have it.)

Here's what's amazing about this restaurant: Every little thing you order is a surprise, in a loud or quiet way. Some things that seem simple enough on the menu (which uses blessedly few adjectives) are a revelation in construction and finesse. Other things are as simple as they could be, but strangely not. I know I'm expressing myself poorly, so look at the grainy iPhone picture here. Is a plate of paper thin Parma ham simply a plate of paper-thin Parma ham? Not here. Here, it is even thinner, and fluffed up into a cloud of heaven that transports. You thought you knew and loved Parma ham. Now, you will always seek THIS Parma ham. It's a complicated equation, not just dining well. You lose your delight in all Parma ham, but you gain a new dimension.

That happened to me with Armandino's salami*, and now it's happened again with how Parma ham should be put on a plate.

* A couple of things about that last link and Salumi in general:

ONE — I have a friend who is a vegetarian of the Indian variety — has never, will never eat meat — and this is her favorite lunch spot: they make fresh mozzarella daily and have 2 choices of sandwich roll taste/texture, and care about the tomatoes, peppers, etc. enough that you get the best damned sandwich on the planet whether or not meat shows up to the party. And they always have vegetable sides that are OMG so good. 

TWO — Why must Absolutely Monica, whoever she might be, obscure her photos with a massive watermark?! Give me a break.

Now that's a brioche!

Thank you, Le Pichet!

Lucky me!

Going with superfriends to Bisato tonight!

Then off to Whidbey Island bearing gifts for a new baby: A wardrobe of Atelier Daguerre tshirts, quilts I sewed (kind-of, I used quilt tops made by the industrious ladies of South Whidbey!) back in the day for my own babies, and some instructional and fairy tale pillows.

The secret of the universe

As it turns out, it's cottage cheese pancakes. The 1959 edition of the 1896 Fannie Farmer Cooking School Cookbook explains all that weird stuff called "life" on page 290.

Don't be fooled by the foxy look of my book's cover, left; be convinced by the ingredient-encrusted page of my book, shown below.

Don't plan to make them if you can't serve them hot, immediately as they are made, i.e.if you have too many people or for some other reason can't be in production mode.

Nothing is better (You'll hear me say that about a few things, but not too many).

Put in a bowl:
I cup cottage cheese
3 beaten eggs
2 tbs butter
1/4 cup flour, sifted   <--  Not 3/4 cups as I mistakenly told a superfriend!
1/4 tsp salt

Beat only until blended.  Cook by tablespoons on a hot griddle. Spread with tart jam or drizzle with real Vermont maple syrup. Serve. Makes 12.

I made a little bit of that up. The actual printed recipe doesn't specify my home-state syrup (instead saying you can serve them with jam rolled up and sprinkled with confectioner's sugar) and tells you to serve them as dessert. I prefer a tangy, eggy, best-ever breakfast treat. The tang of the cottage cheese with the syrup is the secret of the universe.

Gifts from abroad!

Arriving in San Francisco just in time for middle school in the heart of Chinatown — such an impressionable age — greatly shaped many of my tastes and ideas about "Things Chinese."

My brother began studying with T'ai Chi master Simmon Kuo at 11, and I followed in his footsteps with more lackadaisical flair several years later, for a bit. The pleasure of the studio on Portsmouth Square was deep, and Mrs. Kuo's brutal, funny, and loving criticism was equally deep.

I discovered palmiers (by a different name) in Chinatown, and they became a lifelong love. Whenever there was a dollar or two, there was a need to brush flaky, buttery crumbs from the front of my school uniform before entering the building.

Then there were the vitrines with snakes and whatnot in clear urns filled with formaldehyde — thrilling, mysterious, repulsive. And strange medicinal herbs and practices. When I visit SF I love them still, and they are marginally dustier 10-20 years later!

Big family lunches, birthday dinners, Christmas celebrations at a venerable restaurant that made the Chinese Chicken Salad that has made me very underwhelmed by most suchlike since.

Those are the upsides of living cheek-by-jowl with a vibrant tourist-dependent and by-now-indigenous Chinese community in one's formative years. The downside is that because much of the retail in San Francsico's famous Chinatown is aimed at tourists or offered at prices anyone can afford, many of the goods on display are frighteningly cheap in both senses of the word. So I guess I grew a bit of a sense of Euro superiority when it comes to manufacture and marketing/design quality, a sad vestige I have been trying to stamp out since. I mean, really, Apple: "Designed in Cupertino, California, Made in China"? What do you mean by that..."Not really MADE in China?"

Imagine my delight when my dad and his [second] family returned from Taiwan bearing a food gift of gorgeously rigorous little pastry blocks filled with pineapple. The website was as design-forward as the product and its packaging, but developed in such a way that Google did not offer to translate it for me into English :-(. I learned from my dad's wife that Taiwan is a nexus of design-centric operations. I love that! Inspired? Explore sunnyhills.com.tw.

Tiramisù

I hear this dessert's name is loosely translated from Italian as "Pick Me Up." Cool.

I have loved making it since working at Café Esprit in San Francisco, in the 80s, when visionaries transformed an old industrial garage into a hip dining spot on the grounds of the Esprit de Corps Outlet in the crumbling, transitional, very accessible Mission Bay neighborhood.

The menu was so simple and modern, even for today: 4 salads (Cobb, Niçoise, Caesar, and 1 other classic), 4 pizzas (Margherita and 3 other classics), some other like-minded stuff, a soda fountain serving egg cremes and other exotica with authenticity, an espresso bar par excellence, and yummmy wines.

I was on tiramisù duty, and loved layering the mascarpone, espresso, marsala, and ladyfingers (Savoiardi). We didn't trifle (pun alert) with the zabaglione, or whipped cream...why bother. I still kind of agree....it's not strictly necessary or worth the time and effort when you can make a stunning (Ramsay-speak) tiramisu without it.

HOWEVER! I made tiramisù today and leapt through all the hoops.

A lot of people today (marion Gordaon, etc) like to make individual tiramisùs, but I am a fan of the trough. Scoop and enjoy. Or slice and enjoy.

Here's the super-brief photo diary:

Zabag + whipped cream

Marsala and espresso-soaked ladygingers in layers between layers of the above

The yield: 2 beautiful, refrigerated tiramisùs, one for us to eat with family members returning from a jaunt to Asia (stomach trouble ahead) and one to send with friends to a party we can't attend due to relative influx.