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Indian Summer

Us old timers still call Indian Summer, Indian Summer, while the PC police would have us call this uniquely American season “second summer’ or something that borders on goofy. For example, somewhere on the Internet I found suggestions to call it badger summer, or pastrami summer (I’m not kidding) and even quince summer – whatever that is. It’s not happening in this blog. All those names have the charm of four-day old banana bread. Blah!

OK, I get that the term, Indian Summer, can be interpreted by some to be offensive to Native Americans, but who says ‘Native Americans’ isn’t offensive to this group of people, anyway? If they had their choice way back when, European settlers would not have showed up at all. Too late for that. Even so, when I worked in Canada earlier in the 21st Century I learned the name of what these folks should respectfully be called, as the Canadians call their own indigenous people “First Nation People.” Turns out the Canadians can do more than just play hockey, so let the Canadians take over the PC Police!

Sorry. This is a food blog, so I’ll get to the food shortly.


But to complete the thought and by contrast, Indian Summer is a charming name. I first came across it living in the Colorado Rockies as a teenager, and it meant that we had a warm spell after a cold snap. It was a reprieve from an early winter, and a reminder of the glorious summer weather that was about to be gone for eight months or so. Living in Aspen, our Indian Summers also came with a color – the colors, actually, of yellow, gold, red and every combination those colors can make, as the aspen leaves changed colors in Autumn. A forest of aspen trees blanketing a mountain hillside in the fall is one of the prettiest scenes God and Nature have ever created on this earth.

Allegedly, ‘Indian Summer’ first came into the lexicon when English settlers saw our first nation people set prairie fires as part of their autumn harvest methods, and the English gave it a name, based not only on the unseasonably warm weather but also the haziness in the sky caused by the fires.

So, every chef or amateur cook knows the summertime feeling when you want something for dinner, but it’s a little too warm for anything heavy. Naturally, in summer, we default to salads with some kind of protein and whatever else the pantry can offer up, and we get by.


But as this was our first Indian Summer evening in the Sonoma Wine Country, I wanted something that was more savory, and a little substantive, because I had eaten lightly earlier in the day, and was hungry.

Fortunately, I had the ingredients in the fridge.

Leftover, previously baked and relatively firm sweet potato. Actually I only cook with Yams, the orange-colored ones.

Zucchini.
Little Gem Lettuce.

Heirloom Tomato.

Pancetta slices.


In a 9 inch skillet I put three of the pancetta slices in the pan and without oil, reduced them until they were a little crispy, but not dry.

I cut the zucchini in 4 sections and fried them flat-side down, in olive oil, garlic salt and black pepper.

Once done, I removed them and cooked slices of sweet potato in the same skillet, adding some butter toward the end, with salt and pepper, which kind of caramelized them. Yummy.

I cut up some of the tomato and put them on top of torn-up lettuce leaves, then drizzled this crazy good Milanese Gremolata-infused olive oil that I found at store that only sells olive oil and vinegars, then salted the tomatoes with a black truffle salt I buy from Urbani Truffles in New York, via online. I also drizzled some balsamic peach vinegar on the tomatoes and lettuce.

To plate the food, I just mixed the sweet potatoes and zucchini adjacent to the salad and placed the crispy pancetta on top.

The meal was full of flavor, savory and sweet, and like a good French meal, fulfilling yet didn’t leave one feeling overly fed. Just right. I happened to have a chilled bottle of Bandol rose, a Domaine Du Gros Nore, year 2020, in the main kitchen fridge and opened it. I meant to keep the consumption to the usual school night ritual of two glasses, but with the western sky ablaze in an orange, sun setting glory, and that meal….. I could not refrain and enjoyed a third glass of wine.

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La Dolce Vita

La Dolce Vita, which besides the literal transaltion in Italian is ‘sweet life,’ was also the title of a 1960 satirical-comedy movie directed by Federico Fellini, and the story’s plot follows a tabloid journalist (Marcello Mastroianni as Marcello Rubini) over seven days and nights in Rome in a fruitless search for love and happiness.

Well, don’t let late deter you. Living La Dolce Vita is an intentionial way of life, and it’s highly recommended if you like better than average doses of pleasure.

Thus, we found ourselves in “Poor man’s Italy,” Northern Italy specifically, for an afternoon after seeing the Alicia Keys concert in San Francisco the previous night at Chase Center. Sausalito, on the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge and southern tip of Marin County, never fails to remind me of an Italian coastal city. The waterfront, the steep hillside covered with expensive homes, the streetside cafes and restaurants, stunning views of San Francisco, Angel Island, the Tiburon Peninsula.

After a stroll by the yacht harbor and town, we settled for lunch at Poggio Trattoria, a classic Northern Italy trattoria located on Bridgeway at the base of the Casa Madrona Hotel & Spa. The choices were many but we wanted something simple, as it was a tad hot for Sausalito (a heat wave was underway) and chose pizza. Mine – fig and prosciutto. Hers – mixed meats with mushrooms. Both with crispy crusts from the wood-fired oven visible to all diners with the restaurant’s open kitchen. We were going to pass on wine but after our first bites, the pizza was too good to only drink water, so we enjoyed Brunello di Montalcino, a Camigliano 2014.

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There are No Freds in France

Intro: In June of 2001 I was supposed to go on a golf trip to Arizona but injured one of my hands and I could not grip a club. The woman I was living with at the time had been to France and wanted to return to the country. I had not been as an adult. Coincidentally, American Airlines had just started promoting a new route, from San Jose, CA to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, for the incredibly affordable rate of $220 each way. Since children under 2 could fly free, I bought a RT ticket for $440 plus taxes and used miles to get my gal’s seat. The three of us flew to Europe for under $500!

This was about the time my passion for food was really getting serious.

We only had a week for this trip, and since my father’s first visit to France involved D-Day, I had to see Normandy. Ironically, we ended up there on the anniversary of D-Day, 57 years later (June 6, 1944).

I found a hotel in Paris and my lady found us a wonderful Chateau hotel with 14 guest rooms just outside of a little town near the Normandy beaches. I wrote this piece shortly after getting home. GM

There are No Freds in France

Vincent had a serious and officious look about him, from the perfectly fitted suit, clipped manner of speaking and brisk pace to his walk, to the small spectacles on his face and hawkish nose.

He was the consummate professional in France for his industry, and since the French Republic is still the epicenter of food and dining, we were not altogether surprised by his seriousness.

Watching Vincent work and experiencing his expert service made me think of the restaurant service in America.  Even in formal restaurants, I thought, the service staffs treat everything a bit more casually than its peer group in France.

We were guests at a comfortable chateau near a long stretch of beach in Normandy made famous by World War II, and we took our main meals in the hotel restaurant each evening. We marveled at the length of the days and did not have dinner until it was nearly dark, or close to 10 o’clock.

As hotel guests, we naturally had the sense that during our stay, the chateau was in part ours. But when we dined in the chateau’s restaurant, Vincent left little doubt about whose place it really was — it was Vincent’s.

I shaped my opinion of Vincent’s professionalism after a couple of days at the chateau. My first impression of him and the chateau’s version of French dining are considerably different. After being seated, we waited a long time for anyone to acknowledge our presence. More important than acknowledgement, we were extremely thirsty, and also a little anxious to enjoy some wine.

The day had been long, with more stress on the front end than we had bargained for. The rental car company had delivered our car on schedule to our hotel in the 8th Arrondessement in Paris, but forgot the child seat for our eleven-month-old daughter. The fellow at the reception desk called the rental car company for us, and we were told there are no child seats available, but perhaps one would become available on Tuesday. We had no intention of driving in France without a child seat for our child. It was Sunday. Monday was a French national holiday and we were going home on Thursday. Waiting two days for a child’s seat was not an option.

Luckily, the day before we had visited with friends from the Bay Area, who are living across from the Luxembourg Gardens on the Left Bank. They have kids. They have car seats and they were home that Sunday morning. They loaned us one.

The drive out of the city was a little tense, but once on the toll roads heading north from Paris, the time passed easily.

We arrived late in the afternoon, checked in, dropped our bags and headed straight away for Omaha Beach, to see where my father and another 150,000 men had landed almost 57 years earlier.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon. So pleasant, in fact, that it seemed impossible to think of what happened here years ago. We drove around the frontage road at Omaha Beach, which is one of the longest beaches we had ever seen. We looked at memorials. We walked to the water’s edge and looked across the English Channel, trying to imagine the huge armada that appeared off this shore on June 6, 1944. I took an empty film canister and filled it with sand to bring to my father, who will turn 80 later this year. We went back to the chateau, thirsty and hungry.

Hotel guests occupied maybe six tables in the dining room. Most of them were also American. Two men and two women were busy doing various functions associated with the dinner service. We watched them bring bread, water, wine, salads, main dishes, desserts and a cart full of cheese to the other guests. We made small talk. My baby girl was asleep in her stroller. Minutes passed. We made more small talk. After a while, our chatter fell away like a 20-pound rock dropping into an abyss. I wondered if the rock would gain speed as it dropped, or actually de-accelerate, lifted by some magical updraft within the walls of the imaginary abyss.

About the time I ran out of patience, Vincent appeared and nodded as I asked thirstily for water. Someone else brought it and the wine followed shortly thereafter. We had been saved.

About an hour earlier I had been looking for something for Margo to eat when I spied the dinner menu in the hotel lobby and scanned it for rack of lamb. Normandy has a reputation for producing some of the best lamb anywhere, allegedly because of the salt air’s influence, the soil and the feed grass this combination yields. So what if the area is also famous for its Dover sole, scallops, crabs and miniature lobsters. I wanted lamb, and there it was on the menu.

There was another item on the menu that caught my eye, sounded delectable and seemed perfect as a starter. Unfortunately, this would be a problem for our waiter, who three days later would tell us his name is Vincent.

“For starters,” I said, “I would like the warm apple stuffed with Camembert cheese and served with baby green lettuce. Then I’ll have the rack of lamb.”

The headwaiter’s response stunned me.

“No,” he said. In French, the enunciation of this common word makes it sound more like a powerful denial than a simple rejection — “Nnnnoo,” said Vincent.

After a moment of silence, and while I did a few mental calisthenics to sort out what I might say next, Vincent continued.

“Zhey cheese is not served before dinner. It is for after dinner.”

Tell this to someone born in Wisconsin (like me), I thought, but instead just said “okay” and ordered Scottish salmon, hoping this was an acceptable choice. When Vincent scribbled the entree into his notepad, the tacit approval gave me a sense of relief I had never before felt by merely ordering an appetizer. In America, ordering appetizers is only a function of dinner and not an emotional experience. I wondered, what could be wrong with a few crackers and slices of cheese before dinner?

If a moral battle was being waged between the restaurant’s headwaiter and me, it was clear he had won the first round.

I said to my woman and mother of our child: “What’s up with that? Here we are paying a modest premium for the short-term privilege of staying in a 19th Century manor house near the Normandy coast and we get a food server with attitude telling us when we could eat what.”

“It’s just a little faux pas, honey. They have their ways here,” she said. Normally her words are soothing and comforting but they did little to abate my frustration. The waiter had been condescending and made me feel like a hayseed.

In my head I reviewed the first 15 minutes in the chateau’s restaurant and thought, oh my god, I’m in for three hours of torture dressed up as a fine dining experience. It made me little homesick, and this was only our third day in France. We were seated promptly and then ignored forever. We nearly died of thirst, couldn’t get a cocktail for the love of money and then I was told I could not have a salad with a cheese-stuffed, baked apple.

In America, you are hustled to a dinner table so the owners “can turn” the table for higher revenues. Then, a smiling young blond or a non-English speaking person will rush to your table and forcibly deliver huge glasses of ice water, whether you want ice in it or not. Invariably, some of the water spills on the table, your lap, or somewhere, because there’s so much of the stuff and all the ice makes the glasses sweat. There’s an intensity to the activity in American restaurants, as great big platters of food are whisked past you to people who have probably not missed a meal in years but act as though it has been days. This staccato burst is followed by the sudden appearance of a harried young man in his early thirties, who probably wishes he could have had a better short game (in golf) so he could have made the pro tour, instead of waiting tables in this no nothing town. He whips out a pad and pen and practically boasts:

“Hi. My name is Fred and I’ll be your food server tonight.”

By comparison, there are no Freds in France. For a moment at the chateau, I wished for one before regaining my senses. It was a fine meal, even if it was not in the sequence of my choice.

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Spanish Omelette Part 2

In May of this year I wrote about Spanish Omelettes, or Frittatas, and today I am updating that story to encourage readers to make this dish, and make it often. A slice, or wedge of this, is a great mid-day meal during the week when you have the combined factors of hunger, nothing worthwhile eating in the fridge or there is something worthwhile but you don’t have time to make it. So you put a wedge of what you made on Saturday or Sunday on a plate and give it 45 seconds in the microwave and you have some really good (and healthy) eating!

I have started to make a habit of making varietals of this dish every few weeks, circumstances dictating the composition of the tortilla, a new word for this dish, but not at all, if you are from Spain. More on that later.

Last weekend we did a wine tasting at Lambert Bridge, one of our favorite Dry Creek Valley wineries (JP is a national treasure as the in-house Sommelier) and uncharacteristically we did not eat much of the two platters of charcuterie (there were 9 of us) because I had made Cubano sandwiches for the group for lunch and we were still stuffed. So I’ve had all this cheese in my fridge this week – goat, brie, some others, not to mention leftover feta from a tomato salad I made for friends before grilling Snake River New York steaks as well as the ubiquitous Manchego and mixed-shredded Mexican cheese I always have in my fridge.

This batch also included some cooked but not fried red potatoes, some leftover fried zucchini and a big head of Swish Chard I got on Friday and then cooked and seasoned it. I used more than a half cup of half & half cream and 7 eggs, whipped with black pepper and tarragon. Oh. I also had three pieces of uncooked pancetta (that I made crispy) I had not used with the cantaloupe dish I made with olive oil and salt. First I friend the pancetta to get it dry and crispy, let it cool, then cut it into small pieces with kitchen scissors. I added this to the omelette after first putting oil down on the bottom of the pan then all the vegetables.

For good (moisture) measure I added 6 mini-tabs of butter spread around the pan and also drizzled a smidge of olive oil before finishing with the egg mixture and shredded cheeses (Manchego and Mexican) as a topper.

As you can see, you can add almost anything to this dish. I even forgot the onion this time, but that’s OK. There was plenty of flavor to go around.

Definitions: Spanish omelette or Spanish tortilla is a traditional dish from Spain. Celebrated as a national dish by Spaniards, it is an essential part of the Spanish cuisine. It is an omelette made with eggs and potatoes, optionally including onion. It is often served at room temperature as a tapa.

Wikipedia really doubles down on this topic. After reading about the origins of the dish dating back to 1817 and perhaps earlier, the online encyclopedia provided a language tutorial to distinguish what Americans think of tortillas vs. our Spanish counterparts.

 

Nomenclature

The word tortilla, in European Spanish as well as in some variants of Latin American Spanish, means omelette.[8][9] As such, a potato omelette is a tortilla de patatas or papas.[10][11]

As the dish has gained international popularity, and perhaps to avoid being confused with the thin flatbread made out of wheat or maize popular in Mexico and Central America, the española or Spanish naming gained traction. As such, Spanish omelette[12][13] or Spanish tortilla[14][15] are its common names in English, while tortilla española[9][13][16][17] is formally accepted name even within the peninsula. In Spain, an omelette (made of beaten eggs fried with olive oil) is conversely known as tortilla francesa (lit. ’French omelette’).[18]

Tortilla is the diminutive form of torta, meaning ‘small pancake’.[8][9]

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California Road Trip

For years I would rhetorically ask anyone that would listen, why live in California, especially expensive Marin County, if you are not going to venture out and explore the amazing landscapes of this great and left-leaning state?

And it is not just the scenery. California has some amazing food!

One could travel the Golden State just for its tacos. Yet on a recent road trip, we limited that experience to just one place, and after two nights in Pismo Beach and a few good but forgettable meals, we found one of merit further south, Lilly’s Taqueria on Chapala Street in downtown Santa Barbara. We were checking out of our hotel in Pismo when we asked the front desk if they were familiar with any “famous” taco joints in Santa Barbara, which was our next destination, and one of the women told us about Lilly’s. I was asking out of earnestness – we really did want to eat great tacos, but I was also fishing around because I couldn’t remember the name of the better known taqueria in that well-heeled town where mountains meet the sea. I got the name when we checked into our Santa Barbara hotel later that day, when I asked the gal at the front desk what was her favorite taco joint in town. She said Lilly’s, because it is authentic and the lady that runs it makes handmade tortillas from masa, or the raw corn grain that makes maize dough that probably goes back to Aztec and Mayan times in Mexico.

As soon as the young lady at our Santa Barbara hotel told us Lilly’s, her colleague asked, you may also want to try La Super-Rica Taqueria on Milpas Street, which is known for its fish tacos, tamales and more. That was the place I was thinking of and had eaten there years earlier with my family. For a second we thought of going to La Super-Rica but would have had to get back in the car, whereas Lilly’s was a short walk. We found the place easily enough, and a no-frills taqueria it is! No Chips. No Salsa! Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? You order your food and drinks at one station and pick up your plates of tacos moments later from a stainless steel shelf with warming lights above it, 10 feet from where you place the food order. There were two condiment stands inside with the fixings, as they say. Chopped up cilantro, lime wedges, chopped white onions, and multiple salsas including one that was dark and almost mole-dark in its coloration. It looked spicy hot and it was. My traveling companion and I ordered the same thing – one chicken, one pork, each of which came with two small corn tortillas.

The food came in minutes and we were so hungry I jumped in without taking a picture! What kind of food blogger am I, you ask? No kidding.

We were only in Santa Barbara for one night. After Lilly’s we went up to a botanical garden and also walked around a city park across from the Mission that had many, many roses bushes.

blisteredonions california road trip photo 2
blisteredonions california road trip photo 3

Walking around these two venues was an excellent way to walk off the tacos, which were indeed delicious. That evening, without specific food plans, we did what tourists are supposed to do in beach towns, and walked the four blocks or so to the beach and then did another thing tourists are supposed to do when there is a pier at the beach, we walked to the end of the pier for gorgeous sunset views of Santa Barbara. From the end of the pier looking toward the land and hills spotted with beautiful homes, one can understand the allure, and the price of real estate, in this town.

The setting sun made us thirsty and hungry and we headed back. As we retreated from the pier’s end and got closer to the beach we would see what looked like several eateries clustered together on East Cabrillo Blvd., which is the street that runs north and south and fronts the coastline. We were right as there were three restaurants side-by-side and we stopped at the Japanese restaurant. The door was open and two women were at a small hostess stand, and directly behind them was the bar. I spotted two or three vodkas that I like and that was that. We would have Japanese tonight. What we didn’t know going in, is that we had stumbled upon Santa Barbara’s premier waterfront restaurant and one that served Asian-fusion cuisine and craft cocktails in a stylish setting. Oku.

blisteredonions california road trip photo 4

Oku is right there with Nobu (pick one, they are all good-to-great) and the one of a kind Raku in Las Vegas.

I would say that it is unfortunate that I apparently can no longer eat uncooked fish, as the last few times – oysters, sushi and even ceviche, made my tummy more than angry – more like a full-blown revolt, but it is not unfortunate because instead of eating raw fish, I get to eat so many cooked dishes that I previously passed over when in Japanese restaurants.

tempura soft shell crab

Take tempura for example. The vegetable mix at Oku, including Shishito Peppers, was just a fabulous starter. We had the Miso Black Cod after that, which is as good as Nobu’s, and then to go back to something crispy, the Tempura Soft Shell Crab. The vodkas and soda waters NFL were going down nicely with these excellent dishes.

We saved the best for last, and would recommend the reader travel to Santa Barbara to not only go to Oku but eat this irresistible dish and hand roll, no kidding, called Crazy Rich Asians!

blisteredonions crazy rich asians

It was the most expensive hand roll I’ve ever ordered, and worth every dime, as it is made with certified A5 Miyazaki Wagyu beef (impressive detail right?) wrapped around rice, avocado, truffle and Oku special sauce. It’s not even listed with a price, other than MP, market price of course, and the night we ate this I don’t recall the price.

Hats off to locals and veterans of the Santa Barbara food scene, Co-Owners Ted Ellis and Tina Takaya – the latter of which is the longtime owner of Opal Restaurant and Bar on State Street in Santa Barbara. Oku is a true jewel by the sea.

After a business night in Los Angeles, we made our way to the furthest point south on this trip, to Laguna Beach.

In Laguna, we went to this beach town’s most popular steakhouse with one of my sisters and one of my nephews, and ordered steaks! I have to admit I threw a bit of a hissy fit and was bitching quite loudly about the undercooked steaks, to the embarrassment of my girlfriend and sister. My nephew thought it was funny and we fist-pumped when I calmed down. Three of us order our steaks medium rare, and I was careful to ask our server if that meant rare as in purple and rubbery or medium rare, as in pinkish red on the side but tender and actually cooked. Oh no, he said, the chef cooks steaks true medium rare for guests that like their meat that way. We should have ordered them cooked ‘medium’ and had to send the steaks back. When they returned, my girlfriend’s steak was still under-cooked. At which point I snapped and asked the server, in a not-so-friendly tone, if I could go in the kitchen and show the cooks how to grill a steak. Third time was a charm. I was so clearly aggravate by the service that the restaurant comped the bottle of wine and one of the entrees. I won’t go back there and this was my third time for me at this popular eatery, but first since the pandemic.

We made it up at breakfast.

smoked salmon toast from urth caffe

Laguna is home to the iconic Urth Caffe. Well that is one of 10 of them anyway, with more likely to come based on the restaurant’s success. This European-style café offers healthy cooked and baked goods and it is my go-to spot when staying in Laguna. The Eggs Bene and Smoked Salmon Toast are heavenly. Like Oku, I could eat here several times per month.

After a week+ on the road and three nights in Laguna, we turned the car north on I-5 and beat it home back to Sonoma County.

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Four Cheese Frittata,
Or was that a Spanish Omelette?

Ask 10 Spanish grandmothers how to make a Spanish Omelette and you are most likely to get 10 different answers yet they will all have potatoes, onions and eggs and likely serve the dish room temperature cut in wedges, as a tapas.

I made this beauty late one morning when looking through my fridge I had leftover breakfast potatoes, a bowl of Swiss Chard I made shortly after it arrived at my doorstep from Farm Fresh to You, of which I cannot say enough good things (organic fruits and veggies delivered every other Friday), some other leftover vegetables and of course lots of different cheeses and eggs.

I’m calling it a Four Cheese Frittata because I did the math when I was grating the cheeses, and though I never had a Spanish grandmother, I don’t want to offend any of my Spanish friends. Or I should say both of them, in case they read this.

A frittata, of course, is a quiche without the crust. Writing the word ‘quiche’ reminds me of my final job as a baker. It was 1980 and I had just moved to Boulder from Aspen to attend college at the University of Colorado at Boulder, aka CU, and after not working the first few months to adjust to taking 4 or 5 classes after almost six years off, I went back to work as the baker in a health-food kind of restaurant that was like a café at a Good Earth, but was a standalone restaurant. I forget the name of the place but anyway I was the guy that made bread and fruit pies for lunch and dinner patrons. One day my boss told me that they pay bonuses for original recipes that get on the menu, so I made a Green Chile quiche that was delicious. It got on the menu and I got $25 plus a new assignment to make six of them daily. About two months later I was teaching someone how to make the quiche, bread and pies because I was leaving for an afternoon job in retail. Going to work as a baker at 4 in the morning then going to a 9 o’clock class was kicking my ass and something had to give. Since I had moved to Boulder to go to school, the baking gig gave.

We could ponder the origins of the frittata, starting with someone forgot to put the crust in the pan or skillet first and kept making the alleged quiche, or it was invented in the early days of gluten free eating. But why bother?

Just take whatever you have for vegetables, put a good oil in the bottom of the baking dish – or as I do a Le Creuset, oven-friendly skillet, and mixed cooked onions, potatoes and vegetables then add 4-5 whipped eggs with half & half, add salt, pepper, an herb or spice if you like (I like a pinch of tarragon and some dill), top it with one, two, three of four cheeses and bake it at 375 for about 20 minutes. Note that one of the cheeses should be classic cheddar, medium or sharp, as the yellow-orange in the cheese gives the dish that fantastic rustic brown color.

Let it cool down at least 30 minutes before serving it.

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Taco Tuesdays! Or Wednesday. Or Saturday. Whenever.

A friend called late morning on a recent Wednesday to discuss a new tagline she wanted me to write to go with a new website domain name she is establishing with her partner. My friend is a Realtor in Marin County, and actually was my agent when I bought an old bungalow in San Anselmo in June, 2000. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then!

Anyway, she asked what I was doing, and I replied: “Making taco meat, what else?” My friend is probably the best cook I know, and we never talk without talking about food, and more specifically, what we’ve put together in the kitchen lately. Naturally she asked me what’s in my taco meat recipe. So here it is. This is a “wet” taco meat, btw, and hardly needs salsa to make a perfect breakfast burrito, tacos however you like them or tostadas. Yet as we all know, when it comes to tacos, well first, the variations are infinite, we all like them the way we like them, so doctor yours up to your pleasure.

Turkey Taco Meat

Ingredients

  • Ground, dark-meat turkey, 1 lb.
  • Roasted Chile Virgin Olive Oil
  • Half yellow onion, chopped
  • 2 green onions, cut into small pieces
  • Salt and Black Pepper
  • Garlic powder
  • Cumin
  • Ground red pepper (just a dash or two)
  • Dried oregano
  • Chipotle peppers (canned, 2 small ones cut up with scissors)
  • One small can diced green chiles
  • 2/3 cup Green Enchilada Sauce

In a skillet, put the olive oil, meat and chopped yellow onions and start cooking on fairly high heat, so the meat browns and chars a bit.

Season the top of the meat with the garlic powder and black pepper. After a few minutes, turn the meat over and season the top of that side with the cumin, salt and ground red pepper. Stir the onions.

3-4 minutes later, break up the meat and turn the pink meat down on the skillet so it begins to cook and brown evenly. After 2-3 minutes add the canned chiles, green onions, cut up chipotles and green enchilada sauce.

TURN the heat OFF.

Total cook time is only 8-9 minutes.

Stir the wet ingredients well and mixed with the meat and yellow onions. Cut up some of the larger chunks of meat (a plastic spoon should do) and let the meat mixture rest for about 10 minutes.

Remove the taco meat from the stove top and on a counter, use a spook to spatula to “chop up” the meat so there are no big chunks of meat, and the meat mixture is rather even. Store in fridge uncovered until cold, then cover and reheat when ready!

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Food Dreams

As a young man in college – I took five years off after high school, I studied Spanish all three years I attended university, which is all I needed to graduate because I went year round – fall, spring, both summer school sessions and even did a three-week winter session once for three credits. Majoring in Journalism with a minor in Latin American Studies – Reagan was in charge at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the Contras were at it in Nicaragua and my thinking was that I would either end up in the State Department or CIA working in a Spanish-speaking country and use journalism as a cover. Needless to say that career didn’t pan out and the closest thing I have to it is enjoying Mexican food a couple times a month and going to my time share in Cabo every few years. Nonetheless, my breakthrough in college Spanish classes was when I had dreams in Spanish. That’s when I knew I was fluent. Emphasis on ‘was.’ Speaking a foreign language is not like riding a bicycle. At least for me. The fluency I achieved in my 20s cannot only be attributed to those college classes. It helped, a lot, that during and after high school I worked at a German bakery and three of the young guys that worked there were from three different states in Mexico. I taught them English. They taught me Spanish. The Germans spoke German to each other but English to me.

And so it is with food, after all these years, I have still never had a food dream. I was thinking about this the other day and then realized that I have had numerous experiences that were very close to having food dreams, but technically were not.

For example, one weekend afternoon some years ago, our daughter was away at a camp and my wife and I made love, long, so and tenderly, then fell asleep. Waking from a nap…evening was fast approaching, I was still in that sleepy, dream state, when the world was perfect. No place to go, nobody to be, no one to see, at peace. And I started thinking about what to make for dinner, while still in that dream state, so it felt like a dream, but wasn’t, especially since I dozed off again. Before falling back asleep, however, I took a mental inventory of what was in the fridge and pantry. When I awoke, I knew I would make a version of chicken-pot pies, one of my favorite meals.

I had the pie dough. Back then, I usually kept homemade pie dough around for two out of four weeks per month, because that’s about how long a batch would last. We loved our fruit pies but even more we liked pumpkin and sweat potato pies. And savory pies. Quiches and the like. And pot pies!

A few days earlier my wife had roasted a rabbit and there was leftover meat on the bone. I had one single, but huge, leek, and of course carrots. I minced a couple carrots and sautéed them with the sliced-up leek in olive oil and a little water toward the end before I covered the sauté pan and turned the heat off, to soften up the carrots. Just before I put the lid on, I tossed in a cut-up celery stalk. I made a butter roux, and added the half & half for the white sauce. To thin it out, I added homemade chicken stock, and for flavor, a healthy teaspoon of Dijon mustard (plus a pinch or two of tarragon – a classic pairing) and an even healthier teaspoon of rendered duck fat. As all that was resting, I sliced chunks, slivers and whatever else I could get off that rabbit bone, then mixed it all together and let it stand while I rolled out the pie dough. I have individual, deep-dish and ceramic baking dishes that are perfect for pot pies. The mixture filled three of them and I popped them in the oven. Note to readers, there are options on making pot pies and I only top mine with dough, while others make pies with tops and bottoms.

Homemade Chicken Pot Pie by cravingtasty.com
This image is from Victor’s cravingtasty.com food blog and is a traditional chicken pot pie. My baking dishes are very similar.

That dinner remains one of my favorite in memory and I never attempted to repeat it. It was so good, and this sounds ironic, I haven’t even wanted to try to replicate it, because it was that good. Plus, if I tried to make this dish again, and was disappointed in the outcome, then I might lose this memory. Who says food cannot conjure up emotional connections?

I don’t recall what we drank that night. Yet if I had a chance to be in that moment of time again, I would open a 2020 M&C Lapierre from Morgon. A great Rhone wine with a rabbit pot pie is about as French as it gets. Julia Child would have liked this meal.

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New Orleans

I could go to New Orleans once or twice a year just to eat and listen to the music. I know, in America, that is not an original thought. In fact, a lot of people go there every year, just for that. It’s a little strange that I went most of my adult life without going to NOLA just once, then in the past 7-8 years, I’ve been five times. Plus being in New Orleans feels like you are visiting a foreign country. There is no other place like it in America, and no place with such a rich, cross-cultural history. I mean, Cajuns and Creoles live there now, thanks to the French, Spanish, English, Portuguese and Dutch pirates casting about in the early 18th Century. The oldest bar in America, Jean Lefitte’s Blacksmith Shop, founded 1740, and is there on the north end of Bourbon Street. The word “unique” was created to describe this blacksmith shop.

At this point and if you are remotely paying attention, by the third visit you know to go to Mother’s Restaurant, established in 1938 with a claim on its sign: “World’s Best Baked Ham.” For reasons unknown, I have not eaten Mother’s ham in the three or four times I have been there. Come to think of it, I know why. How can one resist the combo Po’ Boy sandwich, with oysters and shrimps, and a bowl of red beans and rice? That is what I had with my date on the recent visit, plus a platter of fried blue crabs. These little guys that are a little bigger than the palm of your hand when opened. Enjoy with fresh-squeezed lemon, vinegar, and hot sauce — man that’s eating!

Some of the other go-to places, Cochon and Emeril’s, are good options if you have the nights, but what you don’t want to miss on a visit to New Orleans is dinner at the best restaurant in town.

Located in a historic 19th century French-Creole building in New Orleans’ Central Business District, Restaurant August is a Contemporary Creole restaurant creating unique dishes with a focus on Louisiana ingredients and inspired by classical training and cooking techniques. Upon entering, you can feel the richness of the place, with original architectural details, hardwood floors, soaring columns, mahogany paneling and antique mirrors.

My first father-in-law had a saying about restaurants: “You can’t eat ambiance,” meaning, the only thing that counts when eating out is the food on your plate. While that is largely true, the right ambiance can generate an appetite for sophisticated food, wine, company and conversation. August does that for me.

The first time I ate there, three or four years ago, I was traveling with one of my subcontractors and it was a real estate conference. We were there to have fun together, eat and drink too much, and prospect for new business. It’s always a winning combination. Anyway, I had reservations for four at the restaurant featured in this post, but only my friend and I were going to dinner. When I go to a new city, I research the best restaurants in town and make reservations in advance. If I am going for business, especially a conference, I make the reservation for a couple extra, in case someone, or a pair, wants to join in the dining experience. Thus, I had two extra seats at my table, and a primetime reservation, 7:30. I was sitting in the lobby of the hotel near the Concierge desk, reading a newspaper, when a hotel guest was going over dinner reservation options with the Concierge on duty. Nothing was available at the top three or four restaurants in town. I could tell by listening that the lady putting the Concierge to work was a food aficionado. She dressed well, late 50s, put together, attractive enough, and was determined to land a fine meal that night in New Orleans. I could hear the Concierge on the phone, then speaking to the lady.

“No ma’am, nothing is available at any of these restaurants until 9:30. I’m sorry.”

I walked up to the guest and Concierge, and said:
“Excuse me ma’am but I have a reservation for four at August, 7:30 this evening, and only my marketing partner and I are going. We are both straight men, and neither of us are ax murderers. In fact, we don’t even own axes. Would you and I presume, a friend, partner or spouse that you are traveling with, like to join us?”

Her facial reaction exhibited surprise, pleasure and a little fear, all at once.

She smiled and said:

“That is a lovely offer. If you don’t mind, may I ask my husband? I think he is in the bar next door. If you can wait here a minute I will be right back.”

And so this couple from Santa Fe, New Mexico, joined us for dinner that night. The gentleman was in his 60s and in good shape. It’s fair to assume they were rich, as they had been spending some time at their home in the Hamptons and the lady wanted a splendid meal in New Orleans before they flew, private jet, back to New Mexico. They were in NOLA for only that night and my reservation was their good karma. I can’t remember their names right now and would not publish them if I did, but we had a fine time.

After introductions, which included my friend and me sharing our enthusiasm for our visit earlier that day to the World War II museum, our gentlemen guest said:

“If it is ok with you fellas, I’d like to propose that we split the tab on dinner but I get to buy the wines.”

It was an offer we couldn’t refuse.

The first bottle came, a French Chardonnay, and it was so good that it is what my friends at Kermit Lynch call “gulpable.” Well that is more or less what my friend did, knocking back the first glass in very short order, perhaps just under 5 minutes. Upon which he exclaimed:
“Damn, that’s the best white wine I have ever had!”

“Well good,” said our new friend and wine host, “because the bottle cost almost $400.”

I was in mid-sip and I strongly resisted the urge to spit my wine out in a laughing fit. As much laughter that there had been in the previous two days and nights, this was the funniest thing I heard in months. That night, with four bottles of wine shared between the four of us along with seven menu items from the kitchen (the other three were all red and equally good), was easily one of the best evenings of my life.

On this recent visit, we started with Scallops and snap peas, and a nice French Chablis. New friends from Barcelona, Cristina and Ernesto, joined us. They are lovely people, she, I think in her late 40s while he is early 50s. Maybe they are both in their early 50s. Good looking and successful in business (her commercial real estate, him the Chairman of Toyota Europe – a small job!), we had the sense we were dining with European, and in this case, Spanish, Aristocrats. Not that we were in awe of them, or that they were pompous. No, not at all. We were all equals and our children are of similar ages… five between the four of us and all in their 20s.

For a second dish we had seared duck breast on creamy grits. Our foursome had been to a cocktail reception before dinner and had knocked back a few cocktails, so we held off on ordering a second bottle of wine. But the glaze with the duck mandated that I have something to drink with it, so I had a glass of a French burgundy. Both dishes were delicious. It was satisfying when Ernesto said to me: “You know Gary we have been here (New Orleans) for four days and the food has been good, but not great, and the portions very large. This was just right. Elegant, delicious.”

It was fun night and with people that I will remember now, as I think they are new friends and that we will visit them in Barcelona. Charming. That is the word for Cristina and Ernesto. They are charming people. And at the moment, we are all living charmed lives.

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El Brinquito

The day I moved into the new house I built, September 18, I took the moving crew to lunch. The owner of the moving company, Kirk, was a long-time golf partner at San Geronimo back in Marin. I don’t think we ever intentionally made plans to tee off together at the first hole – we were just part of the afternoon crowd of self-employed men that did our work in the morning and early afternoon and by 3 pm we could be on the golf course. Sometimes Kirk, Vince, Don and I would start on the first hole, and sometimes we’d catch each other on the fourth green and fifth tee box, then play in together. Nothing was planned. Just show up and play. That was an easy time in my life. Marriage was good, daughter was in school and happy, I made a lot of money, seemingly easily, though I know I worked my ass off and over many hours, week in and week out. San Geronimo is closed now. County of Marin’s doing. They think we needed more parkland. We fought a good fight to keep it open as a golf course, but failed. Kirk moved me from San Anselmo to Santa Rosa October 26, 2019, so I called him to move me from the rental on Hemlock Street to the new house on Crestview.

Around noon Kirk said the boys were hungry and asked where a good lunch spot is. I told him there was a Panera and Pollo Loco down at the end of Hopper by the freeway and he said no, we only eat good, authentic Mexican food when we work. I said ok and started thinking about the two good Mexican places I have been to since moving here. One is off Mendocino Avenue to the east of College – I don’t know the name of the street but it is on the way to Draftech, where I got all my blueprints done for construction, and more recently, to make large images of my photography and mount them on foam-core board. My house is largely decorated by photos I have taken during our travels, to Spain, Italy, Canada, the Caribbean, and Australia. I even have a photo of New York City taken from the Brooklyn Bridge, and one from Upstate New York in the country. A common thread among the images is that they feature water, including the NYC shot with the East River near the southern tip of Manhattan. The idea is to replace them every few years with new photos from new places I have been.

The other place is between PBK (Premiere Bath & Kitchen) where I bought all my kitchen appliances and most of my lights, mirrors and bathroom fixtures, and ProSource, where I bought my cabinets and hardwood flooring material. It’s on Piner off of Cleveland but at the time the boys wanted lunch I couldn’t exactly explain how to get there so I drove there with them following. I wasn’t that hungry but thought it was a nice gesture to buy them lunch. We got there just before the lunch crowd, thankfully, because it would have taken a lot longer to get our food. You know it’s a good Mexican place when it fills up by locals – mostly Latinos, Latinas and construction workers. I had eaten there once some months earlier. As we got out of the vehicles I saw the sign and name of the restaurant, El Brinquito. Kirk speaks Spanish fluently, after all those years running a moving company with Hispanic labor, and I asked him what El Brinquito meant. He didn’t know so he asked his two co-workers. One was a stout man of enormous strength – probably my height around 5’8” but weighed close to 220 and didn’t look fat. He was from Michoacán, which is just west of Mexico City with a lovely coastline on the Pacific. The other fella was a large man, over 6 feet and probably 240. A little on the chunky side but he sure could lift heavy stuff, He was from Zacatecas, a mountainous state in the Northwest of Mexico where one of the guys was from when I worked in the bakery in Tustin when I was a teenager.

I’m not sure which one of them told Kirk that El Brinquito roughly translates into “the borderland,” but when Kirk told me the name of the restaurant I was immediately struck by its name – both charming and a little on the adventurous side, and also what it meant to me at this stage of my life, and the coincidence – or maybe it wasn’t, that we would go there for lunch on the day I moved into my new house. Santa Rosa is a bit of a borderland to me, well away from what I know in terms of Marin, San Francisco, the East Bay, and certainly Silicon Valley where I started my career and worked professionally more than any other submarket in the Bay Area since starting my consulting practice in 1998. Perhaps more significant than the physical place, and finding myself now in Santa Rosa, is how I felt about the phrase, the borderland. My life seems to be at the borderland – no longer young, now quite old, no longer married and a family man, but making new friends and completely charmed and in love with this lady I am seeing, no longer grinding away and working full-time as a writer, marketing and public relations consultant, and toying with the idea of a “second act” career wise, which I put into quotations because if I do something else professionally or semi-pro, like building custom homes or pouring wine to tourists at a local winery on weekends, this next “career move” would really be the 7th, 8th or maybe 9th way I have earned money since I was a teenager.

So I find myself at this new place and stage in life, perhaps typical for a man in his mid-60s, single or otherwise. Though maybe not, as I have not approached life in too traditional of a fashion or time sequence to date, so why start now? El Brinquito, my borderland, I embrace you.