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Rethinking Pinot Noir

Had this complex wine varietal actually slipped from my consciousness? Kinda sorta. I haven’t been drinking much of it lately. I was telling a friend that seven or eight years ago, if you asked me my favorite varietal, it would have been Pinot Noir. Before that, going 15 years back, it was Zinfandel. Now I seem to be firmly in Rose’s camp in the summer and bold red blends, or the fancier term for a blend, cuvee, more often than not. Now that the weather has turned cold, I’m making “big” meat-based food with sauces for dinner half the week, and I need wines that hold their own with the food. Tonight, for example, I’m doing a bolognase with freshly steamed fennel, sauted green pepper and garlic with an infused olive oil and leftover meatloaf (lamb, turkey, ground chuck, Italian-seasoned ground pork) in a tomato sauch with Marsala wine, which will be poured over mushroom raviolis swimming in a black truffle tomato sauce and topped with Mozzarella. For good measure, I’ll top the bolognase with freshly grated, 10-year-old hard parmesan after smothering the raviolis with the meat and vegetables. I haven’t gone through the cellar yet to pick the wine for tonight, but odds are on a red blend.

Anyway, back to Pinot Noir. I had lunch this past week with a fellow North Coast Hobo (that’s another story, another day) and we were talking about wine but not drinking it. Plain water with Chinese food was not fodder for a wine conversation, per se, but he was telling me that he had taken a viticulture class at the local JC to learn about growing grapes, because he and his wife had recently bought a property that included four acres of vineyard – along with their new home, and he took the class so he could communicate intelligently with the farmer managing his vineyard.

My new friend’s vineyard has Chardonnay grapes but the conversation shifted to Pinot Noir, and my new friend expressed his displeasure at most of the Pinot’s on the market today. Mind you, dear reader, we live in Sonoma County, with many micro-climates, some of which are either good for Pinot, great for Pinot or exceptional for the delicate wine. My friend started to say how they taste to his palate and paused in mid-sentence to find the word, when he said it. “They just taste so…….raw, to me” he said, adding: “I don’t know how to describe wine like the wine writers and Sommeliers do.” Neither do I.

Coincidentally two days later I got an email from one of the local Pinot Noir makers, Black Kite, offering some holiday specials, with the only thing being special was the free shipping. In the past when I have purchased this excellent wine I would just go pick it up, as it is right up the road from me. But what the heck the shipping was included and I bought a six-pack that included Anderson Valley Pinots from 2016 and 2018, for $300.

With the knowledge that my Black Kite would be replenished this week, I grabbed a 2018 Gap’s Crown Vineyard bottle that was from an estate vineyard in the Sonoma Coast Appellation. This is an AVA (American Viticultural Area) that encompasses more than 500,000 acres – mostly along the Pacific Coastline, and extends from San Pablo Bay (an off-shoot of the San Francisco Bay) to the border north of Sonoma County at Mendocino County. The appellation is known for its cool climate and high rainfall relative to other parts of Sonoma County, and given the size of the county, it has no fewer than eight sub-regions in the AVA. For wine nerds, I will spell them out:

  • Chalk Hill AVA
  • Fort Ross-Seaview AVA
  • Green Valley of Russian River Valley AVA
  • Los Carneros AVA
  • Northern Sonoma AVA
  • Petaluma Gap AVA
  • Russian River AVA
  • Sonoma River AVA

Farmers must appreciate this post!

The Black Kite Pinot paired perfectly with last night’s dinner, and the wine was absolutely declious. Dinner was simple and classic comfort food after a day of hard and very cold rain: baked potatoes with butter, finely diced red onion, sour cream and dried parsley; chicken wings (all flats) that I had brined five hours and then seasoned with garlic powder, sage, paprika, black pepper and rosemary, and Sicilian (oven) roasted broccoli (tossed first with olive oil, truffle salt, red pepper flakes) and when the broccoli was fully roasted, I clustered the vegetables in the middle of the baking dish and drizzled fresh-squeezed lemon juice and then topped the veggies with grated parmesan-pecorino.

The food and wine was so good it led to music played loudly (Christie McVee singing You Make Loving Fun – Fleetwood Mac) and a little dancing. Then we cleaned up the kitchen and retreated to watch the 2004 movie and much revered, Sideways, which is a lot of things but in the category of wine, it elevated Pinot Noir to stardom while in the name of unitended consequences, led to the tanking of wine sales for more humble varietals, namely Merlot.

At about 56 or 57 minutes into the movie, there was the ah-ha moment about Pinot Noir, and the essence of this wine varietal was more than aptly described by Paul Giammati’s character in the movie.

Maya, played by Virginia Madsen, asks:
“Can I ask you a personal question, Miles? Why are you so into Pinot?”

Miles answered:

“It’s a hard grape to grow. It’s thin skinned and temperamental. It ripens early.

It’s not a survivor like Cabernet, which can just grow anywhere and ah, thrive even when it’s neglected.
No. Pinot needs constant care and attention.

In fact in can only grow in these really specific, little tucked away corners of the world.

Only the most patient, and nurturing of growers can do it, really.

Only if somebody really takes the time to understand Pinot’s potential, they can then coax it into its fullest expression.

And then its flavors are the most haunting, and brilliant, and thrilling, and subtle and……they are the most ancient on the planet.

I mean Cabernets can be powerful and exhalting too but they seem prosaic by comparison.”

Wow!
Hats off to writers!

For the record the writers were Jim Taylor and Alexander Payne, the latter of which also directed the movie. In case you don’t recall what prosaic means, it was not a flattering word choice by Miles, because it means “lacking poetic beauty.”

Get over it, Cab lovers.

Going forward, I might be a little picky about which Pinot Noir I buy and drink, but after last night, it is firmly back in the rotation.

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The Prisoner (wine)

The first time I drank The Prisoner, a red blend wine from Northern California, was about 10 years ago with friend Tom S. in Sacramento where he lives. I was there on business and we met at an Italian place in Roseville. The wine was impactful, different, really good and memorable. The Prisoner has in fact gained ‘cult’ status among many wine aficionados since it emerged on the wine scene about two decades ago. The wine was embraced by regular wine drinkers as well as critics for its bold new interpretation of what a California red blend could be. The wine blend changes by the year and harvest but is consistently comprised of Zinfandel, Cabernet Sauvignon, Petite Sirah, Syrah and Charbono. Rutherford-born winemaker Dave Phinney launched the brand, now based in Oakville, in 2000. Given Phinney’s Napa Valley orientation, the wine drinks “big” and features that signature, fruit-forward style that Napa is famous for.

Of course the name, as well as the label, is pretty unforgetable too.

From its website, The Prisoner Wine Company’s “brand name and flagship label were inspired by an etching titled Le Petit Prisonnier by 19th century Spanish artist Francisco Goya. Its subtitle translates to “the custody is as barbaric as the crime”. The sketch is part of Goya’s series The Disasters of War, created as a visual protest to the injustice and brutality of the Spanish War of Independence in 1808. From our founding, The Prisoner Wine Company has stood against oppression while embracing creativity. Fighting injustices in our society, especially those tied to our prison and policing systems, is indelibly etched into our identity and a focus of our commitment as an organization. At The Prisoner, we know that the problems in the U.S. prison system are ingrained, nuanced, and seemingly intractable. We also believe that change can happen and that it starts with conversation, collaboration, and creativity.”

That’s some pretty deep shit for a wine. But hey, it’s your life, your wine, etc., do your thing.

Anyway back in the restaurant with Tom – I had veal saltimbocca, the classic Roman dish made with proscuitto as well as the veal, and a butter sauce of light red wine. The most memorbable part of the evening, however, was not the food, The Prisoner or great company, it was something Tom said, and last night’s dinner reminded me of this moment in time – funny how a wine can do that. Our server that evening was somewhere between super-cute and gorgeous; late 20s, maybe 30. Here’s two average-looking and married white guys with “dad bods” in their mid-50s and the young lady was the kind of pretty that you just couldn’t ignore, and even as a pair of respectful gentlemen, we naturally compared notes on our server’s good fortune – her looks.

At which point Tom said: “Yeah but we’re invisible to her.”

It was funny as hell, and so accurate.

My other good Tom friend, Tommy R., brought a bottle of The Prisoner over for my cellar on one of his recent visits (which normally entails eating and drinking in Healdsburg), and last night knowing I was going to do a meat feed of tangy barbecued ribs that were leftovers from a house party I had catered earlier this summer (and they held up extremely well, frozen), I busted out The Prisoner (2019).

Don’t get me wrong, the wine was delicious, and the pairing excellent with the ribs, which I jazzed up with some Korean BBQ sauce and also poured a little of the wine in the bottom of the baking dish so they wouldn’t dry out in the heating process. Yet what struck me about drinking the wine was how unremarkable it was. It also reminded me something JP said at a wine tasting I was doing at Lambert Bridge (JP is the in-estate Sommelier) when we were talking about sparkling wines and Champagne – even though we were not drinking that varietal and for context, the discussion was about wine marketing and the evolution of Americans’ embrace of wine drinking. Someone in our group brought up Veuve Clicquot as an example of moderately high-priced Champagne mediocrity that managed to get a fan base, and keep it, years ago. I know because when I was first married, it’s what my then wife and I drank on special occassions, some 30 years ago now. JP agreed with the analogy as, if memory serves, we went into a tasting of LB’s Crane Creek Cuvee.

The Prisoner wine experience I had this weekend speaks more to my own changes in taste, as again, the wine was delicious and there’s a place for it in your wine rack. At nearly 50 bucks, however, it’s too expensive for a Tuesday night wine but would I open it with friends at my house when I make a home-made ‘gravy’ to go over bowls of creamy polenta and Sicilian-roasted broccoli? Probably not. I’d go for something I got from Kermit Lynch, a (red) Bandol perhaps, or maybe something local, like Lambert Bridge’s Malbec, or even a Petit Sirah that Portalupi makes up in Mendocino County, and save The Prisoner for a Thursday night with delivered pizza.

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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.

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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.