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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
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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.

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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.

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San Francisco

We spent the Christmas holiday doing local fun things, making food and sometimes eating out with mixed results on both fronts. The highlights, however, were clearly the roasted duck legs braised with mixed vegetables on Christmas Eve, and the tailgate picnic from the back of my Volvo in the parking lot of Indian Springs Resort in Calistoga on New Years Eve. I have been going to Indian Springs, aka “the World’s Biggest Hot Tub,” since the early 2000s and usually around my birthday in February. We have tried the resort in spring and early summer and it’s only worth a winter-time visit when the hot mineral water can be truly appreciated. This time we just booked massages and bought day passes for the pool. It was a glorious winter day – not a cloud in the sky and 43 degrees, and it was the final day of the year.

On the way in to town for our late morning massages at the resort, we stopped by Buster’s to pick up grilled St. Louis ribs and BBQ chicken with sides of coleslaw and potato salad. After some pool time and massages, we went to the parking lot and ate the meat and sides room temperature. Messy and delicious! The greatest disappointment was the Prime Rib on Christmas. I made it right, and it was a great cut of meat, but for the money, time and trouble I would just as well do with grilling Snake River ribeye’s on the Weber, with charcoal and mesquite wood. The meat cooks all the way through on both sides and there are no leftovers. I made a pretty good ribeye hash last night, however, with the leftovers after working for 30 minutes or so defatting the two-bone rib roast. I got the recipe from Mark Bittman in his book, How to Cook Everything. It’s one of the most useful cookbooks on the market, in my opinion.

The most fun meal of the holiday was at Ristorante Milano on Pacific Avenue in the Russian Hill neighborhood of old San Francisco. We went in to the city for a night a couple days after Christmas, on a Monday, when most of the go-to restaurants were closed. Yet we scored with Milano, a place that our cocktail server recommended when we went to the grand Fairmont Hotel at the top of the hill where California and Powell cross. I thought it was a good idea to ask a local where she would go for Italian and she recommended two spots, both in Russian Hill, and booked us a table at Milano, which is presumably owned by a man from Milan, Italy. The owner was certainly Italian and had the restaurant for 32 years, all in the same location.

The dining room was small, intimate, and could only seat 24 people or so with the 8-9 tables in the place. We were seated at a two-top in the middle of what amounts to a row of tables, adjacent to the kitchen. It’s the kind of place you find in big cities where the rents are expensive and the tables close enough to one another that it is impossible not to hear the conversations going on at the next table. In such a case I am sometimes tempted to say things to my dining partner like, “do you think we should hit the bank in full daylight or take out the Brinks truck when it arrives for pick up.” I wonder if I would get a knock on the door the next day. But no point in getting people worked up needlessly so I refrain and make polite talk, avoiding politics and pornography. Interesting grouping, those two subjects, aren’t they?

Anyway we checked the wine list and quickly selected a Tenuta Di Arcento, a 2019 Classic Chianti. The wine was delicious though it was colder than it should be. I held it in my hands for minutes trying to get it to a warmer temperature. As we looked at the menu – playing tourists for a day, both of us had had fish and chips and fish tacos at Fisherman’s Wharf in the afternoon and weren’t starving, yet did want bowls of pasta and roasted or steamed vegetables, I noted the music, which was horn-based and I don’t know how to describe the genre, but did, saying it sounds like music in a Woody Allen movie. Clarinet for sure. You know the sound. Before we ordered food a group of six were seated next to us and they were an eclectic group, featuring a man that could have been a commercial real estate broker or homebuilder, seemingly his wife, who was dressed in nice clothing that had a whiff of hippy to it that might have been purchased at an interesting and very high-end second-hand store. Both Caucasian and north of 55 easily. There was a young white man, 30ish, and a young Asian woman in her late 20s. They might have been a couple – he, the son of the older white couple and his Asian girlfriend. Then there were two Asian woman, one attractive and late 40s or early 50s and the other even more attractive and late 30s. The older one might have been the young Asian woman’s mother, and the other a family friend. They were all clearly close and enjoyed each other and it reminded me that we were in a real city where diversity is commonplace, unlike the suburbs and hinterlands where ethnic groups tend to stay close to their respective tribes. Even so, the blending of people and ages contributed to the Woody Allen theme… it is something that you might see in one of his movies, most if not all of which are very urban and urbane in terms of the movie set. Also, his movies tend to center on relationships, and interesting ones at that, with complexities, nuances, perhaps a little controversy, sexuality…. all the good stuff!

Just before ordering pasta (I had the spaghetti with lamb meatballs while my date went with a pasta and mushrooms dish with ground pork and we shared a plate of perfectly cooked mixed vegetables of broccoli rabe, asparagus, zucchini and peppers), two young women were seated at the two-top next to us. It wasn’t long before the one next to me addressed my date and said, accurately, that she had beautiful hazel eyes. That got the conversation going. The young ladies were tech worker colleagues from a previous company. The gal on the bench seating, opposite of me and next to my date, was a cute blonde, looking straight out of the Midwest, Iowa or Wisconsin maybe. We’ll call her Alexa (not her real name). The friendlier and more talkative of the two – Kimberly (not her real name), was also attractive but in a different way. She had a great personality and was enthusiastic about life, and also a food nut with a blog, I think. She certainly took photos of all the plates their table received. Kimberly asked about our Chianti, which we fully endorsed, so I asked one of the waiters to bring over a couple of wine glasses so they could taste it. He more or less ignored me and moments later the proprietor showed up and with his back to my date and I, took the wine order from our new young friends. I guess he needs to hustle up more wine sales. Regardless they ordered the same bottle and when served, the four of us raised our glasses and toasted the New Year.

Plates of food arrived at both tables and the conversation heated up as if we had planned to meet at the restaurant and catch up on our lives. On the other side of us… the urbane six-top, they were getting louder and more jovial as food and wine was consumed. All in good fun. We were out in a crowded tiny restaurant and just living life!

I can’t say that the conversation between us and Kimberly/Alexa was getting flirty but was getting warmer and more familiar, when my date took a leave from the table for the restroom. It was then that Kimberly asked for one of my business cards. I answered that I would be happy to give her one if my date did not object. When my date returned to the table I asked in a low voice if she would object if Kimberly got one of my cards, and rather than reply to me she announced to Kimberly that it wouldn’t be a problem and said something else that I don’t remember, but Kimberly’s reply was a little defensive, saying “oh don’t you worry you are the queen bee and besides, he lives in Santa Rosa.” Santa Rosa! I wondered if the implication was that I resided in a farming community or some other version of “hick town” or that I was merely geographically unfriendly (GU to players!) and that side visits ostensibly for romance would not be possible when you are separated by 55 miles and have to cross a bridge (the Golden Gate!) to connect.

Oh the weakness of the male mind, in this case, mine, when that little exchange allowed me to enter the realm of fantasy and think, for a moment, that I was about to end up in a foursome in which not a single golf ball is involved! Me and the three lovely ladies.

It was about then that I had the thought, and mumbled: “We are in a Woody Allen movie.”

All three of the women looked at me and asked: “What did you say?”

But not in a disbelieving way…they simply had not heard me.

“Nothing,” I said. “The music in this place just reminds me of a Woody Allen movie.”

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Las Vegas

This post was inspired by my review in the survey requested by Momofuko after our meal there. The restaurant is in the Cosmopolitan Hotel. I gave it four out of five starts for overall experience, three for ambience, 5 for service, and four for the food, which was a tad generous. If I had the option to give it a 3.5 I would have.

Here is what I wrote: “Server Danielle was terrific. I like the dining room and it is very pretty. The views of the city-scape were stunning. It was just too loud for my tastes. The food was pretty good, not great. The sauce on the Bronzini was too heavy for such a light, white fish. While it was tasty, it overwhelmed the fish. I like a simpler sauce for this wonderful fish. The endive salad was absolutely fabulous. Sunchokes good, not great, grilled lamb chops good, not great.

As I wrote the review I couldn’t help but recall the number of times and quality of the whole grilled Bronzini we had during our six-night stay in Riccione on the Adriatic “Riviera” in Italy, summer of 2018. Riccione is about 10 miles south of Rimini. We went there after five nights in Rome to hang out and relax, like part of a long vacation should be, especially if you are in between Rome for five nights and Florence for four nights – both intense city experiences.

We had the Bronzini at least twice while in Riccione. The notion that we were in a seaside resort probably created the perception that the fish was fresher, local. But it’s how it was prepared that made the difference. It definitely tasted grilled, lightly charred, and it certainly didn’t have much sauce on it. In fact I don’t remember anything more than a drizzle of olive oil, salt, and a squeeze or two of lemon. Let the fish shine! And it did. Indeed it did.

Momofuko is a really good restaurant and worth going if you are in Las Vegas. Better yet, make a point of visiting a seaside resort on the Adriatic and order the Bronzini. You won’t be disappointed.

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Crispy Polenta

One of the few things in life better than creamy polenta is crispy polenta. Both delicious, the latter just looks good to eat. Golden brown, crispy on the outside, cream inside, it really dresses up a plate and goes with just about any kind of sauce, but my go to favorite is an Italian red, or spaghetti sauce. If you are Italian, it is simply, gravy. It also pairs beautifully with Green Chile (made with pork shoulder and butt) or regular, red Chile. We had it the other night with a bowl of Green Chile.

I started making polenta in the early 1990s, when it first started trending in America. Or at least in my world it did. I don’t recall but I probably came across it at an Il Fornaio or other Italian eatery. In its creamy form, it instantly spoke to my palette. Creamy, with butter and cheese, it was better than mashed potatoes, with its deeper, corn flavor, and more suited for dinner than say, grits, which I prefer with breakfast. However, and to contradict myself, serve me a bowl of shrimp and grits for lunch or dinner in New Orleans and watch it disappear!

I made creamy polenta for a ladies’ luncheon in what must have been 1991, maybe 1992. The three years from 1990 to April 13, 1993, are something of a blur to me. That was another big life transition, post-divorce from #2. The lucrative sales job I had in the mid-late 90s had evaporated with the 1990 recession and I found myself doing odd jobs. Bartending, neighborhood handyman/labor work, some freelance writing. Whatever I could to make rent. I met the co-founder of Cisco Systems through my volunteer work at the local Humane Society, Sandy Lerner. She was a board member of the Society. We were similar in age and almost attracted to each other. I know our minds were attracted to each other. When I shared my love of cooking with her, she invited me to her home to cook for some of her friends. There were 6, 7, or 8 women and the luncheon went well. The food was a hit.

A day or two later I was on the phone with my mom, a very Italian women, when I told her about the luncheon. She naturally asked, what did you make? I said: “Grilled chicken seasoned with oregano, creamy polenta, red bell peppers sautéed in olive oil and garlic, and steamed broccolini drizzled with lemon-infused olive oil and red pepper flake.”

My mother was aghast!

“What?” She said. “You made polenta for a group of affluent women? Polenta is peasant food, for poor people,” she said excitedly. And my mother rarely got animated. But she was then, on the phone with me, 375 miles apart.

Mom went on to explain that polenta was a staple for Italian families that often could not afford meat. Make a big batch of polenta and cover it with red sauce. It’s a meal. I get it. I tried countering her, without success, which polenta had become popular in high-end restaurants and the chefs were serving it with a variety of main courses in innovative ways.

By the mid-90s and after cooking with polenta for several years, one of my favorite meals to make for a gathering became a Southwestern-style Thanksgiving. I had gone to Santa Fe and took a cooking class. I started giving the big bird a Southwestern spice rub, stuffing it with onions, lemons, limes, herbs and olive oil, then putting it on the Barby. Served with creamy polenta, sautéed Poblano peppers, fried tomatillos and a Caesar salad, it’s a fine meal.  

To make crispy polenta, first you have to make a batch of the creamy stuff. Enjoy a meal with creamy polenta and the crispy becomes a great dish several days later.

Dried polenta, sold in one pound or three pound bags, is found in most grocery stores. I see tubes of pre-made polenta in some grocery stores but have never bought one. Just make this from scratch ok!

Creamy Polenta

Ingredients

  • Polenta, just under one cup
  • Salt, about one teaspoon
  • Water, just over three cups
  • Butter, half of one stick
  • Cheese, almost one cup, grated

A note on cheese: you can use any non-pungent cheese though the best are combinations, such as Jack and Parma, Manchengo and Parma, Gruyere (ok almost pungent), Havarti, Cheddar of course, and even that pre-blended Mexican cheese sold in stores.

In a non-stick, 2-3 quart pot, heat the water on medium. When it is warm, not boiling, stir in the polenta and salt. It is best to use a wooden spoon. Have the bowl you plan to put the leftover in at the ready. I use an 8 inch, somewhat shallow soup, or large (individual) salad, bowl.

Once the polenta starts getting hot, and near bubbling, add the butter. Give it a stir and turn the heat off, and put the lid on the pot. Let it sit for 10 or more minutes, and about 5 minutes before you want to serve the creamy polenta. Whoever coined the phrase, “comfort food,” may have done so after a bowl of this food.

Turning the polenta off and leaving it unattended may be sacrilege to some veteran polenta makers, as a traditional way of making polenta is to stir it constantly. I did it that way the first couple of years I made the dish, until I realized I can’t make the rest of the meal if I am stuck at one station. By turning the heat off and covering the pot, it allows the polenta to develop without evaporating any water, and hence, keeping it creamy.

When 5 minutes from serving, take the lid off, turn the heat back to medium and add the shredded cheese. Stir somewhat constantly and it will start to bubble from the heat. Within minutes it should achieve the desired thickness, which is not runny but doesn’t “plop” when you plate the polenta. I use a regular plastic serving spoon, and the mixture is runny enough to pour into the leftover bowl for the creamy polenta.

Have a spatula handy for this task so you can get all the polenta out of the pot.

Do this immediately after plating the creamy polenta!

If you don’t, it becomes like concrete in the pot. You will still be able to repurpose the polenta, but not into pretty wedges of crispy polenta.

Crispy Polenta

  • Cool the leftover in the fridge and once cool, cover it with plastic wrap. When ready to make crispy, loosen the plastic wrap and turn the bowl upside down, over counter space. The polenta should drop out in one whole piece – and 8 inch “pie.”
  • Pre-heat oven to 450.
  • Drizzle a generous amount of olive oil on top of the polenta and smear it around. I use a corner of a paper towel. Then slice the polenta into wedges.
  • Use the same paper towel section and smear oil on an oven-friendly skillet. Cast iron is best. I use a Le Creuset, of course.
  • Place the wedges in the skillet and make sure they don’t touch. Put the skillet in the oven. Cook for 45-50 minutes or until golden brown.
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Turkey Chiliquilas

Throughout the year I make a chicken chiliquilas though it is mostly during the colder months of the year when I roast a whole chicken and have leftover white meat, plus the good meat off the carcass. The week after Thanksgiving, however, the Mexican casserole is made with leftover turkey, and it doesn’t matter if it is white or dark meat.

Ingredients:

  • Tostadas (or if you can’t find pre-cooked tostadas and Guerrero is the best, you can make do with a very sturdy and large bag of corn chips used in making nachos)
  • Green Chile Enchilada Sauce (one can to make a small casserole, a large can to make a bigger dish or even two cans if you make a big batch!)
  • Diced jalapenos (small can, juices drained)
  • Sliced black olives
  • Onion (one or two)
  • Optional Chiles – a couple poblano peppers or one can diced green Chiles, drained)
  • Shredded Mexican Cheese
  • Chile Roasted Olive oil or plain olive oil
  • Mexican Oregano
  • Cumin
  • Garlic Powder
  • Salt & Pepper
  • Deep Casserole Pan
  • Optional can of white beans, drained and rinsed thoroughly with water.
  • Sour Cream, for serving

First, shred the turkey or chicken into bite-size pieces.

Turn oven on at 385.

In a 2-3 quart pot, preferably non-stick, put in 3 tablespoons of oil and heat skillet for a minute, then added the chopped onions and sauté for a few minutes. Add the Chiles and spices and cook until the onions are soft.

Then add the can(s) of green Chile enchilada sauce. Stir well and once it is blended well and warm, turn the stovetop off.

For the bottom of the casserole pan, drizzle some peanut oil on the bottom (if you have it) and smear evenly with a paper towel. This is just to make it easier to remove the sections of chiliquilas and also to clean the pan.

Assembly:

Put down a layer of tostadas – covering the bottom of the pan completely.
Spread chicken or turkey evenly throughout the pan.
Using a ladle or big spoon, and cover the meat with the green Chile sauce.
Put a layer of shredded cheese over the entire casserole.

Put a second layer of tostadas on top and repeat the process… meat, sauce, cheese.

If making the dish a little heartier, mix the beans in with layers of meat.

Finish with a third layer of tostada, cover that with cheese and spread the black olives (drained beforehand) on top of the dish. For folks that like it hotter, mix in fresh, chopped jalapenos on the top as well.

Bake for 25 minutes.

If serving “immediately”, this dish must cool for a solid hour before you can cut clean sections.
This dish is better a second day.
Top served sections with sour cream, if you like sour cream.

The tequila is for drinking and has nothing to do with the recipe! For wine drinkers, I recommend a chilled Rose of any brand, though I recently had this meal with a 2019 Bucher Vineyard Rose of Pinot Noir from the Russian River in Sonoma County. Bucher is just up the road from me, in Healdsburg. With a fresh green salad, or even a Caesar, it is an excellent meal. Chiliquilas also makes a great breakfast with a fried egg over the top, and a little hot sauce.