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"content": "\u003cp>In the months prior to this post, I'd been working extra shifts at the restaurant in an effort to save up some extra cash for my holiday in Greece. The closer I got to the date of my departure, it would seem, the further I removed myself from the guests entrusted to my care. As pleasant and down right friendly as I was with my guests-- most often genuinely, I suppose the strain of too many shifts was beginning to seep trough the cracks of my smile. The people who sat at my tables were losing their status as welcomed guests, becoming now customers with open wallets whose purpose was to fund my impending trip. I started muttering unpleasantries under my minted waiter's breath over the slightest inconvenience. Perhaps that's going a bit too far, but I could feel it happening and that's not good, especially in my line of work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I began to sincerely question the wisdom of running myself into the ground physically and emotionally so that I might be more able to relax on vacation. As a front line player in the hospitality industry, I was losing the sense of what it means to be truly hospitable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then I met Dina.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1550-750718.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1550-750255.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A colleague of mine arranged for me to stay with an old family friend of his in Oia, Santorini. She had a couple of apartments to let. \"Great,\" I said, \"How much will it cost? What's her email?\" When I asked if I could take a look at her website, my friend gave me a pitying look one might offer a person who has sustained irreversible brain damage. No website. No email. What I didn't know about little old Greek ladies could have filled... I don't know what it could have filled, but it would have to have been big.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Just trust me. I spent my honeymoon there. You'll love it.\" Trust me. That's what he says to guests who tell him to select a nice Burgundy for them. Given his rather expensive taste in wine, I had the feeling Dina's place would probably suit me just fine. He made a call and arranged everything for me. \"You'll meet her in front of Restaurant 1800 on the 20th between 9:00 and 9:30 pm.\" That's all the information I had.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was exhausted when I arrived in Santorini after spending twenty sleepless--thanks to a well-meaning Philipina woman who kept poking my Ambien-drugged arm to tell me not to forget my shoes. As if I were somehow going to walk off the plane for some fresh air over Greenland-- hours wedged into three different plane seats and as many airports and taxis. I showed up at the restaurant with two equally exhausted friends in tow. As we stood in front of the restaurant, I realized that I had just come half way around the world to stay with some woman I've never met, whose accommodations I've never seen let alone received an address for, and that we were meeting her at a rather vague hour. What if she didn't show? I felt rather helpless over the situation and entirely responsible for the well being of my friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>9:00 came and went. So did 9:30. I began composing my apology to Michael and Dan, who were leaning against the wall of the restaurant, trying to smile. Where else could we stay on such short notice? As I began mentally calculating my now-plummeting credibility rating, a small woman of about 60 in a sleeveless dress came straight up to me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Michalis?\" she asked. \"Neh?\", I responded with one of the twelve Greek words I knew. It was Dina. Everything else she said to me was in Greek except \"sorry\". She was sorry for being a little late, but her explanation was completely lost on me. I didn't much care, I was just so happy to see her. She led us off into the dark streets and down about one hundred steps to our apartment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we put our bags down and settled in, Dina talked and talked. I wondered if she thought I spoke Greek because I had been able to say \"yes\" in her language. That, and the fact that my friend who made the arrangements for us was Greek. Whatever the case, it didn't really matter. I found her fascinating, even in my exhausted state. She brought out a bottle of ouzo, three glasses and some ice. It was clear that we understood each other. Words were unimportant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the morning, we were greeted again by Dina's sing song voice. She told us to have a seat, or so we gathered from her hand gestures. The sun was very bright and we were somewhat stunned at the beautiful view we had of the Caldera and surrounding little islands. She opened a large table umbrella to shade us as we sat down to breakfast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1427-780147.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1427-779525.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was expecting some bread and jam with a little coffee-- the typical European breakfast staples. Bread and jam did, in fact come out, but now how I expected...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1430-750152.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1430-749531.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dakos, a barley rusk bread from Crete arrived smeared with fresh island tomatoes of a concentrated flavor and fresh feta cheese. She'd even picked the tops off her basil plants to garnish every piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The apricot jam she made herself arrived both in a giant glass jar and inside these little cookies she had baked for us while we were sleeping...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1553-797892.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1553-797424.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rounding things out nicely were the tiropita she made-- little triangles of phyllo filled with cheese and served with Greek honey, which also accompanied the Yogurt, which is unlike any other yogurt I've tasted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1537-730471.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1537-729990.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the evenings, if she saw us sitting outside, she'd pull out an unlabeled bottle of local white wine, pour us each a glass and leave the bottle or grill us up some octopus. A little pat on the shoulder for me in the afternoon, a fresh towel at night, a cup of Greek coffee in the morning. Everything Dina did seemed to be touched with a sense of grace and humor. She was as warm as the sun on our yet-to-be-burned shoulders. The words she spoke to me weren't necessarily understood, but her meaning was always clear. \"You are most welcome.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Greeks have a word for it, but don't they seem to have a word for everything? In this case, the word is philoxenia. Philos= love, xeno= stranger. Essentially, the word means \"hospitality\" but that definition is too facile. One enters a Greek household and one is immediately offered a drink and something to eat. Taking care of a guest's wants and needs is deeply ingrained into the culture. There is a sense of generosity that seems completely unstrained. As a guest of Dina's, even though this was ultimately (and I do not mean this cynically) to be a moneyed transaction, I found her kindness was not something that was paid for. My stay with her completely refreshing in every sense of the word. I felt restored. And I am most grateful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the reasons I am grateful is that I was given a refresher course on what it means to be truly hospitable. I think that this souvenir of Santorini is much more valuable to me and my work than any t-shirt or postcard could ever be, certainly. While I'm still basking in the glow of my vacation and as-yet-unfaded tan, that sense of hospitality and warmth is easy to share. But as the tan disappears and I head into foreseeable pressures of the oncoming holiday season, I will remember Dina and how she treated me, and be able to keep smiling as I go get that side of ketchup for that woman who wants to taste about 15 different wines after she's finally settled to the fourth table she's tried on for size. She is a guest, after all.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Just trust me. I spent my honeymoon there. You'll love it.\" Trust me. That's what he says to guests who tell him to select a nice Burgundy for them. Given his rather expensive taste in wine, I had the feeling Dina's place would probably suit me just fine. He made a call and arranged everything for me. \"You'll meet her in front of Restaurant 1800 on the 20th between 9:00 and 9:30 pm.\" That's all the information I had.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was exhausted when I arrived in Santorini after spending twenty sleepless--thanks to a well-meaning Philipina woman who kept poking my Ambien-drugged arm to tell me not to forget my shoes. As if I were somehow going to walk off the plane for some fresh air over Greenland-- hours wedged into three different plane seats and as many airports and taxis. I showed up at the restaurant with two equally exhausted friends in tow. As we stood in front of the restaurant, I realized that I had just come half way around the world to stay with some woman I've never met, whose accommodations I've never seen let alone received an address for, and that we were meeting her at a rather vague hour. What if she didn't show? I felt rather helpless over the situation and entirely responsible for the well being of my friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>9:00 came and went. So did 9:30. I began composing my apology to Michael and Dan, who were leaning against the wall of the restaurant, trying to smile. Where else could we stay on such short notice? As I began mentally calculating my now-plummeting credibility rating, a small woman of about 60 in a sleeveless dress came straight up to me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Michalis?\" she asked. \"Neh?\", I responded with one of the twelve Greek words I knew. It was Dina. Everything else she said to me was in Greek except \"sorry\". She was sorry for being a little late, but her explanation was completely lost on me. I didn't much care, I was just so happy to see her. She led us off into the dark streets and down about one hundred steps to our apartment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we put our bags down and settled in, Dina talked and talked. I wondered if she thought I spoke Greek because I had been able to say \"yes\" in her language. That, and the fact that my friend who made the arrangements for us was Greek. Whatever the case, it didn't really matter. I found her fascinating, even in my exhausted state. She brought out a bottle of ouzo, three glasses and some ice. It was clear that we understood each other. Words were unimportant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the morning, we were greeted again by Dina's sing song voice. She told us to have a seat, or so we gathered from her hand gestures. The sun was very bright and we were somewhat stunned at the beautiful view we had of the Caldera and surrounding little islands. She opened a large table umbrella to shade us as we sat down to breakfast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1427-780147.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1427-779525.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was expecting some bread and jam with a little coffee-- the typical European breakfast staples. Bread and jam did, in fact come out, but now how I expected...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1430-750152.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1430-749531.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dakos, a barley rusk bread from Crete arrived smeared with fresh island tomatoes of a concentrated flavor and fresh feta cheese. She'd even picked the tops off her basil plants to garnish every piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The apricot jam she made herself arrived both in a giant glass jar and inside these little cookies she had baked for us while we were sleeping...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1553-797892.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1553-797424.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rounding things out nicely were the tiropita she made-- little triangles of phyllo filled with cheese and served with Greek honey, which also accompanied the Yogurt, which is unlike any other yogurt I've tasted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1537-730471.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/IMG_1537-729990.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the evenings, if she saw us sitting outside, she'd pull out an unlabeled bottle of local white wine, pour us each a glass and leave the bottle or grill us up some octopus. A little pat on the shoulder for me in the afternoon, a fresh towel at night, a cup of Greek coffee in the morning. Everything Dina did seemed to be touched with a sense of grace and humor. She was as warm as the sun on our yet-to-be-burned shoulders. The words she spoke to me weren't necessarily understood, but her meaning was always clear. \"You are most welcome.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Greeks have a word for it, but don't they seem to have a word for everything? In this case, the word is philoxenia. Philos= love, xeno= stranger. Essentially, the word means \"hospitality\" but that definition is too facile. One enters a Greek household and one is immediately offered a drink and something to eat. Taking care of a guest's wants and needs is deeply ingrained into the culture. There is a sense of generosity that seems completely unstrained. As a guest of Dina's, even though this was ultimately (and I do not mean this cynically) to be a moneyed transaction, I found her kindness was not something that was paid for. My stay with her completely refreshing in every sense of the word. I felt restored. And I am most grateful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the reasons I am grateful is that I was given a refresher course on what it means to be truly hospitable. I think that this souvenir of Santorini is much more valuable to me and my work than any t-shirt or postcard could ever be, certainly. While I'm still basking in the glow of my vacation and as-yet-unfaded tan, that sense of hospitality and warmth is easy to share. But as the tan disappears and I head into foreseeable pressures of the oncoming holiday season, I will remember Dina and how she treated me, and be able to keep smiling as I go get that side of ketchup for that woman who wants to taste about 15 different wines after she's finally settled to the fourth table she's tried on for size. She is a guest, after all.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>... or The Carnivore's Dilemma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/tedandshemane-707796.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/tedandshemane-707792.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Originally, I had thought to do a little post on yet another odd celebrity cookbook, this one by Ted (Cat Scratch Fever) Nugent and his wife, Shemane. I thought I might be able to write an entire piece on the cover photo alone. Or Her name. Shemane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was immediately drawn to the cover photo with its creepy magenta-red side lighting, as though the blood from an elk Ted had just shot was seeping from the carcass, onto the hood of the truck where it was tied, and over the headlamps like some macabre gel. They may have thought the light looked pretty, so they got out of the truck and had their son take a picture. Or used a self-timer. That seems a more appropriate technique given this book's subtext of self-sufficiency.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was also intrigued by the fact that, though Ted may be holding a long phallus of a rifle, Shemane holds an infinitely more sinister-looking instrument of torture. Something that might be a large hunting version of a tomato knife. And a spatula. Of course, with the spatula, she looks more the kill-it-and-griddle-it-type.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kill It & Grill It is an entertaining read, whether one agrees with Nugent's politics or not. Just take a look at an excerpt from Chapter 16: Limbrat Etouffée:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Kill tree-dwelling vermin, remove PJs, take to flame, chow down. Drive safely. It's really that simple to get a good meal of squirrel. Limbrat whackin' is truly bigfun [sic] any ol' way ya choose it-- bow and arrow, pistol, rifle, scattergun, slingshot, falconry, grenades, and my favorite, flamethrower. How can ya go wrong? Squirrels are, after all, rodents, so have fun blasting away. That there exists a season or bag-limit on the little shits is mind-boggling to say the least.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When he's not busy telling Democratic presidential candidates to either sit on or fellate his AR-15 rifles, Nugent spends a good deal of time hunting his own animal protein. He reportedly has not bought meat for decades. He hunts, he shoots, he eats what he kills. Outspoken arch-conservative or not, he is a man of strong opinions. He's caused me to take a moment and think about my own meat-eating ways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I am a carnivore. Okay, I'm an omnivore. I could never give up bacon however I might try. But I've often thought about how far removed I am from the proteins I ingest. Would I, as an eater of animal flesh, be able to hunt down and kill my dinner?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In some cases, yes. If the animal isn't cuddly. I have in the past hunted, killed, and dressed lake trout. Cold blooded animals can be offed by me, naturally, in cold blood. A chicken? I've never seen one in the wild but, though unpleasant the task might be, I think I could do it. Maybe it's that animals whose eyes are on the sides of their heads are less unpleasant to slaughter due to the fact that they cannot look at you with both eyes at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I once had a lunch date with a man who turned out to be vegan. He was very pleased with his choice of lifestyle, as one should be. Having once dated a vegan in college, I knew that, no matter how wonderful this person might be, we could never have what I would consider a normal dating life. Vegetarianism I can happily accommodate. I eat vegetarian meals quite often. But the minute someone tells me I shouldn't eat cheese or that consuming honey is morally wrong because it represents bee enslavement, I want to remark that I think narrow-bandwidth thinking and a joyless, hyper-sensitive lifestyle is morally wrong because it results in human boredom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fortunately, my lunch date was a bore, or not that cute. I can't remember. My response to him was adolescent, at best. I ordered a pork dish and started talking about how, as Americans, we needed to start taking more responsibility for the meat products we eat and, should it become necessary, I would be willing look a cow in the eye and slaughter it on the spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was perhaps the quickest lunch I've ever eaten outside a fast food restaurant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And now I realize that, though my statement to the vegan was meant to provoke, it was utterly untrue. I don't have the guts to kill any animal cute enough to name. Yet I will happily eat from its flesh if someone else has done the dirty work. I am a hypocrite, yes, but a hungry one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though I am not a fan of guns, Sean Hannity, the current war, or much of anything loved by Ted Nugent, I have to give a grudging amount of respect to anyone who puts his money where his mouth is. Or his mouth where his bow and arrow have been. He, by and large, feeds his family on what he himself kills. I go to the store and ask if the neatly packaged chops that were once part of whole animals had been humanely treated in their lifetime. Sometimes. Other times, I forget and am shamed. I am aware of my own hypocrisy. Nugent occasionally makes others aware of their own. The fact that Animal Rights activists (in this case, extremists) have issued death threats against Nugent's children is a rather delicious irony.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time you read this post, I will be roaming the island of Santorini. Perhaps I might take the time to spear my own \u003cfont>lavraki\u003c/font> and throw it on a grill. Or perhaps one might catch me beating an octopus senseless on the rocks in order to tenderize its flesh in time for dinner. I doubt it. I'll let someone with a little more animal integrity to that for me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I will be living such an aimless lifestyle for the next to weeks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Apart from the angry comments from vegans I am likely to receive as a result of this post, I am curious to know the thoughts of you out there who are experiencing the same, or similar, meat-eating moral dilemma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I'll see you in two weeks.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"description": "... or The Carnivore's Dilemma. Originally, I had thought to do a little post on yet another odd celebrity cookbook, this one by Ted (Cat Scratch Fever) Nugent and his wife, Shemane. I thought I might be able to write an entire piece on the cover photo alone. Or Her name. Shemane. I was immediately",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>... or The Carnivore's Dilemma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/tedandshemane-707796.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/tedandshemane-707792.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Originally, I had thought to do a little post on yet another odd celebrity cookbook, this one by Ted (Cat Scratch Fever) Nugent and his wife, Shemane. I thought I might be able to write an entire piece on the cover photo alone. Or Her name. Shemane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was immediately drawn to the cover photo with its creepy magenta-red side lighting, as though the blood from an elk Ted had just shot was seeping from the carcass, onto the hood of the truck where it was tied, and over the headlamps like some macabre gel. They may have thought the light looked pretty, so they got out of the truck and had their son take a picture. Or used a self-timer. That seems a more appropriate technique given this book's subtext of self-sufficiency.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was also intrigued by the fact that, though Ted may be holding a long phallus of a rifle, Shemane holds an infinitely more sinister-looking instrument of torture. Something that might be a large hunting version of a tomato knife. And a spatula. Of course, with the spatula, she looks more the kill-it-and-griddle-it-type.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kill It & Grill It is an entertaining read, whether one agrees with Nugent's politics or not. Just take a look at an excerpt from Chapter 16: Limbrat Etouffée:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Kill tree-dwelling vermin, remove PJs, take to flame, chow down. Drive safely. It's really that simple to get a good meal of squirrel. Limbrat whackin' is truly bigfun [sic] any ol' way ya choose it-- bow and arrow, pistol, rifle, scattergun, slingshot, falconry, grenades, and my favorite, flamethrower. How can ya go wrong? Squirrels are, after all, rodents, so have fun blasting away. That there exists a season or bag-limit on the little shits is mind-boggling to say the least.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When he's not busy telling Democratic presidential candidates to either sit on or fellate his AR-15 rifles, Nugent spends a good deal of time hunting his own animal protein. He reportedly has not bought meat for decades. He hunts, he shoots, he eats what he kills. Outspoken arch-conservative or not, he is a man of strong opinions. He's caused me to take a moment and think about my own meat-eating ways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I am a carnivore. Okay, I'm an omnivore. I could never give up bacon however I might try. But I've often thought about how far removed I am from the proteins I ingest. Would I, as an eater of animal flesh, be able to hunt down and kill my dinner?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In some cases, yes. If the animal isn't cuddly. I have in the past hunted, killed, and dressed lake trout. Cold blooded animals can be offed by me, naturally, in cold blood. A chicken? I've never seen one in the wild but, though unpleasant the task might be, I think I could do it. Maybe it's that animals whose eyes are on the sides of their heads are less unpleasant to slaughter due to the fact that they cannot look at you with both eyes at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I once had a lunch date with a man who turned out to be vegan. He was very pleased with his choice of lifestyle, as one should be. Having once dated a vegan in college, I knew that, no matter how wonderful this person might be, we could never have what I would consider a normal dating life. Vegetarianism I can happily accommodate. I eat vegetarian meals quite often. But the minute someone tells me I shouldn't eat cheese or that consuming honey is morally wrong because it represents bee enslavement, I want to remark that I think narrow-bandwidth thinking and a joyless, hyper-sensitive lifestyle is morally wrong because it results in human boredom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fortunately, my lunch date was a bore, or not that cute. I can't remember. My response to him was adolescent, at best. I ordered a pork dish and started talking about how, as Americans, we needed to start taking more responsibility for the meat products we eat and, should it become necessary, I would be willing look a cow in the eye and slaughter it on the spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was perhaps the quickest lunch I've ever eaten outside a fast food restaurant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And now I realize that, though my statement to the vegan was meant to provoke, it was utterly untrue. I don't have the guts to kill any animal cute enough to name. Yet I will happily eat from its flesh if someone else has done the dirty work. I am a hypocrite, yes, but a hungry one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though I am not a fan of guns, Sean Hannity, the current war, or much of anything loved by Ted Nugent, I have to give a grudging amount of respect to anyone who puts his money where his mouth is. Or his mouth where his bow and arrow have been. He, by and large, feeds his family on what he himself kills. I go to the store and ask if the neatly packaged chops that were once part of whole animals had been humanely treated in their lifetime. Sometimes. Other times, I forget and am shamed. I am aware of my own hypocrisy. Nugent occasionally makes others aware of their own. The fact that Animal Rights activists (in this case, extremists) have issued death threats against Nugent's children is a rather delicious irony.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time you read this post, I will be roaming the island of Santorini. Perhaps I might take the time to spear my own \u003cfont>lavraki\u003c/font> and throw it on a grill. Or perhaps one might catch me beating an octopus senseless on the rocks in order to tenderize its flesh in time for dinner. I doubt it. I'll let someone with a little more animal integrity to that for me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I will be living such an aimless lifestyle for the next to weeks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Apart from the angry comments from vegans I am likely to receive as a result of this post, I am curious to know the thoughts of you out there who are experiencing the same, or similar, meat-eating moral dilemma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"disqusTitle": "Valrhona: The Cultivation of Taste Seminar",
"title": "Valrhona: The Cultivation of Taste Seminar",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2eUs-ZDI/AAAAAAAAAGg/H2f3H0ewBNM/s1600-h/tainori.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2eUs-ZDI/AAAAAAAAAGg/H2f3H0ewBNM/s320/tainori.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week, I was invited to a Valrhona chocolate seminar at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in San Francisco. Since I'd never been to a chocolate seminar, let alone the Ritz, and since someone was kind enough to invite me, I decided to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I walked through the front door and into the lobby, I was greeted politely and pointed in the direction of the elevators, which took me down to the terrace on the second level. What I found there was a courtyard filled with tables piled with Valrhona information packets, cocoa pods and nibs, and perhaps the most sophisticated tent structure I've seen apart from a circus, which was what I half-seriously expected, only more tasteful. This is, after all, the Ritz-Calrton.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside the tent, I quickly found a seat near the front. I've never been one of those people comfortable sitting in the front row-- I don't want to be called upon unnecessarily-- so I took a seat in the second.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I was claiming my spot, a woman dressed in third world fabric accessorized with an equally ethnic-looking woven headband rushed in to claim her seat at the front of the nearly empty tent. \"Oh! They're playing chocolate music!\" she said to no one in particular. Since I was the only other person in her general vicinity, I thought I should respond. When I asked her what she meant by \"chocolate music\", she slowed her pace and spoke to me very carefully. \"It's music from chocolate producing countries.\" An \"of course\" was, if not spoken, implied. I thought about how other music collections, compiled solely on the basis of a common national export might sell. Boron music probably wouldn't do so well. And I didn't want to know who would be interested in guano music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At least I was clear on the day's theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While waiting for the seminar to begin, I chatted with some people I knew and then sat down to talk to my neighbor, who I didn't know-- an amateur chocolatier from Marin. When she mentioned how excited she was about her purchase of a new chocolate tempering machine, I knew I was in alien territory. \"You mean they have machines to do that?\" I asked, sadly in all seriousness. It was clear that what I knew about chocolate could fill a diaper. I've formulated opinions about chocolate in my life, to be certain-- which types and brands I prefer and why, but I've never given the art of making chocolate much thought. I knew, of course, that chocolate is derived from a pod that thrives in equatorial climates, but the rest was a complete blank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulz0Es-Y7I/AAAAAAAAAFg/Y8yJg2dbaAU/s1600-h/cocoapod.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulz0Es-Y7I/AAAAAAAAAFg/Y8yJg2dbaAU/s320/cocoapod.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fortunately, that was about to change...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the tent was filled and everyone had finally taken their seats, the audience was introduced to Pierre Costet, Valrhona's chief cacao sourcer and Vanessa Lemoine, their sensorial analysis expert. With the aid of headphones and simultaneous translators of both sexes, we were kept informed-- and entertained-- for nearly three hours.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2d0s-ZCI/AAAAAAAAAGY/cFg08NREPnM/s1600-h/spotthefrancophones.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2d0s-ZCI/AAAAAAAAAGY/cFg08NREPnM/s320/spotthefrancophones.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is entirely too much to recount for the purposes of this blog, so I will give you what I think were the highlights...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a short, dramatic re-creation, Costet, wearing his field cap and wielding a knife, took us through the process of sourcing cacao beans, after which he handed a prop burlap sack to Lemoine for analysis. Not exactly Comédie Française material, but I enjoyed the effort.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2eks-ZEI/AAAAAAAAAGo/8aY3RbULGzY/s1600-h/vanessaandwhatshisname.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2eks-ZEI/AAAAAAAAAGo/8aY3RbULGzY/s320/vanessaandwhatshisname.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After explaining the process of cacao analysis, which included extras holding up their assessments to the audience, Lemoine then handed the sack back to Costet who explained that, if the cacao was found suitable by Valrhona for making chocolate, it must then be determined if the source of the beans is stable. Stable? Equatorial countries are not typically known as stable sources of trade, whether the reasons be political instability (Ivory Coast), political hostility (Venezuela), or a proneness to uninviting weather phenomena (Malaysia). If the source is determined to be stable, Valrhona then proceeds to hammer out a deal with the new grower, opting to set prices directly rather than deal with middlemen and the fluctuations of a volatile cacao exchange. According to Valrhona, this leads to more money for the growers and, hopefully, higher wages for the laborers. In Venezuela, for example, plantation owners must pay wages competitive with those offered by the government-- they actually have to entice labor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our political correctness satisfied, we could now move on to what we all really came for, tasting chocolate...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul1Zks-ZBI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/E_WJd_ZNkgo/s1600-h/IMG_1349.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul1Zks-ZBI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/E_WJd_ZNkgo/s320/IMG_1349.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We proceeded to examine les coulisses du Grand Chocolat. A coulisse is (not surprising given the nature of the day's lecture) a theatrical term. It refers to either the wings of a stage or the place where backgrounds are stored. Lemoine was determined to set the stage, to have in place the proper background, before we began to actually taste chocolate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We were instructed to hold a series of liquids under our nose to examine its odor, which is taken directly into the nasal passage. Did I smell apple? Melon? Dog biscuit? Next, we sipped each the liquid, holding it in our mouths, which helped us detect its aroma, which we learned is information taken indirectly or post nasally. Apparently, 90% of what we think of as taste is actually aroma-- information received through the nose, not the tongue. It is little wonder then, I thought, that the French are so tasteful. Then I thought again. Aromatic would be the correct term.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>True taste is detected by the tongue. Conventional Western wisdom long kept a short list of four true taste sensations (sweet, salty, bitter, acid) and only recently allowed a fifth umami) onto the team. According to Lemoine, there are more than 1,000. We tried a sixth distinct taste (licorice). I was disappointed we didn't get to discuss this point further, but I think that might have been a bit overwhelming.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How To Taste Chocolate:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. Look at it. Is it dark or milky? Is there a sheen or a matte finish?\u003cbr>2. Hold the chocolate to your nose and take in its odor.\u003cbr>3. Break a piece between your fingers. Is there a sharp snap or is there some give? A good snap is a sign of good tempering.\u003cbr>4. Put a piece of the chocolate into your mouth and assess its texture.\u003cbr>5. Allow the chocolate to melt in your mouth. Press it against your palate with your tongue. More of the aroma will now be released. Unless there is something very wrong with you, you will begin to salivate due to the chocolate's acidity. As you wait for the tang to subside, pay special attention to the back of your tongue. Is bitterness detected? Please limit your thoughts to the chocolate, not your life. Or your neighbor.\u003cbr>6. Repeat as often as necessary.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This approach to tasting chocolate struck me as very similar to the way one approaches the tasting of wine. The information is processed in very much the same way and in the same order. Just as there are those among us who can pick out a Griotte- Chambertin in a blind wine tasting, there are people, like Lemoine, who could spot the Araguani in a crowd. Both, in their own spheres, are given the title Grand Cru. The Griotte-Chambertin is a true Grand Cru, with its own A.O.C. designation. Valrhona's \"Grand Cru\" is more of a pretention, but one that tells the public that this is serious chocolate-- chocolate identified by terroir (another allusion to wine), cacao varietal, and blending.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I must admit that a chocolate glaze poured over my brain at about the second hour. To read about the different chocolates we tasted, I am sending you over to \u003ca href=\"http://www.doriegreenspan.com/dorie_greenspan/2007/09/on-monday-when-.html\">Dorie Greenspan\u003c/a>, who took better notes on the subject than I did. She went to the seminar in New York the day prior.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All the chocolate we tasted was excellent, naturally, but the item I was most excited to try was basically chocolate detritus-- the cacao pulp. When fresh, as we tried it, the texture and flavor reminded me of a slightly underripe mango. The bean, unfermented and unroasted, was bitter and unpleasant. I wondered how anyone ever got the idea to turn this bitter little seed into something so utterly sensual and desirable as chocolate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulz0Us-Y8I/AAAAAAAAAFo/gnevsQCL7Do/s1600-h/insidepod.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulz0Us-Y8I/AAAAAAAAAFo/gnevsQCL7Do/s320/insidepod.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the three hours of lecture and tasting, I was ready to stand up and stretch my legs. There were more Valrhona-related treats to be had, prepared by Yann Duytsche (who was plugging his book, Diversiones Dulces at the event)...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul1ZEs-ZAI/AAAAAAAAAGI/V10JL5S7Bqs/s1600-h/IMG_1356.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul1ZEs-ZAI/AAAAAAAAAGI/V10JL5S7Bqs/s320/IMG_1356.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>...and Valrhona USA's Derek Poirier. A tasting of five rather playful desserts, including a cocoa nibs foam with candied asparagus, Tainori jelly with tomato and basil, and an Abinao hot chocolate with Cramique brioche and aubergine jam (my hands down favorite)...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulzn0s-Y6I/AAAAAAAAAFY/0rCYx-CyL6M/s1600-h/chocolatebomba.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulzn0s-Y6I/AAAAAAAAAFY/0rCYx-CyL6M/s320/chocolatebomba.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The confections were playful, to say the least. I was surprised at how well items like tomato and eggplant lent themselves to sweet dishes, but it all made sense to me upon the realization that they are classified as fruits. The green asparagus did nothing for me, but I enjoyed its culinary pretension.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stephane Lacroix, sommelier at the Ritz-Carlton, paired a Muscat de Beaumes de Venise with the desserts. I'm afraid I am unable to remember the other wine he chose to pair with them because I was too busy imagining asking for my own private pairing with him. Apologies. Saturated with information, having had my fill of sweets, and with unsavory thoughts now filling my head, I thought it best to leave.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All in all, it was a very fun afternoon. I learned more about chocolate-- how it is sourced and processed, and how to approach tasting it-- than I ever thought I would. Critically or not, I'll let each piece melt on my tongue, let myself salivate for a while, and think of Vanessa Lemoine, and all the growers, roasters, sourcers, sensory analysists, and chocolatiers huddled together in every bite. Maybe not every time, that would be exhausting. But sometimes. I promise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To find out more about Valrhona and their line of chocolates, please visit their website:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.valrhona.com/\">Valrhona.com\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2eUs-ZDI/AAAAAAAAAGg/H2f3H0ewBNM/s1600-h/tainori.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2eUs-ZDI/AAAAAAAAAGg/H2f3H0ewBNM/s320/tainori.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week, I was invited to a Valrhona chocolate seminar at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in San Francisco. Since I'd never been to a chocolate seminar, let alone the Ritz, and since someone was kind enough to invite me, I decided to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I walked through the front door and into the lobby, I was greeted politely and pointed in the direction of the elevators, which took me down to the terrace on the second level. What I found there was a courtyard filled with tables piled with Valrhona information packets, cocoa pods and nibs, and perhaps the most sophisticated tent structure I've seen apart from a circus, which was what I half-seriously expected, only more tasteful. This is, after all, the Ritz-Calrton.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside the tent, I quickly found a seat near the front. I've never been one of those people comfortable sitting in the front row-- I don't want to be called upon unnecessarily-- so I took a seat in the second.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I was claiming my spot, a woman dressed in third world fabric accessorized with an equally ethnic-looking woven headband rushed in to claim her seat at the front of the nearly empty tent. \"Oh! They're playing chocolate music!\" she said to no one in particular. Since I was the only other person in her general vicinity, I thought I should respond. When I asked her what she meant by \"chocolate music\", she slowed her pace and spoke to me very carefully. \"It's music from chocolate producing countries.\" An \"of course\" was, if not spoken, implied. I thought about how other music collections, compiled solely on the basis of a common national export might sell. Boron music probably wouldn't do so well. And I didn't want to know who would be interested in guano music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At least I was clear on the day's theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While waiting for the seminar to begin, I chatted with some people I knew and then sat down to talk to my neighbor, who I didn't know-- an amateur chocolatier from Marin. When she mentioned how excited she was about her purchase of a new chocolate tempering machine, I knew I was in alien territory. \"You mean they have machines to do that?\" I asked, sadly in all seriousness. It was clear that what I knew about chocolate could fill a diaper. I've formulated opinions about chocolate in my life, to be certain-- which types and brands I prefer and why, but I've never given the art of making chocolate much thought. I knew, of course, that chocolate is derived from a pod that thrives in equatorial climates, but the rest was a complete blank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulz0Es-Y7I/AAAAAAAAAFg/Y8yJg2dbaAU/s1600-h/cocoapod.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulz0Es-Y7I/AAAAAAAAAFg/Y8yJg2dbaAU/s320/cocoapod.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fortunately, that was about to change...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the tent was filled and everyone had finally taken their seats, the audience was introduced to Pierre Costet, Valrhona's chief cacao sourcer and Vanessa Lemoine, their sensorial analysis expert. With the aid of headphones and simultaneous translators of both sexes, we were kept informed-- and entertained-- for nearly three hours.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2d0s-ZCI/AAAAAAAAAGY/cFg08NREPnM/s1600-h/spotthefrancophones.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2d0s-ZCI/AAAAAAAAAGY/cFg08NREPnM/s320/spotthefrancophones.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is entirely too much to recount for the purposes of this blog, so I will give you what I think were the highlights...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a short, dramatic re-creation, Costet, wearing his field cap and wielding a knife, took us through the process of sourcing cacao beans, after which he handed a prop burlap sack to Lemoine for analysis. Not exactly Comédie Française material, but I enjoyed the effort.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2eks-ZEI/AAAAAAAAAGo/8aY3RbULGzY/s1600-h/vanessaandwhatshisname.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul2eks-ZEI/AAAAAAAAAGo/8aY3RbULGzY/s320/vanessaandwhatshisname.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After explaining the process of cacao analysis, which included extras holding up their assessments to the audience, Lemoine then handed the sack back to Costet who explained that, if the cacao was found suitable by Valrhona for making chocolate, it must then be determined if the source of the beans is stable. Stable? Equatorial countries are not typically known as stable sources of trade, whether the reasons be political instability (Ivory Coast), political hostility (Venezuela), or a proneness to uninviting weather phenomena (Malaysia). If the source is determined to be stable, Valrhona then proceeds to hammer out a deal with the new grower, opting to set prices directly rather than deal with middlemen and the fluctuations of a volatile cacao exchange. According to Valrhona, this leads to more money for the growers and, hopefully, higher wages for the laborers. In Venezuela, for example, plantation owners must pay wages competitive with those offered by the government-- they actually have to entice labor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our political correctness satisfied, we could now move on to what we all really came for, tasting chocolate...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul1Zks-ZBI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/E_WJd_ZNkgo/s1600-h/IMG_1349.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul1Zks-ZBI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/E_WJd_ZNkgo/s320/IMG_1349.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We proceeded to examine les coulisses du Grand Chocolat. A coulisse is (not surprising given the nature of the day's lecture) a theatrical term. It refers to either the wings of a stage or the place where backgrounds are stored. Lemoine was determined to set the stage, to have in place the proper background, before we began to actually taste chocolate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We were instructed to hold a series of liquids under our nose to examine its odor, which is taken directly into the nasal passage. Did I smell apple? Melon? Dog biscuit? Next, we sipped each the liquid, holding it in our mouths, which helped us detect its aroma, which we learned is information taken indirectly or post nasally. Apparently, 90% of what we think of as taste is actually aroma-- information received through the nose, not the tongue. It is little wonder then, I thought, that the French are so tasteful. Then I thought again. Aromatic would be the correct term.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>True taste is detected by the tongue. Conventional Western wisdom long kept a short list of four true taste sensations (sweet, salty, bitter, acid) and only recently allowed a fifth umami) onto the team. According to Lemoine, there are more than 1,000. We tried a sixth distinct taste (licorice). I was disappointed we didn't get to discuss this point further, but I think that might have been a bit overwhelming.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How To Taste Chocolate:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. Look at it. Is it dark or milky? Is there a sheen or a matte finish?\u003cbr>2. Hold the chocolate to your nose and take in its odor.\u003cbr>3. Break a piece between your fingers. Is there a sharp snap or is there some give? A good snap is a sign of good tempering.\u003cbr>4. Put a piece of the chocolate into your mouth and assess its texture.\u003cbr>5. Allow the chocolate to melt in your mouth. Press it against your palate with your tongue. More of the aroma will now be released. Unless there is something very wrong with you, you will begin to salivate due to the chocolate's acidity. As you wait for the tang to subside, pay special attention to the back of your tongue. Is bitterness detected? Please limit your thoughts to the chocolate, not your life. Or your neighbor.\u003cbr>6. Repeat as often as necessary.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This approach to tasting chocolate struck me as very similar to the way one approaches the tasting of wine. The information is processed in very much the same way and in the same order. Just as there are those among us who can pick out a Griotte- Chambertin in a blind wine tasting, there are people, like Lemoine, who could spot the Araguani in a crowd. Both, in their own spheres, are given the title Grand Cru. The Griotte-Chambertin is a true Grand Cru, with its own A.O.C. designation. Valrhona's \"Grand Cru\" is more of a pretention, but one that tells the public that this is serious chocolate-- chocolate identified by terroir (another allusion to wine), cacao varietal, and blending.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I must admit that a chocolate glaze poured over my brain at about the second hour. To read about the different chocolates we tasted, I am sending you over to \u003ca href=\"http://www.doriegreenspan.com/dorie_greenspan/2007/09/on-monday-when-.html\">Dorie Greenspan\u003c/a>, who took better notes on the subject than I did. She went to the seminar in New York the day prior.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All the chocolate we tasted was excellent, naturally, but the item I was most excited to try was basically chocolate detritus-- the cacao pulp. When fresh, as we tried it, the texture and flavor reminded me of a slightly underripe mango. The bean, unfermented and unroasted, was bitter and unpleasant. I wondered how anyone ever got the idea to turn this bitter little seed into something so utterly sensual and desirable as chocolate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulz0Us-Y8I/AAAAAAAAAFo/gnevsQCL7Do/s1600-h/insidepod.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulz0Us-Y8I/AAAAAAAAAFo/gnevsQCL7Do/s320/insidepod.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the three hours of lecture and tasting, I was ready to stand up and stretch my legs. There were more Valrhona-related treats to be had, prepared by Yann Duytsche (who was plugging his book, Diversiones Dulces at the event)...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul1ZEs-ZAI/AAAAAAAAAGI/V10JL5S7Bqs/s1600-h/IMG_1356.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rul1ZEs-ZAI/AAAAAAAAAGI/V10JL5S7Bqs/s320/IMG_1356.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>...and Valrhona USA's Derek Poirier. A tasting of five rather playful desserts, including a cocoa nibs foam with candied asparagus, Tainori jelly with tomato and basil, and an Abinao hot chocolate with Cramique brioche and aubergine jam (my hands down favorite)...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulzn0s-Y6I/AAAAAAAAAFY/0rCYx-CyL6M/s1600-h/chocolatebomba.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rulzn0s-Y6I/AAAAAAAAAFY/0rCYx-CyL6M/s320/chocolatebomba.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The confections were playful, to say the least. I was surprised at how well items like tomato and eggplant lent themselves to sweet dishes, but it all made sense to me upon the realization that they are classified as fruits. The green asparagus did nothing for me, but I enjoyed its culinary pretension.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stephane Lacroix, sommelier at the Ritz-Carlton, paired a Muscat de Beaumes de Venise with the desserts. I'm afraid I am unable to remember the other wine he chose to pair with them because I was too busy imagining asking for my own private pairing with him. Apologies. Saturated with information, having had my fill of sweets, and with unsavory thoughts now filling my head, I thought it best to leave.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All in all, it was a very fun afternoon. I learned more about chocolate-- how it is sourced and processed, and how to approach tasting it-- than I ever thought I would. Critically or not, I'll let each piece melt on my tongue, let myself salivate for a while, and think of Vanessa Lemoine, and all the growers, roasters, sourcers, sensory analysists, and chocolatiers huddled together in every bite. Maybe not every time, that would be exhausting. But sometimes. I promise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To find out more about Valrhona and their line of chocolates, please visit their website:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"disqusTitle": "Avedano's Meats: Local People, Local Food",
"title": "Avedano's Meats: Local People, Local Food",
"headTitle": "Bay Area Bites | KQED Food",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPpBRRMpI/AAAAAAAAAEY/k4lmsl8LU1w/s1600-h/avedanosmeatscard.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPpBRRMpI/AAAAAAAAAEY/k4lmsl8LU1w/s320/avedanosmeatscard.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I've been to \u003ca href=\"http://www.avedanos.com/\">Avedano's Meats\u003c/a> on Cortland several times since its grand opening on July 15, mostly just to poke around, but I could never remember the name. My friends who live in Bernal Heights would say things like, \"Have you checked out that new place around the corner?\" and, \"What's that place called again?\" I'm terrible with names (and evidently in this case, so are my friends), which is a great liability. I have to play word association games to remember anything these days. I knew the place was a meat market, in the sense of selling meat, of course, but I was also aware that they sold much more than that. Did they sell skincare products? Doubtful, unless one considers animal fat an excellent facial hydrating agent. Aveda? No. Now you might understand why I am exhausted all the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At least now I won't forget the name.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Avedano's is the dreamchild of three women-- Tia Harrison, Melanie Eisemann, and Angela Wilson. Harrison, if you didn't know, is also the chef/owner of \u003ca href=\"http://www.caffesociale.com/\">Sociale\u003c/a> (which happens to be a subject of this week's \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/programs/tv/program-landing.jsp?progID=14084\">Check, Please!\u003c/a> here on KQED). And, if she's not busy enough running a restaurant and a quality meat store, her new baby occupies the rest of her time. That is what I would call energetic. I am shamed by my own lethargy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The location, 235 Cortland Avenue (at Bocana), has been a butcher shop ever since it opened as Cicero's Meats in 1901. More recently known as Bleuss Meats, its faded streamline moderne sign leant a charming sense of decay to the Bernal neighborhood for years, but I never saw the door open for business. When the place was (minimally) reinvented as a butcher/ sashimi store, I was filled with hope-- one just doesn't find many good butchers operating independently of a supermarket these days. Sadly, the former owners were using this retail-only space to run a wholesale business on the sly, which isn't exactly legal. So the mini-blinds were pulled down and the door closed again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The name Avedano derives from Harrison's grandparents, whose family emigrated from Asti to the Bay Area in 1906 to what I would consider a \u003ca href=\"http://earthquake.usgs.gov/regional/nca/1906/18april/index.php\">dramatic welcome\u003c/a>. One hundred and one years later, there's a fresh coat of paint on the old sign with their name on it and the door is once again open. This time, however, I am more than cautiously optimistic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You won't find the refrigerated meat case brimming with animal proteins yet, but what is there is excellent: Grass-fed beef from Estancia and Strawberry Mountain, Mary's Chickens, and wild, local seafood like Monterey sardines. The trio at Avedano's is currently working to source more local, sustainable meat and fish for their store, so look for more variety in the near future. Until then, enjoy what they've got. Just get there early and take a number.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBP2hRRMqI/AAAAAAAAAEg/hwFDa1F1CXA/s1600-h/takeanumber.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBP2hRRMqI/AAAAAAAAAEg/hwFDa1F1CXA/s320/takeanumber.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Someone stole the number 1 ticket, which should not be taken as a symbolic gesture since I have yet to experience being treated like number 2 here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to quality meats, Avedano's sells a variety of other items...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Such as rarely seen (in San Francisco) pastas like Croxetti from Liguria...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBO9BRRMlI/AAAAAAAAAD4/lSx-0ilglSg/s1600-h/croxetti.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBO9BRRMlI/AAAAAAAAAD4/lSx-0ilglSg/s320/croxetti.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>...stamped with a family coat of arms on one side and a cross (hence the name) or a boat or some such symbol on the other. They look like Holy Communion wafers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sea salt: $5.00 a jar...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBqlxRRMsI/AAAAAAAAAEw/IJ1UGP-zfws/s1600-h/IMG_1297.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBqlxRRMsI/AAAAAAAAAEw/IJ1UGP-zfws/s320/IMG_1297.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cupcakes, cookies, and other sweets from Tia's other, other business, Lucky Cooky Company...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPExRRMmI/AAAAAAAAAEA/6gWXtgTVJJM/s1600-h/cherrycupcakes.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPExRRMmI/AAAAAAAAAEA/6gWXtgTVJJM/s320/cherrycupcakes.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For those of you without time to cook for yourselves, Avedano's has fresh soups and sandwiches available, which are perfect for lunchtime. If you want dinner, prepared meals like their popular fried chicken and potato salad...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuB0ZRRRMwI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/CuLnlcuOqbw/s1600-h/IMG_1338.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuB0ZRRRMwI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/CuLnlcuOqbw/s320/IMG_1338.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>... or gypsy peppers stuffed with Oaxaca cheese are available after 3 pm. If you are of an age group not known for having teeth, or if you simply have a preference for soft foods, like my friend Patrick, they make their own baby food, too. Just inquire.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sundays are a special treat-- fresh tacos. My friend Mark and I sat on the bench outside the store last week inhaling hot, Berkshire pork wrapped in corn tortillas, dripping with lime juice and pickled cabbage for $2.50 a pop. I gave them a rather messy thumbs up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you hadn't guessed by now, I love Avedano's. For me, it's one thing for a place to have good, fresh food. Pack a place with nice folks and quirky (and unselfconscious) detail and I am an instant fan...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPhhRRMoI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/xsCAK8paWrc/s1600-h/moffatsbucket.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPhhRRMoI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/xsCAK8paWrc/s320/moffatsbucket.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Avedano's has got this Holy Trinity of charm in spades. In fact, the last time I was there, I was so wrapped up in the details (like the fact that these women had the store's walls painted with colors found in vintage advertising leaflets) that I barely took notice of the meat. I just wish I'd taken a clear photo of the magnet that stated, \"It's okay to put fish in your hair\" on their magnet board (the stick figure in the green triangle dress at the top center of the photo below).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuB0HBRRMvI/AAAAAAAAAFI/-tlo7ppy_48/s1600-h/IMG_1322.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuB0HBRRMvI/AAAAAAAAAFI/-tlo7ppy_48/s320/IMG_1322.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And this photo of the floor is now the desktop image on my computer...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBP3hRRMrI/AAAAAAAAAEo/pfiJVILpfME/s1600-h/steeronthefloor.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBP3hRRMrI/AAAAAAAAAEo/pfiJVILpfME/s320/steeronthefloor.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There's a lot going on at Avedano's, but there's more in store in the near future. Look for more prepared foods, more locally sourced organic products, and maybe even a small cafe or, say, sausage-making classes in the small storefront next door. We'll just have to wait and see.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Avedano's\u003cbr>235 Cortland Avenue (at Bocana).\u003cbr>1-415-285-MEAT\u003cbr>Open Tuesday through Sunday, 11 am to 8 pm\u003cbr>\u003ca href=\"http://www.avedanos.com/\">http://www.avedanos.com\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPpBRRMpI/AAAAAAAAAEY/k4lmsl8LU1w/s1600-h/avedanosmeatscard.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPpBRRMpI/AAAAAAAAAEY/k4lmsl8LU1w/s320/avedanosmeatscard.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I've been to \u003ca href=\"http://www.avedanos.com/\">Avedano's Meats\u003c/a> on Cortland several times since its grand opening on July 15, mostly just to poke around, but I could never remember the name. My friends who live in Bernal Heights would say things like, \"Have you checked out that new place around the corner?\" and, \"What's that place called again?\" I'm terrible with names (and evidently in this case, so are my friends), which is a great liability. I have to play word association games to remember anything these days. I knew the place was a meat market, in the sense of selling meat, of course, but I was also aware that they sold much more than that. Did they sell skincare products? Doubtful, unless one considers animal fat an excellent facial hydrating agent. Aveda? No. Now you might understand why I am exhausted all the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At least now I won't forget the name.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Avedano's is the dreamchild of three women-- Tia Harrison, Melanie Eisemann, and Angela Wilson. Harrison, if you didn't know, is also the chef/owner of \u003ca href=\"http://www.caffesociale.com/\">Sociale\u003c/a> (which happens to be a subject of this week's \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/programs/tv/program-landing.jsp?progID=14084\">Check, Please!\u003c/a> here on KQED). And, if she's not busy enough running a restaurant and a quality meat store, her new baby occupies the rest of her time. That is what I would call energetic. I am shamed by my own lethargy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The location, 235 Cortland Avenue (at Bocana), has been a butcher shop ever since it opened as Cicero's Meats in 1901. More recently known as Bleuss Meats, its faded streamline moderne sign leant a charming sense of decay to the Bernal neighborhood for years, but I never saw the door open for business. When the place was (minimally) reinvented as a butcher/ sashimi store, I was filled with hope-- one just doesn't find many good butchers operating independently of a supermarket these days. Sadly, the former owners were using this retail-only space to run a wholesale business on the sly, which isn't exactly legal. So the mini-blinds were pulled down and the door closed again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The name Avedano derives from Harrison's grandparents, whose family emigrated from Asti to the Bay Area in 1906 to what I would consider a \u003ca href=\"http://earthquake.usgs.gov/regional/nca/1906/18april/index.php\">dramatic welcome\u003c/a>. One hundred and one years later, there's a fresh coat of paint on the old sign with their name on it and the door is once again open. This time, however, I am more than cautiously optimistic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You won't find the refrigerated meat case brimming with animal proteins yet, but what is there is excellent: Grass-fed beef from Estancia and Strawberry Mountain, Mary's Chickens, and wild, local seafood like Monterey sardines. The trio at Avedano's is currently working to source more local, sustainable meat and fish for their store, so look for more variety in the near future. Until then, enjoy what they've got. Just get there early and take a number.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBP2hRRMqI/AAAAAAAAAEg/hwFDa1F1CXA/s1600-h/takeanumber.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBP2hRRMqI/AAAAAAAAAEg/hwFDa1F1CXA/s320/takeanumber.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Someone stole the number 1 ticket, which should not be taken as a symbolic gesture since I have yet to experience being treated like number 2 here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to quality meats, Avedano's sells a variety of other items...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Such as rarely seen (in San Francisco) pastas like Croxetti from Liguria...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBO9BRRMlI/AAAAAAAAAD4/lSx-0ilglSg/s1600-h/croxetti.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBO9BRRMlI/AAAAAAAAAD4/lSx-0ilglSg/s320/croxetti.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>...stamped with a family coat of arms on one side and a cross (hence the name) or a boat or some such symbol on the other. They look like Holy Communion wafers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sea salt: $5.00 a jar...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBqlxRRMsI/AAAAAAAAAEw/IJ1UGP-zfws/s1600-h/IMG_1297.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBqlxRRMsI/AAAAAAAAAEw/IJ1UGP-zfws/s320/IMG_1297.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cupcakes, cookies, and other sweets from Tia's other, other business, Lucky Cooky Company...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPExRRMmI/AAAAAAAAAEA/6gWXtgTVJJM/s1600-h/cherrycupcakes.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPExRRMmI/AAAAAAAAAEA/6gWXtgTVJJM/s320/cherrycupcakes.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For those of you without time to cook for yourselves, Avedano's has fresh soups and sandwiches available, which are perfect for lunchtime. If you want dinner, prepared meals like their popular fried chicken and potato salad...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuB0ZRRRMwI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/CuLnlcuOqbw/s1600-h/IMG_1338.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuB0ZRRRMwI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/CuLnlcuOqbw/s320/IMG_1338.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>... or gypsy peppers stuffed with Oaxaca cheese are available after 3 pm. If you are of an age group not known for having teeth, or if you simply have a preference for soft foods, like my friend Patrick, they make their own baby food, too. Just inquire.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sundays are a special treat-- fresh tacos. My friend Mark and I sat on the bench outside the store last week inhaling hot, Berkshire pork wrapped in corn tortillas, dripping with lime juice and pickled cabbage for $2.50 a pop. I gave them a rather messy thumbs up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you hadn't guessed by now, I love Avedano's. For me, it's one thing for a place to have good, fresh food. Pack a place with nice folks and quirky (and unselfconscious) detail and I am an instant fan...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPhhRRMoI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/xsCAK8paWrc/s1600-h/moffatsbucket.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBPhhRRMoI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/xsCAK8paWrc/s320/moffatsbucket.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Avedano's has got this Holy Trinity of charm in spades. In fact, the last time I was there, I was so wrapped up in the details (like the fact that these women had the store's walls painted with colors found in vintage advertising leaflets) that I barely took notice of the meat. I just wish I'd taken a clear photo of the magnet that stated, \"It's okay to put fish in your hair\" on their magnet board (the stick figure in the green triangle dress at the top center of the photo below).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuB0HBRRMvI/AAAAAAAAAFI/-tlo7ppy_48/s1600-h/IMG_1322.JPG\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuB0HBRRMvI/AAAAAAAAAFI/-tlo7ppy_48/s320/IMG_1322.JPG\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And this photo of the floor is now the desktop image on my computer...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBP3hRRMrI/AAAAAAAAAEo/pfiJVILpfME/s1600-h/steeronthefloor.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RuBP3hRRMrI/AAAAAAAAAEo/pfiJVILpfME/s320/steeronthefloor.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There's a lot going on at Avedano's, but there's more in store in the near future. Look for more prepared foods, more locally sourced organic products, and maybe even a small cafe or, say, sausage-making classes in the small storefront next door. We'll just have to wait and see.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Avedano's\u003cbr>235 Cortland Avenue (at Bocana).\u003cbr>1-415-285-MEAT\u003cbr>Open Tuesday through Sunday, 11 am to 8 pm\u003cbr>\u003ca href=\"http://www.avedanos.com/\">http://www.avedanos.com\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Several months ago, our local bottled water purveyor brought two executives from Pellegrino into our restaurant for dinner. As they sat at the bar digesting their meals with alcohol and animated chatter, I stopped by to say hello.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Have you seen our new product?\" the rep asked as she produced a bottle of water from her bag. \"We're very excited about it.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I held the bottle, thought to myself how good it felt in the hand and noted that it was \"ribbed for her pleasure\", which is what I say to myself whenever I see anything ribbed, thanks to a condom advertisement I saw in an adult magazine I should not have been looking at as a child. What I enjoyed most about the bottle was its name, 420.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RtcfJxRRMkI/AAAAAAAAACw/THDsztHFoWU/s1600-h/bongwater.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RtcfJxRRMkI/AAAAAAAAACw/THDsztHFoWU/s320/bongwater.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Were they serious? I pictured the Pellegrino executives lighting up, ties loosened and calling each other dude in Italian, or whatever the equivalent would be. I said nothing, but started to snigger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"What's funny?\" she asked, puzzled. I wiped the smirk from my face and, as seriously as I could, asked one of the pezzi grossi, \"Tell me, what made you decide to name this water '420'?\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"I like the way the numbers look. The '4' looks like an 'h', as in 'h20',\" he responded. I could tell he was proud of his Northern Italian sense of design. Oh dear. Did I have the heart to tell him?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course I did.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Do you know what '420' means in American slang?\" He did not, so I told him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For those of you not in the know or pretending not to be, \"420\" is shorthand for marijuana. The term is believed to have originated in the early 1970's at San Rafael High School, where a group of teenagers would meet after school at 4:20 p.m. around the statue of Louis Pasteur to smoke marijuana. I am assuming they were mindful of Pasteur's Germ Theory and washed their hands prior to their illegal activity. How this tradition became widely accepted is unknown to me apart from the fact that, when stoned, people seem to think just about anything is a good idea. Whatever the case, the tradition spread and today April 20th is a day of much celebration and binge-snacking throughout the nation, though somewhat on the sly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I explained this to the surprised and unsmiling Pellegrino people. I dug myself a slightly deeper hole by telling them that their product might be perceived as luxury bong water, but that this wasn't necessarily a bad thing, since they would have a built-in sub-culture market.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After explaining to them what a bong was, I thanked them for the bottle and went back to waiting on my tables.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Had I just just come across the liquid equivalent of the Chevy Nova? There are \u003ca href=\"http://listverse.com/2007/10/27/top-10-unfortunate-product-names/\">far worse examples\u003c/a>, certainly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Recently, while cleaning my desk (where the bottle has been used as a paperweight/ conversation piece), I noticed a website address printed on the back of the water bottle, \u003ca href=\"http://www.fineh20.com/\">www.fineh2o.com\u003c/a>...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Luxury by the liter.\" I had hoped they might opt for \"ounce\", but that would be too American.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Clicking for more information about 420, I was informed that this water comes from the Southern Alps of New Zealand and was deposited when my \"great, great grandmother was the same age as [me]. Which is a fabulous story to tell someone [I'm] trying to pick up in a bar.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I somehow doubt any of my great, great grandmothers were concerning themselves with luxury water. Unless one considers irrigating crops a luxury. They were too busy occupying themselves with things like losing social status in the aftermath of Italy's unification, crossing over from Spain to marry into Sicilian crime families, and not assimilating well into white culture, preferring to sleep on bearskin rugs with trappers in Montana who were not their husbands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if I were to pick up anyone in a bar, I most likely wouldn't be talking about water, let alone drinking it. But that's just me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another fascinating brand of water from Fine H2O is Heartsease, from Wales, where the Heartsease Pansy grows. In my mind, heartsease is two letters away from heart disease, so it makes me uncomfortable, no matter how cute the pansies are. I think I'm just a little surprised that these two unfortunately named products come from essentially Anglophone countries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I admit that I am no water snob. Apart from an extreme loathing of Chicago tap water-- which tastes of exhausted Zebra Mussels, I am happy to drink from the local tap, especially ours. I do, of course, realize that there are differences in the flavors and textures of water from various sources-- rainwater vs. spring water, etc.-- I'm simply too occupied with other things to pay these differences much mind. I left such things to my brother who, on one occasion, spent an entire day at Vichy running around the various fountains excitedly sampling every type of h2o he could find, while the invalids who flocked there to take the waters for their health sat around with graduated beakers waiting to take sips in measured amounts at appointed intervals. He even brought home water from Lourdes in a plastic Virgin Mary-shaped bottle to be enjoyed later. Given current airline restrictions pertaining to liquids, I wonder if the good people at that holy shrine have adapted to the times with a 3 oz. version of Our Lady. Perhaps the local priests might go so far as to bless the clear Ziploc bags in which she must now travel. That would be a nice touch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have not seen the Pellegrino representative in our restaurant since that evening. I would like to assume that she was allowed to keep her job, since she wasn't the one responsible for naming the water. Of course, the Pellegrino people evidently don't care about the alternative meaning behind their water's branding. Not enough to change it, anyway. I'm rather glad. I was so disappointed when Coors abandoned their Spanish translated slogan of \"Turn It Loose\" once it was learned that the phrase was read as \"Suffer From Diarrhea\".\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To purchase a case of 420 for your next social event, call 1-888-24-WATER or email them at info@fineh2o.com. Just please don't tell them I sent you.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Several months ago, our local bottled water purveyor brought two executives from Pellegrino into our restaurant for dinner. As they sat at the bar digesting their meals with alcohol and animated chatter, I stopped by to say hello.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Have you seen our new product?\" the rep asked as she produced a bottle of water from her bag. \"We're very excited about it.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I held the bottle, thought to myself how good it felt in the hand and noted that it was \"ribbed for her pleasure\", which is what I say to myself whenever I see anything ribbed, thanks to a condom advertisement I saw in an adult magazine I should not have been looking at as a child. What I enjoyed most about the bottle was its name, 420.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RtcfJxRRMkI/AAAAAAAAACw/THDsztHFoWU/s1600-h/bongwater.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RtcfJxRRMkI/AAAAAAAAACw/THDsztHFoWU/s320/bongwater.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Were they serious? I pictured the Pellegrino executives lighting up, ties loosened and calling each other dude in Italian, or whatever the equivalent would be. I said nothing, but started to snigger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"What's funny?\" she asked, puzzled. I wiped the smirk from my face and, as seriously as I could, asked one of the pezzi grossi, \"Tell me, what made you decide to name this water '420'?\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"I like the way the numbers look. The '4' looks like an 'h', as in 'h20',\" he responded. I could tell he was proud of his Northern Italian sense of design. Oh dear. Did I have the heart to tell him?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course I did.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Do you know what '420' means in American slang?\" He did not, so I told him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For those of you not in the know or pretending not to be, \"420\" is shorthand for marijuana. The term is believed to have originated in the early 1970's at San Rafael High School, where a group of teenagers would meet after school at 4:20 p.m. around the statue of Louis Pasteur to smoke marijuana. I am assuming they were mindful of Pasteur's Germ Theory and washed their hands prior to their illegal activity. How this tradition became widely accepted is unknown to me apart from the fact that, when stoned, people seem to think just about anything is a good idea. Whatever the case, the tradition spread and today April 20th is a day of much celebration and binge-snacking throughout the nation, though somewhat on the sly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I explained this to the surprised and unsmiling Pellegrino people. I dug myself a slightly deeper hole by telling them that their product might be perceived as luxury bong water, but that this wasn't necessarily a bad thing, since they would have a built-in sub-culture market.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After explaining to them what a bong was, I thanked them for the bottle and went back to waiting on my tables.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Had I just just come across the liquid equivalent of the Chevy Nova? There are \u003ca href=\"http://listverse.com/2007/10/27/top-10-unfortunate-product-names/\">far worse examples\u003c/a>, certainly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Recently, while cleaning my desk (where the bottle has been used as a paperweight/ conversation piece), I noticed a website address printed on the back of the water bottle, \u003ca href=\"http://www.fineh20.com/\">www.fineh2o.com\u003c/a>...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Luxury by the liter.\" I had hoped they might opt for \"ounce\", but that would be too American.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Clicking for more information about 420, I was informed that this water comes from the Southern Alps of New Zealand and was deposited when my \"great, great grandmother was the same age as [me]. Which is a fabulous story to tell someone [I'm] trying to pick up in a bar.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I somehow doubt any of my great, great grandmothers were concerning themselves with luxury water. Unless one considers irrigating crops a luxury. They were too busy occupying themselves with things like losing social status in the aftermath of Italy's unification, crossing over from Spain to marry into Sicilian crime families, and not assimilating well into white culture, preferring to sleep on bearskin rugs with trappers in Montana who were not their husbands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if I were to pick up anyone in a bar, I most likely wouldn't be talking about water, let alone drinking it. But that's just me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another fascinating brand of water from Fine H2O is Heartsease, from Wales, where the Heartsease Pansy grows. In my mind, heartsease is two letters away from heart disease, so it makes me uncomfortable, no matter how cute the pansies are. I think I'm just a little surprised that these two unfortunately named products come from essentially Anglophone countries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I admit that I am no water snob. Apart from an extreme loathing of Chicago tap water-- which tastes of exhausted Zebra Mussels, I am happy to drink from the local tap, especially ours. I do, of course, realize that there are differences in the flavors and textures of water from various sources-- rainwater vs. spring water, etc.-- I'm simply too occupied with other things to pay these differences much mind. I left such things to my brother who, on one occasion, spent an entire day at Vichy running around the various fountains excitedly sampling every type of h2o he could find, while the invalids who flocked there to take the waters for their health sat around with graduated beakers waiting to take sips in measured amounts at appointed intervals. He even brought home water from Lourdes in a plastic Virgin Mary-shaped bottle to be enjoyed later. Given current airline restrictions pertaining to liquids, I wonder if the good people at that holy shrine have adapted to the times with a 3 oz. version of Our Lady. Perhaps the local priests might go so far as to bless the clear Ziploc bags in which she must now travel. That would be a nice touch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have not seen the Pellegrino representative in our restaurant since that evening. I would like to assume that she was allowed to keep her job, since she wasn't the one responsible for naming the water. Of course, the Pellegrino people evidently don't care about the alternative meaning behind their water's branding. Not enough to change it, anyway. I'm rather glad. I was so disappointed when Coors abandoned their Spanish translated slogan of \"Turn It Loose\" once it was learned that the phrase was read as \"Suffer From Diarrhea\".\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rs3rxtqa1aI/AAAAAAAAACc/yUkhgjweyhQ/s1600-h/brinimaxwell.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rs3rxtqa1aI/AAAAAAAAACc/yUkhgjweyhQ/s320/brinimaxwell.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I wish I'd thought of that little tag line, but I didn't.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes, I think I spend far too much time sitting in front of my computer. Instead of doing something beneficial to myself, like exercising or cleaning my refrigerator, I troll sites like \u003ca href=\"http://www.neatorama.com/\">neatorama\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"http://www.thesuperficial.com/\">thesuperficial.com\u003c/a>. I've wasted hours online staring at folks making shadow puppets, shuddering over videos of people with unspeakable deformities, and chiding myself for trying to understand someone as crazy as that former Mouseketeer, Brittany Spears. You never saw Annette getting into that kind of trouble. No way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fortunately, there is an occasional payoff to my time investment. Enter \u003ca href=\"http://www.brinimaxwell.com/\">Brini Maxwell\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have no idea how she got onto my computer screen, but I am very glad she did. Full of chat, recipes and household tips, Maxwell calls upon the spirits of domestic icons past like Donna Reed and Florence Henderson yet manages to steer clear of mere caricature. As graceful as Dina Merrill (whose delicious strawberry pancakes seem like a slap in the face to her Post cereal heiress mother) and more helpful than Josephine the Plumber, I think she defies comparison, which might suit Maxwell just fine, especially when the occasional attempt has been made to label her the \"new\" Martha Stewart. As she told \u003ca href=\"http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1589/is_2004_June_22/ai_n6146750\">The Advocate\u003c/a> in 2004:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp> \"I don't consider myself the next Martha Stewart, I consider myself the next Sue Ann Nivens! I just think it's like comparing apples and oranges. We talk to different types of people--my audience tends to be very urban, and I think that Martha's audience is more suburban.\"\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>I don't see how anyone with such an impressive collection of vintage cookware (not to mention her inexhaustible wardrobe) could be accused of being a \"new\" anything. And anyone who uses Sue Ann Nivens as a role model is aces in my book.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here's a teaser for the episode Meatloaf a la Janet Leigh...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cembed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/QJntR6DNzfI\" height=\"321\" width=\"390\">\u003c/embed>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Swedish meatballs, deviled eggs and bridge sandwiches? You'll find out how to make them along with advice on how to maximize your urban living (and entertaining) potential-- on a budget. It's a \"how to\" show delivered by a \"can do\" gal-- fortunately one with more than a teaspoon of wit and a hell of a lot of style. I can't wait to try out her recipe for Crown Roast of Cheese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Brini Maxwell (created by actor Ben Sander, by the way) has been wildly popular for years in New York-- I've never claimed cutting edge. I just feel that, given the appalling social skills I've witnessed among certain communities in this city, San Francisco needs a good dose of her-- like, immediately. Think of this as a public service announcement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I just subscribed to her \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/rss/podcast/podcast_detail.php?siteid=5183208\">NPR video podcast\u003c/a>, so I won't miss a thing. I suggest some of you do, too. And I mean now. You know who you are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now why didn't you think of that?\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rs3rxtqa1aI/AAAAAAAAACc/yUkhgjweyhQ/s1600-h/brinimaxwell.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rs3rxtqa1aI/AAAAAAAAACc/yUkhgjweyhQ/s320/brinimaxwell.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I wish I'd thought of that little tag line, but I didn't.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes, I think I spend far too much time sitting in front of my computer. Instead of doing something beneficial to myself, like exercising or cleaning my refrigerator, I troll sites like \u003ca href=\"http://www.neatorama.com/\">neatorama\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"http://www.thesuperficial.com/\">thesuperficial.com\u003c/a>. I've wasted hours online staring at folks making shadow puppets, shuddering over videos of people with unspeakable deformities, and chiding myself for trying to understand someone as crazy as that former Mouseketeer, Brittany Spears. You never saw Annette getting into that kind of trouble. No way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fortunately, there is an occasional payoff to my time investment. Enter \u003ca href=\"http://www.brinimaxwell.com/\">Brini Maxwell\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have no idea how she got onto my computer screen, but I am very glad she did. Full of chat, recipes and household tips, Maxwell calls upon the spirits of domestic icons past like Donna Reed and Florence Henderson yet manages to steer clear of mere caricature. As graceful as Dina Merrill (whose delicious strawberry pancakes seem like a slap in the face to her Post cereal heiress mother) and more helpful than Josephine the Plumber, I think she defies comparison, which might suit Maxwell just fine, especially when the occasional attempt has been made to label her the \"new\" Martha Stewart. As she told \u003ca href=\"http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1589/is_2004_June_22/ai_n6146750\">The Advocate\u003c/a> in 2004:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp> \"I don't consider myself the next Martha Stewart, I consider myself the next Sue Ann Nivens! I just think it's like comparing apples and oranges. We talk to different types of people--my audience tends to be very urban, and I think that Martha's audience is more suburban.\"\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>I don't see how anyone with such an impressive collection of vintage cookware (not to mention her inexhaustible wardrobe) could be accused of being a \"new\" anything. And anyone who uses Sue Ann Nivens as a role model is aces in my book.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here's a teaser for the episode Meatloaf a la Janet Leigh...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cembed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/QJntR6DNzfI\" height=\"321\" width=\"390\">\u003c/embed>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Swedish meatballs, deviled eggs and bridge sandwiches? You'll find out how to make them along with advice on how to maximize your urban living (and entertaining) potential-- on a budget. It's a \"how to\" show delivered by a \"can do\" gal-- fortunately one with more than a teaspoon of wit and a hell of a lot of style. I can't wait to try out her recipe for Crown Roast of Cheese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Brini Maxwell (created by actor Ben Sander, by the way) has been wildly popular for years in New York-- I've never claimed cutting edge. I just feel that, given the appalling social skills I've witnessed among certain communities in this city, San Francisco needs a good dose of her-- like, immediately. Think of this as a public service announcement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I just subscribed to her \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/rss/podcast/podcast_detail.php?siteid=5183208\">NPR video podcast\u003c/a>, so I won't miss a thing. I suggest some of you do, too. And I mean now. You know who you are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now why didn't you think of that?\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"disqusTitle": "The Mother of All Cooking Shows",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RsTW59qa1ZI/AAAAAAAAACU/N1cK4MJvEfE/s1600-h/julia.jpg\">\u003cimg alt=\"\" src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RsTW59qa1ZI/AAAAAAAAACU/N1cK4MJvEfE/s320/julia.jpg\" align=\"left\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>This week marks both the birthday and deathday, if there is such a word, of Julia Child. The fact that no one in my culinary circle has mentioned either event upsets me. Where are the parades? Is anyone laying a wreath of Bay Laurel on her grave?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people old enough to do so talk of where they were when they heard of John F. Kennedy's assassination. I am not that old, so I had to come up with my own where-was-I memories. Karen Carpenter? I was on my way to the newly opened EPCOT Center, the day marred by the endless loop of Superstar running through my brain. Jacqueline Kennedy? Don't get me started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most vivid death for me was Julia Child's. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing. I was sitting in a traffic jam owing to a fallen tree, crammed into a rental car with five friends near Jemez, New Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was a Friday in mid-August, 2004. We were returning from a hike in the mountains and a soak in the local hot springs where, the moment we shucked our clothes and hopped in the steaming water, a hailstorm hit us. And I do mean hit us. It was as though God had opened his comedy closet filled with ping pong balls right onto our heads. Hailstones the size of mothballs screamed down from 10,000 feet, striking us directly or ricocheting off rocks to pelt us in the face. The only safe place was a crag already occupied by a tiny, freakish man-- a naked troll with golden dental work-- who sat there safe and grinning at his good luck and our misfortune. The couple soaking below us held an oversized umbrella over their heads. Everyone seemed prepared except us. When the attack subsided, we dressed and slumped back to the car, some of us bloodied, all of us bruised.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We were singing stupid songs and fogging up the windows, going nowhere very slowly and laughing about the terrible afternoon we'd just experienced. I had written the word \"buffalo\" with my index finger on the windshield which, for some reason, was funny only to myself. As I considered explaining to my fellow travelers exactly why it was funny, a radio newscaster announced the death of Julia Child, two days shy of her 92nd birthday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My first thought was a sad one-- Now I'll never get to meet Julia Child-- egocentric, I know. I thought she'd had a good run of it, at least.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My attention turned to math, briefly. Two days shy of her 92nd birthday? Since, the day was Friday, August 13th-- which would explain the afternoon we were having-- that put her birthday at August 15th, my brother's birthday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My brother and I had had a competition going about who's birthday was more significant, his or mine. I touted the fact that I shared my birthday with not only Sally Struthers, but our maternal grandfather and, what I thought was my trump card, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis. I liked to throw in the fact that World War One officially started on that date for good measure. He countered with Rose-Marie and the fact that his day was a holy day of obligation in the Catholic church-- the Feast of the Assumption (which, as my friend Bill loves to point out, is called Maria Himmelfahrt in German). Since nuns came to pin medals on his pillow the day he was born, he always claimed victory. He never mentioned the fact that he shared the day with Julia Child. I wonder if he ever new. I'd give him the crown for that coincidence alone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We weren't a Julia Child-loving family. No one to my knowledge watched \u003ca href=\"http://www.amazon.com/Julia-Child-French-Chef/dp/B0006VXMHG\">The French Chef\u003c/a>. I'd watch re-runs of the Galloping Gourmet, but only out of the corner of my eye because I was too busy building mazes for my hamster out of Lincoln Logs. To me, Julia Child was just some tall lady with a funny voice who cooked and everyone from Dan Ackroyd to John Candy made fun of. I'd always thought of her as some grande dame, her nose as far above the jokes and pokes as her 6' 2\" body would hold it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cobject width=\"512\" height=\"288\">\u003cparam name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.hulu.com/embed/739vg5loox0hpook6jqi_a\">\u003cparam name=\"allowFullScreen\" value=\"true\">\u003cembed src=\"http://www.hulu.com/embed/739vg5loox0hpook6jqi_a\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" width=\"512\" height=\"288\" allowfullscreen=\"true\">\u003c/embed>\u003c/object>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I'd bought \u003ca href=\"http://www.amazon.com/Way-Cook-Julia-Child/dp/0394532643\">The Way To Cook\u003c/a> when I was in college, as did many of my friends, because I was serious about cooking. It was and is a serious cookbook-- step by step and about as how-to as they get. But I only sought pointers, I knew nothing of finesse and had no sense of humor about cooking-- I was too intimidated by it. I certainly didn't think I'd find either in the work of Julia Child. Of course, I'd never seen her television program.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn't until several years later when I fell into a job working for Jacques Pepin that I heard she had a sense of humor. Pepin, fresh from taping a television show with Child, told us stories of how, when winemaker sponsors visited the set of their show, she insisted on serving beer. Other stories followed that fairly shattered the previous image I'd formed of her. She wasn't the droning, Yankee bore obsessed with detail I'd made her out to be from her book and my own imagination. It's hard to imagine that I never remembered seeing her on television before, but it's true. The humor and charm that Pepin described surprised me, but it was her puckishness that left me wanting more of her. However unbearable the rest of my experience on Pepin's show, I came away with that wonderful knowledge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn't until last year that I was finally able to see episodes of The French Chef. My friend John received a DVD boxed set of the series' best episodes for his birthday. An ace home cook and successful cookbook author in his own right, he kindly invited me over to his place for dinner and a viewing. We watched her on his kitchen television as we drank martinis and cooked or, rather, he cooked, I drank martinis. Most memorable were the episodes detailing how to roast a chicken and how to make a Tarte Tatin. Or how not to, I'd say.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Take a moment and watch her talk about chickens: \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe width=\"480\" height=\"360\" src=\"http://www.youtube.com/embed/TVdI85jb8xg\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was then that I felt I finally got her. Thank you, John.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Having participated in the production of a number of cooking programs before the onset of their cable television-induced proliferation and, therefore, banality, Child was a trend-setter. I think we can all agree upon that. What impressed me most about her program was its low- budget, public television feel. Child preformed each show-- from start to finish-- in one take. Along with her many successful dishes prepared on air were many flops, but all were taken in stride and with great sense of humor. Whether blaming her choice of apple for the failure of her Tarte Tatin or simply explaining, by way of each failure, what went wrong and why, she turned her gaffes into, if not always triumphs, at least into moments of sheer enjoyment. The knowledge that even Julia Child was prone to error on occasion gave courage to her audience, removing much of the fear involved in the making of, say, a Gateau Saint-Honore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At a time when we, as Americans, generally deferred to the French in all matters gustatory, ignorant of or perhaps in part ashamed of our own culinary heritage, Child not only translated the French way of cooking into a language we could understand and into ingredients we could get our hands on, she served as an entertaining tour guide of French Culture along the way. And she managed all this without dumbing things down-- least of all, herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In an age where cooking shows are all but shoved down our throats, where any \u003ca href=\"http://www.rachaelray.com/\">annoying personality\u003c/a> is set free to run amok inside our televisions, it can be said that no one can best the original or imitate the inimitable. For better or worse, the Food Network owes its very existence to her. Have they ever said thank you? I wouldn't know, since I'm not paying attention-- I don't have cable and can't really stomach cooking shows anymore, with a few exceptions. Nothing would say \"we care\" like a TV marathon devoted to her original, groundbreaking program. Perhaps WGBH in Boston has already taken the idea and run with it. All I know is someone should.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Granted, Julia Child was practically beatified by the likes of the James Beard Foundation, COPIA and even the Smithsonian Institute while she was alive, but I'm voting for full canonization now that she's gone. I'd like a new holy day of obligation to supplant the one that no one celebrates anymore. Except Bavarians and my brother, were he still alive. Let's build a cathedral, a Notre Dame de la Cuisine, say, in her honor-- a place of worship where one can go to pray for, if not culinary inspiration or courage, at least deliverance from evil. Like the fact that Emeril Lagasse has his own band or the mere presence of that squawking Anti-Christ, Rachel Ray.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RsTW59qa1ZI/AAAAAAAAACU/N1cK4MJvEfE/s1600-h/julia.jpg\">\u003cimg alt=\"\" src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/RsTW59qa1ZI/AAAAAAAAACU/N1cK4MJvEfE/s320/julia.jpg\" align=\"left\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>This week marks both the birthday and deathday, if there is such a word, of Julia Child. The fact that no one in my culinary circle has mentioned either event upsets me. Where are the parades? Is anyone laying a wreath of Bay Laurel on her grave?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people old enough to do so talk of where they were when they heard of John F. Kennedy's assassination. I am not that old, so I had to come up with my own where-was-I memories. Karen Carpenter? I was on my way to the newly opened EPCOT Center, the day marred by the endless loop of Superstar running through my brain. Jacqueline Kennedy? Don't get me started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most vivid death for me was Julia Child's. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing. I was sitting in a traffic jam owing to a fallen tree, crammed into a rental car with five friends near Jemez, New Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was a Friday in mid-August, 2004. We were returning from a hike in the mountains and a soak in the local hot springs where, the moment we shucked our clothes and hopped in the steaming water, a hailstorm hit us. And I do mean hit us. It was as though God had opened his comedy closet filled with ping pong balls right onto our heads. Hailstones the size of mothballs screamed down from 10,000 feet, striking us directly or ricocheting off rocks to pelt us in the face. The only safe place was a crag already occupied by a tiny, freakish man-- a naked troll with golden dental work-- who sat there safe and grinning at his good luck and our misfortune. The couple soaking below us held an oversized umbrella over their heads. Everyone seemed prepared except us. When the attack subsided, we dressed and slumped back to the car, some of us bloodied, all of us bruised.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We were singing stupid songs and fogging up the windows, going nowhere very slowly and laughing about the terrible afternoon we'd just experienced. I had written the word \"buffalo\" with my index finger on the windshield which, for some reason, was funny only to myself. As I considered explaining to my fellow travelers exactly why it was funny, a radio newscaster announced the death of Julia Child, two days shy of her 92nd birthday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My first thought was a sad one-- Now I'll never get to meet Julia Child-- egocentric, I know. I thought she'd had a good run of it, at least.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My attention turned to math, briefly. Two days shy of her 92nd birthday? Since, the day was Friday, August 13th-- which would explain the afternoon we were having-- that put her birthday at August 15th, my brother's birthday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My brother and I had had a competition going about who's birthday was more significant, his or mine. I touted the fact that I shared my birthday with not only Sally Struthers, but our maternal grandfather and, what I thought was my trump card, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis. I liked to throw in the fact that World War One officially started on that date for good measure. He countered with Rose-Marie and the fact that his day was a holy day of obligation in the Catholic church-- the Feast of the Assumption (which, as my friend Bill loves to point out, is called Maria Himmelfahrt in German). Since nuns came to pin medals on his pillow the day he was born, he always claimed victory. He never mentioned the fact that he shared the day with Julia Child. I wonder if he ever new. I'd give him the crown for that coincidence alone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We weren't a Julia Child-loving family. No one to my knowledge watched \u003ca href=\"http://www.amazon.com/Julia-Child-French-Chef/dp/B0006VXMHG\">The French Chef\u003c/a>. I'd watch re-runs of the Galloping Gourmet, but only out of the corner of my eye because I was too busy building mazes for my hamster out of Lincoln Logs. To me, Julia Child was just some tall lady with a funny voice who cooked and everyone from Dan Ackroyd to John Candy made fun of. I'd always thought of her as some grande dame, her nose as far above the jokes and pokes as her 6' 2\" body would hold it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cobject width=\"512\" height=\"288\">\u003cparam name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.hulu.com/embed/739vg5loox0hpook6jqi_a\">\u003cparam name=\"allowFullScreen\" value=\"true\">\u003cembed src=\"http://www.hulu.com/embed/739vg5loox0hpook6jqi_a\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" width=\"512\" height=\"288\" allowfullscreen=\"true\">\u003c/embed>\u003c/object>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I'd bought \u003ca href=\"http://www.amazon.com/Way-Cook-Julia-Child/dp/0394532643\">The Way To Cook\u003c/a> when I was in college, as did many of my friends, because I was serious about cooking. It was and is a serious cookbook-- step by step and about as how-to as they get. But I only sought pointers, I knew nothing of finesse and had no sense of humor about cooking-- I was too intimidated by it. I certainly didn't think I'd find either in the work of Julia Child. Of course, I'd never seen her television program.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn't until several years later when I fell into a job working for Jacques Pepin that I heard she had a sense of humor. Pepin, fresh from taping a television show with Child, told us stories of how, when winemaker sponsors visited the set of their show, she insisted on serving beer. Other stories followed that fairly shattered the previous image I'd formed of her. She wasn't the droning, Yankee bore obsessed with detail I'd made her out to be from her book and my own imagination. It's hard to imagine that I never remembered seeing her on television before, but it's true. The humor and charm that Pepin described surprised me, but it was her puckishness that left me wanting more of her. However unbearable the rest of my experience on Pepin's show, I came away with that wonderful knowledge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn't until last year that I was finally able to see episodes of The French Chef. My friend John received a DVD boxed set of the series' best episodes for his birthday. An ace home cook and successful cookbook author in his own right, he kindly invited me over to his place for dinner and a viewing. We watched her on his kitchen television as we drank martinis and cooked or, rather, he cooked, I drank martinis. Most memorable were the episodes detailing how to roast a chicken and how to make a Tarte Tatin. Or how not to, I'd say.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Take a moment and watch her talk about chickens: \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe width=\"480\" height=\"360\" src=\"http://www.youtube.com/embed/TVdI85jb8xg\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was then that I felt I finally got her. Thank you, John.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Having participated in the production of a number of cooking programs before the onset of their cable television-induced proliferation and, therefore, banality, Child was a trend-setter. I think we can all agree upon that. What impressed me most about her program was its low- budget, public television feel. Child preformed each show-- from start to finish-- in one take. Along with her many successful dishes prepared on air were many flops, but all were taken in stride and with great sense of humor. Whether blaming her choice of apple for the failure of her Tarte Tatin or simply explaining, by way of each failure, what went wrong and why, she turned her gaffes into, if not always triumphs, at least into moments of sheer enjoyment. The knowledge that even Julia Child was prone to error on occasion gave courage to her audience, removing much of the fear involved in the making of, say, a Gateau Saint-Honore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At a time when we, as Americans, generally deferred to the French in all matters gustatory, ignorant of or perhaps in part ashamed of our own culinary heritage, Child not only translated the French way of cooking into a language we could understand and into ingredients we could get our hands on, she served as an entertaining tour guide of French Culture along the way. And she managed all this without dumbing things down-- least of all, herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In an age where cooking shows are all but shoved down our throats, where any \u003ca href=\"http://www.rachaelray.com/\">annoying personality\u003c/a> is set free to run amok inside our televisions, it can be said that no one can best the original or imitate the inimitable. For better or worse, the Food Network owes its very existence to her. Have they ever said thank you? I wouldn't know, since I'm not paying attention-- I don't have cable and can't really stomach cooking shows anymore, with a few exceptions. Nothing would say \"we care\" like a TV marathon devoted to her original, groundbreaking program. Perhaps WGBH in Boston has already taken the idea and run with it. All I know is someone should.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Granted, Julia Child was practically beatified by the likes of the James Beard Foundation, COPIA and even the Smithsonian Institute while she was alive, but I'm voting for full canonization now that she's gone. I'd like a new holy day of obligation to supplant the one that no one celebrates anymore. Except Bavarians and my brother, were he still alive. Let's build a cathedral, a Notre Dame de la Cuisine, say, in her honor-- a place of worship where one can go to pray for, if not culinary inspiration or courage, at least deliverance from evil. Like the fact that Emeril Lagasse has his own band or the mere presence of that squawking Anti-Christ, Rachel Ray.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8BCu7lLI/AAAAAAAAAB0/V9JL3_zkqsg/s1600-h/ClamHouseMenu.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8BCu7lLI/AAAAAAAAAB0/V9JL3_zkqsg/s320/ClamHouseMenu.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are a number of restaurants in this city that have captured my imagination-- restaurants about which I know absolutely nothing, apart from the clues given away by their often antiquated signs and odd locations. Russia House and Julius' Castle come to mind. I am not typically curious about what's new and exciting. I leave that to other, hipper bloggers. Show me a restaurant that has survived fire, earthquake and food trend and I'll be there. Sooner or later. It's not as if they're going anywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I've driven by the Old Clam House for years. Or, rather, been driven by it-- I don't have a car. It has captivated me for a number of reasons. First, it's location-- a rather depressing stretch of Bayshore Boulevard, near the stretch of the 101 called the James Lick Freeway-- a fact not lost upon me. Next, it's age. The Old Clam House has been in business since 1861, making it second only to (please correct me if I'm wrong) Tadich Grill in terms of senility. Lastly, the name itself-- The Old Clam House. Does the word \"old\" modify \"clam\" or \"house\"? I assumed the latter, but refused to dismiss the former. A home for retired prostitutes also came to mind, naturally. My friends and I talked of going there for a long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Finally, after one near miss a few months ago, my friend Bill thought it high time to gather up the menfolk and wander down Bernal Hill for a special dinner-- my birthday dinner-- at the Clam House. As I sat with a cocktail opening birthday cards, I noted that a card from one friend read \"To an (old) clam.\" Everyone, it seemed, was ready for the evening ahead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we arrived for our reservation, the seven of us were greeted warmly and offered our table promptly, but we paused long enough to note the Wall of Fame lined with celebrities either gracious enough to bestow autographed 8 x 10 glossy publicity photos they just happened to be carrying with them at the time or desperate enough in their ebbing careers to think that any publicity is preferable to none at all. I couldn't decide. One of my favorite Old Clams to grace the wall is pictured below. Please forgive the light reflection obscuring her face. I feel that, out of kindness, I must obscure her identity, however lightly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8piu7lOI/AAAAAAAAACM/VCpfhraWIt0/s1600-h/LoniAnderson.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8piu7lOI/AAAAAAAAACM/VCpfhraWIt0/s320/LoniAnderson.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once seated, we were greeted by our server with water, baskets of sourdough bread and individual cups of hot clam broth which my friend Dan, who swallowed his fear of clams (the actual meat, not clam byproducts or the idea of clams) to come to dinner, declared it good. And it was-- subtly flavored. Briny and fresh tasting without being too, well, clammy. It struck a good first note.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While figuring out what to have for our main courses, we contented ourselves with beer and ordered two plates of fried calamari. My friend Bill and I ordered cups of clam chowder, which seemed like a too obvious choice, but a good one, nonetheless. The clams inside the chowder were plentiful and tender; the potatoes had enough tooth to them without being undercooked. I could smash the chunks on the roof of my mouth with my tongue. If I wanted to. However unsubtle it may have been, I introduced Bill to the pleasure of adding tabasco sauce to chowder. I like the heat it gives and the pretty pink color, naturally. The fried calamari was exactly as it should be, too. Crispy and ungreasy with just a little bit of chew. I normally avoid cocktail sauce and go straight for a squeeze of lemon, but I dipped a few tiny tentacles in, since the sauce was homemade. I might have stifled a yawn, but that's just me. It was good cocktail sauce, if you like that sort of thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While browsing the menu, I noticed that the restaurant served Scalone Bordelaise. If you are among those fortunate enough never to have run into this terrible shotgun marriage between bivalve and gastropod, scalone is a mixture of scallops and abalone-- two wonderful mollusks when kept in their separate corners-- usually ground together and frozen into patty or steak form. They must be pan fried directly from the freezer, in my experience, or they will do what is only natural-- separate. The only reason I know this is that this dish was served as an annual specialty at the Bohemian Grove camp I worked at last summer. We referred to the dish as Scabalone which, to us, is what it looked like when sufficiently browned on the griddle. Our campers ate it with a squeeze of lemon. as though to sanitize. I can imagine that adding a creamy sauce to it would only make the scab look infected. I moved down the menu.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I opted for the Mescalanza because it had a bit of everything in it-- crab legs, clams, prawns, Oysters Rockefeller. That, and because the name made me think of Mario Lanza singing \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NT6WEKFmnLk\">\"Be My Love\"\u003c/a>. Impossible to refuse, in my book. I think I made the right choice, at least in terms of the dish's theatrical value...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8QCu7lMI/AAAAAAAAAB8/csJGWVi2JHk/s1600-h/mescalanza.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8QCu7lMI/AAAAAAAAAB8/csJGWVi2JHk/s320/mescalanza.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Flaming seafood. An attention-grabbing entree is always in order on one's birthday. I thought about making a wish by blowing out the clam, but thought better of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I'd never had a seafood bordelaise before. The sauce itself was fine, but made an already rich dish obscenely so. I nibbled at the Oyster Rockefeller slowly, since there was only one and, to me, the star attraction. To my surprise, I actually liked clams drowned in sauce, but I think the other bits of seafood suffered, like the prawns and crab. Though impaled on skewers suspended above the bowl on what looked like a dumb bell rack, it was impossible not to coat everything I touched with bordelaise-- it was all over my hands. When my butter-coated fingers dropped a prawn into the bowl, I discovered a bit of sunken treasure-- an ear of corn. I think the fact that an ear of corn can go unnoticed at the bottom of one's bowl for several minutes illustrates either the immense size of the bowl in question or the limited observational powers of the person eating it. I vote for the former but won't rule out the latter. Shaking off as much sauce as I could, I bit into the corn. The corn juice released from the now-damaged kernels mingled with what sauce remained, not so much running down my chin, but getting absorbed by my beard. The corn was abandoned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The other dishes ordered by my dining mates were just as gargantuan. The clam linguini was enough to feed all seven of us and was actually delicious. My friend David's Lazy Man's Cioppino was served in the same oversized bowl as my Mescalanza. We questioned why the dish was named \"Lazy Man's Cioppino\". Since the crab legs were uncracked and the prawns still in their shell, we assumed that the lazy man in question was the one who prepared the dish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we finished our dinners, or at least tried to, I asked our server for a hot towel, since my hands and part of my left forearm were coated with bordelaise. She said yes, but returned without one. I asked someone else for an extra napkin and was given a few small ones of the paper kind. I was wedged into the middle of the table and didn't feel like getting up to go to the bathroom, so I just moistened the paper napkins with what little water was left in my glass and cleaned myself up as best I could given the tools I had. I had hoped that someone might think about clearing our table of dirty plates, but hope accomplishes nothing except the heightening of future disappointment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8byu7lNI/AAAAAAAAACE/ZM_Rk13TrQY/s1600-h/mescalanzaaftermath.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8byu7lNI/AAAAAAAAACE/ZM_Rk13TrQY/s320/mescalanzaaftermath.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I am very glad I didn't get up to go to the restroom. As we abandoned our dinner, my friend Gary turned to all of us and said, \"Keep an eye on the door of the Ladies' Room and see what comes out. It's good.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We all tried to keep up our conversations, but everyone kept staring at the Ladies' Room door. A couple of minutes passed. Nothing. A tall, fifty-something blonde entered and then exited two minutes or so later. Was that what we were supposed to be looking at? No, of course not. We'd all stared at her as she went in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As my attention was beginning to flag, out came a rather tall woman with enormous breasts that were so ill-contained by her overflowing tank top that her aureolae peeked over the top, though her shirt was partially covered by what looked like an open Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation 1814 leather jacket. Her stride was confident across the restaurant, even in her high heeled boots. She wet her index finger with her tongue and wiped the corners of her mouth as she walked. Someone at my table intimated that she might be a working girl. I thought perhaps she was just having the same issues with the excess of bordelaise I was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then a man came out of the Ladies' Room adjusting his pants. I knew then that the joke I'd made about the the restaurant being a home for retired prostitutes wasn't too far off the mark. I'll just have to omit the word \"retired\" the next time I tell it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Considering the fact that this woman was a practitioner, one assumes, of the world's oldest profession, I thought her behavior best suited for the oldest restaurant, Tadich Grill. Since I don't know what the world's second oldest profession is, I was at a loss to give her any restaurant-appropriate career advice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No dessert was offered to us, though I had heard tell of flan being available. It would have been nice to have had a candle to blow out, to make a wish for my 38th year, but it seemed so obvious to me that this woman stole my birthday thunder. There was no way in hell I was going to out-blow a professional, so I let her have the honor. I just wonder what she wished for. I hope it was something nice.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"description": "There are a number of restaurants in this city that have captured my imagination– restaurants about which I know absolutely nothing, apart from the clues given away by their often antiquated signs and odd locations. Russia House and Julius’ Castle come to mind. I am not typically curious about what’s new and exciting. I leave",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8BCu7lLI/AAAAAAAAAB0/V9JL3_zkqsg/s1600-h/ClamHouseMenu.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8BCu7lLI/AAAAAAAAAB0/V9JL3_zkqsg/s320/ClamHouseMenu.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are a number of restaurants in this city that have captured my imagination-- restaurants about which I know absolutely nothing, apart from the clues given away by their often antiquated signs and odd locations. Russia House and Julius' Castle come to mind. I am not typically curious about what's new and exciting. I leave that to other, hipper bloggers. Show me a restaurant that has survived fire, earthquake and food trend and I'll be there. Sooner or later. It's not as if they're going anywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I've driven by the Old Clam House for years. Or, rather, been driven by it-- I don't have a car. It has captivated me for a number of reasons. First, it's location-- a rather depressing stretch of Bayshore Boulevard, near the stretch of the 101 called the James Lick Freeway-- a fact not lost upon me. Next, it's age. The Old Clam House has been in business since 1861, making it second only to (please correct me if I'm wrong) Tadich Grill in terms of senility. Lastly, the name itself-- The Old Clam House. Does the word \"old\" modify \"clam\" or \"house\"? I assumed the latter, but refused to dismiss the former. A home for retired prostitutes also came to mind, naturally. My friends and I talked of going there for a long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Finally, after one near miss a few months ago, my friend Bill thought it high time to gather up the menfolk and wander down Bernal Hill for a special dinner-- my birthday dinner-- at the Clam House. As I sat with a cocktail opening birthday cards, I noted that a card from one friend read \"To an (old) clam.\" Everyone, it seemed, was ready for the evening ahead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we arrived for our reservation, the seven of us were greeted warmly and offered our table promptly, but we paused long enough to note the Wall of Fame lined with celebrities either gracious enough to bestow autographed 8 x 10 glossy publicity photos they just happened to be carrying with them at the time or desperate enough in their ebbing careers to think that any publicity is preferable to none at all. I couldn't decide. One of my favorite Old Clams to grace the wall is pictured below. Please forgive the light reflection obscuring her face. I feel that, out of kindness, I must obscure her identity, however lightly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8piu7lOI/AAAAAAAAACM/VCpfhraWIt0/s1600-h/LoniAnderson.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8piu7lOI/AAAAAAAAACM/VCpfhraWIt0/s320/LoniAnderson.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once seated, we were greeted by our server with water, baskets of sourdough bread and individual cups of hot clam broth which my friend Dan, who swallowed his fear of clams (the actual meat, not clam byproducts or the idea of clams) to come to dinner, declared it good. And it was-- subtly flavored. Briny and fresh tasting without being too, well, clammy. It struck a good first note.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While figuring out what to have for our main courses, we contented ourselves with beer and ordered two plates of fried calamari. My friend Bill and I ordered cups of clam chowder, which seemed like a too obvious choice, but a good one, nonetheless. The clams inside the chowder were plentiful and tender; the potatoes had enough tooth to them without being undercooked. I could smash the chunks on the roof of my mouth with my tongue. If I wanted to. However unsubtle it may have been, I introduced Bill to the pleasure of adding tabasco sauce to chowder. I like the heat it gives and the pretty pink color, naturally. The fried calamari was exactly as it should be, too. Crispy and ungreasy with just a little bit of chew. I normally avoid cocktail sauce and go straight for a squeeze of lemon, but I dipped a few tiny tentacles in, since the sauce was homemade. I might have stifled a yawn, but that's just me. It was good cocktail sauce, if you like that sort of thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While browsing the menu, I noticed that the restaurant served Scalone Bordelaise. If you are among those fortunate enough never to have run into this terrible shotgun marriage between bivalve and gastropod, scalone is a mixture of scallops and abalone-- two wonderful mollusks when kept in their separate corners-- usually ground together and frozen into patty or steak form. They must be pan fried directly from the freezer, in my experience, or they will do what is only natural-- separate. The only reason I know this is that this dish was served as an annual specialty at the Bohemian Grove camp I worked at last summer. We referred to the dish as Scabalone which, to us, is what it looked like when sufficiently browned on the griddle. Our campers ate it with a squeeze of lemon. as though to sanitize. I can imagine that adding a creamy sauce to it would only make the scab look infected. I moved down the menu.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I opted for the Mescalanza because it had a bit of everything in it-- crab legs, clams, prawns, Oysters Rockefeller. That, and because the name made me think of Mario Lanza singing \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NT6WEKFmnLk\">\"Be My Love\"\u003c/a>. Impossible to refuse, in my book. I think I made the right choice, at least in terms of the dish's theatrical value...\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8QCu7lMI/AAAAAAAAAB8/csJGWVi2JHk/s1600-h/mescalanza.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8QCu7lMI/AAAAAAAAAB8/csJGWVi2JHk/s320/mescalanza.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Flaming seafood. An attention-grabbing entree is always in order on one's birthday. I thought about making a wish by blowing out the clam, but thought better of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I'd never had a seafood bordelaise before. The sauce itself was fine, but made an already rich dish obscenely so. I nibbled at the Oyster Rockefeller slowly, since there was only one and, to me, the star attraction. To my surprise, I actually liked clams drowned in sauce, but I think the other bits of seafood suffered, like the prawns and crab. Though impaled on skewers suspended above the bowl on what looked like a dumb bell rack, it was impossible not to coat everything I touched with bordelaise-- it was all over my hands. When my butter-coated fingers dropped a prawn into the bowl, I discovered a bit of sunken treasure-- an ear of corn. I think the fact that an ear of corn can go unnoticed at the bottom of one's bowl for several minutes illustrates either the immense size of the bowl in question or the limited observational powers of the person eating it. I vote for the former but won't rule out the latter. Shaking off as much sauce as I could, I bit into the corn. The corn juice released from the now-damaged kernels mingled with what sauce remained, not so much running down my chin, but getting absorbed by my beard. The corn was abandoned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The other dishes ordered by my dining mates were just as gargantuan. The clam linguini was enough to feed all seven of us and was actually delicious. My friend David's Lazy Man's Cioppino was served in the same oversized bowl as my Mescalanza. We questioned why the dish was named \"Lazy Man's Cioppino\". Since the crab legs were uncracked and the prawns still in their shell, we assumed that the lazy man in question was the one who prepared the dish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we finished our dinners, or at least tried to, I asked our server for a hot towel, since my hands and part of my left forearm were coated with bordelaise. She said yes, but returned without one. I asked someone else for an extra napkin and was given a few small ones of the paper kind. I was wedged into the middle of the table and didn't feel like getting up to go to the bathroom, so I just moistened the paper napkins with what little water was left in my glass and cleaned myself up as best I could given the tools I had. I had hoped that someone might think about clearing our table of dirty plates, but hope accomplishes nothing except the heightening of future disappointment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8byu7lNI/AAAAAAAAACE/ZM_Rk13TrQY/s1600-h/mescalanzaaftermath.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/blogger/_KZHoi9aEvuk/Rrt8byu7lNI/AAAAAAAAACE/ZM_Rk13TrQY/s320/mescalanzaaftermath.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I am very glad I didn't get up to go to the restroom. As we abandoned our dinner, my friend Gary turned to all of us and said, \"Keep an eye on the door of the Ladies' Room and see what comes out. It's good.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We all tried to keep up our conversations, but everyone kept staring at the Ladies' Room door. A couple of minutes passed. Nothing. A tall, fifty-something blonde entered and then exited two minutes or so later. Was that what we were supposed to be looking at? No, of course not. We'd all stared at her as she went in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As my attention was beginning to flag, out came a rather tall woman with enormous breasts that were so ill-contained by her overflowing tank top that her aureolae peeked over the top, though her shirt was partially covered by what looked like an open Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation 1814 leather jacket. Her stride was confident across the restaurant, even in her high heeled boots. She wet her index finger with her tongue and wiped the corners of her mouth as she walked. Someone at my table intimated that she might be a working girl. I thought perhaps she was just having the same issues with the excess of bordelaise I was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then a man came out of the Ladies' Room adjusting his pants. I knew then that the joke I'd made about the the restaurant being a home for retired prostitutes wasn't too far off the mark. I'll just have to omit the word \"retired\" the next time I tell it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Considering the fact that this woman was a practitioner, one assumes, of the world's oldest profession, I thought her behavior best suited for the oldest restaurant, Tadich Grill. Since I don't know what the world's second oldest profession is, I was at a loss to give her any restaurant-appropriate career advice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No dessert was offered to us, though I had heard tell of flan being available. It would have been nice to have had a candle to blow out, to make a wish for my 38th year, but it seemed so obvious to me that this woman stole my birthday thunder. There was no way in hell I was going to out-blow a professional, so I let her have the honor. I just wonder what she wished for. I hope it was something nice.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/51ckufXNuPL._SS500_-742600.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/51ckufXNuPL._SS500_-742578.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Summer reading should be pleasant fare. Though I had found perverse comfort earlier this season in Barbara Tuchman's \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Distant_Mirror\">A Distant Mirror\u003c/a>-- the wars and epidemics of our own century seem paltry when compared to the Hundred Years' War and Bubonic Plague of the 14th-- I felt that, just perhaps, I should read something slightly more upbeat; something that didn't cause me to frequently check myself for lice, fleas or imaginary buboes. Something fun. Something food-related.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was saved from reading MFK Fisher's \u003ca href=\"http://www.amazon.com/Art-Eating-M-F-Fisher/dp/0020322208\">The Art of Eating\u003c/a> for the 17th time when Ian Jackman's \u003ca href=\"http://www.amazon.com/Eat-This-Things-Before-Diet/dp/0060885904\">Eat This: 1,001 Things to Eat Before You Diet\u003c/a> fell into my hot --and mercifully plague-free-- little hands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jackman spent two years writing about and several more eating his way through farmers markets, hot dog stands, panaderias and testicle festivals-- and any place else that serves up food in this country. The result is an entertaining, mind-blowing catalogue of regional American food traditions and obsessions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eat This satisfies my criteria for pleasant fare-- something I can pick up and put down, jumping from chapter to chapter without getting lost. Though not a comprehensive work (which is impossible be given the expanse of this country, so don't cry about the omission of scuppernongs), it is a work of astonishing breadth, fascinating food facts and inspiration for many a future food hajj.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I first flipped through these 382 pages of information, I was overcome with regret that no one ever uttered the words \"road trip\" to me. Not once. \"Vegas\" was about as far as it went, and culinary adventure was not the motivation behind that utterance. As I browsed further, skipping about between chapters in Part One: Eating In that seem organized like sections in a supermarket, I came across bits of food history I could relate to-- my father's fascination with \u003ca href=\"http://www.tastykake.com/HomepageTemplate.aspx?PostingID=21&ChannelID=2\">Tastykakes\u003c/a> in the Bakery chapter, my aunt's penchant for feeding her dog on Chateaubriand while the rest of us ate pasta in Meat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Part Two: Eating Out is crammed with information not only on what to eat and where to eat it but, for example and (to me) much more fascinating, how a national dish such as the hamburger varies from region to region. A Sloppy Joe-like Dynamite? Go to Rhode Island. Butter Burger? Try Solly's Grill in Madison, Wisconsin. I'll need to ask my Madison contact about that one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The bits of trivia Jackman picked up along the way are filling up the few remaining parts of my brain as yet unsaturated with useless information, which suits me just fine. From Eric Schlosser's \u003ca href=\"http://books.google.com/books?id=yNFN1OpnkBkC&dq=fast+food+nation&pg=PP1&ots=l_lioE8r83&sig=bLmDkp0Y4C6TF-SiZ4Gf8a99wz8&prev=http://www.google.com/search%3Fq%3Dfast%2520food%2520nation%26sourceid%3Dmozilla2%26ie%3Dutf-8%26oe%3Dutf-8&sa=X&oi=print&ct=title\">Fast Food Nation\u003c/a>, Jackman shares a wonderfully creepy burger fact:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Q: Which two American institutions were founded in San Bernadino, California, in 1948?\u003cbr>A: McDonald's and The Hell's Angels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you tell me that information isn't going to slip out of your mouth at the next barbecue you attend, I won't believe you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, for every one item I've tasted or place I've visited (or worked at, for that matter-- four are mentioned in this book), there are 20 listed that I haven't-- a fact I regard with hope rather than frustration. Pancakes at the \u003ca href=\"http://www.pantrycafe.com/\">Original Pantry\u003c/a> in Los Angeles? Check. Hungarian Hot Dogs at \u003ca href=\"http://www.tonypackos.com/\">Tony Packo's\u003c/a> in Toledo, Ohio? On my to do list. My friend Gary's family is Hungarian and from Ohio. I've heard the stories, I've seen the photos. Jackman's credibility rating shot way up when I read that. Not that he needs my approval.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a country I have often viewed (from my cultural bubble of San Francisco) as alarmingly homogenized, where the lingua franca has been peppered with phrases like super-sized and non-fat venti, Eat This simply proves that there are still a lot of lumps in the American Melting Pot. Thank God.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I step up the planning of my impending holiday in Greece next month, my thoughts are already turning to the next trip. I'm thinking somewhere more exotic. Like Vienna, Georgia. I've never been to the Big Pig Jig Barbecue Contest. I smell a road trip coming on but, this time, I won't wait around for someone to utter those words to me. I'll say them myself.\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/51ckufXNuPL._SS500_-712222.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/51ckufXNuPL._SS500_-742600.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/51ckufXNuPL._SS500_-742578.jpg\" alt=\"\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Summer reading should be pleasant fare. Though I had found perverse comfort earlier this season in Barbara Tuchman's \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Distant_Mirror\">A Distant Mirror\u003c/a>-- the wars and epidemics of our own century seem paltry when compared to the Hundred Years' War and Bubonic Plague of the 14th-- I felt that, just perhaps, I should read something slightly more upbeat; something that didn't cause me to frequently check myself for lice, fleas or imaginary buboes. Something fun. Something food-related.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was saved from reading MFK Fisher's \u003ca href=\"http://www.amazon.com/Art-Eating-M-F-Fisher/dp/0020322208\">The Art of Eating\u003c/a> for the 17th time when Ian Jackman's \u003ca href=\"http://www.amazon.com/Eat-This-Things-Before-Diet/dp/0060885904\">Eat This: 1,001 Things to Eat Before You Diet\u003c/a> fell into my hot --and mercifully plague-free-- little hands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jackman spent two years writing about and several more eating his way through farmers markets, hot dog stands, panaderias and testicle festivals-- and any place else that serves up food in this country. The result is an entertaining, mind-blowing catalogue of regional American food traditions and obsessions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eat This satisfies my criteria for pleasant fare-- something I can pick up and put down, jumping from chapter to chapter without getting lost. Though not a comprehensive work (which is impossible be given the expanse of this country, so don't cry about the omission of scuppernongs), it is a work of astonishing breadth, fascinating food facts and inspiration for many a future food hajj.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I first flipped through these 382 pages of information, I was overcome with regret that no one ever uttered the words \"road trip\" to me. Not once. \"Vegas\" was about as far as it went, and culinary adventure was not the motivation behind that utterance. As I browsed further, skipping about between chapters in Part One: Eating In that seem organized like sections in a supermarket, I came across bits of food history I could relate to-- my father's fascination with \u003ca href=\"http://www.tastykake.com/HomepageTemplate.aspx?PostingID=21&ChannelID=2\">Tastykakes\u003c/a> in the Bakery chapter, my aunt's penchant for feeding her dog on Chateaubriand while the rest of us ate pasta in Meat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Part Two: Eating Out is crammed with information not only on what to eat and where to eat it but, for example and (to me) much more fascinating, how a national dish such as the hamburger varies from region to region. A Sloppy Joe-like Dynamite? Go to Rhode Island. Butter Burger? Try Solly's Grill in Madison, Wisconsin. I'll need to ask my Madison contact about that one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The bits of trivia Jackman picked up along the way are filling up the few remaining parts of my brain as yet unsaturated with useless information, which suits me just fine. From Eric Schlosser's \u003ca href=\"http://books.google.com/books?id=yNFN1OpnkBkC&dq=fast+food+nation&pg=PP1&ots=l_lioE8r83&sig=bLmDkp0Y4C6TF-SiZ4Gf8a99wz8&prev=http://www.google.com/search%3Fq%3Dfast%2520food%2520nation%26sourceid%3Dmozilla2%26ie%3Dutf-8%26oe%3Dutf-8&sa=X&oi=print&ct=title\">Fast Food Nation\u003c/a>, Jackman shares a wonderfully creepy burger fact:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Q: Which two American institutions were founded in San Bernadino, California, in 1948?\u003cbr>A: McDonald's and The Hell's Angels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you tell me that information isn't going to slip out of your mouth at the next barbecue you attend, I won't believe you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, for every one item I've tasted or place I've visited (or worked at, for that matter-- four are mentioned in this book), there are 20 listed that I haven't-- a fact I regard with hope rather than frustration. Pancakes at the \u003ca href=\"http://www.pantrycafe.com/\">Original Pantry\u003c/a> in Los Angeles? Check. Hungarian Hot Dogs at \u003ca href=\"http://www.tonypackos.com/\">Tony Packo's\u003c/a> in Toledo, Ohio? On my to do list. My friend Gary's family is Hungarian and from Ohio. I've heard the stories, I've seen the photos. Jackman's credibility rating shot way up when I read that. Not that he needs my approval.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a country I have often viewed (from my cultural bubble of San Francisco) as alarmingly homogenized, where the lingua franca has been peppered with phrases like super-sized and non-fat venti, Eat This simply proves that there are still a lot of lumps in the American Melting Pot. Thank God.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I step up the planning of my impending holiday in Greece next month, my thoughts are already turning to the next trip. I'm thinking somewhere more exotic. Like Vienna, Georgia. I've never been to the Big Pig Jig Barbecue Contest. I smell a road trip coming on but, this time, I won't wait around for someone to utter those words to me. I'll say them myself.\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/51ckufXNuPL._SS500_-712222.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"disqusTitle": "Peaches, Herb and Melba.",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/peach-melba-733028.jpg\" border=\"0\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before getting to the meat of today's subject matter, I'd like to explain something-- the evolution of today's post.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I'm off to my 20th high school reunion this weekend so, naturally, the song \"Reunited\" by Peaches and Herb has been crowding my brain. The initial idea was to exorcise this R & B demon from my head by making a salad containing, naturally again, peaches and herbs. I thought that by taking matters into my own hands, uniting these two ingredients and then consuming them might give me some sort of edge. However, I became frustratingly uncertain as to which herb was the right Herb. Peaches might react unpleasantly to, say, marjoram or, even worse, dill. Rosemary sounded nice, but my hunch told me that herbs with feminine names wouldn't appeal to her either. The goal here was a reunion that \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rS_wik3Rum8\">feels so good\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I abandoned Herb, but I kept Peaches with me. I thought about explaining where she came from (China, not Persia as her botanical name Prunus persica suggests) and how she came to whet our appetites with just a little shake of her sequined \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmNUvT0f44w\">groove thing\u003c/a>. I was surprised by both her strength and her depth-- much more depth than I think your Friday morning attention span can handle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I decided to make Peach Melba instead.\u003cbr>\n\u003cobject width=\"425\" height=\"355\">\u003cparam name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/RypM4dHOb9M\">\u003cparam name=\"wmode\" value=\"transparent\">\u003cembed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/RypM4dHOb9M\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" wmode=\"transparent\" width=\"425\" height=\"355\">\u003c/embed>\u003c/object>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That's Nelly Melba in the clip above. Sadly, she's not making her peach dish. Instead, she's making a cake for the Duke and Duchess of York, later to be known as King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. I couldn't find any other footage of her, so this will have to do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born in what is now a suburb of Melbourne, Australia in 1861, Helen Porter Mitchell grew up to ditch her son-of-a-baronet husband and infant son, change her name to Nellie Melba (in honor of her hometown) and become one of the greatest-- or at least most famous-- sopranos in opera history. She has inspired not only the above mentioned dessert concoction, but toast, thereby making her the most eponymed woman in modern food history. Why such honors?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn't her sweet disposition. Apart from abandoning her family, she was also known as a fickle, upstaging attention-grabber. The consummate diva, when asked to answer for her own bad behavior, the words \"I am Melba\" always passed from her lips. That, she believed, was enough explaination. She was also given to physically shoving other performers downstage if they got in her way. She was, not surprisingly, detested by her peers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She was, however, loved by her public. One man in particular-- Auguste Escoffier-- adored her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While appearing at Covent Garden-- her operatic home for more than twenty years-- and residing at the Savoy Hotel where Escoffier was master chef, she sent him (possibly as a thank you for previously naming the \u003ca href=\"http://www.melbatoast.com/\">toast\u003c/a> in her honor) a pair of tickets to see her in Richard Wagner's Lohengrin. Escoffier was so taken with her performance that he created another dish (if toast can indeed be called a dish) for her-- Peche au Cygne (Peach with Swan)-- peaches and vanilla ice cream served alongside a dramatic swan ice sculpture which mimicked the \u003ca href=\"http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/48/Lohengrin-kitsch.jpg/180px-Lohengrin-kitsch.jpg&imgrefurl=http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lohengrin_%28op%25C3%25A9ra%29&h=252&w=180&sz=19&hl=en&start=0&um=1&tbnid=eXzCqVT_FSb5DM:&tbnh=111&tbnw=79&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dlohengrin%26svnum%3D10%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN\">swan-shaped boat\u003c/a> featured in the opera. It was not, however, called Peach Melba. He renamed the dessert a few years later, after his move to the Ritz Carlton, adding both raspberry sauce and the Melba name.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Legend has it that Melba was concerned that eating ice cream might constrict her gorgeous vocal chords, which is why I have chosen to serve the peaches below slightly warm. I know what it's like to piss off a diva, believe me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Peach Melba:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ingredients:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3 yellow peaches. Not too ripe. Freestones make life easier.\u003cbr>\n4 cups water. You may also poach the peaches in white wine. Frankly, I'd rather drink the wine\u003cbr>\nthan poach with it.\u003cbr>\n2 cups sugar\u003cbr>\n2 cups raspberries (fresh or frozen). Fresh raspberries are ideal for garnishing.\u003cbr>\n1 tablespoon lemon juice\u003cbr>\n2 tablespoons of sugar (taste the raspberries before adding sugar. I prefer the sauce to be tart,\u003cbr>\nlike la Melba herself)\u003cbr>\nVanilla ice cream. (I'm using vanilla sorbet because I have to lose 10 pounds by tomorrow for\u003cbr>\nmy reunion.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some sort of wafer cookies for garnish and a little crunch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Preparation:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. Slice a shallow \"x\" on the bottom of each peach to facilitate peeling. Blanch the peaches in the four cups of simmering water for about one minute. Or two. Is the skin starting to peel away along the edges of the little \"x\"? If so, take them out and place fruit in an ice bath to cool them. Let sit until well cooled, then excoriate. Set aside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Add sugar to the simmering water, stirring lightly to dissolve. Return the denuded peaches to the simmering syrup. Turn off the heat and walk away for a while. Some swear by slicing the peaches before poaching them. I'm not a fan-- the edges of the peaches become too soft and feathery. Do so at your own risk. I like the center of the peach to have a little bit of give to it. Probably because I have teeth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While the peaches are doing their thing, make the raspberry sauce. Place berries, 1/4 cup of sugar and 1 tablespoon of lemon juice into your cuisenart or what-have-you and pulse. I had some berries in the freezer and did not bother to wait until they thawed before I pureed them. I ended up making a sort of soft-serve sorbet as a result, which I let melt to become spoonable and saucy. Set aside and wash your blending apparatus immediately, if only to save yourself from flicking bits of seed stuck to the plastic with your fingernail later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the syrup has cooled to slightly warm, remove the peaches and slice in half, removing the stones.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To Assemble:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In parfait glasses or whatever you have handy-- \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LS75NtlH3gI\">vessels with pestles, flagons with dragons\u003c/a>-- spoon a little raspberry sauce on the bottom. Of the glass, please. Place one half of a peach, which should be slightly warm on top. Spoon vanilla ice cream over that, drizzle with a little more raspberry sauce. Garnish with whole raspberries and cookie. Serve immediately.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>*Fun Fact* Nellie Melba died on 23 February, 1931 as a result of complications from a botched plastic surgery.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"description": "Before getting to the meat of today's subject matter, I'd like to explain something-- the evolution of today's post. I'm off to my 20th high school reunion this weekend so, naturally, the song "Reunited" by Peaches and Herb has been crowding my brain. The initial idea was to exorcise this R & B demon from",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/peach-melba-733028.jpg\" border=\"0\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before getting to the meat of today's subject matter, I'd like to explain something-- the evolution of today's post.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I'm off to my 20th high school reunion this weekend so, naturally, the song \"Reunited\" by Peaches and Herb has been crowding my brain. The initial idea was to exorcise this R & B demon from my head by making a salad containing, naturally again, peaches and herbs. I thought that by taking matters into my own hands, uniting these two ingredients and then consuming them might give me some sort of edge. However, I became frustratingly uncertain as to which herb was the right Herb. Peaches might react unpleasantly to, say, marjoram or, even worse, dill. Rosemary sounded nice, but my hunch told me that herbs with feminine names wouldn't appeal to her either. The goal here was a reunion that \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rS_wik3Rum8\">feels so good\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I abandoned Herb, but I kept Peaches with me. I thought about explaining where she came from (China, not Persia as her botanical name Prunus persica suggests) and how she came to whet our appetites with just a little shake of her sequined \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmNUvT0f44w\">groove thing\u003c/a>. I was surprised by both her strength and her depth-- much more depth than I think your Friday morning attention span can handle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I decided to make Peach Melba instead.\u003cbr>\n\u003cobject width=\"425\" height=\"355\">\u003cparam name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/RypM4dHOb9M\">\u003cparam name=\"wmode\" value=\"transparent\">\u003cembed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/RypM4dHOb9M\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" wmode=\"transparent\" width=\"425\" height=\"355\">\u003c/embed>\u003c/object>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That's Nelly Melba in the clip above. Sadly, she's not making her peach dish. Instead, she's making a cake for the Duke and Duchess of York, later to be known as King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. I couldn't find any other footage of her, so this will have to do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born in what is now a suburb of Melbourne, Australia in 1861, Helen Porter Mitchell grew up to ditch her son-of-a-baronet husband and infant son, change her name to Nellie Melba (in honor of her hometown) and become one of the greatest-- or at least most famous-- sopranos in opera history. She has inspired not only the above mentioned dessert concoction, but toast, thereby making her the most eponymed woman in modern food history. Why such honors?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn't her sweet disposition. Apart from abandoning her family, she was also known as a fickle, upstaging attention-grabber. The consummate diva, when asked to answer for her own bad behavior, the words \"I am Melba\" always passed from her lips. That, she believed, was enough explaination. She was also given to physically shoving other performers downstage if they got in her way. She was, not surprisingly, detested by her peers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She was, however, loved by her public. One man in particular-- Auguste Escoffier-- adored her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While appearing at Covent Garden-- her operatic home for more than twenty years-- and residing at the Savoy Hotel where Escoffier was master chef, she sent him (possibly as a thank you for previously naming the \u003ca href=\"http://www.melbatoast.com/\">toast\u003c/a> in her honor) a pair of tickets to see her in Richard Wagner's Lohengrin. Escoffier was so taken with her performance that he created another dish (if toast can indeed be called a dish) for her-- Peche au Cygne (Peach with Swan)-- peaches and vanilla ice cream served alongside a dramatic swan ice sculpture which mimicked the \u003ca href=\"http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/48/Lohengrin-kitsch.jpg/180px-Lohengrin-kitsch.jpg&imgrefurl=http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lohengrin_%28op%25C3%25A9ra%29&h=252&w=180&sz=19&hl=en&start=0&um=1&tbnid=eXzCqVT_FSb5DM:&tbnh=111&tbnw=79&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dlohengrin%26svnum%3D10%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN\">swan-shaped boat\u003c/a> featured in the opera. It was not, however, called Peach Melba. He renamed the dessert a few years later, after his move to the Ritz Carlton, adding both raspberry sauce and the Melba name.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Legend has it that Melba was concerned that eating ice cream might constrict her gorgeous vocal chords, which is why I have chosen to serve the peaches below slightly warm. I know what it's like to piss off a diva, believe me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Peach Melba:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ingredients:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3 yellow peaches. Not too ripe. Freestones make life easier.\u003cbr>\n4 cups water. You may also poach the peaches in white wine. Frankly, I'd rather drink the wine\u003cbr>\nthan poach with it.\u003cbr>\n2 cups sugar\u003cbr>\n2 cups raspberries (fresh or frozen). Fresh raspberries are ideal for garnishing.\u003cbr>\n1 tablespoon lemon juice\u003cbr>\n2 tablespoons of sugar (taste the raspberries before adding sugar. I prefer the sauce to be tart,\u003cbr>\nlike la Melba herself)\u003cbr>\nVanilla ice cream. (I'm using vanilla sorbet because I have to lose 10 pounds by tomorrow for\u003cbr>\nmy reunion.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some sort of wafer cookies for garnish and a little crunch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Preparation:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. Slice a shallow \"x\" on the bottom of each peach to facilitate peeling. Blanch the peaches in the four cups of simmering water for about one minute. Or two. Is the skin starting to peel away along the edges of the little \"x\"? If so, take them out and place fruit in an ice bath to cool them. Let sit until well cooled, then excoriate. Set aside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Add sugar to the simmering water, stirring lightly to dissolve. Return the denuded peaches to the simmering syrup. Turn off the heat and walk away for a while. Some swear by slicing the peaches before poaching them. I'm not a fan-- the edges of the peaches become too soft and feathery. Do so at your own risk. I like the center of the peach to have a little bit of give to it. Probably because I have teeth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While the peaches are doing their thing, make the raspberry sauce. Place berries, 1/4 cup of sugar and 1 tablespoon of lemon juice into your cuisenart or what-have-you and pulse. I had some berries in the freezer and did not bother to wait until they thawed before I pureed them. I ended up making a sort of soft-serve sorbet as a result, which I let melt to become spoonable and saucy. Set aside and wash your blending apparatus immediately, if only to save yourself from flicking bits of seed stuck to the plastic with your fingernail later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the syrup has cooled to slightly warm, remove the peaches and slice in half, removing the stones.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To Assemble:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In parfait glasses or whatever you have handy-- \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LS75NtlH3gI\">vessels with pestles, flagons with dragons\u003c/a>-- spoon a little raspberry sauce on the bottom. Of the glass, please. 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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/fried-chicken-788169.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/fried-chicken-787564.jpg\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every summer, I become mildly obsessed with frying chicken. I think of the beautiful childhood picnics I never went on. Laying out my hand-stitched quilt on a grassy patch of park free of dog feces, the well-timed automatic sprinklers offering me a refreshing spritz of mist at 15 minute intervals, drinking freshly squeezed lemonade and eating my Grammy's homemade fried chicken.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How I miss Anaheim.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If a summertime picnic was to be had, it was generally done in my backyard on an old, frayed electric blanket (not plugged in). Just myself and my dogs, Cindy and Penny, who were not, as one might think, named for Cindy Williams and Penny Marshall. The coincidence of my childhood with Laverne and Shirley is simply bad timing. No sunscreen. We didn't feel the need for such things in those days. All I needed for a (temporary) deep, golden tan was the mayonnaise dripping from my bologna sandwich. I know what you're thinking. Eew. Well, you're right. My neighbor Kim and I once slathered Best Foods all over our bodies and then baked ourselves in the sun. We thought nothing of it until we began to smell. That was about the time Kim's mother found us and screamed something about us being walking salmonella and wasting her good mayonnaise. She then sprayed me down with a hose and sent me home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But I digress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The point I am feebly trying to make is that we were not, by nature, fried chicken eaters. The occasional Shake n' Bake assisted fried chicken was ingested, but without relish. Or mayonnaise, for that matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I think, though, that I had always wanted to be a fried chicken eater. Perhaps it was the trappings that went with its eating-- red checkered picnic cloths, watermelon, big, happy families. Maybe even a sack race. That seemed like a great summertime sort of lifestyle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My understanding of the dish didn't occur until well into adulthood. I had invited my cooking school partner Todd over for dinner one summer evening and thought fried chicken sounded like a good idea. As I took the chicken legs out of their plastic seal and began to place them directly into the flour mixture I'd made, Todd cocked is head like a confused dog and asked, \"What are you doing? That's not how my Mama makes fried chicken and my Mama knows fried chicken.\" His voice had suddenly developed the long, rounded vowels and deep base of an imaginary Kentucky Colonel-- decidedly un-New Jersey-like, the state in which Todd learned to speak. He explained that his mother was from West Virginia. Oh. We went to the market to purchase what he needed to make proper fried chicken, then I stood back and watched him work. Since the chicken needed to soak overnight, I think we went out for burritos that night instead. He came back the next day to fry it all up. I was floored and humbled by the results.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now I realize that everyone thinks they know what the perfect fried chicken should taste like. Well, you're wrong, plain and simple.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thank you Todd, wherever you are. And thank you, Mama Webb, for showing me into the light.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mrs. Webb's Fried Chicken\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ingredients:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>12 pieces of chicken (I like thighs and drumsticks. Breasts just seem like a waste for frying)\u003cbr>\n1 quart of buttermilk (low fat will do just fine)\u003cbr>\na generous amount of salt\u003cbr>\n1 onion, sliced into rings or Lyonnaise style, if you like-- you're the one eating them\u003cbr>\n3 cups of all purpose flour\u003cbr>\n1 to 2 tablespoons cracked black pepper\u003cbr>\n1 tablespoon cayenne pepper\u003cbr>\n1 1/2 quarts vegetable oil for frying (corn, safflower or whatever. Don't get fancy with the oil or people will laugh at you). Or, if you prefer, vegetable shortening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Preparation:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. In a large bowl, coat the chicken pieces liberally with salt. This not only salts the chicken, it draws out impurities, preventing unsightly blood spotting as you fry. Let the chicken sit in the salt for one hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. Rinse the salt from the chicken. Rinse the bowl, too, for reuse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. Return chicken to the bowl and add the sliced onion. Toss together and cover with buttermilk. Cover and set in refrigerator overnight or for one full day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. In a skillet, pour one inch of oil and heat to 325 degrees. Try not to let the oil get hotter or the chicken will burn. I use a thermometer to gauge the temperature. I suggest you do, too, since the oil temperature drops significantly when the cold chicken is added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. In another large bowl, combine flour, 2 tablespoons each of salt and pepper and the cayenne (truth be told, I've never bothered to measure the amount of this I use. Just suit yourself).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>6. Remove all the chicken from the buttermilk-tainted bowl. I don't care where you put it as long as you put it somewhere clean. Shake excess buttermilk from a piece of chicken and roll it in the flour mixure. Dip the chicken back into the buttermilk and once more into the flour. A double crust is, for me anyway, de rigueur. Add the chicken to your pan as you go, skin side down. I find that adding the chicken gradually to the pan helps to maintain a more constant oil temperature. Just make sure you have some sort of system for knowing which pieces have been in the longest. I work clockwise. You do what you want.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>7. Fry the chicken until golden brown, about 10 to 12 minutes per side. Make sure you've got some music appropriate for frying playing. This is going to take a little while.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>8. As each piece finishes frying, place on a rack to drain. Why waste paper towels?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>9. Now you have these wonderful onions to fry up. Proceed as with the chicken, battering and double dipping. How nice to have a side dish built right into the recipe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Serve hot or cold. Not the onion rings, of course. I like the chicken cold. For picnics, you know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Serves 4 to 6 people.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/fried-chicken-788169.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/food/uploaded_images/fried-chicken-787564.jpg\" border=\"0\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every summer, I become mildly obsessed with frying chicken. I think of the beautiful childhood picnics I never went on. Laying out my hand-stitched quilt on a grassy patch of park free of dog feces, the well-timed automatic sprinklers offering me a refreshing spritz of mist at 15 minute intervals, drinking freshly squeezed lemonade and eating my Grammy's homemade fried chicken.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How I miss Anaheim.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If a summertime picnic was to be had, it was generally done in my backyard on an old, frayed electric blanket (not plugged in). Just myself and my dogs, Cindy and Penny, who were not, as one might think, named for Cindy Williams and Penny Marshall. The coincidence of my childhood with Laverne and Shirley is simply bad timing. No sunscreen. We didn't feel the need for such things in those days. All I needed for a (temporary) deep, golden tan was the mayonnaise dripping from my bologna sandwich. I know what you're thinking. Eew. Well, you're right. My neighbor Kim and I once slathered Best Foods all over our bodies and then baked ourselves in the sun. We thought nothing of it until we began to smell. That was about the time Kim's mother found us and screamed something about us being walking salmonella and wasting her good mayonnaise. She then sprayed me down with a hose and sent me home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But I digress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The point I am feebly trying to make is that we were not, by nature, fried chicken eaters. The occasional Shake n' Bake assisted fried chicken was ingested, but without relish. Or mayonnaise, for that matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I think, though, that I had always wanted to be a fried chicken eater. Perhaps it was the trappings that went with its eating-- red checkered picnic cloths, watermelon, big, happy families. Maybe even a sack race. That seemed like a great summertime sort of lifestyle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My understanding of the dish didn't occur until well into adulthood. I had invited my cooking school partner Todd over for dinner one summer evening and thought fried chicken sounded like a good idea. As I took the chicken legs out of their plastic seal and began to place them directly into the flour mixture I'd made, Todd cocked is head like a confused dog and asked, \"What are you doing? That's not how my Mama makes fried chicken and my Mama knows fried chicken.\" His voice had suddenly developed the long, rounded vowels and deep base of an imaginary Kentucky Colonel-- decidedly un-New Jersey-like, the state in which Todd learned to speak. He explained that his mother was from West Virginia. Oh. We went to the market to purchase what he needed to make proper fried chicken, then I stood back and watched him work. Since the chicken needed to soak overnight, I think we went out for burritos that night instead. He came back the next day to fry it all up. I was floored and humbled by the results.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now I realize that everyone thinks they know what the perfect fried chicken should taste like. Well, you're wrong, plain and simple.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thank you Todd, wherever you are. And thank you, Mama Webb, for showing me into the light.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mrs. Webb's Fried Chicken\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ingredients:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>12 pieces of chicken (I like thighs and drumsticks. Breasts just seem like a waste for frying)\u003cbr>\n1 quart of buttermilk (low fat will do just fine)\u003cbr>\na generous amount of salt\u003cbr>\n1 onion, sliced into rings or Lyonnaise style, if you like-- you're the one eating them\u003cbr>\n3 cups of all purpose flour\u003cbr>\n1 to 2 tablespoons cracked black pepper\u003cbr>\n1 tablespoon cayenne pepper\u003cbr>\n1 1/2 quarts vegetable oil for frying (corn, safflower or whatever. Don't get fancy with the oil or people will laugh at you). Or, if you prefer, vegetable shortening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Preparation:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. In a large bowl, coat the chicken pieces liberally with salt. This not only salts the chicken, it draws out impurities, preventing unsightly blood spotting as you fry. Let the chicken sit in the salt for one hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. Rinse the salt from the chicken. Rinse the bowl, too, for reuse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. Return chicken to the bowl and add the sliced onion. Toss together and cover with buttermilk. Cover and set in refrigerator overnight or for one full day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. In a skillet, pour one inch of oil and heat to 325 degrees. Try not to let the oil get hotter or the chicken will burn. I use a thermometer to gauge the temperature. I suggest you do, too, since the oil temperature drops significantly when the cold chicken is added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. In another large bowl, combine flour, 2 tablespoons each of salt and pepper and the cayenne (truth be told, I've never bothered to measure the amount of this I use. Just suit yourself).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>6. Remove all the chicken from the buttermilk-tainted bowl. I don't care where you put it as long as you put it somewhere clean. Shake excess buttermilk from a piece of chicken and roll it in the flour mixure. Dip the chicken back into the buttermilk and once more into the flour. A double crust is, for me anyway, de rigueur. Add the chicken to your pan as you go, skin side down. I find that adding the chicken gradually to the pan helps to maintain a more constant oil temperature. Just make sure you have some sort of system for knowing which pieces have been in the longest. I work clockwise. You do what you want.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>7. Fry the chicken until golden brown, about 10 to 12 minutes per side. Make sure you've got some music appropriate for frying playing. This is going to take a little while.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>8. As each piece finishes frying, place on a rack to drain. Why waste paper towels?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>9. Now you have these wonderful onions to fry up. Proceed as with the chicken, battering and double dipping. How nice to have a side dish built right into the recipe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Serve hot or cold. Not the onion rings, of course. I like the chicken cold. For picnics, you know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Serves 4 to 6 people.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cobject width=\"390\" height=\"326\">\u003cparam name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/u9qhrc_h4JI&rel=1\">\u003cparam name=\"wmode\" value=\"transparent\">\u003cembed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/u9qhrc_h4JI&rel=1\" width=\"390\" height=\"326\">\u003c/embed>\u003c/object>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thank you, \u003ca href=\"http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/guide/articles/c/catherinetateshow_999040216.shtml\">Catherine Tate\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Battered veg. With spicy jam. That works for me. I love anything fried.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thai tempura, or Hoi Tot, is a style of deep fat frying similar to that of the Japanese but suited of course to the climate, palates and product availability of the Thai people. Food from Thailand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Japanese themselves learned to batter and fry food from Portuguese missionaries who arrived on the shores of Japan in the mid 16th century-- just enough time for the trend to take hold, via street vendors, before the country turned its back on the rest of the world for the next 250 years. Before the arrival of the Portuguese, the Japanese had apparently \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tempura\">no knowledge of deep frying\u003c/a> and only limited understanding of the frying process in general. But, as with so many other things, the Japanese turned an inherently foreign concept into something very much their own. Like the automobile, imperialism, or anything cute.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The word tempura is derived from the Portuguese tempero (seasoning). The character used for writing tempura is the same as is used for \"heaven\". On a brief side note, the Japanese word for thank you, arigato, is said to be derived from the Portuguese obrigado. Although this bit of etymology is fascinating, I find it difficult to believe that such a polite society didn't know how to say \"thank you\" until the Portuguese came along. I now also wonder if tempura and tempera -- the most popular type of paint from ancient Egyptian times until the 15th century when oil paints were developed-- stem from the same root, since they are both egg-based media. Of course, egg is now seldom used in the making of tempura batter and tempera paints are such a bitch to work with that painters tend to avoid them. Coincidence? I think not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I had planned to make and photograph my own tempura, but that's a rather tricky feat taking action photos of oneself. Especially when hot oil is involved. Besides, I found someone better, or at least more experienced, but probably better, than myself. Say hello to Reiko at \u003ca href=\"http://www.videojug.com/\">VideoJug.com\u003c/a>. Hell, say hello to everyone at Videojug, though I'm not sure they can hear you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Warning: There is no spicy jam in this video.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cobject width=\"390\" height=\"336\">\u003cparam name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.videojug.com/film/player?id=6a9ca690-84e9-4ffc-9a55-d0194e7ac808\">\u003cembed src=\"http://www.videojug.com/film/player?id=6a9ca690-84e9-4ffc-9a55-d0194e7ac808\" width=\"390\" height=\"336\" pluginspage=\"http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer\">\u003c/embed>\u003c/object>\u003cbr>\u003ca href=\"http://www.videojug.com\">\u003cstrong>VideoJug\u003c/strong>\u003c/a>: \u003ca href=\"http://www.videojug.com/film/how-to-make-vegetable-tempura\">\u003cstrong>How To Make Vegetable Tempura\u003c/strong>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"description": "Thank you, Catherine Tate. Battered veg. With spicy jam. That works for me. I love anything fried. Thai tempura, or Hoi Tot, is a style of deep fat frying similar to that of the Japanese but suited of course to the climate, palates and product availability of the Thai people. Food from Thailand. The Japanese",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The word tempura is derived from the Portuguese tempero (seasoning). The character used for writing tempura is the same as is used for \"heaven\". On a brief side note, the Japanese word for thank you, arigato, is said to be derived from the Portuguese obrigado. Although this bit of etymology is fascinating, I find it difficult to believe that such a polite society didn't know how to say \"thank you\" until the Portuguese came along. I now also wonder if tempura and tempera -- the most popular type of paint from ancient Egyptian times until the 15th century when oil paints were developed-- stem from the same root, since they are both egg-based media. Of course, egg is now seldom used in the making of tempura batter and tempera paints are such a bitch to work with that painters tend to avoid them. Coincidence? I think not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I had planned to make and photograph my own tempura, but that's a rather tricky feat taking action photos of oneself. Especially when hot oil is involved. Besides, I found someone better, or at least more experienced, but probably better, than myself. Say hello to Reiko at \u003ca href=\"http://www.videojug.com/\">VideoJug.com\u003c/a>. Hell, say hello to everyone at Videojug, though I'm not sure they can hear you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Warning: There is no spicy jam in this video.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cobject width=\"390\" height=\"336\">\u003cparam name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.videojug.com/film/player?id=6a9ca690-84e9-4ffc-9a55-d0194e7ac808\">\u003cembed src=\"http://www.videojug.com/film/player?id=6a9ca690-84e9-4ffc-9a55-d0194e7ac808\" width=\"390\" height=\"336\" pluginspage=\"http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer\">\u003c/embed>\u003c/object>\u003cbr>\u003ca href=\"http://www.videojug.com\">\u003cstrong>VideoJug\u003c/strong>\u003c/a>: \u003ca href=\"http://www.videojug.com/film/how-to-make-vegetable-tempura\">\u003cstrong>How To Make Vegetable Tempura\u003c/strong>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
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"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
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"masters-of-scale": {
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},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
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"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
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"order": 12
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
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"morning-edition": {
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"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
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"onourwatch": {
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"tagline": "Deeply-reported investigative journalism",
"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
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"on-the-media": {
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"title": "On The Media",
"info": "Our weekly podcast explores how the media 'sausage' is made, casts an incisive eye on fluctuations in the marketplace of ideas, and examines threats to the freedom of information and expression in America and abroad. For one hour a week, the show tries to lift the veil from the process of \"making media,\" especially news media, because it's through that lens that we see the world and the world sees us",
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"link": "/radio/program/on-the-media",
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},
"pbs-newshour": {
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},
"perspectives": {
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"order": 14
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"planet-money": {
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"info": "The economy explained. Imagine you could call up a friend and say, Meet me at the bar and tell me what's going on with the economy. Now imagine that's actually a fun evening.",
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"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/planetmoney.jpg",
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"link": "/radio/program/planet-money",
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"politicalbreakdown": {
"id": "politicalbreakdown",
"title": "Political Breakdown",
"tagline": "Politics from a personal perspective",
"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
"airtime": "THU 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Political-Breakdown-2024-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"order": 5
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"amazon": "https://music.amazon.com/podcasts/e0c2d153-ad36-4c8d-901d-f1da6a724824/political-breakdown",
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"possible": {
"id": "possible",
"title": "Possible",
"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Possible-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.possible.fm/",
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"source": "Possible"
},
"link": "/radio/program/possible",
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"spotify": "https://open.spotify.com/show/730YpdUSNlMyPQwNnyjp4k"
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},
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