« November 2005 | Main | January 2006 »
Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah or Happy New Year to everyone from me and Mr. Food Musings! We leave today for points East, where we will spend Christmas with my family, treat ourselves to dinner for two at CityZen in Washington DC, and then ring in the New Year with L., R. and baby S.
Best wishes for a happy holiday season. See you in 2006!
In the end, it always comes down to ingredients. Last week, after a drink with R., we met up with the boys for sushi at newly opened Yuzu. We stopped in by happenstance -- our first choice in the area was full, and I'd walked past the new spot a few times earlier in the week.
What we found was a mostly empty place with pale mushroom walls, lots of sleek, flat surfaces, dim lighting and minimalist decoration. In a sushi restaurant, especially in the Marina, that often means pricey soju cocktails and mediocre fish, but we sat down with an open mind.
The initial service wasn't very tight. Our waitress knew the sake well but not the wine list. I drummed my fingers on the table nervously. When the edamame arrived, it was hot and well salted, which is how I like it, but the assymetrical bowl was woefully small for the price. R. rolled her eyes, annoyed, and I squirmed in my seat. The wine came next, which hit a sour note with me. Wine should always be served before any food, even nibbles, so that you can taste it without the interference of other tastes on your palate. And also, because let's face it, I like my drink.
But then the tuna tataki was set down, lightly seared and topped with raw daikon, scallions and ponzu sauce. Understated oohing and aahing rippled across the table. Soon after we were using crisp chips to scoop up soft tuna tartare from a spicy pyramid. I noticed a few more smiles. But it was the otoro sashimi that made history.
One bite of the fatty tuna belly and we were transported to sushi heaven. It was so delicate that a nudge of the chopsticks was all it took to fall apart, and it turned nearly to butter on my tongue. The four of us looked at each other in surprised delight -- what could possibly follow sushi this good?
Sweet pink salmon with razor thin slices of lemon on top for added crunch and subtle tang. A green dragon roll with sweet eel and tuna. A smooth jumbo scallop. The red dragon roll, my new favorite, with fresh crab on the inside, tuna and seaweed salad on the outside. By this time, our waitress was approaching us at her own risk to bring new drinks and dishes; each visit prompted much gushing and praise. And then I had an out of body experience. My inner critic, normally happy to follow wherever my contented belly leads, made an appearance. "Yes," it said slyly, " the sushi is good, great, even stupendous. But do they serve real wasabi?"
Would I be writing this post if they didn't? As a thank you for our enthusiasm, they served it to us on the house, but when you go, make sure you ask for the real stuff and be prepared to pay extra. We carefully divided the dark green, lumpy knob into quarters. It is far superior to the fake stuff that's laced with horseradish and dyed green. Real wasabi's heat fills you up slower and sweeter. Some of us -- I'm not saying who -- might have licked our chopsticks when it was gone.
About this time the sushi chef, sensei Hirosane, came over to say hello. Accompanying him were the owners, Fred and John Yick. Fred runs the front of the house, and John works with the sensei making sushi. The sensei sat down and introduced himself. "We love the otoro!" we shouted in unison.
His eyes smiled and, with diamond earring winking and mustache wagging, he replied, "Ahi to me is garbage. This is a diamond." Sensei explained some things we knew -- that ahi-grade tuna is cheap and should not be used for sushi -- and some we didn't -- that cold, narrow waters and a swift current make for fattier fish. Yuzu's otoro comes from bluefin tuna in the Strait of Gibraltar off the coast of Spain and can weigh up to 500 pounds. They build up extra fat to keep them warm, and it's this added fat that makes for divine sushi. The cuts taken from closer to the bone are the softest and most prized, and this is the cut sensei likes to buy.
Our second order of otoro arrived, and R. asked him why he gave us 5 pieces for 4 people: "So you will fight!" The man had a spark, and as we ate he regaled us with stories and tidbits. He talked about Japan's famed kobe and wagyu beef and about how sushi was born -- like many things, of necessity when an inn full of fierce yakuza were still hungry but the kitchen was almost bare. He instructed us on eating sushi properly with fingers, using the oshipuri (which translates as "squeeze" and refers to the hand towel they give you) throughout the meal to keep our fingers clean. "Colonel Sanders didn't invent finger-licking good," he said with a chuckle.
The biggest surprise came when I asked for his secret to making good sushi. The man had a bit of a swagger, and was rightly proud of his work like the sauces, which are all (save the soy) housemade. I felt sure he'd talk about his extensive training or technique formed over the years at restaurants in Japan and America. His answer was simpler. "My source," he said confidently. Though I had forgotten that what matters most is using the best ingredients, he had not. Like many European-trained or California-influenced chefs, sensei cares most about his ingredients -- where they come from, and how they vary from day to day.
Over a sampling of exquisite desserts -- tiny poached sickle pears; an icy sorbet trio of sour apple, lemon and strawberry; a cake infused with star anise, allspice, clove, nutmeg, peppercorns and vanilla beans -- we talked more. Next time we vowed we'd eat with our hands, and sensei did us the honor of agreeing to serve us omikase (chef's choice). We were hoping to go again before the holidays, but a busy schedule and unfortunate bout of food poisoning (poor Mr. Food Musings) mean that it will have to wait. Something to look forward to in the New Year.
Yuzu, San Francisco, 3347 Fillmore Street, 415.775.1873
If Martha is the queen of food styling and presentation, I'm the court jester. My abilities in this area are pretty much non-existent, but I know a good idea when I see one. So when, on Saturday night, I found myself throwing together an impromptu pre-dinner cocktail party for four, I stole the idea of serving smoked salmon on skewers from a magazine I read while in England.
Instead of the salmon lying about listless and bored on a plate, you just skewer a slice or two and shimmy them up the stick. A few gratings of fresh black pepper and lemon zest and voila! Instant party snack. That plus some mini-sandwiches of cream cheese and cucumber, a Pimm's cocktail and Johnny Mathis crooning The First Noel and we were set.
Pimm's No. 1 cocktail
Serves 4
In a large pitcher, mix 1 cup Pimm's with 2 cups 7-up. (Sprite, Ginger Ale, lemonade, or a combination of any of them also work well.) Halve 1 lemon lengthwise and cut into slices. Reserve four slices for garnish and dump the rest in the pitcher, along with half a cucumber sliced in thick rounds. In a mortar and pestle, muddle about 1/3 cup of fresh mint just until it releases its fragrance, then add to the pitcher. Serve in highball glasses filled with ice and garnished with a lemon slice.
It's the only soup that's ever made me swoon. It was my first night in London -- the first of the trip, and the first in about a year and a half, and I was proudly, happily sitting in a back table at Moro.
When I told M. I was coming to town most unexpectedly, he had invited me to spend a day with him in London, followed by dinner that night. "Any chance we can go to Moro?" I volleyed back. (Who me, shy?)
Between the jet lag, the Xanax that makes flying a manageable exercise for me, and the oodles of champagne M. and the original Sauvignon Blonde had poured before dinner, I can't claim to remember every detail of the night. What I do remember? Feeding everyone at the table spoonfuls of my soup (well, maybe skimpy spoonfuls). The silky sunchokes were nutty, and there must have been a bowl full of cream if there was an ounce. The spicy nuggets of chorizo sausage hiding here and yon were definitely the treasure at the end of the rainbow. S. had a lovely piece of grilled calamari with Aztec orange harissa paste, and M.'s calves liver turned to liquid gold in my mouth.
I recall being too full to eat dessert -- my tummy takes me hostage when I travel and refuses to allow me much to eat, though I do usually fare better than bread and water -- and the entrées are nothing but a haze of wine and delicate fish, but I know enough to know I'd go back. The mix of Moorish inspiration from Spain and Turkey, the lack of pretention and the atmosphere that buzzed pleasantly without ever intruding on conversation provided just the sort of comfort someone from faraway needs at the end of a long journey. That, and good friends to share it with.
pssst...if, in the course of making your point in a conversation you are overcome by the urge to dramatically light on fire a scrap of paper, resist. It is not looked kindly upon, though apologies are enthusiastically accepted. Also, if you care about getting your cookbook signed, don't go on a Sunday evening; the chefs are usually at home with the family that night. Not that I would risk cracking my thin shellac of cool by asking, but, you know, others might.
I bloody LOVE England! So, okay, it's a wee bit cold (40s when I was there last week) but look how well they feed you first thing in the morning! Two kinds of pork on one plate? Take that, Wheaties!
My friend M. took me to Tom's Deli in Notting Hill, a deli owned and operated by Tom Conran. (He's the son of Sir Terence, a well-known restaurateur, designer, and all around imaginateur who many credit with resurrecting London's culinary reputation.)
Now that we've got that name dropping out of the way, I can tell you about my brekky, which is considered a traditional English version:
1) eggs on toast (yeah, okay, no eggs. I'm allergic, remember? But I had the grilled toast.)
2) bacon (though not the American kind, dubbed "streaky bacon." English bacon, also called "back bacon" or "Canadian bacon," is less fatty, more like a ham steak, and it comes from the loin.)
3) sausage (often called "bangers" -- you deduce the origins all on your own, folks, this site is PG)
4) a crisp-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside hash brown potato cake
5) baked beans
6) grilled tomatoes
7) grilled mushrooms (these last two to prove they care about your fruit and veg)
I can feel it. All you gluttons out there are slowly turning into anglophiles. Well, jolly good on you, I say!
p.s. On my trip I also learned two other life-altering things: that Innocent fruit drinks kick Odwalla's scrawny American butt, and the hard-to-pin-down location of Madge's country estate. Oh yeah. You know you want to know. Watch out, Us Weekly!
Tom's Delicatessan, London, 226 Westbourne Grove, Notting Hill, (011 44 20) 7221 8818
In case you missed the Chronicle's food section today, chef Daniel Humm is leaving Campton Place as of New Year's Day, and chef James Ormsby has already left Jack Falstaff and the other PlumpJack property restaurants. You can read all the details here.
In the case of Falstaff, it doesn't necessarily mean there's cause for concern: one of the reasons Ormsby gave for leaving was that PlumpJack, which owns oodles of restaurants and bars, had gotten too big and he was overseeing other chefs more than he was working day to day with the food. He's not being replaced, so it's entirely possible that Falstaff will keep on signature dishes like crisp pork belly and fried chicken, and remain dedicated to organic, whole foods. We shall see...
But do pull out your hankies for Humm's departure. I myself never got there, despite it being on my dying-to-try list for ages, but those I know who have gone really fell, and fell hard. He's off to New York, boys and girls, lured by the bright lights, big city (bigger star power or pockets?) of Danny Meyer's Union Square crew to head up Eleven Madison Park. Those Europeans, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. You and I have till New Year's Eve to get our butts into CP and see what we're missing.
I'm insanely jet lagged, which is why you haven't heard word one since I got back from Merry Ole England on Monday, but I had to tell you this: I think I may have found the best sushi spot in San Francisco. Now, I know this is a bold claim, and to be fair, I haven't been everywhere -- Kiss comes to mind, as does Sushi Sam's down south. Nevertheless, of the places I've been, this one knocked it out of the park, into the Bay, and the belly of the whale kept it on going all the way to China. It's a crap metaphor, I know, but you get the jive.
I'm nearly running out the door so I don't have time for much, but just take a look at the tender otoro -- buttery, rich tuna belly so soft it broke in two when I tried to gingerly scoop it up with my chopsticks. The sushi chef, who at first mysteriously insisted upon being known only as sensei, told me about his prized source for tuna in Spain near Gibraltar, and our appreciation of this led not only to more conversation with him, but also to a gift of real wasabi.
I know, you're clamoring for where...owners/brothers Fred and John Yick opened Yuzu on Fillmore Street at Chestnut about a month ago in the old Chaz space, and they have intentionally done no press yet, preferring to nail things down before they do. I can't find them on Gayot or Citysearch, and they confirmed they haven't been actively talking to any print press either.
I promise I'll come back later in the week with a blow by blow account of our insanely good meal, as well as details from our conversation with Fred, John and sensei Hirosane (yes, I finally got it out of him) -- think rare Japanese microbrews and a wonderful oral history of how sushi was born -- plus a picture of the best sushi roll I've ever had. For now, their address will have to suffice.
Yuzu, San Francisco, 3347 Fillmore Street, 415.775.1873
"A delightful read, and a playful one." -- Catherine Nash, blogger, foodmusings.typepad.com
This is how my review capsule might read on the back of Cleo Papanikolas's Cook Until Desired Tenderness, an illustrated "journal" about one woman's love of food. It's the kind of book that is handwritten in parts, and typeset in others; where old recipe cards are reproduced with watercolors on the pages and whimsical illustrations of cakes and pies, of chickens pecking in the dirt and of tarnished silverware run along the border of every page. In its decorated pages, a young girl grows up, discovering the world of food her hippie parents hid from her (no sugar!) as she discovers herself. It's a quick read, and one that I enjoyed plenty. It would have gone nicely with a cup of tea or a bowl of vanilla ice cream in my lap.
My favorite scene tells of a Thanksgiving meal eaten with a group of strangers on the hood of a 1964 Lincoln Continental. Prepared in a boyfriend's house, then packed up when he behaves badly, the turkey and mashed potatoes are shared on the road after an unseen accident stops traffic. People pile out of their cars at sunset, offering up whatever they had planned to contribute to the dinner they were driving towards.
"We were a dozen Thanksgiving stragglers: last-minute invites to even up guest lists. In front of us was the first calm, warm sunset on the bay -- with a view of the city and all the bridges -- that any of us had seen in a long time."
A few loves are won and lost, then mourned before the heroine finds herself a job in a restaurant kitchen, and this is when she falls in love for good. There are no recipes, but one thought caught my eye: she whips up a chocolate cake batter, then pours it into a large silver serving spoon and bakes it in the toaster oven till it's cooked outside but still molten inside. Doesn't that sound lovely?
The book is a sweet read, and would make a nice gift this time of year. If you'd like a copy, just be the first to post a comment (along with your email address) and I'll send one along to you. Think of it as an early Christmas gift from me.
My friend L. is the culinary Henry Higgins to my Eliza Doolittle. Over the years she’s introduced me to new foods, starting in college with salmon and risotto, and trained my palate to appreciate more sophisticated tastes as we’ve grown older and (we hope) more worldly.
Her latest discovery? Burmese food. At dinner one night in May, L. summed it up: “It’s sort of a mix between Indian and Thai food.” Research proves her right: Burma, renamed Myanmar in 1989, is bordered by Bangladesh, India, China, Laos and Thailand. It’s no surprise that the strongest cultural influences come via the big three: Indian spices like garam masala and curries abound, China lends tofu, soy sauce and stir-frying techniques, and Thailand’s quartet of salty, sweet, sour and spicy flavors dominate in salads and seafood dishes. Some foods feel familiar, as though they were merely scooped out of a pot in their home country and set down on a Burmese plate – deep-fried samusas, mu shu wraps, lemongrass salmon. But when the three influences are blended, then turned on their heads, the true nature of Burmese cuisine shines through.
A few weeks ago, Mr. Food Musings and I drove out to the Richmond’s Burma Superstar. There was a line out the door, so after leaving a name and cell phone number we trotted off to The Dog’s Bollocks for a pint while we waited.
An hour later we were back. We ordered a half pitcher of Burma Cooler, beer mixed with fresh lemon and ginger, then sat back to plot our journey through Myanmar, one taste bud at a time. I couldn’t help but marvel at the interior – walls crowded with traditional artwork (sequined tapestries, carved Buddhas, bronzed statues) and large-leaved plants that draped the room in jungley flora.
We skipped the appetizers (mainly rehashed Indian, Chinese and Thai classics) and went straight to the unique salads, which are art on a plate. Made up of dozens of colorful ingredients, each is thoughtfully explained and then mixed tableside by a waiter for added flair. The tealeaf was our choice, with dark gray-green tealeaves imported from Myanmar, shredded Romaine, tomatoes, fried garlic chips, dried shrimp, sesame seeds, jalapenos, and peanuts. The sweet lettuce, tomatoes and the spicy pepper matched the tea’s assertive flavor – earthy and pleasantly bitter. I found myself compulsively scooping up bite after bite, the click-click of my chopsticks beating out a rhythm on the plate.
Though many Myanmar residents are Buddhists and therefore vegetarian, pork and chicken are still popular dishes. The pork curry with potato we tried was nearly identical to mild yellow curries and not worth dawdling over, but the nan pia dok was sublime. The Buddhists can have Nirvana – I’ll take a never-ending bowl of flat noodles bathed in curried coconut sauce with chunks of chicken and cabbage instead. (I kept hoping Mr. FM wouldn't like it so I could have it all to myself. But I was nice -- I shared. Knowing I could hop on the bus any day of the week and get me some for lunch made it easier.) Spicy red peppers – Schezuan, by the look of them – sat on the side of the plate. They might have taunted bolder diners, but not me.
With a coastline that’s 1,740 miles long, the Burmese diet contains a fair bit of seafood. So we tried shrimp kebat, a stir-fry with onions, tomatoes, chilies and fresh mint. The tomatoes were quartered and peeled, and they pooled their juices to make a sweet-and-sour sauce. I used the jasmine rice to sop it up.
I was about to order dessert -- a ginger chocolate cake, I think -- when the waitress walked by and popped the happy chocolate balloon floating over my head: “We sold out of that.” In the end, we passed; the others seemed inauthentic, or at least not unique (think deep-fried bananas).
We didn’t have enough bellies between us to try all the Burmese dishes on the menu that intrigued us. Next time I’d go for the rainbow salad, a medley of 22 ingredients in a tamarind dressing; vegetable curry with tomatoes, squash, eggplant and lentils; and the see jyet kaukswer noodles with pork or duck, fried garlic and scallions. And when L. comes to town, I’ll take her for a bowl of nan pia dok. It’s the least I can do.
Burma Superstar, San Francisco, 309 Clement Street, 415.387.2147
Recent Comments