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They're back! My first hint that strawberries were coming 'round the mountain again was Wednesday night at Manresa. We had a strawberry souffle and, alongside it, a shotglass of fresh berries.
These specimens, from Yerena Farms, are really sweet. Mmm... that makes me happy.
(What doesn't make me happy? Leaving $10 worth of tomatoes somewhere at the farmers' market. Grrr...)
Asking me to pick a single standout dish is like asking me to make Sophie's Choice, but table favorites included the garden greens velouté poured over Alain Passard's creamy Orléans-style mustard; mussels, cuttlefish and uni in a spicy Indian broth served inside a sea urchin shell; and a sensational strawberry souffle.
Petits fours "red pepper-black olive"
Citrus and jasmine tea
Garden croquettes
Oyster in urchin jelly
Turnip and foie gras royale, cider
Arpege farm egg
**
Mesquite grilled foie gras, beets and radish sprouts
Fatty bluefin belly salad, seaweed pesto
Just shucked scallop in bonito broth
Veloute of garden greens, Orleans mustard
Monterey abalone, asparagus and black truffles
Shellfish in exotic Indian spice, poorman orange
Black cod confit in tea oil, vanilla soubise
Sweetbreads with mustard greens and hazelnuts
Local spring lamb, kohlrabi and mache
**
Grapefruit and tarragon soda, campari
Strawberry souffle, meyer lemon cream
Chocolate beignet, hot fudge and avocado ice cream
Petits fours "strawberry-chocolate"
There is a rampant wave of misspelling going on in the foodie world. Suddenly, everyone is spelling "restaurateur" with an unnecessary "n" (as in: restauranteur). Countless examples come to mind from this week alone. It's got to stop! I'm pleading with you to take the "n" back out of "restaurateur." Leave it for words like nancy, natty and nefarious where it belongs.
Thank you.
Sunday something quite extraordinary happened: Mr. Food Musings and I both got out of bed by 8 a.m. It may not sound like much to you, but trust me when I say that we sleep late in our house. Though I act proud of it, in truth it makes me feel desperately guilty and very lazy, but I tell myself that the only reason other people don't sleep as late as we do has nothing to do with being better people, the kind who are bursting with ambitious goals and peppy hearts; it's because they can't. Well, we can. Mr. FM is home on temporary 6-month disability leave, and I work from home. In fact, I am sitting here at 9:30 in the morning, typing away in my PJs.
But I digress, as the rooster in the photo to the left so clearly shows. We were up early to drive north to Point Reyes Station for Marin Sun Farms' annual farm tour. Marin Sun Farms raises 100% grass-fed cattle for beef as well as broiler chickens, pastured eggs, and, as of this year, goats. I have toured the farm before. About a year ago, I contacted David Evans, the rancher there, because I wanted to write about him for my Fresh from the Farm column. He invited me up, asking if I wouldn't mind doing some work with him -- the only way he'd have time to show me around. I eagerly said yes, and promptly set about choosing an appropriate outfit. (Hey, I used to write a fashion column, too.)
The shit-kicking boots I chose were perfect. But the mini-skirt? Well, let's just see you climb on the back of an ATV in that skirt without pulling a Britney. (For the sake of absolute and utter clarity, I would like to note that I love panties and I wear them every day.)
Hmm, where was I? Oh yes, talking about the farm. David and I zoomed around the property that day, moving steers from one pasture to the next with the help of his trusty dog, Bueno. He told me all about the history of the historic "H" Ranch that has been in his family for three generations, the native grasses such as white clover and perennial rye that the animals munch on from birth until death, his efforts to raise cattle in a way that mimics the way large herds once used the land, the health benefits of grass-fed beef (higher Omega-3 fatty acids, for one thing), the danger of industrial feedlots and slaughterhouses, the way he ages his beef up to 50 days at the butcher shop before selling it retail. We then drove down to his parents' main property to look at the chickens. They're secured in a henhouse at night to protect them from predators, but during the day they have unfettered access to pasture, just like the cows.
David showed us all that and more on our tour Sunday. A group of 50 or so folks gathered at the butcher shop and loaded onto buses for the trip to the farm, near Inverness. David walked us by "fragrant" piles of composting manure and food, old farm equipment, and compressing peat that will be used to feed the cattle. We watched the steer lumbering along in a vast swath of green pasture, munching the grass or lolling about the landscape, truly "happy cows." We saw young chickens of varying ages that will be sold at market, head and feet on, in another few weeks. We saw laying hens in gorgeous shades of ginger and tobacco brown who scattered at the merest hint of an approach. The gray and white-flecked roosters cock a doodle doo'ed every so often, claiming their turf, but they were no fiercer than the ladies. David stepped into the henhouse and pulled out a few just laid eggs, some tan, others pale blue-green. We paid a visit to the goats that David's sister is raising for meat. The kids were just a few months old and they were clumsy and energetic, jumping up and down in their pen and tackling one another as their mothers stood by, watching them play. The tour ended at the chicken slaughtering facility, a low-tech operation that consists of nothing more than a series of metal cones where the chickens are placed upside down and their jugular veins slit, a bath where the carcasses are dunked in hot water, and a rubber finger-lined barrel that spins them to remove the feathers. Then they are bagged and stored until they go to market the next day. There is also an egg washing facility inside, and dozens upon dozens of the eggs were loaded up and ready to go.
David is smart, witty and articulate. Among other things, he talked about sustainability as self-sustaining, and it made me stop and think. "I'm not sure we can ever be truly sustainable," he said, "but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try." He buys organic chicken feed and hay for his cattle, for instance, so it's not a purely closed loop.
He also talked about creatures, including us, as vessels of solar energy. I'd never thought of the chicken or steak I eat as something that takes in the sun's energy, eats, excretes, and thus nourishes the soil. He also discussed balance. The chickens root through cow pies to eat the fly larvae, and in doing so, they distribute the manure across a wider area, fertilizing it. It also means fewer flies to bother the cows.
After the tour, we went back to the butcher shop and sat down outside to a lunch of roast beef sandwiches, cookies and beer. Mr. FM and I sat next to Alan Pehrson, the sous chef at Acme Chophouse, one of the local restaurants that serves Marin Sun Farms beef. David came over and sat down, and we talked more -- about the goats and how they're selling (they sold three baby goats for Easter in one Saturday at the market; there's still one more available) and about David's ideas for saving the local Petaluma slaughterhouse from closure, now that it's been sold by its aging owners to a developer.
On our drive home, Mr. FM told me, "I used to think that the 'Save the family farms' movement was bullshit. If agribusiness can do it better, great." Gulp. "But now I've changed my mind." Dinner that night was a juicy, grass-fed steak.
Related posts:
My photo essay
Mr. Food Musings' blog posts 1 and 2 on the subject.
I planted these basil seedlings about 6 weeks ago, maybe more. I'm no farmer, but I think they're ripe for replanting. Then they'll join the mint, rosemary, and (nearly dead) thyme (oops!) in a sunny spot in the kitchen. Till now, they've been here with me in the office -- it's the warmest room in the house, which suits their growing little bodies just fine. Who knows, maybe I'll leave them in here to keep me company.
If I had an editor they'd nix that headline since these dulce de leche-filled babies are made right here at home in San Francisco. (The writer in me is still snickering.) A friend and I dropped by the ExpoCocina this week, where all participants of the La Cocina commercial kitchen were showing off their wares. One bite of these and I knew I was in trouble. I dashed back to the Sabores del Sur booth to tell Guisell Osorio how delicious her powdered sugar-covered cookies were (well, it was a small space so "dash" perhaps lends a mistaken impression of my efforts) and there she was, smiling at me. Guisell may be the nicest woman on Earth, full of smiles and laughter and always a joke on the tip of her tongue, the kind of person who loves life and makes you want to love it more, too.
"These are the best alfajores I've ever had!" I gushed. Guisell just smiled and invited me to have another one. She even put out a fresh plate for the photo.
Why are they so good? If you've ever had an alfajor (or, like me, many, many alfajores) you know they're buttery biscuit-style cookies joined in the middle by a layer of dulce de leche and showered with powdered sugar. But quality varies widely, and all alfajores are not created equal. Guisell's epitomize the exquisite: soft cookie with just a little snap, enough powdered sugar to endanger your new black top but not your new black pants, and -- the best and most important layer -- a ribbon of dulce de leche that is this cookie's raison d'etre. In a bad alfajor, it's nothing more than glue holding the cookies together. Guisell's dulce de leche was soft and honey-colored, spread on thick enough to see from a distance, rich enough to thrust itself into the spotlight. It was creamy but not overly sweet, and not sticky at all. If you'll permit me the cliche, it was a small bite of heaven.
Available at the Saturday Ferry Plaza farmer's market at the La Cocina stand (regular and chocolate-coated) and by special order.
On Tuesday night, I jumped over fire. Mr. Food Musings and I had gathered at the Persian Center in Berkeley, along with a few of our friends and a crowd of Iranian-Americans, to celebrate Charshanbeh Soori in anticipation of Persian New Year on March 21st. Persian New Year coincides with the spring equinox, and the Tuesday night prior, people gather in the streets -- here, on a side street in Berkeley -- to feast on a thick bean and noodle soup called Ash-e Resht-e and kebabs served with grilled tomatoes and Thai basil. Then they light a series of fires, and everyone lines up to jump over them. It's a way of wiping the slate clean for a new year, leaving all your old problems behind and welcoming health and happiness into the year ahead.
After the kind of year we had, you'd think Mr. FM and I would have arrived dressed in firemen's costumes, but the truth is, as we munched our kebabs in the twilight, using a corner of the sidewalk for a table and chairs, we were feeling a bit nervous. Jump over a towering flame? Us? Mr. FM looked at me warily. "I'm not sure I should do it," he said. I knew what he meant. His balance is still beyond terrible, and if he were to falter and fall in the fire? Well, that wouldn't be a good way to start the year. F. reassured us that the fires were tiny, and so we got in line with everyone else and inched our way forward. As I often do when I face down my fears, I focused on the weakest people around: the children. They love this part of the night best, often lining up to jump over and over again. I figure, if they can do it, I can do it. (Or more accurately, if the grown-ups allow them to do it, I will have to do it or lose face.)
Our plan was for me to stand next to Mr. FM, my hand on his back, and help him over the small fires. (They only burn about 3-4 inches off the ground.) Then I would duck into line, hop the fire, and we'd continue on to the next one. Forget about reciting "Sorkhee-eh tow az man, zardee-eh man az tow," as we went -- we'd be doing well not to go splat in the mini-infernos.
But as Mr. FM's time approached, he turned to me and said, "I think I can do it." And then he hopped over the three small fires. They were pretty wobbly hops, and my heart sort of leapt in my throat each time he leapt over the flame in front of him. I kept my arms half out-stretched to catch him if he tottered backwards, but he didn't need me. It was over before we knew it, and actually quite fun.
Then we went back to F's apartment and drank lots of wine.
(Well, how did you expect the night to end?)
NoRuz mobarak!
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