food, and other musings

Calling all Cupcake Lovers

EGADS! We have a cupcake emergency!

T., a loyal reader, is on the lookout for a swoon-worthy cupcakery or bakery that delivers in NYC and Seattle. Can anyone help with suggestions? The only qualifications besides delivering to these two spots (or at least one of 'em) is that the cupcakes have to be dee-licious and dee-lightful (my qualification, anyhoo. T. uses much more grown-up language than that.)

Any ideas? Email me or post a comment.

Ummm, Bacon...

One thing this blog has been good for is keeping tabs on my everchanging obsessions. It's chronicled my late-in-life discovery of peanut butter (extra crunchy, if you please), borne witness to a hundred carnitas tacos if it was one, and made my mother's crazy, uncontrollable lust for chocolate seem as nonchalant as a greaser lighting up another smoke. It's kept up as I swooned over Manresa once...twice...thrice; ate jumbo pieces of cinnamon toast for days on end; made a big batch of cookies and ate an obscene amount all by my lonesome. And this is just within the past year.

But before you call me fickle, I'll have you know that each new desperate love affair does not take the place of an old one -- it just joins the party. I guess I'm more of an adulterer, as it were. Or a polygamist. Ahem.

What's the latest everyday foodstuff to assault my plate? you ask. The humble BLT. I had some Niman Ranch applewood smoked bacon leftover from my weekend dinner party and had just been told by Mr. Food Musings that he wouldn't be home from work in time for Sunday lunch. (Yes, working on Sunday. Advertising is an ugly little world.)

So what did I do? Did I pout and stomp my feet and cry? No. (Well, maybe I pouted a bit.) But then I got my game face back on and slapped together a BLT as my reward. Whole wheat bread? Check. Tomatoes? Check, and ripe ones, too. Mayo? Got it. Lettuce? Hmm...spinach will have to do.

Since that first bite of crisp, crunchy bacon, sweet tomatoes, properly toasted, er, toast, and all those yummy salty flavors mingling in my mouth, I've eaten one pretty much every day, not including the Thanksgiving holiday. The bad news is that the bacon is officially all gone (and none of my pants will button up all the way, but that's why God invented safety pins!) The good news? There's more bacon where that came from.

Restaurant Roundup: Florio & Canteen

Florio
The Scene It was a dark and stormy night, the kind best suited to staying in. The rain was pouring down in sheets and the streets were nearly empty. All the sensible people had long since gone home. From a deserted alley came the faint but unmistakable tap-tap-tap of a woman's heels. The sound grew louder and louder, and soon a couple came into view. They walked quickly, but with purpose in each step. The collars of their overcoats were turned up and they huddled tightly together, sharing a small black umbrella. Occasionally a fierce gust of wind would blow up and slap their faces with cold water; the umbrella could not protect against that, and so they hunched over. Every so often the woman would look back over her shoulder, turning her head stiffly and then quickly back, her pace quickening. Suddenly, a shadowy glow materialized behind them, and I could just make out a pair of headlights. The car approached slowly, its tires crunching over gravel. When it had pulled up next to the couple, it stopped. Through the frantic back-and-forth of the windshield wipers it was impossible to see who was inside, but whoever it was must have called the couple over. The woman looked up at the man, and hesitated, then opened her mouth in reply. A moment passed. Then the car started to move again, slowly made its way through a puddle, then turned left into the darkness. By then, the rain had tapered off to a steady drizzle, and the couple headed in the direction of a red neon sign a few hundred feet away. Candles glowed from within like the faraway lights of ships at sea, and the couple dashed inside, letting a vapor of conversation escape. I caught a glimpse of dark gleaming wood, black and white checkered floors and linen tablecloths. Inside, the couple stashed their umbrella in a can and shook the rain off their coats. The woman looked up at the man and smiled as they took a seat at a round table in the window. They settled in for a long dinner, and I put out my cigarette. Time to call it a night.

The Staff Opened by Doug Biederbeck and Joseph Graham in 1998, Florio is the cozy older sister to the Ferry Plaza's MarketBar, the duo's latest venture. The chef has changed a few times -- I think right now it's Rick Hackett -- but the food has stayed  solidly French bistro-Italian trattoria. On most visits over the years, the waitstaff has been quick with recommendations, friendly but not to the point that they become part of the table's conversation, and happy to bring out extra ketchup or a few tastes of wine to help you choose the right one. The bartender knows his regulars and can keep them well entertained, matching up the lonely onlies for a chat and keeping the inevitable drunk from forking a bite from  your plate.

The Stand-outs The $30 prix fixe is one of the best deals in town, and it's available every night of the week. It changes weekly as near as I can tell. Steak-frites with béarnaise is my favorite; the hanger steak boasted an invigorating sprinkling of fresh rosemary on our last visit, and the the fries are always crisp and lightly salted -- plus, the all-important ketchup is Heinz. Radishes with butter and sea salt make for a frisky starter along with any of a number of whites -- they don't skimp on the wines by the glass. Pastas like the sugar pie pumpkin ravioli with sage and brown butter or tagliatelle Bolognese are well executed classics, and specials like the bone-in ribeye for two make for a romantic meal. 

The So whats? The simple green salad can sometimes be overdressed; when it's not, though, the vinaigrette is one of my local favorites (second only to Garibaldi's). On our last visit, the bread wasn't the Rigo stuff we'd come to expect, and to add insult to injury, instead of butter, they served this horrified purist a garlicky white bean spread. What's classic about that?

Florio, San Francisco, 1915 Fillmore Street, 415.775.4300

Canteen
The Scene A tiny former diner in the semi-downtrodden TenderNob has managed to successfully merge two styles: modernism's fresh clean lines balance a campy bit of 50's nostalgia. A lime green counter runs the length of one side, and four small booths hug the other wall. Bookshelves here and there are crammed with books and give the place an erudite air. A neon arrow points to the chef at work on the line, and if you get a seat close enough you can watch him toss hot sauté pans and, occasionally, drop his tongs (five second rule!) At dinner the crowd is a comfortable, casual mix of friends, couples and solo diners.

The Staff You've got to admire a man who left his post at Rubicon to work the line three meals a day, seven days a week. Dennis Leary's blond curls bob up and down as he cooks, moving this way and that in his narrow "kitchen," turning out scallop ceviche and homemade ginger ice cream. Despite the restaurant's diner history, his food hasn't taken a downturn towards comfort food just yet. Besides Leary, you'll find a prep cook and two servers who do their jobs with a mix of savoir-faire, reciting dishes made up of a dozen ingredients expertly, and sauciness, eavesdropping when the counter talk interests them. (Tip: gay men are likely to get a better table, depending on who's doing the seating that night.)

The Stand-outs The menu changes almost completely every day, so it's hard to make recommendations. On my visit, the well-portioned scallop ceviche, served in a faux halfshell on a bed of rock salt, was delicately flavored and nicely matched with celery, avocado, cilantro and plenty of lime. Haddock came atop an artichoke purée with an earthy heart balanced on the mild white fish; the buttery onion sauce made us swoon. Dessert, a dried cherry and apricot crisp with ginger ice cream, was an intensely flavorful mix of oats, granola and spices galore (cinnamon? nutmeg? ginger?) that synched nicely with the spicy icy treat. The nicest touch? An amuse of smoked salmon wrapped around a pickled red onion slice that looked like a rose petal.

The So whats? The token vegetarian entrée didn't work on any level. Diced root veg (parsnips, turnips, potatoes) and mushrooms (cremini and shitake) were sautéed in butter, then tossed onto a too-large scoop of cloying chestnut purée (it would have been tolerable in a smaller quantity). Goat cheese and cranberries added tang and tartiness meant to temper the sweetness of the vegetables, but instead made the dish tasted like a disparate mish-mash. The portion wasn't a good value for the money, and it wasn't pretty to look at. Vegetable fricassé be gone!

Canteen, San Francisco, 817 Sutter Street, 415.928.8870

Old-fashioned Manners

Am I the only one out there who still takes pleasure in the vestiges of old-fashioned party throwing? By the sound of the oohs and aahs at my last dinner party, I am not.

I'd given myself two days to prepare the meal and get the apartment ready. Plenty of time to make the soup, salad, muffins and tart the day before, and plenty of time to wring my hands the morning of. Idle hands are the devil's workshop (we wouldn't want to give Satan another fertile playground) so I dashed off a mini-menu that doubled as a name card.

The last time I made name cards was with my grandmother back in elementary school. Since it was Thanksgiving, we went with appropriate images: harvest baskets brimming with corn and sweet potatoes, pilgrims with silver buckles on their hats, squaws wearing multi-colored feather headdresses, turkeys and the like. My grandmother was the artist, bearing down with crayons, our medium of choice, on the old shirt boxes we'd cut up. My job was to write the names on the cards. If we made a mistake, Grandma would just say "Make a flower out of it and go on." It was good advice, and lots of my cards had a floral theme. Every few years we'd have to make a new one; someone had gotten married, someone else had had a new baby. But at every big meal, be it Thanksgiving, Easter, or just time for the clan to gather around her table, there they'd be. She still uses them, and they're in pretty good shape.

When it came time to make my cards, I knew drawing was out. I have very few artistic skills -- those all went straight from grandma to Little Sis -- and not enough patience to cut straight lines. I let the computer do most of the work, and resorted to tearing the edges of the paper to give it a purposeful tattered look, like the unfinished paper you can buy at the stationary store for $10 a pound. And voilå! A little something special graced my table that night.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving from Mr. Food Musings and me. We're in Fort Collins, Colorado with his family, stuffing ourselves silly -- and hope you are, too.

Bittersweet Chocolate Café is Open!

Hallelujah, my savior has arrived -- and He's made of chocolate!  A few months ago a shop near my house closed down and, days later, the windows were covered in butcher block paper and a handmade sign was taped to the door: Bittersweet: the Chocolate Café (coming soon)! My curiosity was piqued.

Well, Praise the Lord, it's open at last! I walked past it on Thursday and veered immediately inside the doors when I realized they were open. What I saw made me gasp: shelf after shelf of organic, imported and/or artisanal chocolate bars -- I nabbed a rare Scharffen Berger mix of hazelnuts and dark chocolate -- an abundance of cookbooks dedicated to chocolate, a blackboard scribbled with six varieties of hot chocolate from spicy to white chocolate with cardamom to the creamy milk-infused classic, and an array of sweet treats on display. I sniffed at the glass case: bittersweet pot de cremes in teacups, thick square brownies, chocolate chip walnut cookies the size of a hubcap. The man behind the counter immediately sensed my chocolate lust -- either he was a kindred spirit, or not everyone tries to lick the cakes through the glass. He asked what I'd like.

"What's your favorite?" I asked breathlessly? He pointed to a chocolate-bottomed bar of oats and granola topped with chocolate chips, nuts and raisins.

Blech! Obviously he was no one to go by. I pointed instead to a miniature bittersweet chocolate buttermilk cupcake with a swirl of vanilla frosting and a mere whisper of chocolate shavings on top. "Shall I wrap it?" he asked with a trace of irony in his voice.

And as painful as it was, dear readers, I said yes. I needed to bring it home to photograph for you. I took the three blocks home at a verrrry, verrrry slow pace, lest any of the frosting be marred. Then I placed it on my grandmother's white china plate, snapped a photo ("Make love to the camera!" I shouted) and then, in three bites MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH did away with the moist bit of chocolate bliss. (sigh) I am reborn.

Bittersweet Chocolate Café, San Francisco, 2123 Fillmore Street, 415.346.8715   

Recipe: Butternut Squash Soup

With Turkey Day looming, and many of you quite likely procrastinators -- hey, it takes one to know one -- I thought I'd share a simple soup that's perfect for the holiday or just this time of year. I served it myself to a dinner party of six last Saturday night and it drew rave reviews. I suspect that's partially because it tastes like it has a whole vat of cream dumped in (though it has nary a drop!) and partially because of the bacon garnish. We all agreed: everything's better with bacon! (Isn't it time the Pork Information Bureau got a new slogan?)


Butternut Squash Soup
Serves 8

This is one of my favorites from Gourmet's mighty cooking tome. The garnish is my own and if you can buy slab, or thick-cut bacon, do so:  you can make authentic lardons. If not, then just make do like I did with good quality bacon.

2 TBSP olive oil
1 celery rib, chopped
1 medium carrot, chopped
1/2 lb. boiling potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 lb. butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and cut into 1/2-inch cubes (look for it already prepped)
1/8 tsp crushed red pepper (or to taste)
2 tsp. coarse sea salt
3/12 cups boiling water
garnish: 4 slices bacon, cut into 1/2-inch chunks; 1 tsp. fresh thyme leaves

Heat oil in a heavy saucepan over low heat. Add the celery, carrot, onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until tender but not browned (10-12 minutes). Add the potatoes, squash and red pepper to the onion mixture, then stir in boiling water. Simmer covered until the veggies are very tender (20 minutes). Purée in batches in a blender or with an immersion blender. To prepare the garnish: Cook the bacon in a skillet over medium, turning once (10-12 minutes or to desired crispness). Spoon bacon into soup bowls, cover with soup and garnish with fresh thyme.

Recipe: Chunky Peanut, Chocolate, Cinnamon Cookies

Because I was having a bad day.

And because eating a few cookies packed with jumbo chocolate chips and peanut butter and cinnamon seemed like it might make me feel a bit better.

You know what? It did. So I ate the other thirty-eight.

Believe it...or not!

Click here for the recipe.

Recipe: Katia's Beef Stroganoff

After our meal at Katia's Russian Tea Room, Katia was nice enough to share her tried and true recipe for comforting beef stroganoff.  I'd heard of it but, to be honest, never eaten it. What I thought I knew? That it was served over noodles. Uh-uh. "That's an American invention," says Katia. "Traditionally it's served over french fries." Beef stroganoff just got a whole lot more exciting! I made it according to her recipe below, and served it over rice -- my deep frying skills aren't up to snuff. What resulted was tender chunks of beef in a velvety sauce with just enough dill to make things interesting. Great with a bottle of hearty red wine on a cold winter's night -- something that San Francisco has plenty of.

Katia's Beef Stroganoff
Yield: 4 servings

Beef Stroganoff is a classic Russian dish, delicious and very easy to make. It is basically thin strips of tender beef cooked in a roux (sauce), combined with thinly sliced sautéed onions and mushrooms and traditionally served with shoestring fries. It also tastes delicious accompanied by rice.

It can be as low fat or as buttery as you like.  Frying the mushrooms and onions and making the roux can be done with butter or just a bit of oil. At Katia’s the sour cream is just a topping, but it can also be stirred into the sauce at the very end, before serving.

This is not a dish that has to stew or cook a long time so tender cuts of beef should be used.  I use beef sirloin top loin and find it unnecessary to go to pricier cuts such as beef loin or beef tenderloin.

1 ½ lb. beef sirloin top loin
2 TBSP butter
1 large onion, thinly sliced into half moons
1/2 lb. mushrooms, thinly sliced
Salt and pepper, to taste
2 TBSP oil
¼ cup flour
1 ¼ cups beef bouillon
1 tsp Dijon mustard
2 tsp freshly chopped dill
2 TBSP sour cream

Trim beef of all fat and slice thin strips against the grain. Set aside.  Melt 2 tablespoons butter in a large frying pan and sauté the onions until translucent, about 5 minutes.  Add the sliced mushrooms, and sauté 2-3 more minutes.  Lightly salt and pepper onions and mushrooms as they cook.  Transfer to a bowl and set aside.  In same pan make the roux.  Heat 2 tablespoons of oil, whisk in the flour and add beef bouillon to make a gravy-like sauce.  Stir in the Dijon mustard. Add the beef strips to the sauce and simmer for 3-4 minutes.  Return onions and mushrooms and simmer 5 minutes more.  Adjust salt and pepper seasoning.  Right before serving stir in dill and sour cream.  Serve with shoestring fries or fluffy basmati rice. 

Recipe and headnote courtesy of Katia Troosh.

Katia's Russian Tea Room

Several weeks ago I found myself in a Russian restaurant in San Francisco. I was there on assignment, interviewing the owner, but had stopped in for dinner first with Mr. Food Musings. How strange it was to be there. And how very unexpected to be excited about it. The slippery sounds of Russian consonants reverberated from the other tables, and as I silently mouthed the familiar words on the menu, I felt a slow smile steal over my face. The fascination I'd once had with Russia was back. 

Katia's Russian Tea Room is located on a quiet residential street in the Richmond. It sits, lights twinkling, at the intersection of 5th Avenue and Balboa, its door facing out at an angle, simultaneously embracing all four corners like arms thrown open. It's a welcoming posture and a fitting one, for at Katia's, no one is a stranger.

Katia Troosh, an American born of Russian parents in China, has owned her namesake restaurant for eleven years. Though she has Russian women who cook for her, she's still in the kitchen some days, baking pies like cranberry-apple, pumpkin and pecan that sell at local markets during holiday time. But mainly she is the Grande Dame, warmly greeting customers, weaving her way through the small restaurant to make recommendations about the food, share stories and laughs, show off a new pair of shoes. When she is in the room, it sparkles with her vitality; when she is gone, you feel that, too. On weekend nights an accordion player sits in one corner, jovially playing a mix of maudlin Russian folk songs and Abba tunes.

I opened the menu and WHAM!  a series of images and memories crashed into my brain. Pelmeni, the meat-filled dumplings served in hot broth that I'd longed for in spite of my vegetarianism, but never tried.  Zakuski, the snacks served whenever I was a guest at a friend's home, a sampling of mini-sandwiches of salami and yellow cheese on black bread, marinated mushrooms, potato salad with carrots and peas. Small golden blini filled with caviar and sour cream. And suddenly I remembered I had loved some things in Russia, had savored these foods. I recalled the feasts with friends, the shots of vodka to a chorus of "Na zdorovye", the heartfelt toasts over tiny, delicate glasses of sweet wine.

Before Mr. Food Musings could choose, I was showering him with suggestions. "We have to get the pelmeni. I never got to eat them. And the vareniki, I want to learn how to make those -- they're potato and cheese ravioli. You serve them with sour cream." He cocked an eyebrow at me. "And the shashlik, ummm, little strips of lamb that marinate in red wine and herbs. Or maybe we should start with caviar." I went on and on, flipping the pages of the menu back and forth, unable to choose. I wanted too many things and we had too few stomachs between us for it all. In the end, we settled on blini with caviar, followed by a half-order of the vareniki (wild mushroom sauce on the side), shashlik for me and kotlety pozharski (chicken cutlets) for him. We opened our wine, foregoing the much stronger vodka with a heavy heart and a sigh. I sat back, smoothing the white tablecloth, taking in the wet streets outside our window, the fresh flowers and candle on our table casting a soft glow.

The blini came to the table hot and buttery. We piled on plump, salty beads of salmon caviar, great swaths of pale smoked salmon, fresh dill and enough sour cream to clog an artery. I swooned. The vareniki were better than I remembered. Steamed until fluffy, then tossed with butter and caramelized onions, they gave me another excuse to spoon on the sour cream. I pondered for the hundredth time the mystery of Russian girls. They were always strutting past me in the metro, long-legged models in stiletto boots, their lanky frames defiant. My American friends and I always stopped to stare. "How do they stay so damn thin?" we'd wonder, well aware of what they were eating at home.

As we ate, Mr. FM asked me about Russia. I told him my stories, some funny, some shocking. The time a group of us danced until the sun came up, then went out for breakfast. The time Mafia guys at a nearby table sent over a bottle of Stoli's and shot glasses, then joined us to finish it off. At  7 a.m. The time I accompanied a male friend to a gay club, way out in the sticks, and watched men swim naked in a life-sized aquarium, masks on their faces. The time we traveled to Suzdal and stayed overnight in a monastery, then attended mass the next morning and lit candles for the dead. The friends I'd made, now scattered to far corners of the world, doing who knows what: M., the New England academic, two parts Machiavelli, one part flirt; S., the book lover, the life of the party, my best friend; C., my fellow grad student, quietly in love and determined to keep up her jogging despite the icy streets and shouted taunts; D., the no-nonsense New Yorker who taught us all to barter at the markets. We had good times.

Mr. FM and I finished our bottle of wine over sizzling hot shashlik that was redolent with garlic, lemon juice and wine, and lightly fried chicken cutlets with fried potatoes, crispy outside and soft inside, a staple on any Russian plate. After dinner we were full, but I had to have a cup of Russian tea, the same tea that my friend A. would serve when I'd travel out to her apartment on the outskirts of the city. We'd drink cup after cup and nosh on chocolate and candy in her eeny-weeny three-room apartment -- her son slept in the living room -- and talk about life, the good and the bad. Hers had a lot of bad.

Katia serves tea in a glass surrounded by a silver filigree podstakannik so you can drink the hot tea without burning your fingers. I had mine with milk and sugar, and a dish of homemade apricot preserves on the side. By the time we left, I felt like I had traveled through time and space and back again, and the world seemed smaller somehow, like the night I stood out in Red Square in the snow. After a day trip to a village outside Moscow, four of us (and me the only American) stopped to buy beer and vodka for our way back to town in the Lada, more tin can than car. On the spur of the moment, S. pulled over near Red Square. It was late and the snow fell softly on the cobblestones. No one was there but us. We wrapped our scarves and hats tightly around our heads. and as we ran, our boots made hushed footfalls in the snow. I looked up at St. Basil's Cathedral, took in the solid yellow walls of the Kremlin fortress, and inhaled the bracing cold air. I felt small, small in the way that one person feels when faced with centuries of history, with things bigger than herself. A moment later, N. was yelling at me to "Poshli, devchonka!" and we set off again. I hadn't remembered the beauty or the stillness of that night until this one, many years later, and I am grateful to Katia's for bringing it back. 

Katia's Russian Tea Room, San Francisco, 600 5th Avenue, 415.668.9292