food, and other musings

Off to San Diego

It's time for another girls' weekend with my gal pals R. and R. Every time I go to San Diego I swear I'll spend the weekend eating my way through the city's best fish taco offerings, and every time I succeed only in missing the damn things altogether. Maybe this time will be different...(sigh)

At the very least I'll get to have a glass of wine with the Zen Foodist, drink loads of fun, bright-colored cocktails and catch up with good friends. All in perpetually seventy degree weather. Ah, San Diego...

Heading East

There comes a time for a girl to go Home. For me, when the nights turn cooler, the light becomes gilded and leaves start to blow through the air, the East comes calling. These days, added to that autumn chorus is a tiny cry from a little crib in my friend's house in Maryland where baby S. sleeps (or, more accurately, does not).

So I'm off to DC for a few days of rest (?) and relaxation with L., and to meet baby S. L. and I have big plans to put her kitchen to good use, and Mom and Dad Food Musings are driving up for the weekend with a big carrot cake to fete Dad's birthday.

See you when I get back!

Sushi Ran

It's hard to look at this fat slice of tuna toro and imagine a meal anything less than swoon-worthy. Surprisingly, though, our dinner at Sausalito's famed Sushi Ran last weekend was equal parts thrill and disappointment.

Was it a fluke? Sushi Ran boasts a following unlike anything I've ever seen, a point that was obvious from the first. Zagat rated Sausalito’s one mega claim to dining fame a 27 last year, on par with restaurants like La Folie and the Dining Room at the Ritz Carlton, and various online reviews, friends and fellow chowhounds raved.

When we entered the restaurant, built in a traditional Japanese style with wooden buildings fronting a small open courtyard and garden in back, both the main dining room and adjacent wine bar were bustling. We took a seat at a table near the sushi bar and I glanced at the wall next to me. There, two posters proclaimed Sushi Ran’s most loyal guests, year by year. Curious, I looked at the photos and started noting the number of visits each person had made. People who ranked 11 and 12 had made 60-70 odd visits in a year. What did it take to make #1? Drum roll, please.

458 visits. In one year. I looked up at Mr. Food Musings, astounded. “That means coming every single day for dinner, and another 90-some times for lunch!” Our mouths hung open in shock. I can’t think of any place I ever have eaten (or ever would want to) that many times.

Buoyed by the fervent addiction that we felt certain our meal was about to inspire, we reviewed the evening’s specials. Usually when I go out for sushi, that is what I order. But some of the rolls and hot dishes looked so good I had to try them, and they turned out to be the winners. But first, what to drink? The owner, a native Okinawan named Yoshi Tome, is a renowned wine lover and talented sommelier who steered us to a crisp rosé champagne by Soter. We loved every sip.

Our first course was a beautiful Kobe beef carpaccio cut into paper-thin slivers of soft, melt-in-your-mouth meat. We scooped it up with our chopsticks in seconds. We loved the next two dishes as well: the crunch roll, with eel and avocado tucked neatly inside and spicy fresh crabmeat,tobiko, a drizzle of sweet sauce and a shower of crispy tempura bits outside.

Then there was the star of the evening, a dish I ate so fast Mr. Food Musings had to snatch a few bites and safeguard them on his plate before I ate them, too. The caramelized shrimp had a nice peppery crust, the water chestnuts were crisp and the scallions charred. The rich brown sauce was equal parts salty, sweet and smooth.

Next was the aji (Spanish mackerel) and to this sushi I must give some kudos – it was good. The crawfish tekamaki we ordered just for the fun of things, and because New Orleans is on our minds lately. It came with a special sauce that did, in fact, remind me of McD’s. But it was good, a variation on remoulade or Thousand Island dressing.

So far, so good. A few outstanding dishes, and a great bottle of wine. We were humming. But then we get to the two orders of sashimi, one tuna toro and the other salmon. They both arrived beautifully marbled with fat, smelled fresh, and the salmon was lovingly displayed on Japanese pottery, which I’ve lately begun to appreciate more.

A word about salmon sashimi: it is the way I judge a sushi restaurant. Partly because it’s one of my favorite fishes – I love how buttery and soft it is when it’s good – and partly because if you can’t do a simple salmon sashimi well, your other fish is probably not very good. Salmon should never be fishy, grainy or chewy (ick!). Tuna toro is another good indicator of quality, in my mind. And unfortunately, neither the salmon nor the toro impressed Mr. Food Musings or me. Was it bad? No, though the toro tasted like tuna, not the super unctuous and rich tuna belly I expected. But neither one was great. I’ve had better salmon consistently down the street at my little neighborhood sushi joint.

The raw fish definitely tempered my enthusiasm for Sushi Ran. Would I go back? Definitely, yes. The owner was kind and attentive, a great wine enthusiast, and many of the dishes were tastebud-defyingly excellent. But I will not be making the pilgrimage from the other side of the Bay anywhere near 458 times.

Sushi Ran, Sausalito, 107 Caledonia Street, 415.332.3620

The Invention of the Ice Cream Cone

My meal at 21st Street Drive-In in Paso Robles over Labor Day weekend got me thinking about road food and greasy spoons. My passion for upscale places like Manresa aside, I love that kind of food -- I grew up on it, and when I go back home, those places are the de rigeur feasting stops. I was reading Jane and Michael Stern's column in Gourmet the other day (they had gone to Mississippi) when I realized that I have yet to wax poetic about a few places near and dear to my heart. Doumar's is one of them.

Besides still operating a drive-in, Doumar's claim to fame is the ice cream cone. A waffle cone maker stands in the front of the restaurant with a sign that reads

"This is the World's First Cone Machine
Still in use today, it was used in 1905 at
Coney Island N.Y. by Abe Doumar, inventor
of the ice cream cone & this machine."

A quick Google search turns up evidence to the contrary; though this may have been the first machine, it seems unlikely that Abe Doumar, a Syrian immigrant, invented the ice cream cone. Fellow countryman and pastry maker Ernst Hamwi is largely credited with being the first to make a crisp pastry in a waffle pattern, probably to help out a nearby ice cream vendor who'd run out of paper cones at the 1904 world's fair in St. Louis, Missouri. Any way you slice it, though, Mr. Doumar had something to do with the invention and/or proliferation of the ice cream cone at the turn of the century.

Besides its contribution to historical Americana, Doumar's is all about the food. They grind their own meat for burgers, whip up fresh limeades by hand, make the best milkshakes in town and still press their cones on that 100-year old machine. Gourmet named their ice cream cone one of America's best in 2002. Here's what Mom and Dad Food Musings have to say about Doumar's, a place they like to meet from time to time during the summer when Dad is working nearby and Mom is on vacation. (Now isn't that sweet?) 

Mom says: "Carhops, metal trays, music piped through loudspeakers -- take a step back in time & visit Doumar’s, one of the great drive-in restaurants like those that were all over the South in the ‘50’s.  Mr. Albert Doumar is still there, an elderly gentleman who has fed thousands of happy customers over the years. He walks around to greet you and makes cones on the original machine most mornings between 9 and 10:30."

Dad says: "If you love BBQ, then this is the place for you. They have lots of other dishes too. But we always get the Minced BBQ w/slaw (the North Carolina Way). My wife loves the Limeade or the Shakes with her BBQ sandwich. And Fries. I like the Cherry Coke myself. My favorite ice cream dish at Doumar's is the "Ringo". Vanilla Ice Cream on top of crushed cones, with hot chocolate sauce topped with whipped cream and a cherry."

Doumar's, Norfolk, Virginia, 1919 Monticello Avenue, 757-627-4163

Best Reason to Move to New York City

Rumor has it that chef Laurent Gras, formerly of the Fifth Floor in San Francisco, is reputedly shopping around for restaurant space in the Big Apple. Grrr...

Santa Barbara Wine Country: Highlights from the High Life

We hadn’t planned on going anywhere. It was going to be a quiet Labor Day weekend in sun-deprived San Francisco, just the two of us. Driving to Costco one afternoon, we talked about what we might do. “We could go to the park and read one afternoon,” Mr. Food Musings suggested. Both of us sat there at the stoplight, visions of parkas and scarves and chilly September winds dancing in our heads. “Or we could have a barbecue,” I offered weakly, “and grill something outside…” I trailed off. We don’t have a grill. Or an outside.

“Why don’t we go somewhere?” Mr. FM suggested again, much more cheerfully this time. And, given that flying produces nothing short of nail-biting, hand-clenching, sweat-drenching, tear-flowing terror in yours truly, we brainstormed nice drivable locales. Santa Barbara wine country topped the list.

With two viewings of Sideways under my belt, I made hotel reservations in Solvang, just miles away from the Hitching Post where we’d have dinner one night. I called Los Olivos Café for dinner the other night. Why reinvent the wheel? If it was good enough for Miles, it would be good enough for us.

And so we set out on our journey, articles on the area torn from recent issues of Sunset magazine and the New York Times, hell bent on having ourselves a splendid weekend filled with wine and tacos and romantic dinners and strolls through quaint towns. We were not disappointed, and neither will you be if you hit any of the following. What no one in Napa wants you to know is the Santa Ynez valley is a hundred times prettier – think wineries spaced a mile or more apart along a winding road filled with nothing more than vines and rolling hills beneath a bright blue sky. It’s also less crowded and more mellow, like Sonoma on Valium.

Best Pit Stop If you want to stop for a bite between here and there, get up early and stuff yourselves with eggs and toast so you can make it as far as Paso Robles (which everyone pronounces “RO-bulz,” which makes no sense to me – isn’t it a Spanish name? Shouldn’t it be “RO-bless?”). Matters of pronunciation aside, Paso is home to a real live drive-in burger stand called the 21st Street Drive-In (Paso Robles, 2110 Spring Street, 805-238-0360). It was one of the last original A&W Root Beer drive-ins (it changed names so the owners could buy local meat and produce) and you can still pull on up, turn off your car (lights on if you're ready to order) and get a couple of juicy cheeseburgers and crisp, judiciously salted crinkle cut french fries delivered right to your window. Even in the 90 degree heat, Mr. FM and I stayed in the car just to have the authentic experience (cussing and fanning ourselves all the while, but hey, we did it). I hear the root beer floats with homemade root beer are to die for.

Best Romantic Dinner Our dinner at Los Olivos Café (Los Olivos, 2879 Grand Avenue, 805-688-7265) beat the one at the Hitching Post by a mile. The romantic atmosphere inside owes a debt to the fabric-draped ceiling, fresh flowers and candles, but if it's warm outside make sure to reserve a table on the front patio instead. Ask for a recommendation from the pages-long wine list (well-priced and mainly local stuff) and feast on things like homemade butternut squash soup; plump wild prawns, pan-seared and served with sweet corn crema, chili oil and fresh spinach; or soft meatballs the size of tennis balls in a thick tomato sauce. The not-to-miss dessert is the Café Scream, a chocolate cake (that doesn't ooze its creamy guts, surprise surprise!) topped with what must be homemade vanilla ice cream and sweet ropes of gooey caramel. If you don't have time for dinner, the bar and wine shop next door are the perfect stage for a late afternoon glass of wine.

Best Breakfast in Town We heard the cast and crew of Sideways loved Paula's Pancake House (Solvang, 1531 Mission Drive, 805-688-2867) and we can see why. From our hard earned seats on the sun dappled patio we watched the hubbub of Solvang ("sunny field"), a town that was settled back in 1911 by a bunch of disgruntled Dutch who found the midwest winters far too snowy and cold. Waitresses young and old don embroidered pinafores that we're led to believe all the Dutch still tromp around in; it's hokey but still somehow cute. The thin pancakes at Paula's are the thing to order: almost thin enough to be a crepe, but still fluffy under a pile of fresh strawberries. Get the bacon on the side -- it's nearly burnt and perfectly crispy.

Can't Miss Wineries We stopped in Los Olivos Café and asked a burgundy haired, tattooed waitress for her wine country recommendations. She loved Rancho Sisquoc and Foxen, and we did too. Rancho Sisquoc sits far down a bumpy gravel road off of Foxen Canyon Road and offers plenty of green grass and picnic tables for a mid-day lunch, as long as you bring the sandwiches. We walked away with a merlot (gasp!) Then on to Foxen, a mere roadside shack whose visitors park on the shoulder and cram in to the bar that can't hold more than six across, but goes three deep. Get a taste of chenin blanc, cabernet franc, syrah or one of their much loved pinots and step out onto the deck in back to take in sweeping views. And try to remember why, oh why, you live in a sun forsaken town way up north...

La Super-Rica (and Mr. Food Musings First Photo!)

“It was small and unremarkable, with an open kitchen on one end where two women scooped handfuls of dough out of a large, white plastic bucket, mashed them with their palms, and lay them on a sizzling griddle. They knew exactly how much dough they needed, pinching off the excess with a practiced twist and tossing it back in the bucket.”

--- from the novel Daughter's Keeper by Ayelet Waldman

I read this passage before Mr. Food Musings and I went to Santa Barbara wine country for Labor Day weekend, and it stuck in my head. I recall wondering where the author had been and seen these tortilla mujeres, as I like to think of them in my so-broken-it-was-never-fixed Spanish.

And then I walk into La Super-Rica, Julia Child's favorite taco stand and the reason for our journey into Santa Barbara proper. After standing in a slowly winding line outside the brightly painted shack, I edge my way to the counter. As I wait my turn, I peek into the teeny weeny kitchen behind and there I see that very same sight: two plump women pinching off balls of dough, judging by the feel of their hands and by decades of instinct just how much they need to slap down onto the tortilla press before SLAM shutting the press and SLURP opening it back up, tearing the newly flattened tortilla from the thin sheet of plastic wrap and SPUTTER slinging it onto the hot grill. I watch one of them, counting as she works, and figure conservatively that one woman can make one tortilla every 60 seconds. That's nearly 1,000 a day.

But forget the circus antics -- let's get to the food. La Super-Rica is a gem, no more than a cheap wooden shack enclosing a kitchen and a concrete patio, no less than home to the best Mexican food I've ever eaten. Julia's taste is impeccable.

In an ordering frenzy, I pile item after item onto our ticket. I don't know when I'll be back and have much to sample. "Give me a number 4, and a number 6, a 17 and 18." I stare at the chalkboard to see if I have missed anything critical. "Two cokes." I peruse the specials, written in magic marker on a plain sheet of white paper taped to the glass window. The women behind me clear their throats impatiently. "And an order of the chilaquiles," I add. The women whistle, impressed by how much I've ordered. Little do they know that Mr. Food Musings, who is sitting on the back patio defending our table, will be helping me eat all this. If he's nice to me, that is.

We end up with a collection of small paper plates, each bearing two warm tortillas and various toppings: adobado (marinated pork); blistered green pasilla peppers and oozing white cheese; a mix of beans, onions and peppers cooked into a spicy approximation of a stew; creamy, freshly made guacamole flecked with red tomato.

The chilaquiles are like nachos: fresh tortillas lightly fried and topped with a warm roasted tomato sauce and traditional salsa, as well as melted white cheese and a grilled scallion. We spoon up the tomato juices pooling in the corners and the crumbly queso fresco that showers the mound. We sit on our white plastic deck chairs and sip our Cokes and pass bites around the table as we ooh and aah and roll our eyes in gastronomic orgasm. The food is damn good, folks, 45 minute wait be damned.

Now, for the exciting Mr. Food Musings surprise appearance. Can you guess which of these fine fellows is my beloved? Hint: he's tall and he's a good napkin fetcher.

La Super-Rica, Santa Barbara, 622 N. Milpas Street, 805-963-4940

Off to Sunny Santa Barbara

The Mister and I headed to Santa Barbara wine country for Labor Day. We promise to come back with beautiful photos of grapes hanging heavy on the vine and, out of laziness rather than our own nerdy rendition of Sideways, a full report on whether or not Los Olivos Café and the Hitching Post are places worth supping. Bring on the merlot, baby!

The Bistro

The Montana border, and Cooke City just beyond it, is about a twenty minute drive from the ranch where we stay in northern Wyoming. Driving in this part of the country is an exercise in vigilance. You have to work hard not to let your eyes become dulled to the never-ending beauty, the tall emerald pines against steep mountainsides, grasslands spread out far and wide, streams full of glassy water that gurgles softly over rocks. At dusk wild animals come out to feed, and a car pulled over on the roadside means someone has spotted an elk or a moose, or even a bear. When this happens I beg Mr. Food Musings to stay inside the safety of the rental car. “Moose are known to charge!” I plead. Too many bee stings as a child taught me early on that Mother Nature and her creatures can and will kick a little human tush when given half a chance. He just shrugs off my death grip and grabs his camera.

After a dozen winding turns over sheer canyons, Cooke City emerges, the last outpost of civilization before Yellowstone. City seems to me a generous term for a place so small it boasts neither a stoplight nor a stop sign. There are a few grizzled motels that have seen better days, two gas stations, a tourist shop that masquerades as an authentic Trading Post (but whose Cooke City-emblazoned tea cozies and sweatshirts give it away). The general store sells lures and flies and dusty cans of Chef Boyardee from warped shelves in front, and trail guides and picture books of bears and Wallace Stegner novels in back. The floorboards creak and the air is hazy with centuries-old dust from the dirt floors beneath the wood. It feels like a place that holds secrets and I love to go in and breathe in its oldness, walk around and look at the odd assortment of wares, crocheted wallets, plastic canteens, old maps. Come wintertime, it shuts down, as do most of the establishments in Cooke City. This country is so rugged and inhospitable six months of the year that parts of the road even close, forcing locals to get around on snowmobiles. The mix of bow-legged, leather-clad cowboys and unshaven, leather-clad bikers who do battle for supplies and supper make Cooke City a modern day Wild West. The cowboys sport ten-pound belt buckles and ten-gallon hats, while the bikers arm themselves with tequila shots and bikes painted crimson and electric blue and shiny with polished chrome.

This year we had driven to town for dinner at The Bistro, a place we’ve been several times before. As on all our other visits, they were out of a fair portion of the menu, but I’ve learned not to get disappointed. This time it was the pasta. All of it. Two things about The Bistro surprise me each year: how good it is, and how magnificent its short wine list. What would you guess would be at the top of the wine list in this tiny podunk town? Mais oui, it’s a $240 Cheval Blanc, 1er Cru. There is also a $75 Pommard and a Chambolle-Musigny, both French reds of notable distinction, and the champagne choices include Dom Perignon. Beneath these white zinfandel is advertised by the glass, betraying, I suspect, the tastes of the dining majority.

This is a restaurant where entrées come with soup or salad, potatoes or rice, eliminating the need for a starter. Thankfully Mr. FM’s gluttony got in the way of common decency and he ordered the smoked trout anyway. The waitress sighed and said that they were out, but the chef had already started smoking more and she would check to see if it was ready yet. What she brought to the table was an entire smoked trout split down the middle and laid out on a simple white plate with a few lemon wedges, thick cuts of raw onion and a crock of heavy cream, not quite whipped and spiked with horseradish. We piled it all on buttered toast and as we popped it in our mouths, a chorus of sighs rose from the table. It didn’t look fancy but it was some of the best smoked trout I’ve had.

We dug into tender medium-rare rib-eyes that the chef goes to Billings for twice a week, and baked potatoes so soft and sweet I was embarrassed for my own. We ended up drinking a silky Mondavi Cabernet. (“Why don’t we drink this more often?” Mr. Food Musings asked. Ha. As though I’m the one making the beverage decisions in our household.)

Crème brulée was the only housemade dessert and we shared two among the four of us. The flavor was perfect and the top admirably blistered, but it was stone cold. By that point the chef had come out to the dining room to drink some wine with a group of bikers that had come in for a late meal. He stopped by our table and poured us a taste of the Chambolle-Musigny, explaining that he didn’t put vintages on the wine list anymore because his deliveries are so unreliable. “Some days zey do not bring what I or-dure, and uzzer days zee truck does not even stop.” Richard is French and has cooked for years, first in France (“My training is so informal zee French would not even consider me a real chef.”) and later at posh resorts in the Caribbean. He is, quite obviously, a wine enthusiast, and he’s missing his top front teeth. I wonder if any of the locals bother to notice, or to care. His wife, Theresa, is from Virginia and she told me that some of their regulars make the three hour drive from Billings every month just to eat. “People said there wasn’t any point to opening a place like this in Cooke City, but I think everybody appreciates good food.” Word.

The Bistro, Cooke City, Montana, 214 Main Street, 406-838-2160

Fish Fry: A Play in 5 Acts

Act 1: Clark’s Fork River, Sunlight Basin, northern Wyoming. Morning.

A bucolic setting with babbling brooks and birdsong and sunlight turning the riverbanks gold and green. Two men lazily throw their fishing lines into river pools and reel them back in, hooking brook trout, brown trout and rainbow trout whose skin glistens pink and green. After a few hours, they swagger home, stringers full and primitive urges sated.

Act 2: A rustic log cabin, a mile or so away (as the crow flies). Same morning.

A woman stands by the window looking out at tall peaks in the distance. Suddenly rain starts to pour down at a hard slant. Through the windows, gusts of wind blow in the smells of soft sweet earth, and the trees darken into menacing soldiers. Just as suddenly, it stops. The worms slink out of their hiding places and little drops of water drip slowly from the railings onto the wooden porch. Plonk, plonk, plonk. The sun slides out from behind a cloud as if to say, “Who me?”

Act 3: The cabin’s kitchen, later that day

The two men are now drinking cold beer while they sit at the table and begin spinning tales about the ones that got away. They stink of fish guts and cold, tinny river water. Two women cook, one dipping fish into cornmeal and laying them in a hot black skillet to fry, the other chopping tomatoes, keeping her distance from the spattering oil. All have their fill of trout and salad and beer and Oreos. Yes, Oreos. All agree that there’s nothing better than fresh trout, just hooked and fried.

Act 4: A table at the Clark’s Fork and Spoon Café. Lunchtime three days later.

The two women order cheeseburgers and fries. One says, “I guess whatever they catch today we’ll eat tonight.” The other takes her meaning and says, “Maybe the fish won’t bite.” They give each other wan smiles.

Act 5: The ranch house dining table. Dinnertime.

The two women cheerfully offer fresh trout to the other diners. One brings along a tenspot in case she needs to bribe someone to eat her share. The men, oblivious, talk about how next year, they’ll buy dry ice and take home twice the number of fish they caught this year and smoke them and eat them all autumn long. “Wouldn’t that be great?” asks the younger man, and the woman just smiles. She knows that there is no room in their tiny apartment for a fish smoker. She also knows that by this time next year, the smoker will be long forgotten. “Yes, dear,” she says, “that would be lovely.” Then she surreptitiously feeds the rest of her trout to the ranch dog.