Category Archives: Eating Out

I Am Getting Comfortable with This Holiday Mayhem

FML! Oh! I mean, Merrrrrrrrrrrrry Christmas! To be clear, I am pro-Xmas. I am not in favor of all this holiday stresssssss. As of now, I have only half of my cards written, two-thirds of my gifts wrapped, and absolutely nothing packed for my trip to Minnesota. Heh heh heh: it’s gonna be a lonnnnnnng night.

Today, evidently, is a day for extra consonants.

Though I’ve spent most of it running around like a cat on meth, this week hasn’t been without its bright spots. One of these was Alex’s and my dinner at Pakwan, which I’d always meant to try but never had. Finally, my chance arrived.

[Image source: Yelp]

If you haven’t been to Pakwan, be aware that it’s far from glamorous. In fact, it’s dumpy: in possession of a linoleum floor, pressboard tables, and the sort of chairs found in church basements. The fluorescent lighting will accentuate your midwinter pallor, and you may be badgered out of your seat by hungry would-be diners. Don’t let these superficial drawbacks deter you; to do so would be a Great Personal Disservice.

Alex and I were famished and also couldn’t decide what to order, so we got a big ol’ heap of food: chicken tikka masala, garlic naan, achar gosht, bengan bhartha, rice. Pakwan is BYOB, and you can bet that we brought it: oh yes, we did.

That right there is the chicken tikka masala, which was, in a word, delightful. The chicken was tender (and gristle-free! = bonus) and the sauce was RICH, just as I like. I will say that I’d have preferred more chicken for the amount of sauce; I will also say that I have no problem sopping up sauce with naan — things worked out OK.

This blurry pic sort of looks like the terrain of an unnamed planet, but the subject is actually garlic naan — surprise! Flavorwise, the naan killed it. I tend to order non-garlic naans because lots of places overdo it with the garlic and I end up reeking for days.* To my surprise/pleasure, this naan was juuuuuuuuust right: a little garlicky, but not so much that a few brushings & flossings couldn’t eradicate ma garlic breath.

Texturally, the naan was so-so — it was a bit crispy in parts: a bit too crispy, if you ask me, and I hope you’re asking me. It wasn’t burnt-burnt, but the edges were a little crunch. Just sayin.

Our best dish, hands down, was the achar gosht. The lamb was the tenderest — we barely poked it and it fell apart.The sauce had a delayed-onset heat that, after about three seconds, hit the back of my mouth. Yesssssss.

One other thing: Pakwan is ueber-reasonably priced. Our dinner came to $30 ($40 with the beers we brought), and we had leffffffffftovers. (Those Fs represent the magnitude of leftoverage.) Nothing inspires holiday cheer like a well-made, inexpensive meal. Hallelujah!

In other news, I’m heading to the Great Midwest tomorrow — posts might be fewer/farther between, depending on My Internet Situation. (And really, the Internet Situation is anyone’s guess.) On that note, Happy (early) Xmas!

***

*I don’t mind garlic breath so much, and I rarely use the possibility of the condition as an excuse to avoid garlic (I mean, WHY would I avoid garlic?), but I dislike eating extreme quantities of garlic, esp. raw.

Dirt Bomb!

Yesterday was a day that will live in infamy. L-Lo skipped her appearance on the Ellen show, some stuff happened in Washington, and Nathan and I finally tried the Dirt Bomb.

Backtrack: every morning between 10:00 and 10:05, Nathan and I get flavored coffee at Biscoff. (Only the best for us.) Every day, we eye the pastry case, noting what looks good and what looks day-old. In recent weeks, we’ve focused our attention on the Dirt Bomb, a softball-sized confection coated in cinnamon sugar. Seriously, this thing is the size of a small melon, and you know how I feel about eating foods the size of my face.

“What is it?” I’d ask, to which Nathan would reply simply, “DIRT BOMB.”

A Dirt Bomb alongside some cardamom pods.

[Source]

Months of curiosity produced an awesome amount of anticipation (which, in turn, could have precipitated a major letdown). I’m pleased to report that the Dirt Bomb was even tastier than I could have anticipated.

Moist and fine-crumbed, the Bomb has a pale pale yellow interior and a crusty coat of cinnamon sugar. Similar in shape to a [giant] muffin, it has the texture of a muffin-doughnut hybrid: you know, slightly crumbly, moist, but not hella greasy. In short, it has the best attributes of both items.

I spent much of the rest of the day thinking of the Dirt Bomb — I can’t believe I’d never heard of it before. Have YOU, dear reader, heard of such a treat? Quick internet research revealed that this dessert is, in fact, a thing. People make them at home. The Bombs do not, as I previously guessed, contain sour cream. They do, however, contain cardamom, to which I attribute the Bomb’s tastiness. (I knew it owed its depth of flavor to more than just cinnamon.)

[Source]

One thing remains unclear to me, and that is the Dirt Bomb’s name: why is it so negative? It doesn’t look especially dirty, nor is it bomblike (aside from being a total gutbomb). I’ll continue my Intertron research to see what I can dig up, but I have a feeling that no good explanation exists.

In the meantime, DIRT BOMBS. Try one if you like cinnamon, sugar, and lots of butter. Try one if you like foods with funny names. Lastly, try one to sate your soon-to-burgeon curiosity about this food. That is all.

The Pleasure of Anticipation

Not too much to report, foodwise. These past few days, I’ve been eating Meals of Convenience: salads, muesli, leftovers — stuff of that ilk. Boring, yes; necessary, yes. Last night, after a mighty battle with the 14, I arrived home 45 minutes later than expected and had salad and toast for dinner because I was too tired to do anything else. #adultlyfe.

All this is to say, I haven’t prepared any crazily exciting meals this week BUT I’d like to share something with you nontheless. You ready?

In eight days, I’ll be heading back to Minnesota, my not-so-ancestral quasi-homeland, where I’ll be chillin’ with the Mom and the Sis during Xmas. I’m stoked to see them (and Louie: HI, LOUIE); I am not stoked about the travel itself, hateful as I am toward airports & all things related.

One aspect of my trip for which I’m especially excited is Nostalgic Eating, broadly defined as eating the foods of one’s youth and visiting old haunts (in the form of restaurants). Sadly, Hans’ Bakery, my most beloved old haunt, shuttered some time back, as did the Krispy Kreme to which Ali and I made 1,000 late-night trips. Some of my old favorites remain, and I’ll be visiting as many as I can during my four days in the Midwest. For my enjoyment (and maybe yours?), here’s a list of the things I most look forward to eating during the holidays.

1. Papa John’s pizza

[Source]

I’ve written previously about Chanticlear Pizza, the local chain favored by my parents. Unlike Chanticlear, whose hybrid pies defied real classification,* Papa John’s was revered by my sis and me. It’s embarrassing to admit now, but we viewed PJ’s as the holy grail of pizza; its sauce was so sweet, its cheese so gluey and thick! The tub of garlic dipping sauce included with each pie seemed a thoughtful touch, as did the pepperoncini.

Weekends, Sis and I made trips to Marshall’s, where we hunted for The Ultimate Deal: Diesel jeans for $50, a bottle of Kenneth Cole Black for the low low price of $19.99. As a high-schooler I worked at Marshall’s, so I knew their stock well. I also spent most of my paychecks there. Ooops.

Hours among the racks left me and sis honnnnnngry; typically, we’d walk next door to the Papa John’s, order ourselves a pizza (cheese; later, we’d diversify to pineapple), sit on the curb as the pizza cooked, and cart our feast home in our trusty blue Corolla.

I last had Papa John’s in the summer of 2009. I remember thinking it was OK, for a pie produced in a strip mall. How will my palate have changed since my last taste test? Only time will tell. And then I’ll tell you all.

2. Dino’s Gyros

[Source]

OPA! Dino’s specializes in gyros, spanikopita, dolmades, and all other sorts of Greek delights, but what I remember most are their fries: slender but not too slender, perfectly golden, and dusted with burnt-orange seasoning salt. Helllllll, yeah. As I recall, the fries were served in white waxed-paper envelopes emblazoned with the chain’s logo; Ali and I used to share a bag and then race to the finish. Maybe “race” is the wrong word: we horq’d to make sure that we each got our fill. Naturally, the prize of this [non]-race was the pleasure of eating more fries than the competitor.

Good news: Dino’s is certainly on our dining itinerary — sis got a Groupon for a meal there. Groupon, this may be the best thing you’ve done all year.

3. Panera scones

[Source]

Before I worked at Marshall’s, I worked at (you guessed it) Panera Bread. All things considered, my gig at Panera was one of the more grueling positions I’ve held. For some reason, I was assigned a lot of closing shifts; one of my main duties was to brush the breadcrumbs from All Visible Surfaces — and also from between floor tiles. May I just say that was some bitchwork?

Hours of semi-backbreaking labor did nothing to diminish my love of the Orange Scone, which for years was my all-tyme favorite dessert. Moistened, undoubtedly, with oil, the scone was enrobed in a suuuuuuper-sweet, almost-neon-orange frosting that (to my teenaged mind) was the best thing ever.

A few years ago, I walked to the Panera by the ballpark to get one such scone. I was stoked! That is, until I tasted the damn thing — it was nothing like the scones of my dreams. Subsequent bites confirmed that the scone recipe had been changed. Enraged, I wrote a letter to the CEO asking for an explanation. A month or two later, I received a reply: the CEO['s PR person] explained that, after extensive market research, the company decided to change the recipe in a way that reflected the “more sophisticated needs” of Panera’s customer base.

More sophisticated, my ass. PANERA IS A STRIP-MALL BAKERY.

I haven’t had a Panera scone since that fateful day. It’s my hope that the R&D team stumbled upon a new scone recipe, one that blows the previous two out of the water. Needless to say, I’ll keep you abreast of my findings.

Those, my friends, are the three foods I’m most looking forward to eating: strip-mall pizza, fries, and scones. I just LOLd at myself, but no one heard me. (Aside: If a person LOLs in a forest, does she make a sound?)

Initially, I thought my anticipation strange, but then I realized it makes so much sense: not only are these foods nostalgic, but they’re the sort of grub that might be looked down upon in certain circles here. And by that I mean they’d certainly be looked down upon in certain circles here. By journeying back to the source, I can indulge in these guilty pleasures with no fear of retribution. I won’t have to pretend that I didn’t know Panera’s frosting has HFCS; I won’t have to poo-poo PJs’ chemically loaded sauce. For a few short days, I’ll be free to eat whatever I want. Bring on the MSG, baby!

***

*Unless you classified them as greasy, in which case the process would be a snap. What I meant to say is that Chanti-pies are similar to New York-style pizza, but greasier and with thinner crust.

Sleepy Saturday

Despite its plain exterior and muted palette, this sandwich made my life. Last night, after much revelry at The Uptown (CONGRATS to Candice for finishing her nursing program(!)), I dreamed many dreams of all the foods I would ideally consume: a tall stack of gingerbread pancakes with a moon-yellow butter pat; pizza Margherita; the fullest goblet of orange juice. And so on, and so on.

We went to St. Francis for lunch, easing into a booth during the afternoon lull. I’ve been to St. F’s only a few times, but it looms larger in my memory than it perhaps should, decoying itself as a restaurant critical to my San Francisco identity establishment. Who can say: maybe it is? On my previous two trips, I ordered a bacontastic scrambler with a side of biscuits, which I recommend with the most sincerity. God, are those biscuits divine.

Alex and I ordered nearly identical meals: variations on turkey clubs with sides of fries and sugary coffee. I love the white descent of the cream into the coffee, the way it blooms and instantaneously lightens the liquid. I’m sad to say that the fries were pretty average, flavorwise, and soggier than they should have been. The sandwich, however, was killer: sourdough toasted to the perfect shade of golden, crispy-crispy bacon, and fresh iceberg ribboned into confetti. Turkey club, keep on doing what you’re doing.

I have a new haircut, and I’m ready to take on the challenge of using liquid eyeliner. At this moment, Alex is making soup from the chicken we roasted earlier this week. I’m curled in my bed, bundled in a hoodie; the lights are turned low. Things — all things — are good. And that’s all I have to say about that.

I’M BA-ACK!

Back and better than ever, now that I’m not living in a fever haze! The past two weeks were not great, healthwise. I had a 101.8-degree fever as I boarded the plane for Mexico, and thank god Alex shepherded me through the airport because I was heavily sedated (#trauma). I have a foggy memory of eating a Dunkin’ Donuts doughnut (chocolate) as I sat in the Ft. Lauderdale airport; after that, my mind is a blank. A week in the sun set me right, though, and before long I regained the appetite that had vanished a week prior.

Alex and I spent the bulk of our trip at Cabanas Tulum in a cabana just feet from the beach. Freaking bliss! When I was younger — sixteen, say — I eschewed sunny vaca locales, thinking them “too pedestrian” or something. I can safely say that, as a 16-year-old, I didn’t know my ass from my elbow. Tropical vacations rule. (I suppose the pressures of Adult Lyfe inure one to holidays whose main selling points are lack of internet connectivity, good weather, and free-flowing rum.)My favorite meal of the trip was also the simplest, w/r/t preparation and setting. We’d spent the morning exploring (by car) the area just beyond Tulum; with the AC cranked up, we rattled past bus shelters constructed of corrugated tin, primary-hued shacks, and “Highway Maize” — my ueberscientific classification of the cornlike plant growing along the road. Was it maize? I had no way of knowing, my iPhone being locked in Airplane Mode. Back in Tulum, we stopped at Carnitas Merchant for a quick, late lunch.Our tacos were strikingly simple, nothing more than carnitas on pillow-soft corn tortillas. The proprietor brought us a tray of salsa verde (fairly hot), limes, and chopped white onions with cilantro. I relished squeezing the last bit of juice from the limes, letting the fruit’s pulp dot the meat. A. and I sat at a dusty plastic table — the sort you might find poolside at a run-down Days Inn — and drank sun-heated bottled water. Not the most glamorous environment, certainly, but the tortillas were so fresh and the pork so juicy (without being overtly fatty) that I wouldn’t have minded sitting on the curb. Pork, lime juice, and snappy white onions: it was a beautiful meal.In that heat, my hair was a damp pelt. Sweat sheened the bridge of my nose. I polished off the rest of my water and hit the gelateria — I’d make several return trips — where I got a coneful of cookies & cream: lush and drippy and full of intact, softened cookies. The entire lunch cost about $5 USD.

***

El Tabano! occupies a different spot on the formality spectrum. Set back from the road, the restaurant boasts scattered votives, mismatched chairs (vintage, all), and tables crafted from repurposed signs. Featuring Caribbean-influenced Mexican cuisine, the menu has offerings for vegetarians and carnivores alike, as well as a full bar.

On a previous trip to Tulum, Alex ate at El Tabano! several times, primarily for the stuffed jalapeno. The pepper, cleaned of seeds and veins, is filled with a spicy beef mixture, then breaded and deep-fried, then gently drizzled with sour cream and flecked with black sesame seeds. Unlike fried jalapenos here, this pepper was soft — mushy, even. Mushy in the best possible way.

I was a fan of the stuffed pepper, but I enjoyed the stuffed, fried plantains even more. Plantains are a rarity in my diet, despite their prevalence here (and in most places with decent supermarkets). Why the scarcity? Most likely because I didn’t grow up with plantains — didn’t try them until college, perhaps? — and because I’d never had them in their stuffed form.

What were they stuffed with, you ask? CHEESE. That’s right: the plantains were slit, filled, and deep fried, their exteriors a coffee brown, their texture puddinglike. They were served alongside rice and rich black beans. I enjoyed them, sliced into uniform rounds, with a glass of white wine.

Honesty strikes: not all dishes at El Tabano! were so delectable. The gazpacho, though a vibrant rusty color, was saddeningly bland. The “veggie lasagna” — sautéed veggies + cheese sandwiched between layers of tortilla, the whole mess of which was baked — was likewise bland. Why did I order that damnable lasagna? I didn’t feel like fish, I think. Despite these misfires, El Tabano! has my vote for best non-taqueria restaurant of the trip. (Note: I didn’t take any photos at either of our El Tabano! dinners — it was dark out, and had I used flash, every photo would have been all shitty and overexposed.)Next up: my review of the puketastic food at our all-inclusive resort.

Brunch Drunk Love: A Reluctant Reintroduction to Groupon Dining

I’ve stopped buying Groupons because the featured deals have become, to be blunt, crappy. I have zero need for organic cloth diapers, pet Lasik, or salsa lessons in Burlingame; I am interested in getting a massage and having my teeth whitened, but not at any of the Groupon-endorsed spas. Daily deal emails have become the scourge of my inbox; my morbid curiosity is all that has prevented me from unsubscribing from every last site.

Last week, I broke my self-imposed daily deals ban and got a Groupon for Brunch Drunk Love (2389 Mission). In the moments before I clicked Purchase, I hesitated, wondering if I was making an airhead move; I clicked Purchase, anyway. Ostensibly, the deal seemed pretty sweet: $30 for a family-style brunch at a restaurant a few blocks from my house. Before buying, I checked out BDL’s menu, which looked totally legit. I’ve had very few awful dining experiences in the city, and I reasoned that this brunch (at the very worst) would be mediocre. As it happened, this prediction was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Per Groupon’s instructions, I made a reservation several days in advance of our brunch. Friday morning, the BDL hostess called to confirm this reservation. I mention this because, upon our arrival, Alex and I had to wait (and wait, and wait). We loitered for half an hour at the bar before we were seated. Overbooking happens frequently enough, but the hostess’ indifference — dare I say total disregard? — negatively impacted our impression. We might have been placated had we been offered a free drink or appetizer, but none such gesture was made. Nope, we were left to buy our own $9 Bloody Marys, which were pre-mixed (eeew) and tasted so strongly of liquid smoke(?) as to be nearly undrinkable.*

Once we were seated, we spent an additional half an hour waiting to have our order taken. This isn’t an exaggeration: Alex timed our wait. In fact, he had to flag a waiter and ask the dude to take our order. This waiter wasn’t sympathetic; he didn’t seem to find anything amiss with what went down. Once we’d ordered, our food came out rather quickly, albeit in a mega jumble. I’m not sure what kind of communication was going on between FOH/BOH workers, but we got our main dishes before our appetizers. We asked twice for our dessert.

The food ranked slightly higher than the service. Our Groupon scored us two appetizers, two main dishes (one griddle item and one selection from either legs + eggs + fins OR between the bun), a dessert, and two coffees. (You can see why I was drawn to this deal, yes?) We ordered:

  • Grilled biscuits with leek + thyme gravy & 4505 Meats maple sausage;
  • Frisée salad, with pancetta, croutons, poached egg, and whole grain mustard dressing;
  • Custard-battered french toast with stewed blackberries, ricotta, basil, and black pepper berry syrup;
  • Fried green tomato sammie: cornbread-battered fried green tomatoes w/ pimento cheese, fried egg, iceberg, housemade English muffin; and
  • Milk & cookies: selection of 3 cookies + milk

Alex and I agreed that the fried green tomato sandwich was the best overall dish; the cornbread batter was sweet and crispy to the max! The muffin had a texture unlike that of any English muffin I’ve ever tasted — it was as dense as soda bread, but not crumbly. I enjoyed the French toast — or, rather, the black pepper berry syrup, which, with the bright wisps of basil, cut the richness of the ricotta.

To my surprise, I was not so impressed with the biscuits and gravy. The biscuits themselves were solid — flaky and buttery, with artfully applied grill marks  — but the gravy was so thyme-heavy that it smothered all other flavors. One bite was like a Thanksgiving explosion. The cookies were forgettable; I had half of one, the flavor of which I couldn’t rightly discern. Whatever its type, it wasn’t striking enough to encourage my consumption of the other half.

I don’t believe in the wanton panning of restaurants; as much as I like to kvetch IRL, I acknowledge that rhetorically trashing a place is a cop-out, or can be. In the case of Brunch Drunk Love, my gripes are fully founded. We were on site a full hour before receiving food, and when the food came, it was so-so. The space was OK, but not great. The hostess was flat-out rude — so rude, in fact, that I’m still tempted to call the manager and relate our experience.

(Alex, making the best of this untenable brunch.)

San Francisco has too many great brunch places to allow for the existence of really shitty ones. Alex gives Brunch Drunk Love eight months, tops. I give it six. Maybe we can split the difference, agree on a seven-month predicted lifespan, and enjoy a well-made Bloody Mary at one of our established haunts.

***

*Fact: Alex only drank half of his. I nearly finished mine, mostly because I was miffed about having spent $9 on the Worst Bloody Mary of My Life. Even V8 and Popov with a few shakes of Tabasco would have been better, srsly.

Christopher Elbow: Fall Flavors

Christopher Elbow’s San Francisco shop — his only brick & mortar store outside Kansas City — is easy to breeze by if you’re in a hurry. At the corner of Hayes and Gough, situated kitty-corner from Absinthe, the store is far sparer than its neighbors. From the outside, it looks like a gallery: the sales counter is absent unnecessary decor, and the seating area — with its leather couchbenches and cubic lamp-tables — doesn’t invite one to sit and linger.

If you equate visual minimalism with a seriousness about one’s craft, then you’d agree that the shop’s look-and-feel accurately represents Elbow’s approach to chocolate making.

Elbow himself is much warmer than the shop’s appearance might have you believe, however. Last night, my fellow Gourmet Walks guides and I joined a small group of chocolate enthusiasts to sample Christopher Elbow’s fall offerings. Much like a clothing designer, Elbow changes his stock several times yearly, producing confections in tune with what’s in season. He also uses ingredients attitudinally representative of the season. “I don’t know if you know, but Kansas City has some cold winters,” Elbow said last night. “It’s the perfect time for whiskeys, nuts, that sort of thing.”

Having flown in from Kansas City especially for this event, Elbow spent yesterday evening introducing new truffles, ice creams, and beer to a small group (myself and my Gourmet Walks compatriots included). The chocolatier spent just over an hour introducing his creations, fielding questions, and discussing the finer points of his craft. The tasting was completed in three phases. Phase one featured three truffles (pumpkin, brown butter molasses, and bananas curry). Phase two featured four ice creams and a sorbet. Phase three focused on — you guessed it — Elbow’s chocolate ale.

I’ve had several occasions to try Elbow’s chocolates, and I’ve always been pleased with the delicately crafted truffles. Their crisp exteriors easily give way to expertly blended fillings: caramel spiked with rosemary essence, lemon cream, champagne so crisp you swear it has bubbles. Before opening his own shop, Elbow worked as Emeril’s executive pastry chef; the chef’s meticulousness is evident in each handmade piece.

My favorite of the three we sampled was, perhaps coincidentally, Elbow’s personal favorite: bananas curry (pictured above). Elbow had long wanted to incorporate curry into his confections, but he had difficulty finding the right filling with which to infuse the spice. His eureka moment came as he prepared a batch of the bananas foster truffles — he knew the sweet, round banana flavor would stand up to the curry’s strong flavor. “It’s not our bestselling piece,” Elbow admitted, “but it’s my favorite.” It’s easy to understand why: the banana filling, so creamy and true you’d swear the fruit had just been mashed, overlays a judiciously blended dash of curry — a delayed undercurrent of spice.

In recent months, Elbow has developed a line of ice creams sold at two Kansas City locations. Every day, 24 flavors are offered; Elbow plans to introduce ice cream at his Hayes Valley shop within the next month or so. We previewed four flavors of ice cream (mint chocolate chip, goat cheese and honey, rosemary caramel, and Venezuelan spice), as well as a pineapple-cilantro sorbet.

San Franciscans are notoriously hard to please, particularly when it comes to ice cream. Despite its moderate climate, the city is host to a number of cultworthy ice cream shops; Bi-Rite Creamery, Three Twins, Smitten, Humphry Slocombe, and Mr. and Mrs. Miscellaneous are the best known. Flavorwise, Elbow’s ice creams are killer, but texturally, they leave something to be desired. One of my fellow guides described the ice creams as “grainy.” I’m not sure I’d go that far, but when I’m eating something that’s 16% butterfat, I expect more smoothness: max smoothness. The Venezuelan spice, in particular, was so dense that it was tough to spoon into — a preventative measure against overindulgence, perhaps?

This isn’t to say I disliked the ice creams. The goat cheese and honey was positively dreamy; had I not had to save room for the following samples, I’d have eaten my entire dish. What hits you first is the texture, the lushness of the ice cream on your tongue, followed by the pungent flavor of goat cheese. Each bite finishes with a dainty note of honey, so faint that it’s nearly imperceptible.

The pineapple-cilantro sorbet was also spot-on. Not too sweet, as so many pineapple-flavored confections are, the flavor gains credibility from the touch of cilantro that forms the tail. One of our group joked that the sorbet would make a great cocktail, and Elbow suggested putting “a scoop or two” in a pour of tequila. I’ll keep that in mind for our coming summer months. What would a party be without beer? Not much of a party, some might say, and Elbow is clearly of this mindset; he finished the tasting with small pours of his Chocolate Ale (9.1% ABV). With a base blend of a Scottish-style ale. the brew carries the flavor of the nibs with which it was infused during brewing — a flavor that intensifies as the beverage warms. Infusing the beer was quite a difficult process; the nibs must be heated before they’ll release their flavor, but heating also releases the nibs’ fat, which compromises the final product. Elbow’s solution was to limit the heating time to five minutes, and to add unheated nibs later in the production process.

At present, Elbow doesn’t have plans to develop another beer — he’s dividing nearly all of his time between his KC chocolate and ice-cream shops — but the reputed popularity of this brew is enough to garner Elbow clout in the spirits world. I’m not well-versed enough to speak about the beer with authority, though I’ll note that the cocoa infusion became noticeably more pronounced as time progressed; what began as a hint blossomed into a full flavor. Curious about what to pair with such a beer? Elbow recommends sipping it alone, in place of a dessert wine. Of course, if the beer doesn’t sate your sweet tooth, there’s always chocolate (and ice cream).

First Meals + International Bacon Day at OtG

It’s amazing what 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep will do for you: I feel ALIVE!

Yesterday, I shared with y’all my last meal in the Sunset; now, you’ll have the pleasure of reading about my first meal in the Mission.* Hint: it involves bacon.

After spending hours unpacking, then wandering to the grocery store, then taking a lovely, furtive nap, I biked with Alex to Off the Grid (McCoppin) to get breakfast for dinner. BfD is a recurring theme in my kitchen; omelets, with their heft and savory ingredients, are equally well suited to morning and evening meals, and toast is perfect at any old time of day.You know me: I totally researched menu options ahead of time so I wouldn’t make an ill-informed BACON decision. Bacon Bacon’s Bacon Bouquet — in effect, a fistful of bacon tied up like its floral namesake — was cute, but I didn’t want cute for dinner. ArKi’s fried chicken looked/smelled/tasted delicious, but I wasn’t in a fried chicken mood. (Note: I did try a patch of batter from Alex’s chicken: total deep-fried goodness. Couldn’t have handled more than a bite.)

True to form, I chose the Brunch Box’s B.E.A.T: a fried egg with heirloom tomato rounds, bacon, macerated shallots, garlic aioli, and avocado. The bacon/fried egg sandwich wins any mealtime showdown; bonus points are awarded for creative add-ons (in this case, the shallots, which added a necessary sharpness of flavor). The B.E.A.T was pretty damn tasty, though I’d have subbed the arugula for the avocado. Nevermind that avocado isn’t my fave veggie — arugula would have added beneficial pepperiness. But that’s just my preference. Cholula was available and I declined to use it, so I can’t kvetch about a lack of sandwich spice.

Related: the Brunch Box ladies know how to perfectly fry an egg. Solid whites, just-barely-runny yolk, no brown spots. You done good, BBs.

Unrelated: Biking. I’m so stoked to bike everywhere: you have no idea.

***

*No, that ginormo cinnamon roll I had for “lunch” doesn’t count as a meal.

Last Meals

Ahoy! I’m well aware of my failure to update this week — oh, man: you have no idea how much I wanted to update this week, but I barely had time for sleeping*, let alone for blogging. BUT, things are (finally, mercifully) settling down. Today, I moved to The Mission. After weeks of enduring landlord harassment, I’m finally in the place I most want to be. Already, my life is peachier; think of how grand it will be once I get my clothes unpacked(!)

A summary of my week.

(source)

One of the most difficult parts of moving is restricted kitchen access coupled with the need to buy prepared food. I like buying lunch occasionally, but when buying lunch becomes a necessity? Oh, no no no no no. I can handle a Trader Joe’s salad once every few weeks, but having to eat several TJs lunches in a single week amounts to low-grade torture. As Nathan so astutely put it, “Their [the salads'] flavor profiles are all just kind of…the same. Like, dried cranberries, balsamic, cheese, and chicken.” He’s right: this week, I twice had the Field Fresh Chopped Salad and once had the Southwest Salad. I couldn’t differentiate between them. It’s all like, chemically residued Romaine and hair-thin “pecornio” wisps and those damnable craisins, LOL!

But I digress (and into acronym usage, of all things). Before I bid farewell to the Sunset, I prepared a killer last meal: in-a-hurry tamale pie, inspired by the recipe at Eat, Live, Run. (Note: The ELR recipe was adapted from the Moosewood Cookbook. #Modificationsrule.)

The gist of the recipe is this: you grease a 9-inch pie plate (or cake pan, or whatever you have) and line your pan with polenta rounds (i.e., a sliced roll of pre-cooked polenta). Set aside your pan. In a medium bowl, mix one 15-ounce can of pinto beans (rinsed and drained), the kernels of one ear of corn, about half a cup of salsa, some salt & pepper, some cumin, red pepper flakes, minced onion, and whatever other seasonings you like. Pour this mixture into the pan, spreading it evenly over the polenta. Top the mess with cheese, cover, and bake (covered) for 15 minutes at 350. After 15 minutes, remove cover and bake an additional 15 minutes. Serve with sour cream. DONE.

In the past, I maintained a skeptical view of casseroles, which were too gooey, too tater-tot-laden for my highfalutin palate. Recently, I’ve come around to the casserole — or, rather, the reenvisioned version thereof. Casseroles needn’t be unhealthy, and they’re a badass way to use up ingredients in your pantry, which was one of my last week’s goals.

In-a-hurry tamale pie took me aback. In my household, polenta is underused as a crust element; this polenta, though bland, held up well, making ideal leftovers. My proprietary spice blend (lots of black pepper, lots of cumin, a little bit of red pepper flakes, a little bit of salt, and a little bit of cayenne) added heat and depth. Also: cheese lattice. Anything with a cheese lattice warrants a repeat performance.

Even if you’re wary of casseroles, give this one a try — it won’t bite. I’m telling you, that weirdo polenta roll I had kicking around my pantry saved my life. If I’d had to eat take-out dinners in addition to all those Trader Joe’s salads, who knows what might have happened. I might have developed a rapid-onset vitamin deficiency and just withered away! Or I might just have subsisted on Cheetos. It’s anyone’s guess.

On that note, it’s bedtime! A full week of landlord dodging, half-assed packing, and reordering my bookshelves has left me wiped. Until later, friends!

***

*And, just to “keep it real,” I’ll have you know that I didn’t have time to shave my legs. Ha, ha, ha!

SF Street Food Festival Recapped!

Ahoyyyyyy, mateys, and happy Tuesday! My weekend was swell, filled as it was with good company, restorative sleep, and street food. That’s right: I spent most of my Saturday wandering Folsom, eking through masses of people, and waiting in line to try some of the city’s tastiest morsels.

Confession: I miss the Minnesota State Fair. I don’t miss too much about living in Minnesota — my family, thunderstorms, and the megamall are notable exceptions — but I do miss our annual trek to the fair. Weeks before our trip, I’d consider the foods I had to try: Ben & Jerry’s ice cream was always on the list*, as were the cream cheese wontons served at the International Bazaar. Sometimes I’d get a Pronto Pup; sometimes I wouldn’t. Ali would inevitably wander to Sweet Martha’s, where she’d purchase a plastic pail of baked-on-the-premises chocolate chip cookies. As we wound our way through the barns (which were sharp with the odors of livestock), we’d swing the cookie pail, nimbly sidestepping cow pies.

Cow pies! Good times.

Now, instead of looking forward to the State Fair, I look forward to the San Francisco Street Food Festival. It’s like the MN State Fair, minus the livestock, John Deere equipment, Midway, grade-C early-2000s pop stars, and flocks of grandmas wearing khaki shorts/white New Balances.

A trip to the SFSFF requires some prep: you’ve got to review the list of vendors, determine which foods you’d most like to try (because you can’t try ‘em all), and arrive early. EARLY. Like, right at 11:00. Alex and I got there at 11:05, and already the booths were crowded. San Franciscans are serious about their food.

I won’t recount every item I tried, because 1) the rest of this entry would just be a list, and sometimes lists are boring**; and 2) you’d consider me a glutton if you got the full recounting of everything I ate. (Seriously: I had to take a nap before making a second trip to Folsom.) Highlights it is!

First, NO, I did not try the wax-moth-larvae tacos (or the mealworm ice cream). Jasper tried the former, closing his eyes for the first bite or two, then realizing that moth larvae don’t taste like much. This absence of strong flavor isn’t enough to get me excited about eating insects, though. Cultural bias? Sure. I also dislike bugs in a way that I don’t dislike cows, pigs, chickens, or tofu blocks.

Prior to the fest, I decided that I’d only try foods that I couldn’t get anywhere else (or that would be difficult to get). That stipulation ended quickly. The first bite Alex & I tried was A16′s Duroc pork meatball, pictured above. A bit larger than a plum and smothered in sauce, the ‘ball was tasty — but not tasty enough that I can recall specifics three days later. (Sorry, A16!)

In direct rebuttal of my “no everyday foods” rule, I had a cup of Three Twins’ lemon cookie ice cream, which was divine. With Smitten now on the scene, I’ve gotten spoiled; rarely am I awed by plain-old, non-liquid-nitrogen-produced ice cream, but this scoop was different. After so many heavy foods, the delicate lemon flavor was a necessary palate-cleanser. I am, admittedly, a sucker for ice cream with cookie bits: I love how the cookies soften, retaining a semblance of their shape. Mark my words: I’ll be back for another cone.

Around 1:30, deep into round one of sampling, Alex and decided we needed to nap. The sun was high; we were full of pork and tequila. Nap we did, and once we awoke, we were ready for round two.

Round two was much tamer than round one, this owing to the denser crowds and the fact that we’d eaten a goodly amount. Still, I had a mild hunger: hunger enough to justify a 20-minute wait for Kung Fu’s Nunchuck Chicken Tacos. Confession: I wasn’t super stoked about these tacos — I almost always prefer carnitas or carne asada. As in the Three Twins Ice Cream Incident, Kung Fu’s tacos unraveled my loose-constructed bias. Oh, man: the chicken was soooooo savory: umami savory (#marinatedfordaze). It had a depth of flavor I normally associate with beef. Garnished with diced red onions, brilliantly dotted with sriracha, these tacos were a hit. I only wish I’d eaten two instead of one.

Against all odds, Endless Summer Sweets’ funnel cake was my favorite item of the day. Seemingly brainless, the funnel cake is a true marvel of food engineering; the intricacy with which the dough coils and solidifies is, frankly, pretty badass. So many cakemakers smother their goods with powdered sugar, but not Endless Summer Sweets — the cooks dusted just a few shakes of sugar, followed by a spatula’s worth of fresh whipped cream and quartered, late-season strawberries. Those berries? Those were what did me in. Mercilessly sweet and bright as lacquer: oh, strawberries! I wish I had some of them now.

At one point, twenty minutes into the wait for my funnel cake, I asked myself, “Is this worth it?” The jostling, the cost, the empty calories: so worth it.

***

*When I was ten, B&J’s seemed hella gourmet. Remember the time before artisan ice creameries popped up on every corner? I do.

**Not always, though. The Awl usually has good lists.