Friday, December 11, 2009

That Time of Year Again




I have always longed for Christmas, which is complicated because I’m Jewish. My family observed all the Jewish holidays, although we didn’t keep kosher, but in our small Illinois town we were more American than anything else. When my grandfather came over from Russia he understood right away that to get ahead he had to assimilate, at least in public. This means wishing everyone you meet “Merry Christmas” and then doing whatever you want at home.

It’s hard for a child to understand this, especially in middle America where Christmas is ubiquitous. I have friends from New York who grew up within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, in neighborhoods where schools closed on the Jewish holidays, celebrations such as Halloween were unknown, and Christmas was confined to Connecticut. But in the heartland the Christmas season starts in early November. Rosy-cheeked Santas and scarf-wearing snowmen decorate the stores. In school we made Christmas cards during art period and sang carols during music. I was often the only Jewish kid in my class, and sometimes the teacher would ask me to bring in my menorah and tell the story of Chanukah. My classmates were mainly interested in the fact that I got presents for 8 nights. I didn’t tell them that this was probably no better than what they got, considering one night was always underwear (who ever decided that cotton underpants was a good present?) and one night was my father’s invention, a money hunt: ten dimes, hidden around the house, that kept me searching for hours, an excellent return on his investment.

Eventually I understood why we didn’t celebrate Christmas, and I came to appreciate Judaism for its own wonders and mysteries. But still, Christmas holds particular appeal for me. My version, however, has nothing to do with religion. It’s totally superficial, a longing for a Yule log and egg nog and red velvet bows and a long plaid taffeta skirt in red and green. And the tree – especially the tree. Every year I have an imaginary tree, decorated according to the current fashion. I’ve done this since I was little, in the days when a pink flocked or aluminum tree with shiny pink balls was the height of sophistication. I’ve since done a homey tree with wooden ornaments, a Raggedy Ann tree with gingham and rick-rack, a hippie tree with bandana bows and popcorn garlands, and a Feliz Navidad tree with ornaments made of straw and unglazed pottery. This past year my tree would have been elegantly Victorian, with swags of white beads that look like pearls, white lace bows, white silk tassel ornaments and – guess what? – shiny balls in silver and gold.

Every Christmas Eve we would pile in the car and drive around and criticize everyone’s Christmas decorations. At least my father, the self-appointed arbiter of good taste, criticized. He was opposed to most lawn displays, Santas on the roof, and excessive lighting. I secretly drooled for trees and tinsel and lights. Sometimes, driving by, we could see people heavily involved in conviviality inside the houses, dining rooms with white linens, chandeliers shining, woodwork glowing. Such scenes always tore at my heart. There was festivity going on in those gleaming rooms. My family was rarely festive – our idea of a good time being community criticism. Most Jewish holidays are somber affairs more in tune with the original construction of the term “holy day,” celebrating some near-escape. In fact, there’s an old joke that says Jewish holidays can be summed up thusly: “They tried to kill us; we won; let’s eat.” Families celebrating Christmas in those houses seemed to be happier than mine. I guessed it had to do with the pine boughs draped over the mantle and the Christmas stockings hanging below. Now I’ve learned that pine boughs do not prevent dysfunction, but they do give the appearance of unity.

I made things worse, in a way, by going to boarding school for high school. Boarding school! The very bastion of preppy – and WASPy – sensibility. My classmates were the real thing, the old thing. Not just money, but pearls and houses and manners. I wanted to be one of them, to have a nickname like Muffie, to date a guy named Trip, to play tennis and ride horses. In the summer I wanted to be slender in a white bathing suit by the pool, graceful in the afore-mentioned taffeta skirt by the fireside in the winter. I decided I was a tall, slim woman with a sleek blonde pageboy trapped in the body of a short, pudgy, frizzy-haired woman. There is not enough surgery or peroxide in the world to effect that degree of bodily reassignment, however. My mother told me my hands are like my grandmother’s, stubby peasant hands good for kneading bread. As for tennis, forget it. My arms are too short. Besides, Jews don’t ride horses. Cossacks ride horses.

It took a while – years, in fact – for me to learn to accept myself for what I am: a zaftig, middle-aged Jewish woman with a good heart and a sarcastic sense of humor whose family has only been in this country since 1905. I still like Christmas, and I still decorate my imaginary tree every year. My friend Sally and I have continued the tradition of driving around on Christmas Eve to look at – and criticize – the decorations. Last year we passed a beautiful old house festooned with lights. Looking inside I saw a dining room with a burnished mahogany table set with white linen place mats, crystal goblets, and candles in silver holders. The room was empty except for a blonde woman standing by the table. I decided she was the hostess because she had a pageboy hairdo. She wasn’t wearing a plaid taffeta skirt; instead she had on black leggings and a red sweater, and I became conscious of how retro my fantasy attire had been and did a quick update. “Go slow!” I told Sally. I wanted to peer into those French windows as long as I could. As the car crept past the house the woman put her hands over her face. I don’t know if she was crying or stressed out from the holiday preparations, but it was if she couldn’t stand to look at one more red velvet bow. And suddenly, I couldn’t either.


Tadich Grill




Tadich Grill does not need me to review it. It’s an institution, the classic San Francisco restaurant experience. Think Sam Spade, 1920’s or earlier. Lots of dark wood surrounding individual booths that make you feel like you belong to the special club. Tiny white tiles on the floor. Waiters nearing or past retirement age. The best sourdough bread in the City. Those elements alone would qualify Tadich as THE San Francisco restaurant, but wait, they also serve seafood!

This is not a trendy place with fish cheeks poached in exotic mushroom foam. The food is straight up old school as the kids would say, if the kids went to Tadich. Mostly it’s business guys having a side of sand dabs with their martinis. I did have an octopus salad with an Asian-style gingery dressing when I ate there recently with my son, Crouton, and his wife, Cupcake. But the fare is mainly plain, with large portions. We shared the fried calamari appetizer, and I admit that I prefer the garlicky versions you find elsewhere, like Steamers in Los Gatos. Crouton had the Boston clam chowder that is thick enough to plaster walls, and the sand dabs. Cupcake had the cioppino which looked like the best deal on the table. I had a crab-shrimp casserole in a zesty tomato sauce. We were too full for dessert. Our waiter had a pleasant, witty attitude which is sometimes hard to come by among the cranky old men waiting tables there. I gave him a nice tip and then we sailed out to another SF tradition, the deYoung Museum.

So to sum it up, it’s the whole package that makes Tadich special – the location, the ambiance, the sourdough bread, and the food. Take any one away and it would be just another place to eat.

Tadich Grill
240 California Street
San Francisco, CA 94111
(415) 391-1849

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Chinese Food


When I was a kid in our small town in the 1950’s there was one Chinese restaurant. I think it was take out only -- I never heard of anyone actually eating there. They served Americanized Chinese food: chow mein, chop suey, chicken subgum, egg foo yung, but to us it was tres exotique. The little packets of soy sauce and the fortune cookies were utterly fascinating. We looked at the chopsticks but were afraid to use them. But the bags of food my father brought home never contained anything remotely spicy. The proprietors of that establishment probably assumed that Americans wouldn’t want anything too far out of their comfort zones. The Chinese take-out did a very good business and I’m sure the owners smiled at our xenophobia as they checked their bank accounts and then tucked into plates of spicy eggplant, shitake mushrooms in oyster sauce, and anything in garlic black bean sauce.

When I arrived in California in 1966 I was astonished by the Chinese food that I encountered. Such variety! Such taste! Spicy, salty, sweet, sour – it was an explosion on my taste buds. As the years passed I realized that we corn-fed rubes in the middle of the country had been fooled into thinking that Chinese food was bland and gloppy, when all along California and New York had been enjoying the real thing. Noodles were not just the skinny chow mein but also the chubby chow fun. There was a whole sub-genre of food that got wrapped up in other food, like mu shu pork wrapped in delicate little pancakes. There were amazing and unexpected combinations like honey-walnut shrimp. My first dim sum experience was a revelation.

Now, in 2009, those dishes that first burst into my consciousness have become mainstream. At the same time I have found that my aging taste buds need greater stimulation. I don’t want my food to be searingly hot, but I do want a bit of aggressive seasoning, whatever it is. I enjoy looking for unusual dishes on Chinese menus. Sometimes I really do want the items that are not translated into English, no matter what the waiter says. Bring me the chicken feet and jellyfish!

But when having Chinese food with my 96 year old mother, I do have to stick to the tried and true – nothing weird or spicy. So on our recent visit to Taiwan on Lincoln Avenue in San Jose’s Willow Glen neighborhood, we had the old standbys of cashew chicken, honey walnut shrimp, and mu shu pork. I like Taiwan, and the food is very good, but I looked longingly at the dishes identified as hot by a little red pepper on the menu. And afterwards Mom said she would have preferred broccoli beef to the mu shu, as there were too many green onions in the pork, and she likes the broccoli beef “gravy” on her rice.

Only one problem at Taiwan – instead of Chinese pancakes they gave us flour tortillas with the mu shu. Not an acceptable substitute! Not even the same hemisphere! Chinese pancakes are small and delicate, and tortillas are big and doughy. Tortillas are made to enclose a burrito, not a few spoonfuls of delicate stir-fry and plum sauce.

Taiwan

http://www.taiwanrestaurantsj.com/
1306 Lincoln Avenue, San Jose, CA 95125

phone: (408) 289-8800 or (408) 289-9328 fax: (408) 289-8924

Friday, October 30, 2009

Weird Cars




Yesterday was weird car day. In the parking lot at work I saw an orange Tango. It’s an electric car that is essentially a motorcycle with a shell. Check out the web page because my picture does not really show the thinness and strange shape. http://www.commutercars.com/ It’s said not to tip over because the batteries are on the bottom, giving it a low center of gravity, but I don’t know. Looks scary to me. Also it can split lanes – you know how motorcycles can (at least in CA) go between lanes of stalled traffic? That’s lane splitting. I have always thought that was dangerous – you never know when a car is going to suddenly make a move into your path. So I guess there’s a reason why I’m not a motorcycle enthusiast. (But I love watching “Sons of Anarchy.”)

On the way home I saw a hearse that had been converted for regular use. Every bit of chrome had been removed from the surface of the car – including the door handles. How entrance is achieved I can only guess – through the window, like NASCAR? Anyway, removing the metal must have left holes and depressions, but every such hollow had been filled in and then sanded absolutely smooth, so you would never know anything had been there. The vehicle was painted a dark matte grey – like primer, but I suspect that no top coat was planned. The tail lights were a narrow strip just above the rear bumper that reminded me of the Cylons from the original “Battlestar Gallactica.” The complete effect was total creepiness, compounded by the license plate: 1 WA RIDE. I wish I had a picture, but I was driving.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Eating Out Once Again


Finally, a new restaurant to report on. Toasty is dealing well with his diabetes and is slowly learning to eat at restaurants once again. As long as he sticks to lean protein, plain veggies, and salads, he’s OK.

One of the reasons we eat out a lot is the nature of Toasty’s work. He has had an impressive array of embarrassing occupations. His first job after college and the Army was selling chemicals, degreasers for manufacturers of electronic components like printed circuit boards. When he began to work for this company he first had to spend a few months working in the warehouse so that he would have a feel for all aspects of the business. He would come home with horrible headaches, and one time he actually had an appalling bubble or blister on the surface of his eyeball. He said it was an allergic reaction to the weeds that grew next to the warehouse but I wonder. These chemicals were subsequently found to be quite toxic. Some – more than the average you’d expect in the general population – of the men who worked full time in the warehouse, filling the drums of chemicals and loading them onto trucks, later died of various dreadful cancers. That company is no longer in business. I don’t know what is now used to clean printed circuit boards.

His next job was selling “flexible packaging.” OK, plastic bags. Yeah, right, those things are biodegradable – maybe in a million years, after the sun explodes.

Next he sold cigar and smoking accessories – fancy holders and portable ashtrays and something called a CigarSavor that lets you smoke one of those delightful stogies half way and then save it and keep it fresh as a daisy for another pleasurable lung-blackening experience. Here in NorCal the anti-smoking laws are pretty stringent, but some restaurants and bars had set aside hermetically-sealed smoking rooms as private clubs to get around the restrictions. But the waiters who had to come into those rooms to serve drinks complained about inhaling the smoke, new laws went up, and the cigar-smoking culture around here died and the company was bought out.

Then he was a telemarketer. He sold products for calibrating spectrophotometers, so he wasn’t calling you at home just as you sat down to dinner, but he was cold-calling scientific labs, so maybe he got you at work. It was a tough sale, as a little bottle of this stuff cost hundreds of dollars. After a while the company decided to pay him commission only, which would have meant an annual salary of about ten dollars, so he quit.

After that he worked for me at the travel agency for a while. That almost resulted in simultaneous homicide. Then he did odd jobs – no job too big or too small, too dirty or degrading. He cleaned garages and gutters, weeded gardens, moved furniture, took loads of garbage to the dump, drove bratty kids to Hebrew school, and picked up dry-cleaning for women who were busy playing tennis. Actually, some of this was quite interesting, especially the garbage. You would never believe which sweet, mild-mannered lady puts down a six-pack every night! And, he picked up some odds and ends for me to use in my found-object collages. But that work is sporadic and back-breaking.

And finally, his current vocation: night watchman in a mortuary.

Traditional Judaism has lots of rules and rituals, some of which seem arbitrary and arcane. But the burial laws, or at least some of them, make a certain amount of sense. Jews are generally not embalmed, and hence are put in the ground as soon as possible, preferably within 24 hours after death. The body is not supposed to be left alone, as a gesture of respect and decency. Some families will pay to have a “watcher” sit with the body all night. The watcher is supposed to recite Psalms all night, and keep rodents away from the body, but the deceased are actually in the cooler, and while there is a resident mouse, he is more of a companion to Toasty than a threat.

Toasty’s shift is 8PM to 8AM. Due to the nature of death, he never knows when he is going to work. He’ll get a call in the afternoon and he has to get ready. My workday ends at 5PM, so unless I have leftovers in the house there’s usually not enough time for me to come home and cook something – he has to leave by 6:30 because of the awful traffic. But I can meet him somewhere along one of the freeways and he has plenty of time to eat and scoot.

One night we ended up at Café Grillades, located in Bayhill Shopping Center in San Bruno, a good location for us to meet for dinner. The food at Café Grillades is Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern. I had really tasty lamb chops that had been rubbed with a reddish color spice – not sure what it was, but it was very good. They came with salad and french fries. Toasty had lamb brochettes and asked for extra salad instead of potatoes. Most restaurants are happy to accommodate special requests. I don’t know if I’d try it in some chi-chi pretty food chef-driven place, but a strip mall restaurant needs to be flexible.

Café Grillades has an eclectic menu. Other offerings included couscous plates, paninis, and crepes, both savory and sweet. I couldn’t help myself – I ordered a strawberry crepe brule – with a crunchy top of caramelized sugar. I felt momentary guilt eating this in front of Toasty, but he asked for and received a dish of plain strawberries.

Something about crepes causes me to go weak in the knees. I don’t know what it is. They are sublime. I once made crepes suzettes for a dinner party, and while they were a lot of work they were the star of the evening, by far. The ultimate comfort food, unctuous, rich, buttery. So I am anxious to go back to Café Grillades to try their other dishes – and to have some more crepes.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Sugar Blues

It’s been a while since I’ve written. Toasticles found out that he has type 2 diabetes. Tough diagnosis for a guy whose favorite food is, well, toast. I feel so sorry for him. He’s having a hard time dealing with it and he can’t seem to settle down and follow a food plan. Plus the medication gives him diarrhea, so he’s been playing around with the dosages. He has lowered his sugar, but he’s miserable. So we haven’t eaten out much. Our mainstays of Chinese, Japanese and Vietnamese are full of rice and noodles, and sugar in the sauces, which he can’t have. We went to (gasp) Red Lobster, which wasn’t that bad. At least he could get plain fish and veggies. And I scarfed their yummy cheese biscuits.

What he’s looking for is the old-fashioned coffee shop. We were raised in the 1950’s, when you could go into a coffee shop that had a Formica counter and red leatherette booths, and on the menu would be something called a “diet plate,” consisting of a plain hamburger patty and a scoop of cottage cheese on top of a lettuce leaf, with maybe a tomato slice alongside. Even back then carbs were the enemy, although we called them “starches.” Try and find that today! We’ve been to a few of the dinosaur coffee shops that still exist, but those experiences are too horrifying to describe here. BJ’s actually came through, with a plain hamburger patty and a green salad (dressing on the side) for under ten bucks. It’s still a chain, however, and that stings.

I bought a George Foreman grill with the idea that Toasty can make his own food, grill a hamburger or a chicken breast. So far he hasn’t. I’ve made salmon that was surprisingly good, and I even grilled baby bok choy after sprinkling it with soy sauce and a drop or two of sesame oil. That was great! I love bok choy – it’s a very juicy vegetable.

The main premise of “Eating El Camino” will therefore have to wait for a bit because the majority of those restaurants won’t fit into Toasty’s diet. But I still have lots of stuff to blog about, so stay tuned!

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Max's


Today we travel back through the mists of time to a magical place that was known as the San Francisco Airport Hyatt Coffee Shop, unusual in that it was frequented by locals as much as travelers. The reason? Outstanding sandwiches and desserts. Back in the day when I could eat a Monte Cristo sandwich and fries at 11:30 PM and then go to bed with no ill effects, we used to go to the Hyatt Coffee Shop for a snack after a movie at the Hyatt Cinema (now sadly defunct) across the street. Turns out the food and beverage manager at the Hyatt was Dennis Berkowitz, who left the hotel to start his own restaurant empire. His first outlet was Max’s Son, a hybrid Chinese restaurant/Jewish deli. Now he has several Max’s of various types, with a Max’s Opera Café just down the street from his old digs at the Hyatt. We’ve been eating there for about 25 years or so. The food is always good, solid American fare with Jewish deli tendencies and large portions.

I inevitably order the same thing every time: Russian cabbage soup and a pastrami sandwich, partly in tribute to my dad (it was his favorite), and partly because it’s one thing on the menu that I can’t get elsewhere, at least here in NorCal. Plenty of places have ribs and chicken and steaks, but cabbage soup – not likely. It’s as good as I would make it. Maybe not as good as my Aunt Henri’s, although I only ate hers once.

Aunt Henri was known far and wide for her cabbage soup – my brother called it “string soup.” I was a very picky eater and wouldn’t even try it, a decision I regret. I finally took the plunge in my late teens and was smacked in the mouth by the soup’s awesomeness. Too late, as it turned out – I decamped for California and Aunt Henri retired from soup making.

Max’s Opera Café started out with a clever concept – the waiters were aspiring opera singers. Once an hour or so one of them would hop up to the grand piano and sing one of the more popular arias or a Broadway tune, applause applause, then back to eating. Now it’s gotten to be more like a lounge act, with a cheesy electronic keyboard and a cheesy singer crooning cheesy songs end-to-end. Don’t need that during dinner, and it really makes Toasty crispy! If you go, ask to sit in the front room, away from the singer. We keep forgetting to do this. I did notice that this particular Max’s is now called Max’s Restaurant and Bar, so I guess they’re emphasizing the bar part. Dennis, you need to get rid of the cheese!

Max’s Restaurant and Bar
1250 Old Bayshore Hwy.
Burlingame, CA 94010-1805
650-342-6297
http://www.maxsworld.com/

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Expensive Dinner/Cheap View

Once a year some of the more expensive restaurants in San Francisco participate in “Dine-Around Week,” when they offer fixed price three-course meals for a lot less than their regular prices. I’ve taken advantage of this on many occasions to try the food at restaurants that I would not normally go to.

Last week I saw that some of the restaurants in Los Gatos were doing a similar program, so I thought it would be fun to take Mom to a place we would not usually try. We went to Crimson which I have looked at before but thought their prices were just too high. It’s located in a strip mall on Los Gatos Blvd., near a Trader Joe’s, a pet food store, and a Carl’s Jr., and this brings up an interesting point: Crimson is pretty inside, with red draperies and little twinkly red lights around the windows, but your view is of people strolling by in shorts and flip-flops. It’s a romantic place, but the sight of Joe & Josephine Six-Pack in their tank tops kind of spoils the ambiance.

Crimson’s special menu had three fixed-price dinners, at $25, $35, and $45. Clever marketing: the starter on the $45 menu was “Fondue for 2,” which forces both people to order the most expensive plan. But we were hooked by the idea of truffled cheese fondue, so we went for the top of the line. It was worth it: I saw the truffles in the lovely, winey fondue, but I’m not sure they added anything. Our fillets mignon were rare as requested, tender and buttery, with fresh veggies and mashed potatoes.

The waiter recommended we order one of each of the two $45 menu desserts – crème brulee and chocolate lava cake with a center that oozed hot fudge. We had to wait quite a while for dessert because, as the waiter explained, the first lava cake had burned – each is made to order. Worth the wait. The crème brulee was made in a wide, shallow dish, which maximizes the brulee in relation to the crème.

Delicious, but I don’t think I’ll go back. Too expensive – on the regular menu the fillet mignon is $44.00 a la carte! (No charge for the view of baggy cargo shorts and AC/DC t-shirts.) And Mom didn’t like the white butcher paper over the tablecloths. I tried to explain that it was bistro style and that it kept the tablecloths from getting dirty, but she thought it was “impolite.”

Crimson
15466 Los Gatos Blvd.
Los Gatos, CA 95032
408-358-0175
www.crimsonrestaurant.com

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Italian Food




Last week Toasticles was craving Italian food from a typical San Francisco Italian restaurant like the ones his family went to when he was a kid. So we went to a typical San Francisco Italian restaurant – except it was in SOUTH San Francisco.

In my 40-plus years in this area I had never been to Bertolucci’s, which has been sitting at the corner of Cypress and Lux Streets since 1928. In 2005 it became Sodini’s Bertolucci’s, which is kind of awkward. The place has been renovated but still looks like an old-fashioned dinner house, with big booths and decorations consisting of columns, opera posters, and oversized wine bottles.

I ordered Veal Milanese (politically incorrect, I know) which came with a small salad with creamy Italian dressing, garlicky vegetables, and polenta, for $22.00. Toasty ordered the same thing. He does this a lot, which says one of two things: either he has no will of his own and cannot summon the energy to choose his own entrée, or we are so much alike and in sync that we are really one soul in two bodies. Either way, I’m scared. And it annoys me because sometimes I would like him to try something different so that I can taste his.

The food was good, not great. The veal was fried crispy, and even though it was kind of thin it was not overdone. I wonder if it is supposed to be THAT thin, though. We did the early bird thing as Toasty had to get to work by 8:00PM and we are rapidly turning into senior citizens (please stop me before I start putting plastic slipcovers on my furniture). The place was empty when we arrived but full when we left. We’ll probably go again.

I know Toasty felt comfortable there, and I have to admit I was also reminded of restaurants of my youth in Illinois – Italian restaurants like D’Amico’s and Al’s Steak House, places Tony Soprano would find comfortable. Tony would probably like Bertolucci’s as well.

Sodini’s Bertolucci’s
421 Cypress Avenue
South San Francisco, CA 94080

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Tomato Paste


I made dinner for Toasticles twice this week -- some kind of a record. On Monday it was chicken tacos. I bought a package of boneless, skinless chicken that had 3 breasts and 6 thighs. I used the breasts for the tacos, which left the thighs. I also had a leftover item that really bugs me -- a can of tomato paste with one tablespoon removed. (I couldn't find the kind in a tube.) Usually that little can sits in the refrigerator with its aluminum foil cap until it gets all crusty and/or fuzzy. This time I was determined to get more use out of it. It only cost 69 cents, but still. And I had some limes.

I found a recipe on Food Network for a sort of BBQ sauce with tomato paste, honey, garlic, lime juice & zest. I made it and poured it over the thighs and baked. Very good! The limes added a fresh, tangy taste. Toasty said, “This isn’t bad,” which for him is the pinnacle of praise. The Nobel Prize for cooking. I will make it again. It’ll be good over wings or ribs, too.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Iced Tea

I like iced tea. Sometimes in a fancy restaurant I will be offered a choice of basil-pomegranate iced tea or organic vanilla-infused black tea from Ceylon, and I always want to say, "Umm, got any Lipton's?" Just tea please. A big glass, into which I will put 2 Splendas. I like my tea a little sweet, but not fruity.

In Georgia I was introduced to sweet tea. For some reason it’s really good, even though it’s really sweet. I like the inch or so of sugar at the bottom of the glass. And for some reason, it quenches your thirst, even in Georgia in August (not a travel tip, believe me).

My dad loved iced coffee, which is now readily available, but he used to have trouble getting it in restaurants. This would be the usual conversation, reminiscent of “Five Easy Pieces:”

Dad: I’d like iced coffee.
Waitress: We don’t have iced coffee.
Dad: Do you have coffee?
W: Yes.
D: Do you have ice?
W: Yes.
D: Then bring me a big glass of ice and the coffee pot.
W: Do you want me to pour the hot coffee over the ice?
D: Yes.
W: It’ll crack the glass.
D: No, it won’t.

And of course, he was right.

On Sunday Mom and I went to Giorgio’s in San Jose, in the Foxworthy Mall which is sort of in the Willow Glen area. The first thing you smell is garlic, and the tablecloths are red checked, so you know it’s authentic Italian. We split their Caesar’s Fantasy salad, which is a Caesar salad with blue cheese, artichokes, roasted red peppers, olives, and toasted walnuts. You might think all those additions would ruin a Caesar, but they don’t. Then we had linguine with white clam sauce, which isn’t on the menu, but they are very accommodating. I haven’t tried their pizza, but it always looks and smells divine on other tables. And they serve big glasses of old-fashioned iced tea, which are constantly replenished. Get a table by the side window so you can watch people coming and going at the water store next door, and ponder the mysteries of the universe.

Giorgio’s
1445 Foxworthy Ave
San Jose, CA 95118-1163
(408) 264-5781
http://giorgiossanjose.com/

Friday, July 24, 2009

Buffalo Wings

Last night I brought home wings from Original Buffalo Wings in San Mateo. Why are chicken wings so good? They’re messy, there’s not a lot of meat on a wing, but somehow they appeal to my craving for comfort food. I could eat them any way – fried, barbecued, buffaloed, whatever. A big package of wings from the supermarket thrown into a pan and baked with BBQ sauce makes an easy, cheap dinner.

At OBW they have several sauce options, like honey-mustard and teriyaki, but I always ask for the mild sauce. It’s not hot but seasoned perfectly, with a healthy dose of vinegar that I believe causes addiction. It’s hard to stop eating them. I got the Double Dozen – 26 wings – for me and Toasticles, and we chowed down until we were sticky all over, and there are still some left for whoever gets there first. Fries and cole slaw are good sides, and of course you get blue cheese dressing and celery and carrot sticks. I’ve never had buffalo wings in Buffalo, so I don’t know how authentic these are, but does authenticity really matter when you are up to your elbows in deliciousness? Just remember – DO NOT spill the sauce on your clothes or anything else of value, because you will never get the stain out. I’m not sure why – maybe there’s fluorescent orange paint in there.

OBW has an extensive menu with sandwiches and burgers, but why would you order anything besides wings? It’s like going to a place called Joe’s House of Liver ‘n’ Limas and ordering steak au poivre. Probably not a good idea. They have several locations around the Bay Area, but I don’t think it actually qualifies as a chain.

As I was waiting for my order I looked across the street and noticed that Gator’s Neo Soul Café seems to have closed. Darn! I never got to try it. I love soul/Cajun food.

Original Buffalo Wings
150 South B StreetSan Mateo, CA 94401(650) 375-8828
www.originalbuffalowings.biz

Thursday, July 23, 2009

On Writing

Today I came across a blog by Virginia Willis ( http://tinyurl.com/lsy8o7 ) who writes: “People who happen to eat and are able to type are now our new food experts. The incredible proliferation and self-indulgent blabber of many food blogs has given people the freedom to hallucinate, ‘I can type and I eat, therefore I am a food journalist’”!

I know this thing is ostensibly about eating and restaurants but I do not consider myself a food journalist or any kind of journalist, although I did major in journalism for about a semester in college. But I am concerned about the proliferation of self-indulgent blabber to which I am contributing. Does anybody care? Does anybody want to read my unedited thoughts? Still, I do consider myself a writer, and the exercise of daily writing primes the pump, as it were. It opens up channels and lubricates the creative process. By typing my thoughts I might stumble onto something I hadn't thought of before -- I might get a pathway into the subconscious.

In the creative writing program at San Francisco State, we were always asked to write essays on "Why I Write," the college professor's version of "What I did on my summer vacation," something to keep the kids busy and fill up the time on the first class of the semester. I always find it hard to respond to this topic.

Usually I start out talking about how I wrote my first story at the age of 6, about a little girl named Julie who had a pony, and every morning the pony would wake her up by sticking its head through her bedroom window and nuzzling her. I wanted a pony, but what I got was attention. I found this interesting. I wasn't athletic or beautiful, but I could write and receive praise for writing. I soon branched out into neighborhood newsletters, became editor of the school paper in junior high and high school. In college, though, I chickened out and didn't major in creative writing. I took a beginning class and was intimidated -- the students were mostly male (now they're mostly female) and the instructor was savage in his criticism. I don't remember his name, but I guess he was bitter about being stuck teaching beginning writing. It wasn't until more than 25 years later that I got up enough courage and enrolled in the MA creative writing program.

But none of this answers the question of why I write.

I once saw a documentary on PBS about the making of the opera, "Dead Man Walking," which comes from the same source as the movie of the same name: the story of Sister Helen Prejean, who counseled death row inmates. The documentary was especially interesting because it alternated between the story of how the opera got written, cast, designed, and produced, and a very balanced discussion of the death penalty. Sister Helen's faith is pure and strong. She believes that there is good in every person and that killing in the name of the death penalty is just as wrong as murder. Of course, she's never lost a loved one to a murderer. The program featured testimony from family members of both victims and murderers. In my typical wishy-washy fashion I can see both sides of the issue. Like the mother of the killer in the opera, I think I would continue to love my son if he did something horrible. I would be devastated and heartbroken and probably would never get over it, but I would still love him.

But I'm straying from my point. At one point Sister Helen was asked how she felt about having her story turned into a film and an opera, and she said something like "art helps us see possibilities and make choices." Art. At what point does writing become art? Is blogging art? Is journal writing art? Newspaper writing? Is what I just wrote about the death penalty art? Does writing have to be published to be art, and is all published writing art?

A painter will often take a sketch pad and draw things she sees, looking for inspiration or trying to find the right image to illustrate an idea or concept. Are those sketches art? You can go into a museum and find sketches by famous artists, Picasso or Degas or Rodin, working studies that they probably never thought would be seen. Yet because they are famous, their sketches -- akin to a writer's notes -- are displayed as art.

I burned out on the creative writing program at SF State. I took every class they offered, some, like short-story writing, more than once. But I never finished the MA. I became disillusioned with the type of stories that won the awards and got published in the student magazine. "Workshop stories," they are called, full of beautiful images and ending with a neat epiphany, usually involving geese flying in formation overhead. That type always wins. Or sometimes post-post-modern exercises, pointless and cold pastiches of images. My reflection in jagged glass. The subway at midnight. Injecting drugs into veins. I can't write any of that.

I write lighter. Maybe it's fluff. Sometimes I think I'm channeling a borscht belt comedian named Morty. I write the way things come out of my mouth. Even when I'm trying to be serious, there is something funny (funny ha-ha) about the way I write. When I used to read my work in writing workshops people sometimes laughed where I didn’t expect it. Maybe it's my delivery, maybe it's what I've written, maybe both. I am what I am: urban, Jewish, middle-aged. And now, a blogger. So sue me.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

I grew up in a thoroughly assimilated Jewish family. We did not keep kosher. My grandmothers did, or at least tried to when they came to this country, but it was difficult to find kosher products and keep all the dishes separated, so they modified the practice and eventually gave it up.

Still, our non-kosher cuisine had some limits. We ate ham, but not fresh pork. I don’t know why, unless curing the meat took some of the stigma away (I have since learned to appreciate the joys of pork chops and pork tenderloin.). We didn’t eat shellfish at home, but only because in the 1950’s and 60’s there was no fresh shellfish in grocery stores in the Midwest – only frozen. But at certain times of the year local restaurants would feature fresh lobster, flown in from Maine, and we’d be first in line – along with many of our Jewish neighbors. And we didn’t usually eat meat with milk, except for cheeseburgers and Reuben sandwiches, but that was more because of cultural preferences than dietary restrictions.

But bacon – bacon was a staple, a necessity of life. We ate it for breakfast and in BLTs. Bacon made a great after-school snack, and the grownups wrapped it around chicken livers, called it rumaki, and ate it with cocktails. Bacon was supposed to be good for you, full of protein, and it made your coat nice and shiny. It’s hard to believe, but I began life as a poor eater. One thing I would eat was bacon, and my mother used to make me buttered noodles and bacon several times a week.

My friend Silky the lawyer grew up in a kosher home in the Bronx, and even his mother made bacon – she cooked it in a special skillet that she stored in the closet, wrapped up in newspaper, so that it would not accidentally be used for kosher food. Our parents truly believed in the restorative and healthful properties of these strips of pork belly.

Today, of course, we know better, and many of us have given up bacon because of the animal fat, salt, nitrates and nitrites and who knows what. Thus, I was surprised to see it on the Sunday brunch buffet table at my parents’ retirement home. The first time I was there I saw a mound of bacon glistening in a chafing dish right next to the scrambled Egg Beaters. My dad took several strips, and although he has since left us, he managed to live to 93 on a diet rich in salami and Fritos as well as bacon, so I figured I could risk it. The food at the “home” is pretty bad, but darned if they didn’t do an excellent job on the bacon.

There’s a real art to getting the perfect degree of crispness. Undercooked, and it’s limp and greasy. Overcooked and you can’t chew it. The bacon should be crisp but not cremated. It should shatter delicately between your teeth. To tell the truth, I could eat maybe 10 strips of bacon and leave the rest of the food alone, but I control myself and take only two pieces, or maybe three, balancing the artery-destroying properties of the bacon with fruit and vegetables. It’s a seductive food, and if I am not vigilant I could easily end up dazed in a back alley somewhere, surrounded by empty Oscar Mayer packages.

Monday, July 20, 2009

On Thursday night I ate the leftover Thai food. It was better the second time, although I realized that the Pad Thai didn’t have peanuts. Isn’t it supposed to have peanuts? Toasticles said he thought the Thai food had upset his tummy, so he microwaved something from the freezer. One thing about Toasty is he doesn’t really care what he eats. A gourmet meal or a frozen burrito – all the same to him. That makes it easy when I don’t feel like cooking, but when I do spend time on something special, he rarely says anything – just shovels it in like canned chili. And you know what else? He doesn’t make yummy noises when he eats, You know – “mmmmm, this is delicious.” I know my girlfriends do it, so maybe it’s a guy thing.

We use paper plates for microwaving. And, I’m ashamed to admit, sometimes for fresh food as well. A couple of years ago Toasty came home from Costco with a giant pack of paper plates. “No more dishwashing,” he said. I do try and get him to do the dishes – I mean, if I’m doing the planning, shopping, and cooking, isn’t it only fair that he do the dishes? But he tries to get out of it, and all of his attempts are passive-aggressive. For example, he’ll do such a lousy job that I’ll have to do them over. Or he’ll say, “I’ll do them in the morning,” knowing that I won’t allow dirty dishes to sit in the sink all night and I’ll just do them myself. So the paper plates were one more passive-aggressive attempt. (I don’t know how he thought the pots and pans would get clean.)

I started using them for microwaving, but then the day came when I was making tuna sandwiches for lunch and I thought, well why not? It won’t hurt just this once, and before I knew it I was a stone cold junkie strung out on paper plates. You can’t use them for really runny food, and nobody wants to cut into a juicy steak on a paper plate, but they work for a lot of meals. I feel so guilty. The plates are made from recycled material, but I feel guilty that I don’t re-recycle them. But you can’t put plates soggy with marinara sauce into the recycling bin. Just don’t tell my mother. She’ll say, “I didn’t raise you to do that.”

Speaking of my mother, on Friday I got a call that she had fallen and my brother had taken her to the ER because she hit her head. She’s 96. So I spent the night at her place because we didn’t want her to be alone. She’s doing OK, thanks. The big bump on her head went down, but she ripped the skin on her arm, and when you’re 96 it can take weeks for wounds to heal.

Mom lives in a senior residence. She has her own apartment, but the place also has assisted living which she refuses to go into, and I can’t blame her. Assisted living is for people who can’t dress themselves or get into bed by themselves. Mom can still do that, and as she says, “How will assisted living keep me from falling down?” Anyway, she has dinner every night in the communal dining room, and up to now the food has been pretty awful, to the point of being inedible. Recently they got a new chef and he has been trying to improve things, but the food is still mediocre. She and I ate there Friday night. We had clam chowder, which was good, salad, Cornish game hens with mushroom ragout (one mushroom visible), citrus mashed potatoes and collard greens. Everything needed salt and pepper. It was passable, however, and the chocolate chip cookies for dessert were homemade. Still, I don’t know why they can’t do better. I know they are cooking for elderly people with dietary restrictions, but for what she pays the food should be outstanding. By the way, she likes to call Cornish game hens “Gornisht game hens,” which is only funny if you know a little Yiddish.

I stayed with Mom all day Saturday, which happened to be my birthday, so on Sunday Toasty wanted to do something nice for me. He made me get up at 7:30AM, which wasn’t so nice, but he wanted to get an early start because he wanted to go to the coast, and since it was a nice day there would be traffic. We went to Duarte’s Tavern in Pescadero. Duarte’s is famous for their seafood and artichokes, but we had never had breakfast there. It was great. I made yummy noises over my artichoke, Swiss cheese, and linguica omelet. (Pescadero was founded by Portuguese fishermen.) Duarte’s is also famous for pie, and we took home a strawberry-rhubarb pie, which was my father’s favorite. Then we went down the street to the Arcangeli Market for their garlic & artichoke bread. Toasty drove us home on back roads through La Honda up to Highway 35 and then home, and there was lots of traffic going the opposite way, so I had to admit that his early-bird tactic worked. It was foggy and cold in Pescadero, but the fog lifted on the way home, and we could smell the eucalyptus and redwood trees. Toasty could also smell the many creeks we crossed. He’s the only person I know who can smell water.

Duarte's Tavern
202 Stage Rd.
Pescadero, CA 94060
650-879-0464
www.duartestavern.com

Friday, July 17, 2009

Get Out of My Way!

To the mom wearing a track suit and flip flops, holding the hand of a toddler: you are obviously not going to work today, so why are you at MY Starbuck’s at 7:55am? And why do you wait until you are in front of the cashier to have this conversation:

“Caitlin, would you like a hot chocolate?”
“NO!”
“Juice?”
“NO!”
“Milk?”
“NO!”
“What would you like?”
“I want Jamba Juice!”
“Sweetie, we’re not at Jamba Juice, we’re at Starbuck’s.”
“Jamba Juice! Jamba Juice!”
And so on.

Maybe I was a bad mother. I fixed a bowl of oatmeal for my son, little Crouton, and let him eat it at the coffee table and watch “Sesame Street” while I tried to get a few more minutes of sleep on the couch. Of course, 30 years ago we didn’t have over-priced drug-delivery systems, I mean, coffee emporia and sugared-up juiceries, to get our kids used to starting their mornings with a fix.

That’s not the real subject of my rant, however. I hesitate to say this because it will make me seem like the most curmudgeonly, miserable, intolerant old crone on the planet, but, I want everyone to get out of my way!

When I am empress of the world, this is how things will go: if you don’t work more-or-less regular hours, say Monday-Friday 8am-5pm or thereabouts, you will not be allowed in certain places at certain times, i.e., coffee places before 8am and the grocery store from 5-6:30pm. Identification will be required.

I have nothing against old people. I love old people. I have one of them for a mother. I am quickly becoming an old person. But they are home all day. Why do they have to wait until 5:30 in the afternoon to take the old sedan out to the grocer’s for that jar of oregano or tin of smoked oysters? That’s when I am rushing in to get something for dinner, and I’m tired and cranky and have to go to the bathroom, and steak is $9.49 a pound and they are out of my favorite brand of soy milk and I am so sick of broccoli and the lines are long enough as is. Puh-leez, go earlier in the day if you can. Hint: the store is empty at 10am or 2pm.

And to Caitlin’s mom once again: On the days when you do work and you pick up Caitlin at day care after work, and you’re in the same boat as I am, in the grocery store at 5:30, please please please do not let Caitlin run around and dart back and forth in front of people pushing carts and play hide-and-seek behind the displays. I know you’re tired and can’t really run after her in your oh-so-professional suit with the tight short skirt and your shoes with the 4-inch f@#k-me stiletto heels, so please secure her safely in the child seat of your cart and let her have a cracker and a juice box because she’s hungry and is going to start screaming any second.

I know, there are a million perfectly valid reasons why people have to do the things they do at the times they do them and can’t accommodate my unreasonable demands. My horrid secret is out in the open and I am now officially an awful, bilious person. Let the stoning commence.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Sweet Basil

I eat out a lot. I’m not necessarily proud of that fact, it just is. Modern life, y’know? When you work a 9-to-5, the last thing you want to do is hit the supermarket at 5:30 and then come home and have to cook whatever you just bought.

My husband, Toasticles, is home a lot during the day and could very easily shop for food which I would then be happy to cook. But he won’t do it. (He is quite possibly the laziest man this side of Homer Simpson.) And when he does shop he will need to call me six or seven times from the market. Like the time I asked him to get a 28-ounce can of tomatoes and he called to ask, “They don’t have 28-ounce cans. Can I get two 14-ounce cans?” I mean, sheesh!

And forget asking Toasticles to do the cooking. He’s named after his favorite food, toast. It’s the only thing he knows how to cook, and he doesn’t even do that well. He undertoasts the bread and then puts on way too much butter. You know how when you’re feeling sick and they tell you to eat dry toast and weak tea? In our house that becomes weak toast and dry tea.

There’s take-out, but there are only so many times during the week that you can eat Chinese or pizza. And I blush to admit the fast food: Popeye’s chicken. Yum, but so salty you wake up at 3 am and have to drink a quart of water. Taco Bell tacos: Yum again, but sometimes they give me burning diarrhea. Buffalo wings: Good, but if you accidentally drop the whole boxful on yourself, those stains will not come out of your clothes. Ever.

That leaves eating out. Now, I’m not made of money, so I’m always on the lookout for cheap. Cheap but good. I frequently find myself on El Camino between San Bruno Avenue on the north and Millbrae Avenue on the south, and I marvel at the number of restaurants along that stretch. I’ve always thought that it would be so cool to be a restaurant critic and get paid to eat out. Maybe some newspaper will hire me to write a column called “Eating El Camino,” in which I review all of those little hole-in-the-wall places. But that would require me to actually contact newspapers and pitch my idea, and since I am the laziest woman this side of Homer Simpson, that’s not gonna happen any time soon.

Thus this blog. Who knows, maybe someone will actually read it and like it, and maybe I can write a book like that girl who wrote about cooking through Julia Child’s book. That blog became a book and now it’s a Major Motion Picture starring Meryl Streep! And now that Estelle Getty has died, Meryl Streep can play me, too!

So here’s what I’m going to do: eat in as many restaurants as I can along El Camino and the surrounding areas, hopefully without getting sick, and write about it. No chain restaurants. No places with dirty front windows. If I have to park more than a block away, forget it.

The first place I’m going to write about is nowhere near El Camino. It’s in Foster City, which is close to home. It’s a Thai place called Sweet Basil. (Toasty was in the mood for Thai food.) It’s cute, with bamboo paneling on the walls and a TV showing endless pictures of Thai food. They serve the food pretty-style, on modern, angular white plates, decorated with things sticking out and little dabs of sauces around the edges of the plates. Does a good business, too – the place was packed. But I have mixed feelings. The chicken and coconut soup, Tom Kha Gai, wasn’t warm enough and was lacking flavor. I don’t like really spicy food, but this needed some heat in both senses of the word. The Wings of Love (usually known as Angel Wings) were great, in a sweet-and-sour sauce. Pad Thai, Larb salad, and a seafood stir-fry were OK, but not spectacular. I had much better (although searingly hot) Thai food at Pok Pok in Portland. (Portland papers, please copy.) Still, I’ll probably go back to Sweet Basil because it’s close and clean. Or maybe I’ll do take-out…

Sweet Basil
1457 Beach Park Blvd.Foster City, CA 94404
650-212-5788