Paris, Peru, Peking, Potrero...Papito

Today at lunch, after a rousing heirloom seed exchange, my friend Kepa and I headed up the hill to the miniature gourmet ghetto at the intersection of Missouri and 18th Street in Potrero Hill.  Our options were not limited.  Mediterranean tapas, upscale French, downscale French, upscale comfort food (Plow), Thai, Korean, pizza...we landed at the relatively new Papitos featuring organic mexican food.  The gimmick is not subtle.  Serve slightly updated, all organic taqueria food and charge 40% more than you can charge down the hill at the corner of 18th and Mission.  I felt like I was back in Mexico City trading value and indigenous atmosphere for printed menus, table service, and arty posters on the walls.  The posters, however, were vintage Air France posters from the 60s advertising the France-Mexico route.  Papito, you see, is part of the network of restaurants that include Chez Papa and Chez Maman on Potrero Hill, Chez Papa Bistro next to the old Mint, and numerous other French restaurants located in every corner of San Francisco.   

The French roots of Papito are not revealed in the menu, the kitchen crew, or the decor, but the wait staff is borrowed directly from Chez Papa's network of French and Quebecois hotties of both genders.  The mostly local, neighborhood clientele notice that the wait staff speak accented English, but most probably don't bother wondering if the accents come from Mazatlan, Madrid, Montreal, or Montepellier.  They just care if their ceviche appetizer comes before their duck confit quesadilla (duck confit? shouldn't that give away the restaurant's French origins?).  

As Kepa and I enjoyed our guacamole and selection of three different salsas (none of them spicy enough for my tastes), the diners next to us ordered their food from the lithe brunette server.  The diners were of Asian persuasion in their fifties or early sixties, chatting enthusiastically with each other in unaccented, Northern Californian English.  When the server asked them for their order, the female guest spoke first in fluid Spanish, "Tacos de camarones, ponga la salsa al lado, y una limonada por favor..."  (Shrimp tacos with salsa on the side and a lemonade please.)  The server flashed her a bewildered look.  "I am sorry, I am French.  I don't speak Spanish. Where are you from?"  Turns out the woman was from Peru.  Spanish was her first language.  

Stereotypes be damned.  Servers in taquerias named Papito who speak with accented English don't speak Spanish.  They sass back to their bosses in French. Asians are not from Asia.  Some are from the Andes and speak Spanish as well as they speak English.  And the bald guy from San Mateo is capable of eavesdropping on everyone.  Capable of it.  And enjoying every moment.

In search of Irish cuisine

I am sure in Dublin there are some innovative chefs deconstructing traditional Irish food to create brilliant dishes like corned beef infused foam injected into "ravioli" made from cabbage leaves.  In San Francisco they're doing Irish-Eritrean fusion at food truck called Eiretrea (I am not making that up).  That said, an internet search for "gourmet irish cuisine" came up relatively empty.  All of the recipes for Irish stew, corned beef and cabbage, and champ (mashed potatoes) sounded fine, but none of them sounded all that unusual or interesting.  Not prepared to invent nouveau Irish cuisine on my own (my foam maker is on the fritz), I gave in and made a solid, decent, hearty meal centered around the color green and a little inspiration from my web research.   We started with miniature potato pancakes, mixed with parsley (for the green) and cheddar cheese, served with green tomato jam as a garnish.  To go with the pancakes, we invented two cocktails.  The first, a midori-bitters-Irish whiskey concoction that I would not recommend.  The second, a vodka martini with a kiss of Midori achieved its green goal and slid down a bit more easily than the first experiment.  The main meal was something you might have at a quaint pub down a wooded lane outside of Killarney.  A lamb stew braised in Guinness Stout (highly recommended).  Champ (mashed potatoes, with chopped bacon, leeks, and spring onions).  Sauteed kale.  Steamed broccoli.  For dessert, I channeled my inner Mrs. Patmore (Downton Abbey's cook) and made a trifle sort of thing: lady fingers soaked in Irish whiskey, a layer of rhubarb compote (it was green rhubarb), a layer of lightly sweetened whipped cream (with a zest of lime), repeated, then topped with shaved almonds.  Not bad.  That said, I don't think I'll be booking any trips to Dublin soon.

Awfully good Cauliflower

It's usually the neglected item on the crudite plate.  Bulbous dull-white florettes whose primary purpose, other than color scheme diversity, are as a delivery mechanism for blue cheese dip.  We pick around the poor cauliflower and likely throw most of it into the compost.  I have never been a big fan of what the French call chou-fleur (cabbage flower), but nonetheless I decided to plant it in my winter garden this year.  Home grown vegetables always taste better, but sometimes home grown vegetables are a completely different and better beast, so to speak.  Home grown tomatoes explode with perfect sweet-acid balance.  Freshly harvested artichokes are among the best things ever to pass my palette.  Cauliflower, usually bland and boring, when picked fresh, offers up flavors that are rich, earthy and spicy.  I've had it dipped in a warm dip of garlic/anchovy/olive oil/butter.  In a vegetable curry the cauliflower added to the flavor profile, instead of just soaking up the other spices.  And I found exquisite simplicity in a gratin of chopped cauliflower and gruyere cheese.  My cauliflower harvest is over, but I will no longer sneer at it when it shows up on my plate.  Even the usual bland piece of cauliflower dipped in Ranch dressing will likely stir the memory of my new favorite winter vegetable.

Bagna Cauda
Finely chop a head of garlic (more or less)
Finely chop one can of anchovies
Heat one cup of olive oil in a small sauce pan
Add the garlic and anchovies, cook over medium heat until the anchovies are dissolved and the garlic is softened (be careful not to allow the garlic to brown or burn)
Add half a stick of butter
Heat until mixture hits a strong, steady simmer

Bring the mixture to the table (use a small chafing dish or fondue pot if you have one).

Enjoy with an array of raw or parboiled vegetables: carrots, broccoli (parboil), asparagus (parboil), red peppers, AND cauliflower.

Cauliflower curry
Heat a little oil (olive or safflower) or ghee if you have it in a sauce pan
Add:
One onion, finely chopped
Two shallots, finely chopped
Garlic (optional)
Curry spices to your taste

Cook over  until onions and shallots are soft

Add:
One large carrot, diced
One red pepper, seeded and thinly sliced

Cook until the peppers are loose and soft

Add:
One head cauliflower, coarsely chopped (one inch chunks)

Cook for about 3-4 minutes on high heat, stirring/tossing constantly, until cauliflower is soft and is thoroughly covered with the spices.

Add:
One cup chicken broth OR
One cup light coconut milk
Up to one cup water (to achieve your desired consistency, don't add too much or you'll regret it)
Bring to a simmer

Serve over rice

Optional additions once the base of the stew is complete:
Chick peas
Tofu
Diced boneless chicken breast (cooked)


Cauliflower Gratin
Finely dice one head of cauliflower
Toss with 1/2 cup milk
Add to a buttered baking dish
Top with small dots of butter
Cover in grated Gruyere cheese
Bake uncovered in a 400 degree oven for 25-30 minutes, until cauliflower is soft

Rice-a-rena, the San Francisco Treat

A series of errands lead me to various corners of San Francisco this cool, sparkly morning.  I started south of Market where we dropped Peter's car off to be serviced and encountered a power outage.  Without traffic lights, each intersection became an awkward dance of the hesitant.  Drivers seemed to forget the basics of stop sign etiquette.  You go first...no me...no you...okay me...wait you...  Eventually, we wound our way through one way streets to one that would lead us across Market for me to drop Peter at his French class in the Tenderloin.  A few minutes early, we waited outside his teacher's apartment on what we call our "stake outs."  Self-consciously we wonder if we look like under cover cops (in an orange Honda Element), as we watch a steady stream of neighborhood characters.  Transvestite prostitutes walking confidently to their favorite corner.  Unbathed men projecting drug dealer/pimp energy skulking slowly in the entrances of tenement apartment buildings and SROs.  And the occasional junkie shuffling zombie-like past our car windows.  At 7:45 Peter exits the car and I move on to the Wells Fargo ATM at the mood-lit Safeway on Market followed by the used-to-be an ARCO gas station at Castro.  Cash in my pocket, gas in my tank, I roll down 18th Street towards the Mission towards my ultimate goal of a cafe where I can recaffeinate and do a little writing.   As I approach Church Street, I get caught behind my latest pet peeve: a car driving well below the speed limit, missing their right of way turn at Stop signs, remaining parked at green lights until the last minute.  Obviously someone texting or playing Words with Friends while they drive.  Vehicular manslaughter in-waiting.  My state of annoyance is lifted when I look out at the tennis courts in Dolores Park and see a dozen elderly Chinese doing a vigorous Tai Chi on one of the courts.  In unison they stretch their arms forward, palms facing up.  They cross arms to opposite shoulder.  They reach their hands to grab their buttocks and swivel their hips in a gentle, geriatric rotation.  And then they all leap forward in unison.  Oh my God.  Is it the Hokey Pokey?  No, it's the Macarena.  Or, in this case, it's the Tai Chi version.  I'll call it the Rice-a-rena.   Maybe it's the newest thing in Shanghai, but I bet not.  Only in Dolores Park.  Only in San Francisco has the graceful, elegance of morning Tai Chi been fused with 1990s dance craze once named by VH-1 as the "greatest one hit wonder of all time."

Carb footprint

Since Thanksgiving at least three times a week I drag my long-waisted, big-footed body on to a road or trail for a run.  My joints might ache or the ibuprofen regimen may be fully functional.  It might be brilliant winter drought sunshine or bone chilling winter drought tule fog.  It might be in Golden Gate Park or the Russian River levee in Cloverdale.  Aches, weather, and location may vary, but the point is, I do it.

When I started running, I wondered to myself, "Does it ever stop hurting?"  For six or seven weeks that question remained.  Short runs or longer runs, it hurt every time. My hamstrings, glutes, and calves always felt on the verge of cramp or muscle spasm.  My ankles, knees, and hip joints always felt on the verge of surgical replacement.  My feet lived under the threat of heel blisters and the occasional cracked and bloody toe nail.  Sometime in late January, the pain changed.  Each run starts out a little stiff and slow, but ten minutes into it I start to feel better.  Twenty minutes in, the slow motion jog opens up and my stride lengthens.  As long as the hills are minimal or angling in my favor, I start to feel like I could run forever, or at least the ten miles to the First Street bridge and back.

The amazing thing about my running is that it kills my appetite.  I don't walk in the door after a run feeling ravenous.  In fact I don't feel like eating much at all.

Until the next morning around 10:30am.

I used to enjoy a scone with my coffee and make it to a late lunch without a problem.  I still enjoy my morning scone, croissant, or bowl of granola but it doesn't hold me to lunch.  By 9:30am I feel peckish.  By 10:00am I feel hungry.  And by 10:30am I feel desperate.

For carbs.

And the faster they can be accessed, the better.

Some of these carbs require barely any preparation: Matzoh eaten dry (just bought a box at Costco that could feed a kibbutz); a bowl of cereal, Cheerios mixed with Raisin Bran and Granola (and then another bowl); cold leftover pasta (I can't be bothered to heat it).

And then there are some that take minute or two: Quinoa cooked on the stove, finished with a bit of butter, milk and cinnamon;  Tortillas quickly heated in the microwave with melted butter (just one, then two, then what the hell there are only three more left in the package....);  a sweet potato peeled, cubed, and quickly fried in olive oil with a bit of manchego melted on top.

Fortunately, this diet and exercise routine seems to be working for me.  I've lost close to 30 pounds on the Doctor Tod method.  It's easy.  And it works.  Just quit your job, run more than twenty miles a week, and gorge yourself on Israeli couscous or Girl Scout cookies every morning at 10:30.