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Sun, 26 Nov 2006

Turducken

It all started when my dad decided that he really didn't want to cook Thanksgiving dinner this year, after all. He's 88, and while he's in good health and very active, there's some sort of crossover point where putting together a full-course holiday meal for two people is more effort than it's worth. And he didn't want me to have to cook, so we decided to go out.

But where? Neither of us had any experience with Thanksgiving at a restaurant. The idea seemed a bit odd; my parents (and my father, after my mother died in 1985) held the traditional dinner every year, and I attended every year, with the sole exception of one year where I was on a business trip in England and it would have been difficult to get back. That year, on the appointed Thursday, having seen a notice in a newspaper, I joined a large group of American expats in a rented hall and we all pretended we were home and filled up on turkey, stuffing, and the usuals. It was actually quite nice; I shared a table with a bunch of people including a retired couple from Kansas, and we talked about football and television for a couple of hours. (It was not unlike being on a cruise ship, as I learned many year later.)

Just at the time we'd decided to go to a restaurant this year, I received an email from OpenTable.com, which I'm a member of, listing a pretty wide selection of restaurants, mostly the top tier, who were having special Thanksgiving dinners. Had we been in San Francisco proper, there were a number of very attractive propositions. But my dad lives on the Peninsula, and didn't want to go into town, so we looked at a bunch of places in the general vicinity of Burlingame, San Mateo, Belmont, San Carlos, Redwood City, and Palo Alto. A couple of early favorites, listed in the OpenTable guide, were Kincaid's in Burlingame and Left Bank in San Mateo, both of which I've had some nice meals at. 231 Ellsworth in San Mateo was putting on a special dinner, but it looked a little more elaborate than my dad might like.

I solicited advice from friends, online and offline, including The Well and Chowhound, and got a mixed handful of recommendations -- and please consider this a thank-you, if I didn't thank you personally -- and I was ready to close the deal, probably with Kincaid's, or one of the hotel buffets near the airport, when I decided to look over the OpenTable list one last time. I happened to notice CreoLa in San Carlos, where I've eaten well in the past, and thought, "Hmmm, New Orleans-style Thanksgiving. That might be a hoot." And then I read the listing, which finished with the words, "Will be serving tur-duc-hen."

Well, that was it right there. The Berch households have had many a discussion of turduckens (the more common spelling) ever since it became an object of cultural wonderment, popularized by Coach John Madden on national television a few years back, during a football half-time. It's become sort of a minor culinary holy grail for me, and since it's unlikely that I'd cook a whole one (which typically range from 15 to 20 lbs., and feel 20-25 people), and I don't expect to be invited to dinner at John Madden's house (or bus) very soon, this looked like the real deal. I called CreoLa and confirmed the details. We made a 4 PM reservation, and I went to read up on turduckens.

The basic premise is this: partially de-bone a turkey, in order to expand the main cavity; stuff it with a partially-deboned duck, filling in the gaps with stuffing of your choice, and then stuff the duck with a de-boned chicken, again filling in the gaps with stuffing. Tie the whole thing up and roast it in the oven. When it's done, carve it in a manner such that every slice has a portion of each bird, as well as the interstitial stuffing.

Cursory research, which began with Wikipedia, confirmed pretty much what I had thought: nobody really knows who first made a turducken, although it it is most probably from Louisiana or east Texas, it's considered a Cajun specialty, and it's not a completely new invention; the Europeans knew of it in the 19th century, and it's likely that the concept, if not the execution, goes back to the Middle Ages. The Wikipedia article, as often happens, then makes reference (sadly without sources) to a certain flight of fancy, "attributed to a royal feast in France", of a 17-bird roast, the "bustergophechideckneaealckideverwingailusharkolanine - a bustard stuffed with a turkey, a goose, a pheasant, a chicken, a duck, a guinea fowl, a teal, a woodcock, a partridge, a plover, a lapwing, a quail, a thrush, a lark, an ortolan and a passerine." (As a Wikipedia editor, I feel honor-bound to chase that one down and confirm or deny.) On more solid ground, though, is a 10-bird roast, the "turgoduckmaguikenantidgeonck", created by English chef Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall in December 2005 and documented in an article in the Daily Mail, which also alludes to the 17-bird roast.

Ahem. Well, such superlatives aside, Thanksgiving rolled around and it was time to head to CreoLa. It was a spectacular day, cool, crisp, and with nearly unlimited visibility, and I picked up my dad and we made our way to San Carlos. When we arrived just before 4, there were only two or three parties seated in the dining room, giving us a nice choice of tables. The staff was circulating with genteel but nervous smiles, perhaps anticipating a Big Night-like atmosphere later. We sat down by the window, which had a pleasant view. As soon as the waiter introduced himself, my dad couldn't help asking, "Now, you do have turducken tonight, right?" The waiter graciously assured us that they did, but added that it was good that we came early, since they expected it to be the most popular choice.

The holiday was four courses, prix fixe depending on the choice of a main course -- I hardly looked, but I think there was filet mignon, cajun-style shimp, catfish, and a vegetarian choice -- and the first courses looked delightful. My dad started with the crabcake, which he enjoyed, and I had the fried bacon-wrapped oysters, which were delicious and came with a Cajun remoulade. (I could have eaten a dozen or more of those, really, but that would have put the kibosh on the turducken.) Next came an array of soups and salads, and my dad had the shrimp-lobster-crab bisque, which he described as rich and delicious, while I had the seafood gumbo, which was deep, complex, and spicy, with the fundamental roux, filé, and okra flavors in evidence.

After a pause, and a refill of wine (we Berches almost always have pinot noir with Thanksgiving turkey -- this time a Schug 2005 Carneros, which was a little young but spirited), it was time for the main event.

The turducken appeared on a plate with cornbread stuffing, a nicely-spiced cherry-cranberry relish, green beans, and mashed potatoes. The turducken itself was a single thick slice, covered with a tasty gravy of reduced pan drippings, and so far as I could tell, appeared to be from a turducken roll rather than a whole bird, though I wouldn't swear to that. (Both appear to be available from the larger turducken suppliers.)

Most importantly, it was moist and delicious, although the gravy made it a little hard to tell, visually, exactly what bird was what. My dad took a couple of bites and asked, "Does yours have bacon in it?" I poked around a little, found what I though was a slice, but upon closer examination it turned out to be crispy, smoky duck skin. Hooray! (Some of the best duck I've eaten has had bacon-like skin.) I took a bite of the duck, which was very moist and tender, and then found the chicken. And there, too, right in the middle of things, was the cornbread and sausage stuffing. All in all, a success. My only disappointment was that between the gravy and the now somewhat dim restaurant, it was hard to see exactly what I was eating, and it seems to me that visual appeal is part of the turducken tour de force. (I hadn't thought to ask the waiter for "gravy on the side".)

It was a filling portion, but both my dad and I managed to finish, and leave at least symbolic room for dessert. He opted for the Cajun pecan pie, which appeareds to be a traditional pecan pie with a layer of cheesecake above the filling; I went for what the menu called a pumpkin chipotle flan, which turned out to be a relatively normal slice of pumpkin pie seasoned with a small amount of hot peppers, with some cayenne power on the side as a garnish.

My dad loved it, and we were grateful not to have a whole kitchen of pots and pans and plates to clean. Next year...who knows? In the meantime, I want to get my hands on a real turducken and cook it up, with copious photography and a dining room-ful of diners. Maybe I'll order one up and have it shipped to Nebraska, and convince Maggie's family to let me experiment on them sometime in the vicinity of Christmas/New Year's. There are several purveyors of air-shipped turduckens, with reviewers tending to favor Hebert's Specialty Meats and Tony Chachere's Turkducken King, along with CajunGrocer. They all ship their turduckens frozen, in dry ice, via FedEx or UPS. Needless to say, I'm jazzed and can't wait to give it a try.

Posted at 14:43 | permanent link

Tue, 19 Sep 2006

Berch on Cruises, part 3: helicopters and glaciers

Wednesday, August 9, dawned cool and grey like much of the week preceding. I was up early, out on the balcony, trying to divine whether the cloud deck and visibility were going to be sufficient for helicopter flying: we'd booked the 1:45 PM Pilot's Choice Ice Age Odyssey, which is the tour company's name for a 2-hour tour involving two landings, a chance to troop around a glacier in ice boots, and some nearby sightseeing from the air. Maggie and I had been looking forward to it for weeks.

The weather did not look that promising, and I was glad we hadn't booked our flight for the previous day in Juneau, since most of those tours were canceled. I paced nervously, tried to get a weather report on the room TV. Around 10 AM, I looked out and saw helicopters heading out in pairs from the nearby airport. "They're flying!", I cried, and we headed to brunch, then joined the rest of the party on a walk downtown.

Skagway was a little more interesting than Ketchikan or Juneau, I thought, mostly due to history: it was the port of entry for gold-rush miners heading to the Klondike gold fields in the Yukon, over the perilous White Pass. Later, a railroad was built, the White Pass & Yukon Route, and it remains as a narrow gauge tourist attraction, with its yard and tracks taking up much of the Skagway waterfront.

The town itself is a somewhat more fully realized tourist village, laid out in about 5 by 10 blocks of the usual shops and restaurants, with an 1890s motif. It was fun to see a village of wooden Victorian houses, with our ultramodern ship looming in the background, as if it were a UFO mother ship hovering over a contemporary city. We wandered a bit, and headed back to the ship in order to pace nervously some more, waiting for the tour.

We were shuttled over to Temsco Helicopters' base adjacent to the airport, watched a safety briefing, and put on bright orange safety vests and ice overboots. The flights were running on time, which meant a quick walk over to our craft, which was a Euroocopter AS350 Ecureuil ("Squirrel") piloted by a lanky Californian named Jesse. My first helicopter ride!

Weight dynamics put me in the left rear window seat (Maggie & I switched for the ride home). The AS350 carries a pilot and 6 passengers – 2 in the front and 4 in the back. A quick takeoff and low fly-by of the Diamond Princess, and we were on our way south down the Taiya Inlet, then turned left on one of the smaller arms. The view was amazing -- water, then mud flats, then, in the distance, the face of the terminus of the Meade Glacier. We flew lower, and slower, and could see the deep blue, crenellated face of the glacier, and its dirty top. Lower, and slower still -- it reminded me of the TV pictures from the landing of Apollo 11 -- and finally we came to rest on a flat spot on the surface of the glacier.

We were cautioned about crevasses, but were otherwise free to roam around. Our sister ship -- the helicopters always travel in pairs for safety -- landed nearby, and we all just got out and explored. The similarity to the moon landing seemed very apt. Maggie and I shot a zillion photos, and I made some short videos. The minutes flew by like seconds. If the whole trip had been nothing but this tour, it would have been worth it. We saw moulins (meltwater streams), deep crevasses (which our pilot demonstrated by dropping a rock in one -- it took more than 10 seconds before there was a splash), tiny lifeforms, and the deep blue crystalline color of the ice.

And then it was time to go. Since this was the "premium" helicopter tour, we were treated to a second landing, this one on a nearby mountaintop, a few thousand feet above the glacier. The glacier looked like a huge frozen slot-racing track, with multiple medial moraine lines making parallel S-curves as the glacier made its way down the mountain valley. And the mountaintop itself was an intricate ecosystem in miniature: tiny blueberry plants crept among the mossy ground between flat rocks that hosted hundred-year-old lichens. I ate a blueberry no bigger than a BB, and it gave a tiny burst of sweetness. Maggie climbed up the mountain and admired the glacier from above. I just marveled at being on a mountaintop in the wilderness, with no human settlement or activity visible -- not even a tiny plume of smoke -- in any direction, yet we had ascended seemingly effortlessly, as if plucked from the ground by a giant and set down on a peak. (That was meant metaphorically; I was quite appreciative of the skill and calm professionalism of our pilot, and the quality of our helicopter and its instruments, believe me.)

Too soon, we needed to head back, down from the mountain, retracing our flight path, back up the Taiya Inlet, and back to Skagway which, from a distance, appears to be a collection of cruise ships with a few tiny buildings nearby. Back at the heliport, we exchanged stories while we put away our vests and boots and got back on the bus to the dock.

Dinner that night was back at the Vivaldi, and it was Alaskan seafood night, which was just the right note. I had crab cakes, salmon lox with toast points and capers, and Alaskan rockfish chowder, followed by local, fresh king crab legs, the best I've ever had -- and for the only time on the cruise, I called for seconds on the main course. We had a crisp Kenwood sauvignon blanc, and I skipped dessert, but had the cheese course.

My stress level went down considerably after the helicopter tour. I confess I'd been worrying about it since we reserved space well before the cruise -- not about the flight itself, of course, but just hoping everything would come off OK, especially the weather. I don't presume to know what other people like to do, or what sort of things pique their curiosity and enthusiasm, but I'm pretty confident in saying that if you make it to that part of the world, which for most people means a cruise ship, do the helicopter glacier landing. You'll like it. It's more expensive than the land tours, but it's worth it. Really. It was the highlight of the whole trip.

Since Skagway was the last port of call, it was time to relax and enjoy the scenery for the remaining 2.5 days of the cruise. The next morning we entered Glacier Bay National Park, and we'd signed up for a champagne breakfast on our balcony. Not just champagne -- it's a lovely breakfast with lox, bagels, cream cheese, crab quiche, berries in a stuffed canteloupe, and assorted breads and pastries. We couldn't finish it. Luckily Maggie's nieces came by later to look at the view, and helped out with the fruit and pastries.

Then it was time to see the sights. We had Glacier Bay almost to ourselves; the National Park Service limits access to two cruise ships and a few smaller vessels per day. We were able to come up close to the face of the Margerie Glacier, and watched for hours -- the captain rotated the ship in place so that both sides got a good view -- as bits of the glacier cracked and fell into the water. There were no large "calving" events but there were some good deep cracking sounds. Naturally, we managed to get some lunch in as well -- a nice buffet of mostly local produce, with cold baked salmon, caribou sausage, venison stew, halibut terrine, and roast crackling pork. I spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to catch up on my exercise, and did laps of the ship (which you can do via decks 7 and 8) along with a little group of fellow walkers.

Dinner was the second of the two formal nights. If you ask me, a cruise doesn't really need more than one, but we made the effort in any case. Maggie's dad had booked a table at Sabatini's, one of the ship's two specialty restaurants. Perhaps by that point we were a little sated by cruise ship food, or they were having an off night, but Sabatini's was really not that great. They serve sort of an Italian seafood tasting menu, although it's not really presented like that, and the waiters more or less told us what to order and whisked the menus away. The food was tasty, particularly the first courses, but it was served in a somewhat overbearing and speedy manner, without much attention to diners' preferences, to the degree that it seemed more like a buffet than what was nominally the ship's most elegant dining room. The first courses were prosciutto with melon, beef bresaola, assorted grilled vegetables, a tiny portion of sevruga caviar with a potato pancake, salmon roe with a crab cake, marinated shrimp with artichoke, marinated green-lip mussels, and white anchovies. This was followed by a cioppino, gnocchi alfredo, spaghetti with oil, garlic, and assorted seafood, canneloni with beef, and finally lobster tails. (The lobster was one of the only things that wasn't good at all; the tails were tiny ones, the type often seen at Asian buffets, and were badly overcooked.)

Now, all that sounds like a lot of food, and it was, but there was no way to easily have more of the things you liked and less of the things you didn't like. Some things were very well executed (like the seafood spaghetti and the marinated shrimp with artichoke), while others were simply pedestrian (like the canneloni and the prosciutto with melon) or downright poor (like the aforementioned lobster). So, I wouldn't necessarily write it off, but at $20 extra per head, it really didn't meet my expectations. And also, oddly, they made a big fuss about the need for reservations and how hard it is to get a table, especially on formal night, but Sabatini's was half-empty all the time we were there. Go figure. Maybe it works better for a party of two.

Our last day aboard was a Friday, and it was spent touring College Fjord, which is an arm of Prince William Sound, and the routine and the scenery was much like Glacier Bay. The featured vista was of Harvard Glacier, and we were able to get as close as we were to the Margerie Glacier. The view was slightly different, as Harvard Glacier takes a steeper and more twisted path down its mountain.

No one really felt like braving the main dining rooms, so we settled for the buffet for lunch, which provided some nice filling food for the chilly weather, including veal scallopini, corned beef brisket (the only corned beef I really enjoy), and some beef short ribs in a tangy sauce. Outside the buffet, on the Lido deck's seating area, there was a display of some very cleverly carved melons and some rich baked desserts. I didn't try either, but it was a good photo op.

My final meal aboard was dinner. I realized that buffet lunch and dinner would break my self-imposed one buffet per day maximum that I adopted a few years ago in Las Vegas (not even counting breakfast!), but everyone else bailed on dinner and I found myself a bit peckish late in the dinner hour. So I made my way down to the buffet for the last time, and had a (relatively) light dinner of salad, spinach and cheese frittata, chicken curry, and scallops with eggplant and zucchini.

The logistics of our tour transfer meant that luggage had to be put out again in the evening, and we had a very early morning ahead of us -- 7:35 AM disembarcation -- and we went to bed just as we were pulling into Whittier with four sharp blasts of the ship's horn (one of the only times I'd heard it since we left Vancouver) on a foggy, foggy night on Prince William Sound. The next morning we assembled according to our disembarcation color (brown) and group (3), and were led off the ship by an efficient parade of crew members. The disembarcation instructions ran to three pages, with a couple of dozen different groups sorted by their further plans, whether a transfer to Anchorage airport, a bus ride to a hotel, or, as in our case, a trip to Denali on the Midnight Sun Express.

We were quickly escorted onto the Princess chartered train (with its own sleek branded cars) on the Alaska Railroad. We found our seats upstairs (two tables of four people) and took a last look back at the Diamond Princess before we left the station at Whittier.

And then it was time for breakfast.

Posted at 18:01 | permanent link

Tue, 29 Aug 2006

Berch on Cruises, part 2: formal night, ports of call, and the thermal sanctuary

Our first full day on the ship was uneventful, though it began with somewhat of a mistake: we decided to try the dining-room breakfast, on the grounds that since the dining-room food was so much better than the buffet, that must surely extend to breakfast. Now, neither of us really likes facing the world before coffee, but we decided to brave the crowds -- mostly at my insistence since room service did not offer my daily mainstay of hot oatmeal -- and headed to the International Dining Room, which is where sit-down menu breakfast and lunch are served. First of all, we were matched with two other couples (eek) and plopped down at a 6-top. Next was the 8:00 AM cheery perkiness of one of our tablemates, whom we dubbed "Chatty Cathy". The food (I had oatmeal and a croissant) was fine, but we swore off dining-room breakfast for the duration. I've wondered where the evil management types who schedule (and thrive on) so-called "breakfast meetings" go on vacation; now I know.

The rest of the day was pretty much spent exploring the ship. Even now, after a week's cruise and a bunch of notes and photos, I'm pretty sure there was plenty I never got to. There's a fully-equipped gym, a jogging track, more swimming pools than I can remember, a walkable promenade all the way around Deck 7 (and a little bit of Deck 8), similar walks on the top two decks, plus a bar on every corner. (Each has a thematic decor, and a different ambience; the Skywalker Lounge is all mirrored-disco lights and flash; the Wheelhouse resembles an old-fashioned men's club with leather wing-back chairs; the Explorer's Lounge is cozy and has a good view.) And since we were out of port, the casino had started up. It was actually an attractive (though smoky) room: I managed not to risk a single cent (there were penny slots!) but wandered through a few times. It had a pleasant African motif.

That night was Formal Night, a hoary old tradition dating back to the age of ocean liners and widely grumbled about among passengers, who nevertheless manage to turn out in snappy dress twice per voyage. I had whimsically brought my tuxedo along, damned if I was going to be outdone, and things turned out reasonably well. We sat at the Savoy Lounge waiting for our dinner reservation, which afforded a good view of the Captain's Reception in the adjacent Grand Atrium.

Dinner was at the Pacific Moon Dining Room, and their nightly special -- which I ordered -- was stir-fried shrimp and scallops with vegetables and Hong Kong noodles. What's more, it gave the impression that whomever cooked it had actually cooked Chinese food before and understood the seasonings and timing of the dish. Replicating that for a large and unpredictable quantity of diners while keeping the quality high was very impressive. With the stir-fry I had first courses of smoked duck breast with greens, crab quiche, and a nice bowl of lobster bisque. I don't usually have dessert, but opted for the chocolate hazelnut soufflé, which was delicious.

The next day was our first port of call, Ketchikan. The weather had closed in quite a bit, turning overnight from a fog into a drizzle, with poor visibility. Nonetheless, the floatplanes were flying, and we were awakened very early, our ship in port, by swarms of amazingly noisy aircraft taking off and landing right next to the ship. We had a good view of the action from the balcony. (One misconception I had was that cruise ships always docked on the, well, port side -- not the case here.)

It was only a short stop in Ketchikan -- we were scheduled to sail at 2 PM -- but I really wanted to go into town, although "town" didn't really look like much. We'd decided not to book any tours since it was such a short stop. But, down the gangplank we went, and I landed with both feet at the end on the wharf, having set foot in my 50th state. Hurrah! (Plus the District of Columbia, of course, but haven't made it to Puerto Rico, the U.S. Virgin Islands, Guam, or any minor possessions of the United States.)

Ketchikan itself, like the other two towns we called at, seemed to have several faces. First is the tourist village on the waterfront, which exists entirely to service cruise ships, and contains an amazing range of similarly-themed gift and curio shops selling a combination of Native crafts and mass-produced merchandise from China. (It was not always apparent which was which.) Plus art, jewelry, accessories, various tours and excursions, and the usual number of bars and eateries. We pretty much skipped all of them, but headed instead to the Tongass Trading Post, an amazing three-story retail emporium that almost literally seemed to stock everything, from casual clothing to fancy; everything needed for an expedition into back country, from pre-packed food containers to rifles and ammunition; tents, boats, outerwear; maps, GPS receivers, radios, and a good selection of books. I bought a raincoat.

The second face is behind the tourist village, and was the remnant of a town struggling with a decaying housing stock, some poverty (much of it Native), and pieces of the non-tourist economy. We saw a number of boarded-up houses, a free clinic, a halfway house, a rescue mission, and I wondered about the stories of the lives of some of the people I saw. A third face, much more successful, was Ketchikan as a modern freight and transportation hub: the container port, the airport (with an Alaska Airlines Boeing 737 freighter taking off), and a large number of water craft, from water taxis to bulk carriers.

Back on the ship, we found the perfect antidote to the southeastern Alaska climate, in the form of the Thermal Sanctuary in the ship's Lotus Spa. The Spa, which had a modern Japanese motif, was one of the nicest areas on the entire ship. It offered the customary set of massage and skin therapies, mud baths, aromatherapy, and the like, at suitably uptown prices, but also offered an unlimited Thermal Sanctuary pass, for only $109 per couple, for the whole voyage. This entitled you to use of the saunas, steam room, theraputic vapor room, and something I hadn't come across before, a set of reclining lounge beds surfaced with matte-finished ceramic tile and heated. Lying on them for 20 minutes, wrapped in your terrycloth spa robe, was heavenly. I liked the vapor room best, which was a light steam room with a eucalyptus aroma essence. The main steam room was traditional style and a good solid sweat. There were also traditional wood saunas in the mens' and womens' changing rooms, and a "gentle sauna" in the main area that we didn't spend a lot of time in since it was not very hot. The spa was one of the highlights of the cruise.

Dinner was at the Savoy Dining Room, with just Maggie and me at a table for 2, which was a nice change, although we loved the family dinners. That night was, if I remember correctly, French night, and we started with escargot bourguignon, in the traditional presentation, onion soup gratinée, and I had the duck á l'orange with potatoes and red cabbage. The escargot and soup were excellent; the duck was a little on the bony side, with an overly sweet orange sauce, not awful but not the best dinner main course of the voyage.

The next day, however, it was back to rain and fog. We arrived early in the morning in Juneau, Alaska's capital, which seemed quite a bit like Ketchikan, but, alas, even wetter. The two touring highlights of Juneau are the nearby Mendenhall Glacier, accessible by road (about a 20-minute drive), and a tramway to the top of Mt. Roberts, which is adjacent to the cruise ship docks. We decided early on to skip the Mendenhall Glacier on the grounds that we were going to see a whole lot of glaciers in the next few days, hopefully even walking on one, and in light of the weather and diminished visibility, the tour to the Visitor Center might not be worth the hassle. (This turned out to be the rigtht choice.)

Mt. Roberts Tramway, on the other hand, was right next door, and when the rain let up a little we headed over there. It's a dramatic ascent up the mountain -- punctuated, in our case, by a frightening instant when the operator accidently leaned on the stop button, jerking our car to a halt and momentarily leaving us suspended in mid-air, slowly swinging in the wind -- but that passed quickly and the view from the top was magnificent, even in the rain. I managed some quick photos of Juneau and of our ship docked below, and then we hiked a bit on a wet but pleasant trail, visited the wildlife center, and headed back down.

Back on the ship, dinner that night was a triumph: at the Santa Fe Dining Room, the last of the four main dining rooms, Maggie and I shared a table with her parents, and I had a simple but very satisfying meal, beginning with a crab quiche and chilled beef consommé with marsala, and a main course of a roast veal chop with a reduction sauce, with sauteed asparagus. The veal rib chop was tender, flavorful, and possibly the best I've had of the genre. It went well with a 2004 Sonoma pinot noir from La Crema.

It was time for a good night's sleep, since we had big plans for the next day in Skagway.

Posted at 14:45 | permanent link

Fri, 18 Aug 2006

Berch on Cruises, part 1: the departure

I just returned from a week-long cruise to Alaska (plus an added land tour) with my sweetie Maggie and her family, on Princess Cruises. It was my first time on a cruise ship (hers too), and it was a grand time, notwithstanding the vagaries and exigencies of packaged group travel. The glaciers and fjords of Alaska rate pretty high on my lifetime list of great sights. What's more, the food was good.

The following is a detailed recounting and review of our trip, not limited to the food and drink, but it should come as no surprise that they're pretty central to the cruise ship experience.

The journey began with a flight to Vancouver on Alaska Airlines. Unlike Maggie and family, who had to leave their house at 4 AM to catch a Northwest flight from Omaha at 7:30, I had a very reasonable nonstop from San Francisco. I got the exit row, an empty seat next to me, and the plane was Alaska's well-known "Salmon-Thirty-Salmon" logojet, advertising wild Alaskan seafood.

We all met up at the Four Seasons Vancouver, which was a good choice for cruise passengers (which it was full of), since it's close to the cruise terminal at Canada Place, and, well... it's a Four Seasons. Since we were too tired to explore, and had a big day coming up, Maggie and I ate dinner at Chartwell's, the hotel's main dining room. It had aspirations, but I would not call it a destination restaurant. My ambitious first course of bacon-wrapped figs stuffed with foie gras was not entirely successful: the delicate interplay of the fig and the foie gras was overpowered by the smokiness of the bacon. The steak and side dish of chanterelles and asparagus were fine, though, as was a 2002 British Columbia cabernet from Sumac Ridge.

We reported to a meeting room the next morning to check in for the cruise. It's a good idea to come a day ahead for a cruise, since you don't have to worry about a delayed flight, you're not rushed (as much), and if you check in at the hotel, your luggage is whisked away and you can board, theoretically, at your leisure. The logistics of getting the people and bags onto a bus to the pier were somewhat confused and disorganized; this is not Princess's strongest suit. But they got us there in plenty of time, and as promised, we walked right on board.

So there was our ship: the Diamond Princess, the largest cruise ship in the Pacific, capable of carrying about 3,000 passengers and a crew of 1,000. We were in a maze of corridors in the cruise terminal, so didn't really get any impression of the ship, except that it was huge. The public spaces were grand and well-appointed, in natural woods, granite, brass, and etched glass. Nothing looked cheap or makeshift. Even the corridors to the staterooms were wider than I expected, although they are vertiginously long.

We got to our stateroom, a balcony double on the Baja Deck (deck 11), forward. I'd never been on a cruise ship before, even to visit, and the diagrams and photos and statistics on the ship's web site don't really communicate what you're getting into. It's a small space, but very well laid out. It was not at all claustrophobic, at least for me; the sliding door and balcony make all the difference. Except for the tiny bathroom with a tinier shower, it would be an entirely reasonable single hotel room in most big cities; for two people who like their space, though, it was a bit cramped. But such are the economics of cruise ships: all that grand public space has to come at the expense of personal space for the passengers. Maggie's parents, who were celebrating their anniversary, had a suite in the forward starboard corner of the same deck, with much more space (and the largest private balcony I've seen), but there are only a few suites like that on each ship. (They generously invited us, as well as Maggie's sister, brother-in-law, and their kids to join us in their suite and balcony whenever we liked.)

Since it was about 1:30 in the afternoon by the time we got settled, it was time for lunch. On the first day of the cruise, before leaving port, only the buffet is open for lunch. It was, of course, packed, and we stood elbow to elbow at the buffet lines. Happily, this was the only time I stood in a significant line for food -- or anything else -- for the entire voyage. While the buffet food was not nearly as good as the dining room food (which was as expected), it got better and better during the week. That first buffet lunch -- a caesar salad, some roast pork loin, beef stew, fried scallops, and fresh fruit -- was unexceptional, but still well above the quality of typical shore-side buffets.

We returned to the room, and I began wondering where the luggage was. It was 3:00, and the ship was due to sail at 4:30. Our cabin steward introduced himself, pointed out the card on the desk with his pager number, and explained a few housekeeping items. A passing luggage handler said to me, "your bags are coming soon!" Then 3:00 became 3:30 and 4:00, only one bag (Maggie's) arrived, and I wondered if perhaps mine had been left behind or misdirected. I asked the steward to look into it, which he promised to do, and figured there was nothing else that could be done. The ship's departure was delayed until 5:15, which I guessed was due to luggage issues, and the missing luggage finally showed up at 5:30. This was not a big deal, but a note in one of the various welcome/instruction messages in the room to the effect of, "hey, you might not get your luggage for 5+ hours; don't worry" would have been reassuring.

We walked around the open upper decks and enjoyed the sunshine, inspecting all the mysterious and arcane navigation and communications equipment, and took a bunch of photos. Finally, we cast off, and I was surprised at how quickly such a huge ship could accelerate. Wow! Thrusters are a pretty impressive nautical innovation: megaships can move sideways and turn in place.

Next came the required safety briefing and life jacket drill, conducted in the main theater, which is pretty impressive in its own right. After that, and some simple enjoyment of the Vancouver and Georgia Strait scenery, it was, well... time for dinner.

We were able to get a reservation for the Vivaldi Dining Room for our table of 8. Unlike some other cruise lines, Princess offers a choice between Traditional Dining, where you eat in the same dining room at the same table (and with the same table-mates, if applicable) every night, and Anytime Dining, where you eat dinner where and when you like, and can get smaller tables for 2 or 4. This was one of the best features of the cruise. Neither Maggie nor I wanted to be tied down to a particular dinner time (neither the 5:30 early seating nor the 8:00 late seating are particularly convenient), nor did we want to be stuck with 2 or 3 other couples for artificial companionship (although as a party of 8, we probably could have gotten our own table for the whole cruise).

The four Anytime dining rooms on the Diamond Princess have different decor themes (Vivaldi: Italian; Santa Fe: Southwestern; Savoy: French; Pacific Moon: Asian) but they all serve an identical menu save for a single main course "specialty" which remains the same in each room for the whole voyage. Dinner at the Vivaldi was lovely: I began with a lobster and rockfish terrine, a salad, and the main course was prime rib -- perfectly medium rare -- with bacon-wrapped string beans, followed by a chocolate mousse and a cheese plate. We had only planned to order only single glasses on wine, but the waiter explained that if you order a bottle and don't finish it, it's kept for you in a wine cellar and you can finish it the next night or any other dinner. So we got a bottle of barolo (Stefano Farina, 2001) which was not the best barolo I've had, but was adequate though a little rough, like a rustic sangiovese or nebbiolo. It was not terribly expensive, though; wine is marked up but not as much in equivalent restaurants. (On most cruise ships, food in any quantity is included, even multiple portions, special desserts, and other gluttony, but every drop of alcohol is an extra charge.)

The dinner was very satisfying, and I figured if they kept it up all week, I would be one very happy cruise passenger. By meal's end we were about ready to spend a little time on the balcony and then try to erase the previous day's sleep deficit. In the meantime, it became foggy and cooler, and our ship motored up the Georgia Strait and into the narrow passages that separate Vancouver Island from the mainland. I stayed out late on the balcony and watched as another cruise ship passed us going south, a brightly-lit but spectral apparition in the fog. We slept well.

Posted at 19:18 | permanent link

Wed, 21 Jun 2006

A tale of two fishes

As practically everyone knows by now, there's a problem with the so-called Chilean sea bass, surely the most delicious fish to swim the seas. First of all, it's not really a sea bass; it's actually the Patagonian toothfish, but that's not the problem. The problem is that it has, alas, been badly overfished, and populations have declined to (or near, depending on whom you ask) crisis levels. So we're either supposed to limit (or stop, again depending on whom you ask) our consumption of Chilean sea bass.

The soft, buttery goodness of the Chilean sea bass make it ideal and incredibly versatile. You can grill it, pan-fry it, or bake it, with a simple coating of spices; the surface crisps up to form a tasty crust. It's also delicious in a spicy sauce, like Malaysian santan, or Thai pad prik chili sauce.

From the 1980s through the late '90s it was the darling of chefs in Europe and the United States, until the disturbing issues of overfishing became clear. A number of chefs immediately took it off their menus; others agreed to purchase it only through channels that claimed they were in compliance with a world-wide catch limit. Some ignored the fishery issues and went on serving it. Similarly, some fish markets and grocery stores pulled it, some purchased through the "good" channels, and some continued as before. It's certainly not hard to find, although the price has risen precipitously (in excess of $20/lb. in some places).

I confess I've still been ordering Chilean sea bass in restaurants, and buying and cooking it at home. I went through the same rationalizations that I'm sure all the other sea bass junkies have:

• surely this piece came from a supplier that respects the catch limit;
• well, someone's already caught this fish -- if I don't eat it, someone else will;
• hmmm, this source says the overfishing won't really harm the species until 2008;
• well, it's all going to be gone in 5 years no matter what, so I might as well get it while I can.

I'm lucky enough to have a nearby weekly farmer's market, just a few blocks from my house, that has a good fishmonger. Nearly every week I pick up a piece of fresh fish, rotating among wild salmon, halibut, swordfish, occasional ahi tuna, and... Chilean sea bass. In the cold months I pan-fry it in olive oil with a light coating of seasonings (Cavender's All-Purpose Greek Seasoning is a favorite), or oven-bake it in a combination sauce and marinade said to be Moroccan, involving soy sauce, ketchup, garlic, and curry powder; the list of ingredients looks horrible but the result is sublime. In the summer I coat it with a simple spice rub and throw it on the gas grill. My favorite is one of Tom Douglas's Rubs With Love from Seattle Kitchen; I use the pork rub with fish and it's great. There's also a salmon rub, but it seems to work best only with salmon (and, paradoxically, with pork). The pork rub is a mixture of brown sugar, salt, coriander, cumin, black pepper, smoked paprika, ancho chile powder, and cayenne powder.

Anyway, what this is all leading up to is the fact that last Saturday morning I went down to the fishmonger's, having decided that the two previous fish grills (salmon and halibut) had been somewhat lacking, and it was time for a piece of Chilean sea bass. But it was not to be! They were sold out of sea bass, and the other fish on offer did not appeal. But my fishmonger did not give up on me, and said, "try this!" and pointed to the ice tray next to the sadly bereft one that had held the sea bass. It was labeled "escolar". The name was faintly familiar, perhaps seen on a restaurant specials menu, but I didn't know anything about it.

"If you like sea bass, you'll like it," she said. "Very buttery, very tender, not fishy." So I bought a piece, intending it for Sunday's dinner. Well, that night I went to Winterland, in San Francisco, an account of which will appear here in Berch on Food in the fullness of time, but let's skip ahead to Sunday evening.

I heated up the grill and went to address the escolar. Unwrapped and rinsed, it was firmer than Chilean sea bass, and I noticed it was cut across the grain into a half-steak, with a back and belly portion. It was not at all fishy. I pulled out the Rub With Love, pork edition, and liberally applied it to the escolar, and set it aside.

I'd also bought a bunch of good-looking organic asparagus at the farmer's market, and decided to grill it along with the fish. I rinsed it, broke off the bottom stems at their natural breaking point (a technique I learned from Maggie's mother), and put them on a place where I coated them with olive oil and a mixture of Sardinian herbs from A. G. Ferrari, which if I remember correctly consisted of thyme, rosemary, oregano, and something called "mirto" in Italian (myrtle?).

I cooked the fish for about 8 minutes on high heat, turning twice, and the asparagus for about 5, keeping the stalks rotating on their axes so as not to char or catch fire. The result was very pleasing to the eye. I drizzled the asparagus with some balsamic vinegar, and served it up.

The asparagus was delicious, and the fish was perfect. The spice rub gave it a nice orange-brown tone, with grill marks, and when I bit into it, it was delightfully moist. It did not remind me so much of Chilean sea bass (which is buttery-melty), but more like a very rich halibut, or a cross between swordfish and mackerel, but without the latter's fishiness. It was initially firm to the tooth, but after biting in, it was juicy and not at all chewy.

So, I figured, that was that. I'd found a great replacement for Chilean sea bass, something I could cook at home or order in a restaurant with no guilt, and recommend to others. I figured I'd write a short piece for Berch on Food, and move on. But I wanted to find out what sort of fish escolar really was, what it was related to, where it comes from, and maybe look for a few recipes.

And that's where things turned very weird.

It started with the Wikipedia article, which yielded its species (Lepidocybium flavobrunneum), and described it as a "snake mackerel", found in deep around the world. OK, interesting. And then: "Like its relative the oilfish, Ruvettus pretiosus, the escolar is consumed in several European and Asian countries, as well as in the USA. Neither fish metabolises the wax esters naturally found in their diet, which causes an oil content in the muscle meat of the fish amounting to 18-21%. These wax esters may rapidly cause gastrointestinal symptoms following consumption; however these effects are usually short lived."

Eeee. That was not at all what I was expecting. Well, it could just be what we Wikpedians call "unsourced and unverifiable speculation", but the part about 18-21% indigestible oil was just scientific enough to be disturbing, and I figured I'd better do some research. (And, as you have probably guessed, it was about 3 hours since I'd eaten, and I suddenly, and no doubt psychosomatically, began to feel a little queasy.)

A Google search for "escolar" turned up as its first result a UK Food Standards Agency page noting the mislabeling of escolar as sea bass, and warning that, "if not prepared properly, or if eaten in large quantities, [has] a laxative effect causing cramps and diarrhea.... The symptoms, which may appear with 3-12 hours of eating the fish, include headache, nausea and vomiting. Recovery usually takes 24-48 hours."

Uh oh.

The page went on to refer to a letter issued in 2003 (PDF file, 404KB) citing similar hazards. Some further research turned up a somewhat sensational, but nonetheless informative news story from NBC4 TV in Los Angeles, titled Mystery On The Menu: Could A Popular Dish Make You Sick?, which noted that escolar had been banned by the U.S. Food & Drug Administration in 1990, but that the ban had been rescinded on the grounds that it was not actually toxic. It went on to quote a Dr. William Mellon of the L.A. County/USC Medical Center, who said, ""Your body can't metabolize [the wax esters]. They can't be broken down so they remain there in that state. And so your body is going to eliminate them rapidly just like any other kind of roughage. So they will cause some diarrhea."

This was not good at all, even leaving aside the further claim by a 74-year-old tourist to Palm Springs, who claimed that escolar had killed his wife, and was suing the restaurant and fish supplier. (The defense denies a connection, and her death certificate indicates she died of an infection of unknown origin.)

Now, all the sources seem to indicate that the best way to avoid problems with escolar is to grill it, since that causes the greatest amount of the wax esters to render out. I grilled mine pretty well, over a very hot fire, and I had no effects I could definitively pin on the escolar. And realistically, I'm a regular consumer of sushi and sashimi, and that undoubtedly poses a vastly greater health risk. But having read the whole set of references, I think I am probably going to pass up escolar in the future, and I'll go looking for another substitute for Chilean sea bass.

Posted at 15:49 | permanent link

Sun, 28 May 2006

Barbecue: bad news and good news

You know it's not going to be a good night when you pull up to your long-time favorite barbecue place for Saturday dinner and find it closed and (gulp!) completely roped off with yellow CAUTION tape. (I even drove past in the other direction to make sure it was CAUTION tape and not CRIME SCENE - DO NOT ENTER tape.) There were some curious onlookers trying to peek in the windows, but even after I rolled down my car window and asked, nobody knew anything.

This immediately brought to mind a similar situation from a couple of years ago, when the best barbecue joint in Nebraska similarly closed up with no warning, leaving Maggie and I bereft after a Saturday-night drive across Lincoln in search of ribs and brisket.

Everett & Jones BBQ opened in 1973 in Oakland. I moved to Berkeley in 1974, as a fuzz-faced 17-year-old college freshman, and within a couple of months was urged to come along on a late-night run to the newest location of what everybody in my co-op house called "E&J's". This was probably the first authentic Southern style barbecue I'd ever had, part of the African-American culinary and cultural tradition of pit-smoked meats. Sure, my parents and I had stopped at a few barbecue places over the years, mostly on road trips in the southwest, but I'd never had anything like E&J's. It was a revelation.

Volumes could be (and probably have been) written about Everett & Jones, undoubtedly the most famous barbecue in California. It was founded by Dorothy Everett and her eight daughters, her son, and her son-in-law (the Jones of the name), with financial backing from a friend, "Cora the Angel". The Everett family was from rural Alabama and moved to California in 1952. Their first restaurant opened in 1973 in Oakland, and the Berkeley location opened in 1974. (Since then, there have been several others which have come and gone, including a branch in Pleasanton.) It's an East Bay institution, and each branch is decorated with photos, plaques, and memorabilia of visiting local dignitaries. E&J's most famous fan is probably Coach John Madden, who introduced Everett & Jones to a larger audience, and was a regular diner at the short-lived Pleasanton location. Everett & Jones has earned mention in most books and articles about barbecue, and their sauce (which is a deep-South molasses style) regularly wins awards.

The chain now has six family-owned locations, including one in Oakland's Jack London Square, and bottles and sells its sauce through supermarket and specialty food retailers.

Reviews of the food at E&J's go up and down like the stock market. Barbecue is the opposite of fast food and corporate chains: it is cooked slowly and doesn't always come out the same each time, due to the supplies of meat, wood for smoking, and even the weather. On any given night, the ribs and chicken might be perfect, but the beef links or brisket merely OK; the next night might reverse the outcome. When you eat at a place regularly over a few decades, things like that even themselves out. I'm a lifetime E&J's loyalist, and as long as they keep cooking barbecue, I'll keep eating it.

Which brings us back to last night: the horrible sight of a closed-up Everett & Jones, right there at University and San Pablo, where I first ate real barbecue 32 years ago. What had happened? Surely they were not out of business; word of that would have spread within hours, and probably would not have given rise to the CAUTION tape.

I'd been walking around San Francisco all day, was ravenously hungry, with a serious barbecue jones, and the prospect of going to the newly-reopened Flint's over on Shattuck was not appealing, since they're takeout-only, and I didn't want to schlep the Q back to Pleasanton, or try to find a park bench. Plus, it just seemed wrong to head to Flint's after something terrible had befallen E&J's. (E&J's and Flint's are the Macy's and Gimbel's of East Bay barbecue.)

So I headed for E&J's Fruitvale Avenue location in Oakland, which is not far off I-580, and pretty much on the way home to Pleasanton. I didn't know what to expect, but I found nearby parking and was relieved to see the place full of people. I had a nice plate of ribs and beef with coleslaw and while talking with the staff learned that around 4 PM, the Berkeley E&J's had a fire in the pit which spread to the kitchen, and the staff and customers fled and called the fire department. Nobody was injured. Nobody knows how long it will be closed.

Pit fires are pretty much a given in the barbecue business. The history of E&J's on its web site notes that in 1976, during the party to celebrate the third anniversary of the first restaurant... the pit caught fire and burned the place down. The Hayward location was closed for a while after a fire, and Flint's was closed for several years. I don't know the insurance and finance issues involved with such an occurence, but it does take a while, and a lot of hard work, to get back in action after a fire. I hope E&J's will be able to reopen in Berkeley quickly, and in the meantime, I'd urge everyone to support them by trying one of the other locations.

Posted at 15:36 | permanent link

Sat, 29 Apr 2006

Deli.

If you grew up, as I did, in a middle-class Jewish family that loved to eat, the word "deli" has connotations far beyond the mere definition. Every ethnic and cultural group has its comfort foods, often organized around a family meal at home or at a restaurant, and for us that restaurant was a deli.

Those who grew up in New York or Chicago probably have a much richer deli background than I do, but I was not deprived. The quintessential deli of my childhood in Los Angeles, the one I still measure all others against, is Canter's, on Fairfax Avenue, in the middle of what was, and to some extent still is, L.A.'s central Jewish neighborhood. Canter's has been in business in L.A. since 1931, and as its web site will tell you, it has sold over 9 million pounds of corned beef, 2 million pounds of lox, and 20 million bagels.

Jewish deli food has become integrated into the American cultural experience. No matter what your background is, you've undoubtedly had corned beef, pastrami, matzoh balls, salmon lox, or stuffed kishka, or deli adaptations of braised beef brisket or chicken soup. Deli food is the cuisine brought by Jewish immigrants from central and eastern Europe, at the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th, adapted to American produce and tastes. The dishes themselves, especially the meats, are like much peasant and immigrant food, born from the cuisine of scarcity: you won't find filet mignon, caviar, or prime rib at a deli. Cheaper cuts of meat were seasoned, slow-cooked, or incorporated into dishes which stretched the available ingredients. The same can be found with African-American cuisine like barbecue with traditional dishes like ribs, beef sausage, and collard and mustard greens.

The above is well-known doctrine in the cuisine world; I'm not sure I could come up with any original discovery about deli food that would be an addition to the canon. But it is a subject very close to my heart, deeply enmeshed in the idea of comfort food and the idea of the deli as a place of refuge: part hangout, part temple of food, part guilty pleasure.

Which is why, as a 35-year resident of the San Francisco Bay Area, it has pained me that this area is so relatively poor in delis. There is nothing in the Bay Area that measures up to Canter's, or Junior's of Rancho Park (another favorite, on Westwood Blvd. in L.A.), or the famous New York delis like the Carnegie Deli or Stage Deli (both on Seventh Avenue in midtown Manhattan). It's not a matter of raw ingredients; presumably one could purchase pastrami and lox from the same vendors as the great delis and serve it up, but that does not create a great deli.

There's an important element of atmosphere, and that's not easy to define. It's a vastly different ambience from fine-dining and avant-garde restaurants, and the current trends. It's hard to break down the components, but I can think of several:

1. Authenticity. A great deli will present itself as part of the unbroken tradition, perhaps invoking other delis owned by the deli-keeper's ancestors or collateral relatives. With this comes a form of authority -- a deli man has selected the supplier of his meat, inspected the quality, cooked the meat, sliced it, made it into a sandwich or platter, and can point to it, and without fear of contradiction can say, This is deli!
2. Physical comfort. A deli should never have uncomfortable chairs, uselessly-shaped or -adorned tables, or subject its patrons to indignities like cleverly-situated mezzanines or obtrusive piped-in music. Unlike a trendy restaurant where you might be shuffled in and out in order to accommodate the next seating, at a deli there should be the impression that you might stay forever if you liked, ordering a nosh here and a nosh there, perhaps conducting some business, writing a screenplay, or discussing a family crisis.
3. Consistency. Ideally, the food, decor, and service at a deli should never change. A pastrami sandwich eaten in 2006 should remind you of the same sandwich eaten in 1986, or 1966, if you are old enough to remember. (And in a metaphorical sense, that should hold true even if the deli in question didn't open until 1996.) A deli meal is simultaneously a pleasure in the present and an evocation of bygone times.
4. Variety. The best delis, to my mind, offer nearly infinite menus. Beyond the standards alluded to above, a deli kitchen should enthusiastically cook pretty much anything its patrons might want, within reason, and to spare them the problem of having to specially request it, should list it on the menu. Breakfast at dinner? Dinner at brunch-time? A pot-roast after midnight? None of these ought to present a problem. Which leads to the last item...
5. Accessibility. In theory, a deli should never close; what would be the point? The urge for deli food does not obey the clock, or conventional mealtimes... or bedtimes. Canter's is open 24 hours, and has undoubtedly seen its share of unusual patrons and practices, all for the best.

Sadly, the early-closing delis of the Bay Area simply do not to rise to this level. And it's not really the food as such, but an ineluctable combination of factors, like those above. The first problem seems to be one of impermanence and lack of (migratory) tradition -- unlike the case of L.A., the Bay Area did not seem to gain a significant influx of the new generation of deli-keepers from the East Coast or elsewhere. (An exception to this is Dennis Berkowitz, who opened the original Max's Son in Daly City in the late 1970s, which was an eclectic combination of an authentic deli, Chinese restaurant, and barbecue, and was my favorite place for family dinners when I was home from college; Berkowitz went on to found the Max's chain of restaurants, which go well beyond the deli format but retain many of the characteristics, including good pastrami and corned beef.)

My one faithful standby in the Bay Area has been Brother's, in Burlingame. Of any claimant to the deli tradition, it seems to be the most authentic in terms of atmosphere and longevity. (Interestingly, it is owned and operated by a Chinese-American family.) The food covers the standards, more than adequately, and I'm happy to take visitors and relatives there. The atmosphere is relaxing and traditional. I don't think Brother's is one of the great delis of the era, but it's certainly the best we have to look forward to, all things considered, in the Bay Area. (I recently learned from this newspaper article that Brother's is threatened by conversion of its building to a Comerica bank branch.)

By contrast, we have David's Delicatessen on Geary St. in San Francisco, probably the best known deli in the Bay Area. It's been there since 1952, catering more to tourists and theater-district visitors than to locals, and while it usually gets the most prominent billing in tour guides and the like, really, it's eminently skippable. Even though I've gone there -- at the urging of others, usually from out of town -- off and on since high school, it's never earned more than a shrug of the shoulders from me. The deli meats are undistinguished, the side dishes uninspired, the prices high (a reviewer on Yahoo cited a $17.50 reuben sandwich), and most of all, the atmosphere has never been relaxing -- there's always been an indefinable negative vibe about the place, and the service is perennially slow and not particularly friendly.

Across the Bay, Saul's in Berkeley has always provided a reasonable alternative. It's never quite captured the full deli spirit, to my mind, but the food is good and the staff are pleasant. It's been a couple of years since I've been there, but I remember the pickled herring, chopped liver and rye bread particularly. Saul's also features a number of vegetarian and Israeli dishes, a little bit unusual in the deli world, but popular in Berkeley. I hope to stop by again when I'm nearby (although one of Saul's problems -- surely not their fault -- is the number of attractive food destinations in north Berkeley).

There are a couple of newer entries. First is Miller's East Coast West, on Polk St. in San Francisco. It's reasonably solid, but the architecture of the space (a narrow room with high ceilings and the only natural light from the storefront window) seems to make the ambience a little odd. The menu is classic, and service is fine, but the last few sandwiches I've had there have been sub-par, more than a little dry and a bit skimpy. I'm not giving up on the place, but coupled with the intractable Polk St. parking problem and their early closing, I don't make it there very often.

Just opened in March is the California Street Deli and Cafe, inside the Jewish Community Center on California St. at Presidio Ave. The space was formerly a restaurant called Sydney's Home (then just "Sydney's"), which started out as a full-service restaurant serving Jewish-style comfort food fused with some trendy touches then, not finding success, tried a few experiments and finally closed. The executive chef, John Beardsley, divided the space in two, turned the main part into the even more trendy, pan-Asian (415), and the upper part into a deli. The menu lists Joyce Goldstein (chef of Square One in the late 1980s and early 1990s, and author of a number of books on Jewish cooking), which was a very good sign.

After a few scheduling miscues, I finally made it to California St. Deli last week. The first thing that I noticed was that it was empty, with only one other party eating, at 6:30 PM. Why? Well, the deli closes at 7 PM. What on earth were they thinking? (Brother's closes at 8 PM. I'd ask the same question.) Nevertheless, I was welcomed warmly and service was prompt and efficient. I ordered "The Laguna", a combination sandwich with corned beef, pastrami, and coleslaw. It was a little haphazardly-assembled, and the cole slaw was a bit odd (note to kitchen: carrots should not be the most predominant ingredient), but the meat... ah, the meat.

I can state without reservation or limitation that California St.'s deli meats are the best in the Bay Area. Better than Brother's. Better than Saul's. Better than the Max's chain. And way better than David's (and better than a small, lunch-only, Chicago-style sandwich shop called Moishe's Pippik that really does not warrant a full mention). This was the real stuff, the substance of legend. After finishing my sandwich, I ordered a half pound of each to go, and I've been enjoying it all week. It's too bad that California St. Deli keeps such inconvenient hours, and and that it has not (at least as yet) been infused with real deli atmosphere. But the meat was good to the very last bite. The Bay Area may still mostly be a vast deli-poor wasteland -- and would be even more so if Brother's closes -- but the taste of California St.'s meats gave me hope.

Posted at 17:18 | permanent link

Sun, 19 Mar 2006

A tale of three restaurants

First, let me give you all a little context here. Here in the Bay Area, it rained a good portion of February. (I managed to miss a good part of that, as detailed previously.) Then, it rained pretty much the entire first half of March... until yesterday. Yesterday was probably the first weekend day of the year where it was not raining nor threatening to rain -- which means, of course, that everyone heads to San Francisco to play. I resisted the temptation for a while, frittered away some time online, and finally around 2 in the afternoon, decided to head for SF.

I like urban walks, and had figured out an objective -- to walk the length of the Union Street shopping strip. This is Cow Hollow, a collection of boutique-ish clothing and accessory shops, twee Victorian offices for therapists and attorneys, a couple of fitness places, and, of course, a large number of bars and restaurants. The good weather brought out a gaggle of shoppers, drinkers, and general strollers, and while this was a reasonably pleasant crowd, it made it hard to navigate the sidewalks. By the time I'd made a circuit of Union Street, from Gough to Divisadero and back, I realized that the reason I hadn't been there in years is that it just was not my demographic. Not by a long shot. If you're a 27-year-old well-dressed stockbroker on a Saturday night date, it's probably your demographic, but well, otherwise, it did not hold a lot of appeal. Nevertheless, it was vaguely gettting on towards dinner time, and there were a number of plausible restaurants within a few blocks.

It was still early, but the most interesting among them appeared to be Betelnut Pejiu Wu, 2030 Union St. (at Buchanan). Pejiu wu means "beer house", which appears intended to evoke the idea of a neighborhood bar with hawker-style street food. It's one of the places that gets talked about a lot, and is in Zagat's Top 40 Most Popular in San Francisco. The menu on the door promised pan-Asian small plates and dinners (at decidedly non-street-food prices, of course) and I was a little jazzed. But even though it was only 5 o'clock, it was filling up with the aforementioned crowd of Beautiful People and was emanating a very odd, emphatically non-foodie, vibe. I didn't rule out a return later for dinner, but that meant I'd have to kill a couple of hours in Cow Hollow, which didn't seem like a lot of fun, although there was probably a cafe with free wi-fi or something.

I headed back to the car, pulled out my 2006 Zagat's, and looked up Betelnut. Zagat's remarks (without the supernumerary quotation marks) were: "Is it worth waiting an eternity for a table at this noisy and overtrendy Cow Hollow scene where young business jerks and their trophies pile in day and night?" (The response was, "Hell yeah, retort regulars, citing its innovative, spicy Pan-Asian plates", but it looks like my initial assessment was probably right, and I was so not in the mood.)

It was still early, and I thought I might drive over to the Castro District, my old neighborhood, and walk around there a little. One of the long-time criticisms of the Castro is the lack of really good food. There have been a few efforts to remedy that in the last 10-15 years, but it's still not much of a culinary destination. I happened to have a copy of SF Weekly in the back seat of the car -- the January 25-31 edition, as it happens -- and took a quick look through the restaurant capsule reviews to see if anything had popped up in the Castro since I'd last looked.

The most intriguing was a place called Tallula, at 18th and Diamond Sts., a block away from my old house, and from its description, very likely in the same space as one of my old neighborhood favorites, Ryan's. Ryan's was an eclectic California-Continental place, with a small gourmet market and take-out on the ground floor, one of the bright spots in the Castro in the early 1990s. The building is a heavily modified and remodeled Victorian town house, with small, cozy dining rooms on at least 3 levels. SF Weekly wrote: "The Indian-French fusion practiced in Tallula's exciting kitchen is like nothing else available in San Francisco--" (causing me to sharply draw in breath in anticipation) "--and it works perfectly in the many-floored Victorian houses the eccentric, bohemian dining rooms... Chef Harveen Khere dreams up alluring dishes such as a lobster-and-pea-stuffed dhosa, masala-dusted pommes frites, and almond cake drenched in orange blossom consommé." No further convincing was needed.

So I set the GPS navigator for 18th & Diamond, started looking for parking at Castro and Market, found none, managed to pass the triple-parked New Beetle (I confess, I once triple-parked on Castro Street as I ran into the old Spinelli's Coffee for my morning quad latte on the way to work), turned right on 18th, and after crossing Collingwood, started looking at street numbers to find Tallula (and confirm that it was in fact the old Ryan's). Well, when I got to #4230, I looked up... just in time to see the scaffolding, the guy scraping paint from the front, and the sign in the window that said "Restaurant for Lease". I sighed deeply... there would be no French-Indian fusion small plates for me tonight, or possibly ever.

(A quick look at Zagat's was informative -- some praise along the lines of the SF Weekly review was followed by "...however, a falling Food score suggests that this place, once considered so unique we forgive the price and the spotty service, no longer is." I wonder if that killed it.)

At this point I just wanted to get out of anywhere that required advanced parking skills, and that pointed in the direction of a barbecue joint I'd heard about on The Well, about which I could only remember the name -- Cliff's -- and the fact that it was somewhere out in the direction of Candlestick Park, though exactly where I was not certain. I found the address, 2177 Bayshore Blvd., and took a long and complex route to get there, involving Mission St., Cortlandt Ave., and then following Bayshore Blvd. out to where I expected the Cow Palace to appear at any point. It's actually very close to the Third St. exit off US 101, on the west side of the freeway, and convenient to get to unless you're blundering your way on surface streets from the Castro, which I was.

Cliff's is a small storefront on the corner of Bayshore and Blanken Ave., just north of (and above) the remnants of the large railroad yard that extends into Brisbane. It's adjacent to the end of San Bruno Avenue, which is the 101 west-side frontage road south of I-280. It's a bright space, with large windows. There are only three small tables, but if you choose to stay to eat, it's actually pleasant, though a little cramped. The menu has traditional barbecue, Alabama-style, as well as fried fish and oysters. I was third in line to order, and chose a combo of the Alabama smoked pork ribs and the beef brisket, with cole slaw and mustard greens, and since it was still early, decided to head home to eat. It's a friendly place, and there are an impressive set of awards and photos on the wall, as well as a drawing of the proprietor's parents and grandparents.

But -- you ask -- how was the barbecue? Well, as it turned out, I didn't find out until about an hour and a half later, due to exceptionally heavy traffic on 101 and the Bay Bridge. Verdict: the ribs were very tasty, very good smoke taste, a good ratio of lean to fat, but very slightly dry, likely due to the delay in eating and the need to re-heat. The ribs themselves were what are sometimes called "short ends" and were nearly boneless -- I'm not sure if that's always the case with the spareribs (baby back ribs are also available) or just the luck of the draw with my particular order. But I'd eat them again, no question. The brisket was from the flat (lean) end, and despite good smoke flavor, was also a little dry, and somewhat chewy. The sauce is excellent -- it's thinner and less tomato-dominated than most places, and I could taste molasses, vinegar, cumin, and coriander. The cole slaw was tasty, but the stand-out was the mustard greens, always a favorite, stewed up with seasonings and some chunks of pork.

It's not a part of town I get to often, but if I'm out there it will be worth another stop, and I think it's better than Big Nate's or Brother-in-Law's, and on a par with Memphis Minnie's, but not as good as Everett & Jones across the Bay. And the remainder of the ribs, beef, and greens furnished today's lunch and were even better the second day, which is one of those funny things that sometimes happens with barbecue.

Posted at 17:59 | permanent link

Tue, 21 Feb 2006

And we're back

Berch on Food has been away longer than usual this winter. The main reason was, annoyingly, health-related -- when I was out in Nebraska visiting Maggie for Christmas, I managed to come down with a distressing bit of digestive problems that landed me in the hospital for a few days. I'll skip the details, including accounts of a two day stint of nil-by-mouth, but let's just say it left me in a less than ideal state for festive holiday eating. I'm happy to say that in the nearly two months since, on a new set of medications, increased exercise, and a healthier diet, things are pretty much back to normal.

In fact, my first meal out after leaving the hospital was a visit to an old favorite, The Oven. I confess I was a little tentative, but I had to "get back on the horse", as they say, so I ordered one of their signature dishes, the herb-crusted lamb shank in vindaloo cream with sauteed vegetables, preceded by the coconut papadum shrimp. We shared a bottle of Stag's Leap 2001 petite sirah, which always brings out the best in Indian food. We had a nice talk with our waiter, Aalok, who is from Nepal, and is a reader of Berch on Food. That night at The Oven really helped me feel like I was back in the real world. (Lest your eyebrows remain raised at the thought of ordering a vindaloo the day after one is released from the hospital with digestive woes, be assured it was by no means against medical -- or common-sense -- advice.)

Once back in the Bay Area, I managed to take it easy for the next month, but was very happy to have been able to make it back out to Nebraska for Maggie's birthday and some good eating.

Our first outing was to The Parthenon, an innovative Greek and Greek-fusion restaurant in Lincoln. After starting with their fried calamari (from which I piously removed most of the breading) with lemon-garlic butter, and a Greek salad, I had the salmon filet topped with crab meat and seasonings and finished under the broiler. It was accompanied by a standout side dish -- mushrooms stewed with fresh herbs and spices, including cloves. We drank Tsantali retsina which cut right through the richness of the calamari and the complexity of the mushrooms with its pleasant but relatively subtle (as retsinas go) pine resin essence.

Maggie and her sister both have their birthdays on February 14 -- Valentine's Day -- so we planned a double-birthday and holiday dinner at The Black Crow, previously featured here, in Beatrice. The Black Crow was in full swing, and we dined well into the night. After sharing the steamed New Zealand mussels as a starter, I had a very interesting slow-roasted pork shank with Asian soy glaze and jasmine-curry rice cakes. The pork had a good affinity with the dark, sweet, salty glaze, and the rice cakes were a good counterpoint with a subtle curry flavor. Our wine was the Mark West 2003 pinot noir, which is from the California central coast region and was a good companion for the pork.

On Maggie's birthday we'd agreed to avoid the Valentine's Day dinner crowd and cook up some steaks at home, but made it to The Oven for lunch. I wanted to contrast the regular menu's lamb vindaloo with the fusion style. Perhaps it's the milder vindaloo cream in the latter, or the amazing succulence of the lamb shank, but while the lunch course was very tasty, the fusion menu version is miles ahead. I also got a chance to taste Maggie's chicken tikka Madras -- a southern Indian take on tikka masala, with a spicy but fruity and aromatic sauce.

We toasted the two birthday sisters with Taittinger brut Champagne, which is rapidly becoming my favorite. Until a few years ago it was a little difficult to find on the West Coast and in the Midwest, but I'm pleased to see it in more places. It's easily the best of the mid-range Champagnes and I think it's second only to Dom Perignon among widely available Champagnes.

The next day we headed out on a backroads trip, but it turned bitter cold and made heading for Omaha a more attractive plan. For dinner we ended up at one of Maggie's old favorites in the Old Market district -- M's Pub, a restored brick warehouse with a large, friendly bar and a dining room which serves everything from pub standards like burgers and sandwiches to adventurous Continental and New American cooking -- sort of a Midwestern take on a European cafe.

We started with traditional-style escargot, baked in garlic, shallots, and butter and topped with cheese, and they were the equal of any I've had at home or abroad. Maggie kept up the Asian-fusion shank bone theme by ordering the veal shank, which was served with a coconut milk-based thai red curry with asparagus and white carrots. I went for a bacon-wrapped swordfish steak, which was served on a bed of sauteed spinach with runner beans and caramelized shallots. The bacon infused the whole dish with an attractive smokiness. The featured wine was by Arbanta, an "agricultura ecológica" (organic) rioja, which was a bit young and flinty but it stood up to both the curry and the smokiness of the fish.

One last stop I didn't want to miss was Venue, a relatively new restaurant in Lincoln. It's in a new building with a very attractive, rotunda-style dining room and purpose-built tall wine storage units with glass doors. (And yes, the bottles of Opus One were prominently displayed.) We stopped in for lunch, and Venue serves a straightforward lunch menu with sandwiches, burgers, and salads and a few special compositions. We started with tasty crab cakes, the "fiesta" soup made with beef tenderloin, and I had a salad with blackened shrimp, jicama, almonds, and mandarin oranges.

One last high point of the trip was a wine Maggie discovered some months ago, and that we had with some takeout Indian food -- it's Novella Vineyards "Synergy", which is a blend of sangiovese, zinfandel, and petite sirah from Paso Robles (Central Coast), California. It's a little like a Chianti, but with a spicy twist. Great with curry, and I'd wager it would go well with tomato-based dishes and meats with full-bodied sauces.

I had nice flight home (on which I had a nice "Chinois chicken salad" from the Wolfgang Puck Express in Denver International Airport) and am settling in, but I miss Nebraska already.

Posted at 17:54 | permanent link

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