Promises, promises

I've had so many things to write about lately; the only thing I'm short on is time. (Thanks to Justin for putting a little fire under my ass.) So let this post be a massive, behemoth, wrap-it-all-up, end-of-year blowout bonanza. What is New Year's Eve for if not excess excess excess?

First, some recent memorable dining experiences:

AVANTI: Had a lovely lunch with Tom the other day. One of the great things about working in restaurants is having free time during the day to go out and have fancy lunches (the downside being very little free time to go out and have fancy dinners. But lunch is cheaper, so let restaurant biz win this round). Avanti is one of the two or three great restaurants in Santa Cruz, with an emphasis on fresh, local, and in-season produce. Soif, the restaurant where I used to cook, and Avanti often feature the same ingredients from the same local farms; eating at the two restaurants is like seeing two paintings by different artists who were using the same palette.

We sat at the bar, in keeping with my sister's and my philosophy that the bar is the best place to sit for parties of two (and when you're flying solo). We were ravenous and fell upon the hunks of bread and olive oil with abandon. The olive oil surprised us with its explosive flavor of freshly crushed olives. The bartender confirmed that they let crushed olives and herbs macerate in the oil before pouring it off and serving it. I thought it a great touch and something I'd like to try at home. Next came bruschetta: thick slabs of grilled bread, lightly charred and smoky. One piece was topped with marinated orange-scented beets, the other with a chiffonade of barely-blanched, bright green kale and a mysterious crumbly white cheese (queso fresco?) tossed with hazelnuts and more of that delicious olive oil.

The main courses shone. I had a crispy striped bass served on a steaming, brothy tower of cannelini beans, tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and carrots. The effect was something like a soup, but fresher. Tom had the clear winner: the Poulet Rouge, a half roast chicken brushed with a subtly sweet, rich, red (naturally) wine-based sauce. I had to keep begging for bites to try to suss out the ingredients; I failed. No matter - the slight sweetness brought out the nutty Parmesan of the risotto and was cut nicely by the watercress salad served alongside. I am never one to order chicken (usually Boresville, the mark of a ho-hum eater), but this was a Great Dish. I have a running list in my head of dishes I know I'll crave when I'm pregnant: this is definitely at the top.

The best thing about it all was the price tag. Even with a great glass of wine a piece, the total bill for the whole experience was somewhere around $50, a smoking deal. The same thing at dinner would have been considerably more spendy. I can't wait to go back, for lunch of course, to try the cheese plate: the five cheeses they had available were carefully selected to create a balanced plate that progressed from a mild, smooth triple-creme to a sharp blue. MMM.


GABRIELLA: My brave dining companion boldly ordered the crispy pig's tail. I egged him on, thinking of Laura Ingalls Wilder fighting her sister for it in "Little House in the Big Woods." I imagined a sweet curly little crisp of a tail, ready to pop in your mouth. Instead, a long, crusty carrot-shaped monster lay across the plate, doused in what tasted like little more than Dijon mustard. It lay there with as much menace as I've seen a foodstuff muster. When we ventured a taste, we discovered that most of the interior was what looked like spinal cord, little pig vertebrae coated in a thick layer of mean, dirty-tasting fat. It coated your mouth and lingered, whispering of barnyard and pig sweat and garbage. Needless to say, this was not a hit, but Archie put on his game face and made a valiant effort. I have rarely seen menu bravery so poorly rewarded.

The rest of the meal was good, but not great. My appetizer was a highlight, little rounds of raw hamachi with cool, creamy avocado and a little zest of citrus. Not reinventing the wheel, but simply delicious. Our fruit tart came with housemade limoncello, which I have loved ever since my summer in Venice, and the tart sang with Meyer lemon, another old favorite.


Speaking of Meyer lemons, I pilfered a skillion of them from our tree in Sacramento. They arenow in a big bowl on the kitchen counter, staring up at me and daring me to make my mom's famous lemon cake. I'm not a cake lover (ice cream is my dessert of choice; see blog title) but there are a few I can't turn down. This is one. The cake's dense, butter-rich crumb is tempered by the tang of lemon, which stars in both the batter and the glaze. When the cake is still warm, we prick the surface with a fork and pour on the glaze so it seeps into every slice. You have to eat it when it's still slightly warm! The combination of warm buttery cake and tart lemon-sugar glaze is simply irresistible, and another food for the Pregnancy Craving List.

Other Food Stories of note: on Christmas my mom made Yorkshire pudding, and I was struck as I always am by how good something so simple can be. What is better than a fluff of dough baked in roast drippings? I sound like Ina Garten, I know, but simple, rich pleasures are where it's at. For dessert I made the Blumderful cake, a recipe that has quickly assumed Classic status with our family. It makes the biggest statement of any cake I've ever baked, but is also a huge pain in the ass. The cake part is relatively simple - an angel food cake made rich with egg yolks. You slice it into three layers and spread freshly whipped and only slightly sweetened cream between each layer and all around the outside. The comes the crunch: a crispy yet melt-in-your-mouth coffee flavored candy that you have to make yourself. This is tricky. You must carefully caramelize sugar with corn syrup, coffee, and vanilla, making sure to heat the mixture to EXACTLY 300-310 degrees. When the caramel is the right temperature, you stir in baking powder (I know, weird, right?), which causes the whole mess to puff up in a golden brown explosion. You stir madly to incorporate the powder, trying to keep your cool as the mixture takes on a life of its own. Quickly, you pull the pan off the stove and pour out the froth of candy onto an ungreased baking sheet. There it spreads out and cools; once it's hard, you have at it with a rolling pin or meat pounder and shatter it into a million crunchy little pieces. This you pour over the top of the cake and smoosh into the sides, where the whipped cream holds it in place. You must serve the cake within an hour, max, of adding the candy: upon contact with the cream, it begins to melt into a gooey caramel. This is delicious, but left too long and the cake collapses in a sodden mass. Temperamental!!!

It's a delicious cake, but that goddamned candy. I had to make it THREE times, which my mom thought was HILARIOUS. If you heat it too much, it burns and fills the kitchen with an acrid, relentless smoke. Too little, and your candy is flaccid and pale like taffy. The third time around, my mom supervised, which was both humbling (I'm a cook!!!) and comforting (I love my mom). The third time was a charm, and the cake looked like a lovely tower of caramel and cream, just as it should. Thanks mom.

PHEW! Have you made it this far, dear readers, if in fact you do exist? Let me know.

Here's to 2007, a year of endings, beginnings, and many great meals. And here's to 2008, which I hope holds more of the same. Love to you all.