Cat piss and books

"I think there's a cat here"
"It smells like there's a horde of them"

Indeed it did, for other than the general squalor of the lieu, the first thing that assaulted the senses was a stinging, clinging miasma of concentrated feline urine.

This place sells cookbooks?

Books, yeah, there's a lot of them here - all somehow related to cooking, although I'd expect a few cat lore tomes hidden somewhere in the dusty aisles. This was the right place, a culinary-only used book store somewhere in the urban gumbo of greater Los Angeles. We learned about the place while looking for a book in our favorite bookstore - out of stock, but maybe we could try...

There are about five cookbooks that I'd like to find, and there's nothing better than finding a $40+ cookbook gleaming on the shelves of a used bookseller, it's original price slashed to affordability. Sometimes the books are a bit scribbled in, with helpful notes from their former readers giving the books a sense of history. Most often, they were just unused gifts in pristine condition.

I inquired about a recent book, not expecting them to have it.

"We don't have that," the book purveyor stated flatly, then turned back to whatever she was doing amid stacks of clutter.

"How about...?"

"No, we don't have that either."

"Where would you have similar books?"

"Over there," she pointed. Apparently she was too comfortable to actually move.

So I walked the aisles, scanning for titles of interest. Ah, there's something by Claudia Roden. $35.00. But... this book is $40.00 new, untainted by constant immersion in the cloying fumes of cat urine. Back it went. Ah, something on mezze... with another almost-new price. I tried another book, one that I'd found at a regular used book store, sans eau de chat. Double what I'd paid.

Fearing that the eau de chat would soon impregnate our clothing, our hair, the very pores of our skin, we left.

We thanked the bookseller on the way out, stifling any comments about litter boxes and odor removers. There was no reply as the door shut with a wood and glass clank, sealing off the store from the clean air outside. We took deep breaths, bookless.

Peru comes to Roseville

I really like Peruvian food, and was surprised to see an elegant new Peruvian restaurant opening in Roseville. Normally this is a cuisine that I have to enjoy in Los Angeles, but now I hoped I'd have a new favorite local destination.

This is where I need to say that being in a restaurant management program is definitely not the route to take if you want to enjoy dining out. You see glaring errors by the service, lack of training, bad hostessing, bad management, missed opportunities, dashed expectations, plating errors... all stacking up with a single purpose: to destroy your chances of enjoying all but a very few restaurants. These things can be overlooked at inexpensive dives; plating a burrito or torta ahogada really isn't that critical. But in fine dining, plating a lamb shank with half its meat gone swimming in the sauce in the kitchen becomes a reason never to return. Likewise serving oxidized wine for tasting, opened who knows when. Blowing a dessert by masking the star ingredient in favor of flour and strawberries... not so fine.

This was one of those times where I think of the Turing test when dealing with a wait person. This is the test where you plunk down a human at a terminal and give him or her a few minutes to converse with someone or something at the other end of the line. If the person can't tell if he or she is talking to a machine, it passes the test. Both the waiter and the hostess might have struggled to pass, sometimes giving what seemed like incoherent answers.

The "free wine tasting" poured from a bottle containing perhaps an inch of wine at the bottom. Against my hopes, it was indeed oxidized. Transformed from fragrant wine into something less good, not indicative of its true character. What else can you expect, when the bottle contains 90% air and 10% wine? So, naturally I said something too complicated when asked if I liked the wine: "I don't know, since it was opened too long ago, oxidized and no longer tastes of itself."

What would a good waiter do? He'd say, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize that this had been open so long. I'll open another bottle so you can have a fair taste.". This didn't happen. He just walked away, mumbling something that lowered his Turing score, or just proved that he didn't know spoiled wine from Gatorade - or maybe didn't want to waste house money by opening a bottle that I might not order. So, bad management (not authorizing the wait staff to open new bottles when necessary), or badly trained wait staff? I don't know. Maybe both. One demerit.

Carnitas by another name does indeed taste as porky. It's apparently called "chicharrón" in Peru, but it's made the same as carnitas, from pork butt or pork shoulder - not pork belly. It's simmered then fried, just like carnitas. The sauce and finish are different, but basically it's four or five (I wasn't counting, so let's say five) one inch cubes of pork. Lined up on a plate, each glued down with a dab of pureed sweet potato and topped with a squidge of aioli. Sweetish pork, sweet puree, sweetish onion, a bit of garlic. No acid to kick things into a higher gear, but a price worthy of Campagnolo (expensive bike parts... never mind). That's something that probably runs, what, four bucks a pound or less. Five cubes, lots of negative, aesthetic and empty space around it. Good deal for the house, but it seems the Mexican restaurants can make a profit on carnitas plates that are much more generously endowed and come with rice, beans, salsa and chips to boot. Hmm. Not trying for repeat, non-special occasion business here, are we?

Every time I've eaten a lamb shank, it's had meat going all around the bone, just like it was on the animal. Muscle groups come in opposing sets so the beastie can bend its hoof this way and that. Since muscles only pull - they don't push. This lamb was apparently a mutant, since it only had meat on one side of the bone. Where did the other half go? Presumably it's still in the pot, where it came off the bone during the long braising process. The problem is, from a management point of view, that nobody verified this. It just got plated and served. Nobody cared. Maybe I'm wrong, and they used that piece of meat for something else (I couldn't find lamb anywhere else on the menu, but this proves nothing). So, here I am, surprised to discover as I turn over my shank, that lunch is over. The waiter's attitude was not exactly of service - he didn't care that the wine was long past its prime. There was nobody else in the place who interacted with customers, save the hostess, and she wasn't into smiling herself.

In culinary arts, we learn that if something is based on a principal ingredient, it should actually taste like said ingredient. Our "Passionfruit piece of heaven with forest fruit didn't. With a name like Pedazo de cielo de maracuya con frutas del bosque (if I remember correctly), the passion fruit should jump up and shout, like that paleta I ate in Mexico. Instead, it tasted primarily of strawberries and mint. This was another instance of taking what should probably have been one medium-sized flan-like thing and plating it with some garnishes, maybe even fruit that actually comes from Peruvian woods. It was instead divided into three slider-like mini-things. Pretty, but not a lot of dessert mass for the money.

I wonder what Peruvian forest fruits could be. Peru runs from the Pacific Ocean, over the Andes and into the Amazon rain forest. Lots of opportunities for fruits, so how did Peruvian forest fruits become field-grown strawberries? Perhaps they were grown in Peru, but still... I was expecting something more exotic. A quick search yielded interesting things. Camu camu, cherimoya, maracuya, dragonfruit (Pitajaya)... but not strawberries. Some are available as frozen puree, so presumably they could have made a coulis out of a couple of them and gone wildly Peruvian.

There were two examples of a red wine varietal available by the glass. The waiter did not ask which one I wanted - he merely poured the most expensive, saying that it was the bottle we'd tasted. Our fault? No - it's his job to ask whenever there is more than one price point for the same varietal. Sneaky, sneaky - but we should have paid more attention. Why? We're hoping that the house wants us to come back and won't sneak around. It was a $4.00 difference, not really enough to matter in the monetary sense, but enough to create a strong perception of profit maximization at our expense. Badly done!

Managing expectations is a key term here. You want to exceed expectations, make the customer feel special, cared for, honored. Avoid at all costs making your guests feel like marks in a carny show. 

It's all about perception, not necessarily reality. This creates happy customers who will likely return later and spend more money - part of other key terms like frequency. The basic goals are to get people to come more often and spend more money. Either or both works. Neither is not great, since it leads to bankruptcy after the novelty of the place wears off. These guys set expectations high, then failed to meet them. Tasty food but expensive with small portions. Spoiled wine and perceived indifference by the wait staff. Going for profit over satisfaction and hospitality by pouring the expensive wine while ignoring the more reasonably priced glass of the same varietal, with a perception of house greediness. Perceived missing food in the case of the lamb shank. Leaving the customer to wonder where the main dessert ingredient went, after suggesting the dessert as better than another (more expensive, too - so perception of upselling). Perception of lack of hospitality when the hostess seemed annoyed or worried that I would abscond or otherwise ruin a culinary book set out for display (if you don't want the books touched, but them in a glass case!).

So, here was the result: we felt somewhat swindled from the combination of high prices, small portion sizes, the wine switch and the missing lamb. This was compounded by the waiter's lack of action over the spoiled wine offered for tasting and his failure to ask which Malbec we wanted to order. We didn't feel cared for, since every time we mentioned something wrong, we were met with a mumble, an excuse, and no action whatsoever. Problems arise. Failing to deal with them can be fatal. Fixing them can turn them into assets and create avid, faithful fans who will return.

The final clavo en el ataúd was the hostess as we were leaving, who looked ready to defend a pristine cookbook at the entrance with tooth and nail - but not find out if the house desserts came from its pages. She asked if I had a question. I did. She had no answer. Instead of smiling, finding someone, creating an interaction, a link to the person preparing the food, maybe a reason to return, she ended the conversation, question unanswered. In an empty reception area, she was too busy. Missed opportunity.

I posted the following review elsewhere on the web, where the restaurant might see it and possibly improve things - or start ranting and send nasty PMs... hopefully the former.
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La Huaca Restaurant

This could become a really great restaurant - or vanish, but only time will tell. The food is generally quite good, but everything else... read on!

My star-losing complaints are that I feel like there's a fair amount of portion size sleight of hand going on here relative to the price points. Compounding this, the wait staff seemed more intent on maxing out the check. It seemed like there was no chef in charge, nobody to care for each plate to come out of the kitchen.

The portion size thing would be fine if the prices were lower - I'm all in favor of small plates, but only if they have small prices so I can sample more things. La Huaca likes  to put tiny morsels on one elegant, spacious dish with a lot of air in between. That's some expensive air!

They have a ceviche "bar". Although, it isn't really. See, at a real bar, people sit at bars, interact with the bar chef. Here you order from the menu; the bar maestro does his thing across the room. No interaction. The ceviche is nonetheless fresh,  like pieces of sushi grade fish tossed in a citrus-flavor mix and served, so that it doesn't really "cook" in the marinade so much as soak up the flavor.

Our pork appetizer was like Peruvian carnitas. One inch cubes of tender pork sitting on an orange sweet potato purée, topped with some onion and aioli. The flavors lacked contrast; everything had a bit of a sweet note that would have profited from some acidity to compliment the other flavors. At half the price, this might be worth getting.

The lamb shank sat buried in sauce, with a dab of beans at its side. The meat was indeed falling off the bone, for when I turned the shank over, there was no meat there, just a bare bone. Huh? Where's the rest of my food? A mistake? Or not? Half the meat? That's not fair! I paid for that meat. Didn't I?

When you name something "passion fruit piece of heaven with forest fruit" (my translation from the Spanish), you expect it to taste like passion fruit first and everything else second. Sorry. The star - maracuya - was almost a no show, drowned by strawberry and mint. Another plate of mostly air:  three small, cakey things arranged on a plate.

Free wine tasting is supposed to be an amenity, but my first taste came from a bottle that sat open too long: feh!. When I pointed this out to the waiter, he just walked off. He didn't return with a freshly opened bottle so I could taste the wine as its maker intended, but instead offered a taste of another varietal. Things didn't get better, either.

One varietal appears twice on the wine list: two glasses with a four dollar price difference. When I ordered that varietal, he brought the most expensive glass without even asking which I wanted. His excuse? "I poured out of the expensive bottle, so you should have known." Fail!

Oh, one more thing. Those beautiful cook books at the entrance? LEAVE THEM ALONE! I tried looking up the passion fruit dessert (not there) and the hostess came over to hover around and ask if I had questions. I did - but she couldn't answer them. She was there to Protect the Book. I noticed from outside that she carefully checked the book for damage (none) and carefully put in in its place on the table.

Museo Maya-whatever

Part of culinary arts training is how to make people comfortable in your restaurant. The motive may not be so altruistic - comfortable people "contribute" more and come back more often, but still. The alternative is worse.

We tried Museo Mayahuel, or Mayahuel Cafe, or whatever they're trying to call it. It's across from the Imax theater, kind of, on K street. It's not even clear where the front door is.

We arrived, and were warmly greeted by a fellow who put together a table for us. The next person was also friendly and helpful.

Then our waitress arrived. It was all crash and burn from there.

We ordered a sampler plate, then a combination. Oops. One of the dishes- the one on the combination - was not being made. Not clear if it was not being made ever again, or just not that day, but in any case, it was still listed on the combination plate. Oh. They just swap it for something else, but the waitress was not in any mood to run to the kitchen and find out what exactly the substitution was. Obviously, she didn't find out before her shift, either.  Bad.

Then she asked what if we wanted drinks. In culinary school, you never ask an open, vague question like that. It's "Hey, we've got some great margaritas and Mexican beers, can I tempt you...?" I asked if they had aguas frescas. "No", she said, in an irritated tone, like why would a Mexican restaurant pretending to be authentic have something like that? Never mind that it would likely be present in Mexico. So, we ordered water - we'd never seen a drink menu, so we didn't even have a clue what they were capable of providing. Nobody gave me a better alternative, so I cheaped out. What did they expect with an "I don't give a shit" attitude like that?

Then the food. Many things were dinner only. Some things were listed, but MIA. I don't know why. Nobody explained it to me.

We ordered some kind of ancho chili bruchetta. Like braised chilis on toast, not much heat, no acid balance, underseasoned.

Then the main course. No cochinita pibil. No fish - that's dinner only. So, despite their claims to Mexico City or wherever gastronomic delights it basically came down to enchiladas, chile verde, the usual gang of suspects. Yeah, they did have grilled meat - but I'd just been to Gallitos Grill in L.A. where they do that kind of thing to perfection and wasn't inclined to try a local version.

Chile verde. Something I could make as well at home. Washed down with water, surveyed sporadically by a surly waitress who could not have been trained in her job.

I really don't get it. You see, the waiter at the table next to ours did things right. He proposed drinks, people ordered. They laughed. It was fun. Their tab was probably at least $10 per person higher than ours, money in his pocket and happy guests willing to return.

Our grumpy waitress asked what dessert we wanted, while one of us was halfway though the main course, without bothering to even give us a dessert menu or describe what was available. "Let me eat my lunch, dammit!" is not something a waitress should hear, not if she wants people to give her a decent tip and come back another day. Not if she doesn't want them to write things like this on a blog where they can be found by prospective clients of the restaurant or - worse - her boss. But then, it seems she's not too enamored with her job anyway.

Needless to say, we won't go back. I'll look through my Mexican cookbooks - Diana Kennedy will not let me down! Then again, I could just go to a great local place - Chando's, Palenque, Lalo's... and get friendly service with great food.

Too bad - I'd hoped to find a real jewel of a restaurant, something that whisked me away to Mexico City to dine on innovative food that I hadn't eaten in some other version fifty times before.

_______

August 2012. Time passes into the future, two months' worth. To date, these words have never been seen by human eyes other than mine, at least according to Google. The restaurant's reputation, if any, remains unchanged. Nobody was warned to avoid our waitress. People will still eat the chili verde here instead of somewhere better and cheaper.


Some blogs get thousands of hits per day, even more. Mommy blogs are apparently the shiznits. So are "simple recipe" blogs. Well, I'm screwed. I'm not a mommy, and nobody goes to chef school to make "simple recipes" although we can. It's just that it's easier to go from complicated and understood to simple than the inverse. Sigh. I shall fade into the ether, remaining forever anonymous.

El Tepeyac Cafe arrives in Northern California!

El Tepeyac's logo, enjoying a burrito

I've been going to El Tepeyac Cafe since 1978 (more here), when I started college and was introduced to the place by a burrito-crazed friend. I try to eat there at least once every time I go to Los Angeles, 400 miles away. This was a good, safe distance since eating burritos that weigh almost as much as the typical house cat does not qualify as dieting. More like a burrito binge. Safe, if only done a few times per year.

The owner, Manuel, did mention something about an El Tepeyac opening in Northern California somewhere around Sacramento, but that was probably a year ago, and since the place didn't exist I figured that they'd changed their mind. Until last week. There is was, in letters big as the Internet: Panchito's El Tepeyac Cafe now open in Rocklin.

Rocklin? OhmyGodImgoingtobloatuplikeawhale! Three hundred eighty miles closer. A mere 25 minutes. A granny on a bicycle could go there and back in a day. Jump in the car, five stomach growls and I'm there, ordering a Hollenbeck or a Machaca burrito or taquitos or...

Saturday arrived, and I couldn't restrain myself any longer. As the lunch hour arrived, we sped to Rocklin, anticipating a significant wait. I thought we'd hang out in line with other fans, swapping burrito stories (...Remember the time you dropped the tray and scattered exploded burrito bits all over the patio..."). We arrived. Empty. The open sign glowed in the window. We approached the door. Unlocked. We entered. "Sit wherever you like," said Amanda, the waitress. One table was occupied by a couple. Everything else was a surreal emptiness.

In the L.A. restaurant, the wait is part of the ritual. Nobody just walks into an empty El Tepeyac Cafe and sits down. You stand in line, maybe say, "hello" to Manuel, chat.

Yet, here we were, in a booth,with menus in our hands, Panchito's El Tepeyac Cafe written on them. We were indeed in the right place.

I managed to avoid saying, "I don't need no stinkin' menu". Good thing, because Pancho added a burrito! Aptly named Pancho's Nightmare, it's picante. Five chili variety picante. I didn't order it, though. I wanted to compare So Cal to Nor Cal, so Hollenbeck it was.

When the luscious, steaming mound arrived, dripping with chili verde sauce, its tortilla bulging to the point of bursting, it was instant flashback to L.A. This is indeed a Hollenbeck! I sliced through the tortilla, its thin flesh yielding to the knife, exposing the first layers of flavor. Subsequent bites reached the bright green guacamole, the ingredient that really makes these things blast off. I popped a morsel of tender pork into my mouth. Heat. This burrito has a bit of chili in it. Could it be?

Thirty years ago, one friend would eat about a third of his burrito and begin to sweat. As he ate, his forehead transformed into a shower head as the chilis affected his metabolism. He hasn't sweated like that in years, and I found the East L.A. Hollenbecks tamer, too.

Now, here I was feeling the old bite like the Hollenbeck of the seventies, the once familiar tang of capsaicin-infused peppers returning like a long-lost friend. This was more like the burrito of my youth, a bit fiery yet balanced by cool guacamole and other ingredients into a whole that more than equaled the sum of its parts. This was the burrito I dreamed of while living in France, savory spicy cool and rich all bound together by a thin membrane of tortilla.

When I was twentysomething, I found that eating at Manuel's more than once per week leads to a noticeable increase in mass. I suppose I could have ordered lighter things than massive burritos, but I didn't. They were my first love, more faithful than that girl with the long hair who drove a two-tone Datsun 510. I probably went there with her, though. I probably went there with just about everyone I know in L.A.

Most of those people are forgotten, but Hollenbecks are eternal. They're not Mexico authentic, since they were invented in Los Angeles by a true master of the burrito craft. Authenticity? Who cares? I can get tacos al pastor, carnitas, buche, carne asada, chili verde and the usual gang of suspects just about anywhere nowadays. What I can't get is a Hollenbeck, unless I go to El Tepeyac. Only one restaurant on the entire planet where I can eat this. That's special.

It's funny though. Every Mexican restaurant has a combination burrito. Many have rice, beans, meat, and even guacamole, yet none come close to the flavor of a Hollenbeck. Maybe it's the sour cream, that Hollenbecks don't have. It's not something I generally want in my burrito anyway. It's cold. It takes up space better reserved for a big ladle of guacamole. Yeah, the guac is also cold, but it adds a lot more flavor and has a better mouthfeel than sour cream. There's also the chili blend, another unique to El Tepeyac flavor profile that happens to marry incredibly well with the avocado.

Don't get me wrong - I like sour cream. I just don't want it in my burrito, competing with an excellent dose of guacamole. It's fine on nachos, whatever. Just spare me the creamy stuff in my burrito.

Time will tell if Northern California, or more specifically Rocklin, will embrace this food as their new icon of delicious. They should, but then we're a long way from East L.A. If good food is indeed universal, they should be full in a month or two and packed soon thereafter. I certainly hope so, because I really don't want to drive 400 miles every time I'm jonesin' for a burrito.

Panchito's El Tepeyac Cafe. 6835 Five Star Blvd, Rocklin, CA 95677
(916) 625-0165

You can visit their web site here.

Chef vs. Critic. The pen is mightier than the toque.

I like reading restaurant reviews. Some, because the writing is so bad that it makes me wonder why the writer is still employed. Others more because of the writer's style and use of prose paint an enticing picture of a restaurant. Then there are those that give insight into the restaurant's approach, the plates, the flavors. Then there are pieces that really don't fit into any of these categories.

Instead of painting a picture of what someone might expect to find, enjoy, eat and experience at the restaurant, a local food critic embedded this data in a critique of what the restaurant's owner should have done. He griped about the architecture, how the place wasn't "Bohemian" enough, how the chairs were funky. Thus, I read the piece as more an attack on the restauranteur's failure to conform to the reviewer's expectations than a fact-based review of the establishment.

In the context of the review the dishes seemed disappointing, even though the reviewer apparently liked them. So, the overall review - although it got enough stars - seemed negative. Like the place was somehow a failure in the critic's view: too-serious waiters, predictable, just not fun enough.

Even with great food, who would want to dine in a stodgy, predictable restaurant run by someone who abandoned his vision, to eat food and quaff drink served by pompous waiters? Would you go, knowing it to be cursed with bad architecture and infested with ugly chairs?

I have no quibbles about the part where the critic actually reviews the food, despite a minor glitch over an ingredient. So it wasn't orzo. No big deal.

Understandably, the restaurant's owner did not take kindly to the review. So he replied, using Facebook. He made a lot of good points - notably that the restaurant is successful, he likes it the way it is (so do a lot of other people, apparently). There was a bit of an attack on the reporter of the "who is he to criticize, anyway?" variety.

Many people commented. Most, if not all, were supportive of the restaurant. Some went so far as to lambaste the reviewer, thereby incurring his wrath.

A few days went by, and the reviewer - who never bothered to reply in Facebook - wrote another article, this time expressing surprise at the reaction at the rancor over his review. A review he believed to be positive, in fact.

I didn't read it as especially positive. I thought it was strange to attack a restaurant based on what direction its owner did not take, setting the food reviews in a bed of criticism. I thought reporting was based on facts: interviews with the owner, direct tasting, all that stuff. This read more like an editorial piece, advocating change.

The critic's second piece devoted over 800 words explaining what critics do, what they know and how many restaurants they've been to. Apparently becoming a restaurant critic involves nothing more than being a reporter who gets the critic job. No culinary arts training, no superior knowledge of food origins, process or preparation. No experience working in an actual restaurant. I don't expect food writers to attend chef school, but what exactly is their path from no clue to Expert Critic? Taste buds and a nose? Read a few cookbooks and you, too, can be a Revered Critic (B.A. in journalism required)? That's it?

Isn't that like a science writer who can't tell a photon from a prion? Yes, a reporter can theoretically write an excellent piece using investigative techniques. But when something is set down in front of you for your dining pleasure, shouldn't you have some prior knowledge of how it's typically prepared, so you can better communicate the restaurant's style of preparation, its choice of ingredients? Saying something is yummy, tasty, bad or heavenly is not, after all, great journalism. More must be said, vivid descriptions of the presentation, flavors, balance; in short, make the reader experience what it's like to savor the food and revel in the atmosphere (or lack thereof) of the restaurant.

Before writing about what was presumably in the restaurant owner's head several years ago versus now, wouldn't it be better to interview said owner after all your tasting was done and your food reviews written? Find out what he's thinking, where he's going, what he loves and hates, why things are the way they are?

Yet, who am I to question established wisdom? Another journalist wrote that bloggers are not journalists. We're something else. Not necessarily bad, just not bona fide journalists. So I'm just an outsider howling in the wilderness. Ignore my questions, since they're from Outside the System. But I still think I'm right. Knowing a subject gives more insight, doesn't it? Interviewing the owner and chef would give insight, wouldn't it?

After the War of the Pens, the critic and chef allegedly talked on the phone for about an hour. The critic deleted some offending text that apparently was not kind to the chef. The chef deleted his entire original Facebook post (even the valid, non-insulting parts), then apologized in Facebook for things he said that were less than flattering to the reviewer. All is well. They're friends again.

Personally, I think the chef lost. I think that the critic, with free access to publishing to a large number of people, convinced him that argument was not in his best interests. Force won, again.

The critic also managed to promote a local blog that agreed with his review on all but two points. Not exactly neutral. Will he mention this blog although I'm critical of the style of the review?

The critic, who seems just as thin-skinned as the chef about people demeaning his skills or qualifications, managed to insult all who comment from the online community by calling them insincere and not credible. If the online community is not worth bothering with, why do they have a feedback/comment function on their web site? Oh. I'm not a journalist, so I have no right to question Established Wisdom. But still...

The moral of this story? If you're a restaurant owner and victim of a strange and perhaps unjust review, just let it slide. The critic has the entire power of the press to attack you. He may not be especially fair about it, either. Your defense will probably be quixotic at best; remember that Most Chefs Are Not Writers, and you're probably no exception. You're going up against Dirty Harry with a pop-gun. Give up now, unless you consider that there is no such thing as bad publicity.

Another moral would be as a reviewer and critic, wouldn't it be normal to expect scathing attacks (or counterattacks)? Isn't that part of the process of free speech? Shouldn't staying calm when people query your competence be part of your professional demeanor? Wouldn't the weapons of sharp wit and scintillating prose work better than anger and revenge, if those emotions were indeed present?

A third moral is that you apparently really don't need to know anything specialized to become a journalist in that field. One size fits all. Know the right people, get the job, eat some food, start writing. You're now an Expert Critic! No wonder people frequent all those public review sites - the public may have greater knowledge than the professionals in many cases!

This could have been less rancorous on both sides, but maybe that wasn't the intent. Maybe rancor means excitement. Excitement means sales. Sales mean staying employed in difficult times.


Note: Any remarkable resemblance between the people in the illustration and the real people I'm writing about is just proof that I'm psychic. I don't know what either of them looks like, except that they're both male. I think.

Come for the patio, stay for the food

Is this a great space, or what?

Crispy Barramundi

Journeyman's lunch

Bourbon Chocolate Cake

Sometimes a place just grabs you and pulls you in. I was minding my own business, when I happened to smell something enticing, and this after I'd finished a filling lunch. Then I saw the space: an open, modern patio with a linear concrete fountain, bocce court, fire pits and tables arranged around the perimeter. At the rear of the patio, a modern structure with floor to ceiling windows showcased the kitchen, its staff busy prepping dinner. The main restaurant building stood to the left, housing the wood-burning oven from whence emerged that enticing fragrance of woodsmoke.

Today, when the question of lunch came up, an image of this place appeared. Never refuse a vision, especially when it might lead to an interesting meal. I didn't even know the place's name. There was no sign on the building, anywhere - a true Restaurant X.

I was expecting something Italian, after seeing that Bocce court. So, when the menu arrived, it came with a side of cognitive dissonance. Duck confit? Crispy barramundi, chicken with polenta... wood-fired pizza... Yeah, it's Italian, but a bit French, with a good helping of contemporary American in there, too. And I now knew the place's name: Union on Yale. Hmm. I almost liked Restaurant X better.

With choices like that, choosing something would be difficult. Confit, flatiron steak, wood-fired grilled scallops... I chose the barramundi. My companions chose the journeyman and a turkey avocado bacon sandwich.

The barramundi was as described: a perfectly seasoned fillet, topped with crispy skin, lying on a bed of greens surrounded by bean-turnip purée. Simple, elegant and tasty.

I had no idea what a ploughman's was. I thought it was a kind of sandwich, but instead it was a mix of clams and mussels in a tomato sauce. I thought the sauce tasted more French than Italian, maybe built on a base of mirepoix and stock, without the Italian basil-oregano flavor profile. I managed to steal a spoonful for a taste, but I have expert testimony for the freshness of the seafood. At the end of the meal, nothing remained but the shells; no piece of toast, no sauce.

On the sandwich side, the turkey-avocado arrived amid a mass of golden brown potatoes. They looked like half-length julienne fries, until I tried one. Instead of solid slices of potato, they were somehow formed from a purée, light and airy but less substantial than strips carved intact from a mother spud. The sandwich lived up to the turkey moniker, but the avocado was more a thin green line spread onto the bread than the expected generous slice that would stand up and proclaim its identity as co-flavor. The sandwich worked, due in large part to the support of crispy bacon slices and the full flavor of the turkey breast, brined and roasted on the premises.

They only had one dessert. Chocolate bourbon cake. "How chocolate is it," I asked. "Very," the waitress replied. It was. Flourless, with a deep chocolate flavor and a bit of sour-sweet crunch thanks to a liberal sprinkling of translucent pomegranate seeds. All that work on plating, a beautiful, edible piece of art wiped out in a rush of spoons.

Wine - any wine - is currently $10 per glass. They're working on getting their cellar up and running, move on to sell bottles, but for now they're working it out. The current wine list may or may not work; some wines are still around, but others aren't, but they did have substitutes for what we wanted. They're still learning about flavor profiles, so hopefully by the time their wine cellar is stocked they'll have someone who knows them well.

If you're more the cocktail type, they do have a full bar. During our lunch, it seemed that margaritas were the thing to get.

You can eat, hang out or perhaps even play a game of bocce at Union On Yale at 232 Yale Ave in Claremont. Just look for the place with a great outdoor space, at least until they get their signs installed.

Thirty-three years of burritos

All that fancy gourmet stuff is fine, but sometimes you just have to go back to your roots, bathe your tongue in thirty year old memories, remember the times you spent in that very spot, and wonder what happened to the people you knew back when...

We'd stop by El Tepeyac on the way back from school in 1978. I'd just started college, and my friend Mike decided to give me a valuable education in burritos. We'd go in his beat-up gold Chevy Nova, its black cloth seats smelling of time in the sun, early morning fishing trips and stale tobacco smoke. We'd inch forward in line, awaiting our turn at the order window, then the pick-up window. With a shout of "Hollenbeck! Machaca!", our burritos were handed out, creaking on sagging cardboard trays, rapidly passed out the window in a frantic moment where the price of failure would be the splat of several pounds of burrito hitting the concrete. Balancing them as best we could, we'd return to our table to devour them in the reddish-gold light streaming through the colored glass of the patio. All this fit well within a student's budget at around four bucks per burrito.

Phil and I loved the Hollenbeck, even though it made his forehead drip sweat. Mike's favorite was the machaca burrito, from which he'd carefully remove every trace of green lest a fiery jalapeño leave him gasping. We even tried a Manuel's special, a sleeping bag sized invention of the restaurant's owner. Once. One burrito, three people. I think we might have even finished it. Maybe. Then there was the machaca burrito. Shredded beef, eggs, sautéed onions, cheese and chunks of those incandescent jalapeños, now bred out of existence.

My friend Mike is now departed, but Manuel is still at the door greeting people. There have been some changes at the restaurant, too. The menu is a bit longer, and the Hollenbeck burrito is available with chicken and asada along with the traditional pork. The Hollenbeck runs almost ten bucks, the machaca a bit more. The silly little pile of lettuce no longer comes with the Hollenbeck. The machaca burrito now adds rice and beans to its former meat, onions, egg, fresh jalapeños and cheese. Those screaming hot peppers are but a memory.

What's in a Hollenbeck? Mass, and lots of it. Take a tortilla big enough to cover your entire head and face. Throw in some slow-cooked chili verde pork, then some freshly made guacamole, some rice, some beans. Wrap everything up like a small pillow, then pour some tomato-chili sauce over the top and drop some more chunks of the pork on top. Serve steaming hot. Eat fast, before your stomach realizes what you're up to. Don't drink large amounts of fluid for at least an hour - your stomach needs to work uninterrupted.

As for the Manuel's Special, just imagine the Hollenbeck. Double it. No, bigger. Triple it. This burrito is indeed larger than the average human stomach. The last time we ate one, it took four people. Just seeing a burrito that large is something that should be on everyone's bucket list. Put it last on the list if you plan on eating the whole thing at one sitting.

When we go, we look at our shadows, reaching back thirty years across the worn concrete of the patio. We have wives, families, responsibilities, retirement. We talk about old friends who've disappeared from sight. Mammon is more likely to be the focus of conversation than Venus. We think of playing outside under the sun instead of on computers, talking instead of texting; of times when driving a car meant freedom instead of obligation.

We don't bring our wives. They don't approve of this kind of mass consumption.

El Tepeyac Cafe is so famous that I probably don't need to even list the address, but journalistic integrity requires that all the information be here: 812 North Evergreen Avenue, Los Angeles.

In through the Open Door

Do the words, "Berkshire Pork Fat Mochi" give you any instant cravings? Or do you wince in disgust, thinking that only a pork-addled fool would even consider ordering such a thing? I hope it's the latter, because that leaves more for me!

The pork fused with the mochi by some alchemical magic, creating a smoky, umami mouth bomb accented with confetti-like nori. That shishito is more for looks than heat, since this is December after all: the plants need heat for heat. Dribbled over and around this marshmallow-shaped ball of doctor-scorned wonder lies a light ochre sauce. Maybe it's miso based. Maybe not, but it's the grace note that really makes the dish happen. This is not a regular menu item, so if pork is your thing be sure to order some while you can.

The scene is the Open Door Restaurant, a tiny izakaya nugget encrusted in a thick vein of mini-mall. Their take on this cuisine is fusion French-Japanese-everything else. You might find bone marrow logs sliced down the center and roasted. Perhaps duck confit tacos. Maybe something involving foie gras, maybe paired with sea urchin. You never know, but the odds are that the dish will indeed work, no matter how strange it may seem.

Whatever isn't on the menu gets scrawled in multicolored chalk on a large blackboard. Right now, Christmas lights provide most of the illumination, so diners would cross the dark room, squinting, to find their amuse-guele nirvana. Like those pork fat mochi balls. Heaven.

Adventures with small plates is what this place is about. Go ahead, mix it up. Everything is à la carte. Take some risks. If you don't like something, odds are someone else at your table will. There are twists on Japanese street food. Truffle butter edamame, takoyaki, inari... but they're elevated to fine dining status by an inventive twist where a sauce drizzles in, an extra step is applied. Often they pair ingredients, juxtaposing something unknown to your typical Samurai with something his obaa-san would have served.

We typically start with our favorite sashimi, white fish yuzu. They don't specify the fish - a wise move allowing them to pick the freshest white fish for their menu without getting locked in to a particular variety. The plate is a simple fan of thinly sliced fish, dabbed with something green, drizzled with yuzu, accented with a shiso leaf and a pickled cherry. At least I think it's a cherry. It's red, sour, and has a pit.

Then something perhaps a bit bolder, building up to bigger flavors. Chawanmushi arrives in a heavy bowl heated hot enough to burn Asian symbols in your arm, the custard inside heaving like something from Yellowstone. Hints of fish and vegetables infuse the soft custard. Another bite, a piece of shrimp this time, another.... shiitake. Another? Nope. Empty.

More food arrives. Takoyaki: little balls of something resembling pancake batter, topped with a bit of sauce, bits of seafood inside. Spicy weiners, really spicy. Hotter than those shisitos. Then eggplant miso cools things down again with simple eggplant rounds tossed in some kind of miso-based sauce and sprinkled with roasted sesame seeds. Then the yaki onigiri, triangular rice balls, fried, sitting on a sheet of seaweed (nori), topped with ume (pickled plum), shredded salmon or nothing at all. Break off a piece of the rice, wrap it with nori and enjoy. Yes, you need to eat the nori or the thing will taste flat. Besides, nori is good for you.

They don't stop with the food, either. Japanese micro-brews? How about a beer made from rice, like a gently bubbling very light sake? It's here. If you can pronounce it, it's yours for the tasting: koshinikari echigo. Say it just like it's written and you'll do fine. Don't expect big, bold flavor. It's extremely subtle, light and ever so sake-like. Some fools have called it bland, but pair it with delicate food and you'll find that it's the perfect foil to something like sashimi where you don't want an Arrogant Bastard who will grab all the glory.

Or, if you'd like a white ale that's a bit more Belgian, just say Hitachino Nest White Ale, o kudasai. There's even a cute red owl on the label. Sugoi!

Yes, they have sake. Probably more kinds than the beer, so if sake adventure is your thing, you'll be happy. But you get more beer for your buck.

Service is very attentive, and they will happily tell you of their current favorite dishes. You could get a comment like, "not many people dare to order that." Don't worry - if you like the main ingredient, you'll probably love the dish. My wife still talks about that bone marrow log, months after the meal (it's off the menu now, alas).

They don't allow photos of their food. There's a big sign on the door, then a notice in bold on the menu. No photos of any kind, not even blurry low-light grainy out of focus horrors snapped by cell phones. I would think that photos posted all over the place would be free publicity, but since those photos rarely if ever look appetizing they may have a point. They didn't say anything about doing an illustration afterwards, so hopefully they won't send Hideo* after me for retribution.

The Open Door sits in the back corner of a mini-mall at Atlantic and Garvey in Monterey Park (on the southeast corner if you're approaching from the South on Atlantic). Their address is 122 South Atlantic Blvd, but that may not help much unless you're just using it to program your GPS.

* Neuromancer.

It's Greek, but not as you knew it

serious chops!

the moussaka

The Great Fry Mountain!

Greek food's on the foodie map. Hot new cookbooks, restaurants that move away from soggy gyro sandwiches into things you might really find in Greece. Variety, freshly prepared ingredients: fish, lamb, beef, chicken. Grilled, baked, braised. Time to find out what all the fuss is about.

The Los Angeles Times wandered into Orange County and found Kentro Greek Kitchen. I followed a few weeks later.

This restaurant is a bright, modern space painted black and white instead of the typical blue and white. You order at the counter, take a number and they bring your food. Like the space, the menu is no-nonsense. Simply grilled meats, copious sandwiches. Salads, including beet.  Appetizers, even charbroiled octopus. Greek wine, Greek beer, Greek coffee (more on that later).

Yes, they have pita bread sandwiches, in new guise. Gyro sandwiches are gone, replaced with charbroiled pork, roasted and pulled chicken, braised lamb. I didn't eat one, though.

I didn't eat the flatbread, either, kind of like Greek mini-pizzas with things like arugula, figs, honey (all on one pizza).

I did taste the faques soup - lentils, tomatoes, celery and carrots punctuate a light herbal tomato-based broth. The lentils support the overall flavor; they're not the central focus here, so you get a progression of flavors as each vegetable gives a nod as it passes.

The loukaniko sausage - available as an appetizer or on a flatbread - comes sliced on a platter, grill smoke mixing with the meat and herbs for a savory bite just waiting for a dip into some fresh tzatziki sauce. The mezzedaki (appetizer) plate adds kefalotiri cheese and a couple of lamb chops. And that wonderful, tangy dill-infused creamy tzatziki sauce.

I suppose they'd lose their Greek cred if they skipped the moussaka. You can lose the gyros, but axe this dish and Helen of Troy will roll in her grave. This version is lighter, airier than most. Its flavors mingle, yet remain distinct without collapsing into a dense mass in the oven. It builds on thinly sliced potatoes on the bottom, adds eggplant and tomato sauce, then a thin layer of béchamel over the top. You can pick and choose between layers. You can have one bite dominated by eggplant and tomato; the next thinly sliced potatoes lightly graced with the béchamel. Or, you can try to smash three inches of moussaka layers into one all-encompasing mouthful and hope for the best.

I didn't go there. It wasn't my moussaka, and a containment failure would be embarrassing, to say the least.

My choice was lamb chops. They arrived in a generous pile, nestled next to a virtual mountain of fries, accented with a dollop of that luscious tzatziki. Ah, that was a marriage made in heaven: bistro-style fries flavored with kefalotiri cheese, dipped in olive oil infused yogurt tzatziki with its hints of dill and cucumber. Then a bite of the lamb, rubbed briefly in that sauce so its rich herbal flavor could counterpart the acidity of the sauce. Then a sip of Amethystos red wine.

They were out of galaktobouriko. Wait. No, we were in luck, a fresh batch was just coming out of the oven. Dessert would make an appearance after all. After allowing fifteen minutes for the dessert to cool, it arrived at our table. Flaky phyllo over yellowish custard, with not-so-flaky phyllo on the bottom that worked hard to prevent cutting the dessert. Despite the bottom phyllo layer, the dessert was a success due to the great job they did on the custard. Again, light and well-seasoned.

The final dot at the end of the meal was the coffee, Greek style. Elleniko, to be exact. Kind of redundant, like Greek Greek coffee. Interesting. Like espresso with sugar, but made differently. Somehow the grounds, a bit of sugar and water are combined in some brewing device, heated in a manner involving a bubble, then served in a small cup, like espresso. Except for the flavor, and the quarter inch of coffee grounds in the bottom of the cup. Brewing coffee this way really changes the flavor profile, not at all like adding sugar to already-brewed American coffee. Kind of a surprise on the first sip, then a bit of doubt: "do I like this". Another sip. Well... Another sip. Yeah, I think I could get used to this stuff.

There are still a lot of things waiting for me on the menu, calling my name in seductive Helen-like voices. Flat breads, octopus, dolmades, spanakopita, grilled fish with dandelion greens...

It's really too bad stomachs don't hold more food.

Kentro lives in a kind of "restaurant mall". Parking is strange - the closer you park to the restaurant, the less time you can stay in the space. Not a problem if you don't mind walking across a parking lot as a price you pay to enjoy a more leisurely meal. They're at 100 South Harbor Boulevard  in Fullerton. If you're coming from the 91 freeway up Harbor, turn before your GPS tells you that you've arrived. If you go straight, you'll miss the parking lot and have to circle around. The Amtrak station is across the lot from the restaurant, so you could even arrive in style by train.

Banh Mi!

It was a long, hungry drive from Sacramento to L.A. Although it's great getting here early, it also means no In-N-Out stop for lunch, since they don't open until 10:30 am. Nobody would likely call glass of orange juice and a banana hearty fare for the road, healthy as it may be.

So, upon arrival I headed to Banh Mi My Tho in Alhambra for a very tasty grilled pork sandwich. In case you've never heard of them, banh mi are a Vietnamese-French hybrid sandwich: French baguette, Vietnamese grilled pork, fresh hot chili slices, cilantro, shredded carrots, green onions, cucumber, vinaigrette. They're a great deal - a sandwich maybe six inches long won't even cost you three bucks.

These guys make the sandwich to order while you wait in a crowded, tiny market-like space, surrounded by Asian language newspapers, a large refrigerator full of all kinds of drinks, packaged foods, a display case full of egg rolls and some kind of meatballs, and other people waiting for their orders.

There's nowhere to eat inside, although there is a bench outside, more for waiting than eating, I'd guess. So, away we went, a sack full of sandwiches in hand.

After starving half a day, I grabbed my sandwich at the first red light and took a bite. The baguette crunched, yielding to softer dough, then the chewier meat and fluffy veggies. I took another bite, as the banh mi's mix of sweet-sour and savory flavors filled my mouth. Hunger began to abate. Another bite - this time with a big hit of fresh chili flavor, then feel the burn. Then cilantro... A very interesting sandwich and a great way rescue myself from the clutches of road trip hunger.

In case you're in the area with some cash money (they don't do plastic) you can visit Banh Mi My Tho at 304 W Valley Blvd in Alhambra.

Lunch at the Crocker Art Museum

Real food bloggers obsessively haul their cameras around, snapping typically washed-out, poorly focused images of whatever sits on their table. I happen to think this is going too far, and refuse to transform a convivial table into a food porn stage. Besides, sketches are more fun since I can alter reality a bit. Put the soup next to the burger when they arrived sequentially. Add art where there was none. Remove the other diners. Change the burgundy blend wine into a rosé that they didn't have.

I'd heard about the burgers, made from high quality beef, prepared under the watchful eye of someone from Mulvaney's, their buns a perfect balance of sponginess and structure. The meat beefy and succulent; the sauce dripping with blue cheese with a few strips of smoky bacon appearing randomly as the burger is devoured. The fries, recently whole fresh potatoes, now succulent and crispy.

The truth is, the burger was well executed. The rather sparse bacon hid like a shy pig, then resisted being bitten through. The meat and cheese played well together atop fresh leaves of lettuce. The bun indeed held it all together without being tough or disintegrating into sauce-laden stain bombs. So, despite the light bacon dose, one of Sacramento's better burgers.

The fries were more of a mystery. Although sculpted from fresh potatoes, flavorful and fresh, they lacked crunch. They lay on the plate, golden yet limp and relaxed, yielding to the teeth without that all so important initial crunch. Were they not pre-soaked to reduce their starch content? Were they fried in a single dipping instead of having a rest between dunkings? My friend asked if I was going to inspect the kitchen, but I resisted. Sometimes ignorance is, if not bliss, at least more conducive to an enjoyable lunch with friends than on the spot investigation of arcane french fry gastronomy.

Today's soups were sausage and gazpacho. I happen to love gazpacho, but initially received the sausage instead. It smelled wonderful, but back it went. Summer calls for at least one cup of gazpacho, when all its ingredients are at their peak. It arrived with a flourish. Mellow red, cool as a cucumber with a bit of spice coming in like castanets in a flamenco serenade, it soothed yet stimulated as tomato tangoed with cucumber, garlic and chili heat.

Overall, the prices were reasonable, considering that the cafe is located in an art museum - a locale known more for high prices and mediocre food. The burgers cost about what they'd run in a more upscale burger joint. There were some quirks, like one diner receiving about half the portion of fries as the others - but overall the service was prompt and professional. The high point was the gazpacho, not by any lack in the burger, but because it's not something I eat often and this version was done quite well.

The rare and elusive Beckyjo pie, captured

These pies go fast. They're not easy to spot, sitting at or above eye level on top of the deli case at Corti Brothers Market. This pie was Blackberry Pluot, a mouth-pleasing mix of tart and sweet with the emphasis on tart, overlaid with a buttery note for richness.

When I arrived after noon on a Saturday, only two pies remained. Naturally when I left only a lone pie sat waiting (probably not for long). These things are selling like hotcakes, even though they're neither hot nor cakes. They're hand pies, and come in sweet and savory variations with an emphasis on the sweet (at this time). You can read more about them here.

What Apple Eats

The Apple Apple.

This is an apple from Apple. It's organic, of course. If you work at Apple HQ, they're free. If you're invited by an Apple employee, they're also free. No, it's not a Macintosh; it's a Royal Gala. (?!) Go figure.

The Apple cafeteria is really spiffy. There's a wood-burning oven for pizza, a burrito station where you can custom order the burrito of your dreams, Northern California style. Roast chicken, both for in-house dining and to-go awaits, not far from the roast beef station. There's an incredible salad bar. For dessert, you can have a really nice coffee flavored cake or sorbetto. There are gleaming steel and plastic machines capable of brewing your favorite blend from Starbucks.

Maybe you can have other things on other days. I don't know, since I was only invited there once for dinner, by a friend who is an employee. "Lunch is even better," I was told. There were a lot of covered grills on the patio, apparently put to use only during the midday meal. There was also a full wood-burning oven on wheels, giving new meaning to the term "to go". I never did find where it actually goes, though. It was just parked next to the grills.

That's the only way into this sanctum in Cupertino. The general public has to content themselves with the Company Store, where they can buy clothing apparently not available at the normal Apple Stores. I don't know, since we arrived six minutes too late and they would not even let us in for a look. So, I got a look at a lawn, some trees and a cafeteria. I could also see balconies where the Malus Elite no doubt gather to concoct exotic blends of silicon and software to amaze and delight the faithful.

Just so you know you're at Apple, there is an iPad built into the wall. If you try to turn it on, it will say, "This iPad is disabled". Rather cryptic, but then I should have known better than to stick my fingers into strange iPads. Below it is a "beer bash" button. I have no idea what it did, and didn't want to get my friend fired by pushing it to satisfy my curiosity. Does it bash beer? Is a beer bash like a monster mash? Does it run Lion (OS 10.7)? Only the inner cognoscenti are privileged to know these deep secrets; my friend was sworn to secrecy and could not utter a word.

Marché Moderne, Costa Mesa

When they told me that the restaurant is in the Penthouse, I imagined a spacious entry filled with voluptuous leather armchairs filled with scantily clad yet fashionable women hobnobbing with someone with a strong resemblance to Hugh Hefner. Getting there did nothing to reduce this feeling, since the place is located in the billionaire wing of South Coast Plaza in Costa Mesa. Almost all the stores are French, although nobody working in them is.

Instead, it just looked like the typical upscale restaurant. Hostess at the front, bar along the right side, open kitchen in the back separated from the main dining area by a low wall. A patio garden through the back doors. No high level interior design anywhere evident. The thing that struck me was how un-bistro like the place looked. Are we in a steakhouse or...? Is this truly the home of what some critics are calling the best French bistro food in Southern California, perhaps the entire state?

Some people equate French food (and the French in general) with snobbishness. Although it's totally untrue in France it seems to be a pernicious evil here in California at least as far as French restaurants go. In France, if you're willing to adventure into the food, fall backwards into the arms of the chef and let his food carry you like the crowd in a rock concert, you'll be fine and will likely be treated more than well. Our first impression was an unsmiling hostess who made every effort to avoid eye contact, as though we were some sort of soul stealing gypsies instead of simple voyagers in search of a great meal. She led us past the open kitchen where people were plating in front and cooking behind, with a glowing wood-burning oven taking center stage. Our table sat in the garden area, served by a waiter whose job was to keep forty people happy, an amazing feat of front house juggling if there ever was one.

After being seated, we noticed that the menus, housed in not especially hygenic looking holders, were placed directly on our clean napkins. So, a potential smorgasbord of microbes was sitting there, atop a formerly pristine napkin, just to achieve an effect of what? Adventure mixed with anxiety perhaps? Why not just lay the day's menu on top of the napkin without the unwashed, padded holder? We looked at each other, thinking the same thought: is this the microbe du jour?

Eventually, the waiter managed to stop by our table and answer some questions. At this point, I was already thinking that the back of the house would have to carry the day. Luckily, the waiter was well informed and able to guide us in our selections.

Two of us chose the prix fixe menu du jour: an emulsified salad mixing greens and fruit heavily laced with tarragon. One of us skipped the first course, instead opting to take occasional stabs at my charcuterie plate: rilletes, country style paté, dry salami, Spanish style chorizo, prosciutto. The rillettes were ground silky smooth, not the more chunky rendition typical of France. Kind of like a porky foie gras, but without so much four spice. The best item was the country style paté; enough texture for a good mouthfeel, rich with flavors that evolved on the palate.

Since the wines were more on the pricy side of things than not, we opted for a Cremant d'Alsace. If you're going to pay for a decent wine and you're celebrating, might as well go with something bubbly that will complement most dishes.

Our main courses would be fish with a curry sauce, scallops in black butter, duck breast with a gastrique sauce and a tagine with preserved lemons, merguez sausage, mint, crème fraîche shrimp and couscous. The duck breast was served with fresh morel mushrooms, baby turnips and spring onions, all coated in a gastrique sauce to perk things up a bit. The scallops came with sautéd brussel sprout leaves, the nuttiness of the sprouts playing a counterpoint to the richer beurre noire coating the seafood. The white fish with curry was, well, forgettable. Just white protein from the sea lacking any of its own assertiveness or flavor, carrying the curry sauce yet not taking part in the melody. The tagine brought different flavors with virtually every bite, since you could opt in or out of the mint sauce, spear a shrimp or a piece of merguez, perhaps rub in a bit of preserved lemon...

As the meal progressed, we chatted more and more with our waiter. As it turned out, he was from Durango. Not the ordinary place in Colorado, but the Durango near Copper River Canyon in Mexico. It turned out that the staff was mostly Spanish speaking, although the chef/owners are indeed French. It's always fun to go to a French restaurant and speak Spanish with foodies from far away lands. We also talked about restaurants in D.F. (a.k.a. Mexico City) and current trends in Mexican cuisine in Mexico.

The fancy, main menu desserts were an apple tart, thin-sliced apples served on crispy puff pastry, painted with a translucent glaze and something like a chocolate lava bomb. It arrived looking like a simple cocoa colored cylinder. When cut, flowing chocolate pahoehoe spreads onto the plate, solidifying as it cools. The prix fixe desserts were... I forgot to note them since they just couldn't hold a candle to the lava bomb or the apple tarte.

As we left, the chef-owner arrived. We ended up chatting a bit in French - he's from Fontainebleau, not far from where my brother in law used to live. A genuine French chef! So, a trilingual lunch that mixed the cuisines of France, Morocco (the tagine), Spain (the chorizo) and India (the curry). Fun.

Overall, it was an interesting meal, and worth the money. Any meal where I come away with at least three ideas is educational money well spent, and at the rate tuition is increasing in the community college, more and more a bargain. I've already used the salad dressing and gastrique, albeit in modified forms to work in different menus.

The Chef's Table, Rocklin

I'm famous at the Chef's Table, a.k.a "TCT". OK, I confess. I'm not famous. Not a bit. My pig, however, is. He looks something like this but in black and white:

The famous pig: Pure Porkiness!

The pig reclines on the vent hood above the bar, in all his monochromatic glory (I didn't take a set of color drawing tools to the restaurant, alas). He was penned in the days were the tables were covered with butcher paper. Now they're bare granite - or faux granite - in any case they're shiny, black and slightly reflective so you can see the magnificence of your dining partner reflected under their plate of pesto fries.

I'm amazed at the trendiness of the other diners. Latest coiffures, clothes, jewelry. Real state of the art trendiness, so trendy that I don't even know the current hipness babacool lingo to describe their scintillating awesomeness. Luckily, I just go for the food. My trendiness index is probably somewhere around 0.3 Camrys, so it's amazing they even let me enter.

These guys were so trendy that I can't even draw them without the latest cartoon pen.

They serve interpretations of American food. Burgers. Fried chicken. Fries. Upscale, though. Burgers and fried chicken, but not as you know them. Upscale, with fancy descriptions and innovative, fresh ingredients.

Tonight's burger was smothered in hot wing sauce burning chili heat englobing bits of blue cheese, topped with a whole pickle stabbed through the heart with a dull knife. Sounds painful, so it's a good thing that pickles probably can't feel pain. The burger was not for the meek: sour, hot, umami and hot again.

The bathroom is painted with blackboard paint. They supply chalk, so you can write anything you want. Most people write something like "TCT is awesome". That doesn't strike me as the acme of trendiness. I expected something more like "Je t'aime. Moi non plus. Passe les brownies au bacon, cherie". But nowhere did these words appear, and I had no desire to add them. French is no longer trendy, apparently. The torch has passed to somewhere else with a language that I almost certainly can't pronounce, let alone spell.

Tonight we watched a large table of VIP-type people eat stuff that wasn't on the menu, at least not our menu. Maybe there's a secret menu, kind of like In-N-Out only much more sophisticated. The kitchen whisked plate after non-menu plate to their table, while everyone else watched.

The process of acquiring this level of über trendiness, style and sophistication remains a mystery, although it was more than clear that these dishes were coming directly from the chef's imagination, arriving at their table with a flourish and brief explanation of the key ingredients and an occasional joke about pepper fin (he didn't serve any). It was, however, crystal clear that there was none of this fanfare for anyone else in the room, not even a crumb. No, you're not worthy.

The plates accumulated on their table, like diner kaiseki. Grilled corn on the cob (some confusion as to how to eat this), chicken-fried Angus beef, a Caprese salad full of tomatoes, daikon sprouts and some kind of whitish cubes that could have been mozzarella, chicken breast, tofu or all three.

As their dishes accumulated, our service slowed. You can't be everywhere at once, can you?

Curious about some of the plates they were receiving, we asked a passing server. His answer was terse, leaving no doubt that he'd rather not be bothered. He was busy. Questions not encouraged from the riffraff. It's not for you. It's for them. You can watch but not participate.

I find it strange that a tiny restaurant would provide this level of service to some while denying it to others, even though all groups are seated elbow to elbow in the same room. If there were a private room for VIP's, it would be clear. It could have a bouncer on guard in front of an airlock. That would keep out the undesirable and untrendy!

If there's a brown nose special, where you open a line of credit, have the chef make whatever he feels like and give you the opportunity to rub elbows with a culinary genius, wouldn't it make economic sense to give everyone access? If the house can pay a month's expenses in one night with one group, just imagine what they could do if anyone with sufficient credit and the proper elan could enjoy the same benefits?

Their web site is mute on the subject: there is no Chef's Special Prix Fixe menu.  I suppose asking to be admitted to the VIP club would be nekulturny in the extreme, since one does not ask. One either is or is not.

But fear not! In-N-Out will welcome you with open arms, and their secret menu is available to all who ask. I'd rather be a welcome guest in a cheapo burger chain than tolerated as second-class seat-filler. And their burgers aren't bad, either.

Izakaya: おいしいですね！

Sashimi with a shiso leaf & pickled plum

Becoming a chef often involves boldly going where you've never gone before, trying new flavors and old flavors in new combinations. This can mean traveling to far-off lands, chasing down unique or even bizarre restaurants and trying things just because you have no idea of what they'll taste like.

In the interest of exploration in the best tradition of Portuguese marinheiros, I went to The Open Door in Monterey Park. The food, izakaya, is a series of small plates. Something you might call Japanese tapas. So you can try all kinds of flavors and permutations in a single meal, and walk away not too much heavier than when you entered. Some of the weight is imported Japanese microbrew beers. Exploration should not, after all, be limited to food alone.

Just about everyone has probably had edamame. They sell them at Costco. Green soybeans in their pods that you heat and eat, typically salty, washed down with beer. Did you ever ask the question, "What would happen if you used truffle butter and sautéed them?". No? Neither did I. However, someone at the Open Door izakaya restaurant did. Musky, umami truffle flavor meets formerly mundane bean pods for a nice nibbler to fill in between courses.

Then there was whitefish, sliced so thin that it was almost fugu-transparent, fanned out on the plate, with a peppery ponzu sauce, garnished with a green shiso leaf and a pickled mini plum.

Thin sliced beef loin seared on the outside, again with that excellent ponzu, but this time with a spicy kabocha purée and a fine julienne of daikon.

Very fancy takoyaki, too. This is normally Japanese street food, resembling octopus aebelskivers. It's made in a cast iron pan with big dimples for the batter, and turned halfway through the cooking process to make succulent balls of octopus-filled batter. These guys take things a step further. Brush the plate with a soy based sauce. Plate the takoyaki. Drizzle with a cream sauce. Add shaved bonito over the top - a mountain of it. Nice presentation!

Then the plate of Asian mushrooms, all tossed with some zucchini for a quick pan fry. I don't even know what they all were. One type was just rectangles with a very firm, meaty taste.

The last plate was smack dab in the middle of the "what's that doing here?" Duck confit. This is a Japanese inspired izakaya place... not a French bistro. The temptation was too great. It arrived, crisped to perfection, on four crispy pillars of something that resembled crunchy churros, supporting it over a mound of kabocha squash purée. The purée and confit worked well together. The crispy fried things were a bit of a case of adding grease to grease.

I passed on the mentaiko french fries, if that's what they were. Julienned potatoes tossed with mentaiko and a few other things, if I understood the description. Mentai is fish roe spiced with chili, not what most people think of when asked, "what do you like with potatoes?"

Now, the chef's challenge begins: how to take the ingredients, flavors and preparations and combine them into something I create. What if the takoyaki had a bit of pimenton in the batter, maybe a green chimichurri type sauce... Could the duck confit be deconstructed so that the meat were rolled into the crispy skin to form a boneless sausage, with a gobo root through the center as a handle... What if the beef carpaccio were alternately layered on thin-sliced baked potatoes à la pommes Anna...? To the kitchen!

Amazon dot Com? NEVER AGAIN!

 Arrrr! Shiver me textbooks!

When the delivery man drove up today, I thought to myself, "Yay! The last of my textbooks has arrived, four days after I ordered it with two day priority shipping.".

I checked the envelope. Correct address, correct name, correct book title. I opened the package. Correct book title on the "In this shipment" form.
Then I looked at the book. Crocheting. Crocheting? My book is about food and wine pairings! Fashion classes are next door!

So, there must be a way to resolve this, since it probably happens from time to time. Amazon will do what's necessary to make everything good. They'll give me a return shipping label to return the wrong book and immediately ship the right book via two day shipping (or even overnight to prove they care). Right?

Wrong! Here's the deal:

1. They give a return number, and e-mail a bar coded document to print out for the return.

2. The book travels via regular (slow) UPS shipping.

3. The wrong book arrives in Kentucky.

4. It gets processed or something. Entries are made. Numbers travel through computers.

5. They find the right book. Or they find the wrong book again, and ship whatever it is via regular (slow) rate. Maybe I'll get something like U.S. Civil War Relic Counterfeiting for Europeans.

6. Four to six weeks later, if all goes well, I might possibly have the book that I ordered long ago with two day shipping. In other words, after I've flunked several tests because the book never arrived, I'll finally be able to study.

7. The supervisor confirmed that there is no way they would find the correct book and ship it with two day priority shipping so that their error would be corrected and I would have my book. The best they could do was a refund, which takes 36 hours to appear. Or ten days. Or whatever. Unless it doesn't.

Considering the futile nature of any resistance, I asked for a refund. Although billing instantly sucks money out of my account, refunds are different:
"Refunds typically complete within 10 business days and appear as a credit on your statement."
Pay special attention to the word, "typically". The book people order probably "typically" arrives as it should, too. But when it doesn't?

So, fellow students, unless you have seven weeks advance before your class and like dealing with companies who take no responsibility for their errors, I would council you to avoid Amazon.com like a salmonella, trichinosis and mold infested porkburger! If for some reason you find yourself in a similar situation, please don't come crying to me. And especially don't go crying to Amazon!

I think the Amazon in the picture is an accurate depiction of their current attitude towards fixing snafus. Do you think this person would help you? No? Me, neither!