The French Laundry

"That's it. I'm fucking going."

 The French Laundry (http://www.frenchlaundry.com/) is generally considered one of the Holy Grails of gastronomy. Reservations can only be made two months to the date of the reservation. The restaurant is rumored to receive 400 calls per day. Tables for two cannot be made online. Tables for four can.
Even the website takes its deliberate time to launch.

The restaurant, located in Yountville, in the California wine country of Napa Valley only has two seatings, and the menu _ one nine-course chef's tasting choice, one 12-course vegetable tasting _ changes daily. According to its website, No single ingredient is ever repeated throughout the meal.  And then there is, of course, this gem from its "Menus and Stories" page:

"What we want for you to experience is that sense of surprise when you taste something so new, so exciting, so comforting, so delicious, you think 'Wow,' and then it's gone. We want the peak sensation on the palate to be all that you feel. So we serve a series of small courses meant to excite your mind, satisfy your appetite and pique your curiosity.  We want you to say 'I wish I had just one more bite of that.' And then the next plate arrives and the same thing happens, but in a different way, a whole new flavor and feel and emotion."

Now is the perfect time to talk about Cynthia, an ex-girlfriend from the year 1996. Cynthia holds a very special if not difficult for me to admit place in my life. She's the only woman I ever dated whom I thought was too attractive for me. Devoured by carnivorous insecurity, I couldn't get comfortable. (Note: In 1996, I did not  _ to use my boy Kevin Hogan's line for his beloved Philadelphia Phillies _ think like a winner.)

Cynthia is also the person who introduced me to the phrase "food orgasm." April 1996, Esperpento, 22nd/Valencia, San Francisco. She was wearing a beret during dinner and asked me if I had ever tasted a meal so delicious that the sensation was the equivalent of (or quite possibly surpassed) that of an actual orgasm. Unevolved, I made the mental note that Cynthia was nuts.

But it turns out that only was the beautiful Cynthia correct (I know this, because it has since happened: the squid pasta from Nobu (April 2002), the Kobe beef sushi roll from Oishii Boston (2007) and numerous meals in between.), but someone of her tribe is clearly writing for The French Laundry.


Oh, as I cool down, there's one more thing about the French Laundry you should know:

The menu is $250.00.

Per person.

That's $500.00 without even having a drink.

Here is a sample of today's:

http://www.tkrg.org/upload/fl_menu.pdf


So, what does any of this have to do with me?
NOTHING. I'll be in San Francisco in October. I called the restaurant. I got nothing. Shut Out. Done!

But homeboy Christopher Vyce and lovely wife Stephanie will be dining on September 26th, for their 10th wedding anniversary.  Now, I gotta go. GOTTA! As Jules Winnfield said in Pulp Fiction, "That's it. I'm fucking going."

And to confirm the Travolta response, Yes, I'll dig it the most.

An unacceptable absence...

Having returned from the west coast, I needed some required downtime. However, the quest does not rest! Therefore, we will continue the journey shortly...
My apologies - HB
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Fang!!!

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Howard Bryant and Peter Fang: A gastronomic love story

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The year was 1991, the month, October.  Good Philly friends Scott and Barbara come visit me in my new home, San Franisco. Back then, I was an Outer Sunset guy: 1474 40th Avenue, at Judah. Scott has a guidebook with him and the most recommended restaurant was the House of Nanking, on Kearny and Columbus, where North Beach and Chinatown met.

I'll never forget that day. The waiter (who turned out to be the owner, Peter Fang) came over and took my order.

I ordered calamari.
He nodded his head disapprovingly and said, "No."

I ordered again.
He said nothing, but nodded his head negatively, offended.

I said, "Have you ever heard of the saying "The customer is always right?"

He said, "I will order for you."

Barbara and Scott, Scott in particular, laughed hilariously at the public leveling, telling me I'd been "denied on every front." Scott took special pleasure in my East Coast fury. I'd lived in San Francisco for slightly over a month and Scott enjoyed the comedy of my impatience.

My response was, "Why the hell is any of this on the menu, if you can't order it?"

When the waiter returned, he brought to the table to that date, the greatest meal I'd ever had: four season chicken, eggplant, chicken lettuce wraps, chinese style butternut squash.

From that day. I knelt at the altar of the House of Nanking.

Little did I know that Nanking had only been in business three years, but it was already a hit: Chinese restaurants flanked its left and right, but only Nanking boasted a line out the door, with the very cool West Coast feature of the restaurant selling Tsing Tao beer to the folks while they waited.  

Whenever guests came to visit, Nanking was a must-visit. As I settled, Nanking became less of a destination. It was a tourist spot, and when you live in a place, you don't wait in line to have dinner. I remained in San Francisco until 2001, with respect for Nanking even as it slipped off of the radar. When I would I would come into town, I would check into the Grand Hyatt Union Square and walk over to Nanking for takeout. We had lost each other, Nanking and I, until one fateful day in March 2010.... 

"WELL, GET ON IT WITH, MOTHERF---!"

On Carpaccio, you never know who might show up. To be continued...

Angela's Bistro and Bar

A quick bite to eat with The Daves before Wednesday's reading at Books Inc. produced a surprise gem: Angela's Bistro and Bar (2301 Central Ave, Alameda). Lunch was quick but excellent: the duck strudel (duck comfit with mushroom and wild rice wrapped in puff pastry in a shallow pool of cranberry wine sauce was followed by the shrimp risotto.

Risotto, by the way, never translates well to photographs. Kinda looks like maggots in a cream sauce, as you can see:

It rarely tastes like gruel (Angela's risotto was excellent but the goat cheese risotto from Chicago a year ago was the heinous exception) but always looks like it!
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And finally, the tears begin to flow...

 "Kissinger, don't tell anyone that I cried, that I wasn't strong."

When the waiter placed my entree on the table _ Niman ranch pork chop with pomegranate currant sauce _ I felt a slight tickle tracing the right side of my face. It's trail was damp and narrow. I was crying.

The waiter was clearly too young to understand the pop culture reference racing through my head _ the commercial of the Indian crying at the sight of kids littering _ so I didn't even try to explain. I dabbed my cheekbone, composed myself and she walked away. 

This was the best pork chop I've ever had in my life. It was better than the habanero-drenched Mexican chuletas from Mexico City back in January 2000, better than both forays into Boulevard (http://www.boulevardrestaurant.com/menu.html) and its tremendous Berkshire pork prime rib chop. Even better was the chef's ability to maintain the moisture of the chop despite serving it above medium-rare (nothing spells death worse than chalky, bone-dry pork) temperature. Most delicious was the creative addition of the pomegranate currant sauce.

There is a new champion of the rib chop in town, and I had the tears to prove it...

Crispy lobster tail salad with apple, caviar and avocado!

That's what I'm talking 'bout!

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I jumped the gun, sending Lisa's entree before the second appetizer picture, which is now featured above: under a bed of greens, buried treasure: crispy lobster tail with apple, avocado and caviar. I was surprised that the lobster was breaded, but it was a welcome addition.

That would be the seared ahi tuna...

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Lisa made a strong offering: the grilled Ahi tuna with spicy mustard aioli. She offered to me and I, stupidly, declined, not wanting anything to interfere with my stunning entree. A clear mistake. One demerit on my part. Slap yourself in the face, Howard Bryant, and say you're sorry.

Do you take this oyster, forsaking all others?

I did not cry. I did not cry!

I believe in loyalty. "We use words like Honor, Code, Loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punch line." - Col. Nathan R. Jessup.

When it comes to barbecued oysters, I had for 20 years been loyal to The Ramp, down on 3rd and 18th Streets. Sunday morning brunch, barbecued oysters - the big, scrumptious ones - were a staple of the Early San Francisco years, with Kev and the boys (and just a few girls). Not only did The Ramp deserve loyalty because the oysters were terrific, but very few places even prepared oysters barbecue style.

And then came The House.

I did not cry when the plate was lowered onto the table, my strength challenged by my weakness for cilantro.  I did not worry about the betrayal to The Ramp and simply viewed it differently, as the adding of a family member instead of the discarding of another.

The result was a win-win-win! The House won because the oysters were terrific. Like the blue cheese filet mignon at Boa, however, the cilantro on the oysters was not subtle. It was a tidal wave, and if you don't really like cilantro, the dish may be overwhelming.

The Ramp won because The House's oysters were delicious but demonstrably smaller than The Ramp's. On balance, The Ramp has nothing to fear. It is still the barbecued oyster king of San Francisco.

And finally, I won, because them oysters was gooooooooooood!!!!!

Sake!

Cloudy or Demon Killer? You be the judge...

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The House won the competition between Ozumo ("A mix of a fun atmosphere set in a stylish Japanese setting") and Farallon (and its website of crashing waves and submerging bubbles). The Guardian Angel and I have another food tradition: one night to ourselves, at a restaurant neither one of us has ever visited. Lisa had been to Farallon and we both had been (although only for drinks) to Ozumo.

And so it would be The House. Located on Grant at Columbus, The House is slender and cramped, take-out sized converted into full-on gastronomy. Such congestion creates the illusion of exclusivity (it's always full) and the possibilities for calamity (a waiter broke a water glass at the table next to us, spilling deadly H2o across the table. One casualty was a patron's cell phone, and he tried to calm the embarrassed waiter by saying "It's okay. I have insurance! I have insurance!").

Lisa and I began with cold sake. On the left was the cloudy Nigori sake. On the right was the Onikoroshi, or Demon Killer Sake. If you believe in the advertisements (generally a mistake), the Nigori is supposed to contain  fruity notes and generally be the sweetest of the sakes, while the Onikoroshi boasts vanilla and caramel notes.

Not on this night.

We both found the Nigori to be rather tasteless and the Demon Killer to be sharp, the fruiter and more aromatic of the two. The night had just begun...

Next stop: The House

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The day following my visit to The House (1230 Grant Street, North Beach, San Francisco), I arrived at Fang for what has become an important tradition: lunch with great old pal and current KNBR morning host Brian Murphy. When I continued to refer to the restaurant as "The House," he corrected me each time and said, "No, the restaurant is simply called 'House.'" I asked him if he we were having a Northern California/Southern California freeway language collision, as in "you take 101 North into Marin County" but "you take The 101 into Los Angeles." He assured me were communicating on the same NorCal plane, I just had it wrong: the official name of the restaurant was "House."

So, I took a picture to prove him wrong. I won, of course. He texted his lovely wife Candace to vouch for his position that the restaurant clearly changed its name.

It matters not. I was right. He was wrong. The universe remains in balance.
  

Don't let the smile fool you...

Rocket Fish on 18th and Connecticut had me until it lost me. My drink, a Hot Rocket (tequila, lime, basil, jalapeno) was spicy delicious, but I'm not happy. Lauralee tells me to be calm and Zen about the insult, to enjoy my drink because life is short and we don't get to see each other very often. Plus, does it really make sense to want to rip out someone's innards if you can't actually do it?

Why the rage? The food at Rocket Fish looks good - shrimp, sushi, satays, among other delights. The bar is full. We are not having a full dinner, just drinks and perhaps an appetizer, so we are not allowed to sit at a table in the resaurant - those are reserved for diners, naturally.

So, we opt for a high-top bar stool table.
BUT...the restaurant won't let us order from the bar menu because we aren't technically sitting at the bar.
The bar is less than five feet away.
We are not sitting at a dining room table.
They won't let us order the food we want.

This is stupid. It is beyond stupid. I began to plot their demise, even though the white "Grand Opening" banner is still on the facade of the building. I hate them.
"If you choose not to make a sale over this silly rule of yours," I said. "We'll eat somewhere else."

Laura undermined the revolution by ordering a seaweed salad. She hugs you, sure, but is she there when it's time to storm the hill? NO!

Rip Van Winkle needs a drink...

So, I leave the Comcast television studios Tuesday evening around 5:15 and proceed to have drinks with Laura in Potrero Hill, site of much of the Howard Bryant San Francisco Experience. It was in Potrero Hill where the Boston guys could find refuge at The Connecticut Yankee, on 16th and Connecticut. The preeminent Boston bar in the city, it was where the expats and I watched the Patriots beat the Jaguars in the 1997 AFC title game, where Big Play Clay intercepted Brunell in the end zone, sealing the win.

It is where the mural of O.J. Simpson was defaced with a red slash across his chest and the word  "murderer."

Potrero Hill was where I played softball at Jackson Street Field. It was where I lived from 1998-2001 (22nd/De Haro). It was where things made sense.

Laura Halliday, member of the Inner Circle dating back to the Haight Street years (1991-1995) pledges to meet me at the bar on the corner of 18th and Connecticut. The bar is GONE. This is of mild shock to me. It used to be Lilo Lounge. A couple of years ago it changed hands and became Lingba, where the tequila was good and the food was very good, in the Japanese Izakaya style (meaning a bar that served very good eats instead of lousy bar food).

Now, Lingba is gone, replaced by Rocket Fish, a sushi bar. This may be good news because the world can never have too much good sushi, even in San Francisco and the south side of Potrero has never had good sushi (Blowfish, Sushi to Die For on 19th/Bryant is excellent but on the Mission side of Potrero Ave.)

BUT...BUT...the real shock came while walking next door and I see that Eliza's, the stalwart Chinese of Potrero Hill is GONE. GONE. GONE. Sixteen years. GONE.

And so there I stood in front of Eliza's, frozen.

No more crab rangoon.
No more combination fried rice.
No more wonton.

I am Rip Van Winkle. My San Francisco is being replaced. I stand in front of buildings that aren't my buildings anymore.


Eliza's officially closed Sept. 27, 2009, replaced by Pera, a Greek/Mediterranean that I will not be patronizing, since I don't like olives.





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Chantal the beautiful

My old pal Chantal from the Boston days. Instead of studying for her Swiss citizenship exam, she chose to share lobster mashed potatoes with Bryant, party of six...a wise choice.
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BOA: 5 Stars and one superstar - Smokey Robinson

BOA
9200 Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles CA.

I've always had something of a conflict with the traditional mahogany steakhouses, local legends like Manny's (Minneapolis), Alfred's (San Francisco), Gibson's (Chicago),  Plaza III (Kansas City), Gallagher's (New York) as well as the Ruth's Chris-Morton's-Capital Grille-Fleming's chains. In addition to being monstrously expensive (a meal with two drinks, two family-style side orders an entree and dessert cost roughly $100 per person), the food is always delicious, but sturdy, more muscular than creative.

And the ambiance of these restaurants can be old-school, everything from yesterday except the cigars. In a nose-thumbing to class and caste, I've always had the urge to act up in these places, tossing shrimp into the mouth of my co-conspirators, Blues Brothers-style.

BOA is different. It is located in West Hollywood, a sprawling decor of soft neons, tropical plants and outdoor heat lamps. It feels exclusive and it is, on the Zagat's scale, $$$$$ expensive, and of course is inhabited by rows and rows of the The Beautiful People.

I haven't yet perfected my rating system, but BOA is a winner, if you don't mind coming to a restaurant to GO BIG for a true dining experience. I would give it five stars. It caters to "event dining" meaning it is a destination for an evening and it delivers. Wished I had sampled dessert, but the table was fading...

And of course, there was the celebrity sighting: Motown legend Smokey Robinson, who took pictures with patrons, one exclaiming, "OH MY GOD. I'M GONNA DIE."

I didn't take pictures, naturally. But it was fun.
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The Post-Talk meal!

Boa...Oh.My.Goodness...
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Petite filet mignon with blue cheese

The post-talk meal offered many choices. BOA is a legitimate steak house with a worthy selection. I chose the petite filet mignon with blue cheese (8 oz., $34) medium rare and in retrospect I regret the choice as being too conservative. Many restaurants sell a petite filet but BOA sold a bone-in filet (12 oz) as well as a wasgyu beef strip, which I've never had before. I should have been bolder in my choice. There was no reason to be conservative with so many excellent choices.
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The full plate

Adding to the filet was lobster mashed potatoes (a whopping $22 but totally, totally, totally worth it!) as well as asparagus in sauteed butter. True steakhouse fare and magnificent, especially with a 10:30 pm reservation. Synopsis to come...

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The Pre-Talk meal...

At Boulevard 16, the hotel bar at the Palomar Hotel, Los Angeles. Tuna sushi roll with dungeness crab inside along with fried calamari and zucchini. The staff at the restaurant raved that the tuna roll was the "best thing on the menu" and it was truly excellent, even though the crab was a tad watery. Still, as ratings go, the sushi receives a 3.7 out of a perfect 5.0.
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An inauspicious beginning....

What kind of foodie begins a blog with a post about McDonald's addiction? A worm-eating mofo, that's who...Looking forward to the real prospects, though, once we get started on the West Coast swing of the book tour.

There will be the San Francisco standbys, sushi:
Ebisu http://www.ebisusushi.com/
Blowfish Sushi to Die For: http://www.blowfishsushi.com/webform1.aspx

And some potential new ones, but NOT the French Laundry, damn it all. Quince (http://www.quincerestaurant.com/) has lots of potential...

But LA first and then Portland...Beast maybe? http://www.beastpdx.com/

WacArnold's is tearing this family apart!

The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

There are numerous drugs I have never tried including but not limited to heroin, crack cocaine, ecstasy, LSD, mushrooms, opium, crank and Red Bull.

I have never tried a cigarette in my life. Unlike my esteemed editor Jena Janovy, I find Taco Bell to be truly reprehensible.

I do, however, have a problem with the Golden Arches.

There is nothing golden about them, but in the travel world, if you are sloppy and negligent, you are a prime candidate to be taken in by the tractor beam.

That would be me, and it must stop.
The good news is that I don't remember the last time I've eaten McDonald's when NOT either a) on the Eisenhower Interstate System or b) in an airport.

The bad news is that I use both frequently. When I was in Guatemala, my house mother Angelica referred to McDonald's as "McGusano's," Spanish for "McWorms."

So what was in the bag? Bacon and cheese Angus third pounder, fries, filet-o-fish. Gusanos, indeed...

Today's challenge: stop traveling or man up!

HB
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