Monday, December 6, 2010
Course 1: Yellowtail tartar with caviar
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Nobu Fifty-Seven!
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Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tartatin!
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A pre-Thanksgiving sidecar
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Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Sloppy Joe Pizza, Sloppy Joe's, Key West
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Friday, November 19, 2010
Park Central Cafe, South Beach, Miami
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The World Series of Gastronomy, Pt. II
New York, ALCS (New York Yankees vs. Texas Rangers)
I hate predictions. I hate making them. I hate reading them. The Buddha says there's no room for hate in our lives. Hate conflicts with our sangha, and I agree, which means I have to find some peace in a predictions heavy world.
I don't know who's going to win tomorrow's game. Predictions are part of the job, fodder for the hype machine, so fans can get lathered up in defense of their team or comforted by the warmth of the majority ("We're favored!").
The real problem with it all is that people take predictions so seriously. My postseason predictions went something like this:
AMERICAN LEAGUE
Tampa Bay Rays over Texas Rangers
Minnesota Twins over New York Yankees
Tampa Bay Rays over Minnesota Twins
NATIONAL LEAGUE
Philadelphia Phillies over Cincinnati Reds
San Francisco Giants over Atlanta Braves
Philadelphia Phillies over San Francisco Giants
WORLD SERIES
Philadelphia Phillies over Tampa Bay Rays
As we all know, it was difficult to be more wrong. But, do I really need emails telling me I "ate crow" and that I'm "a douchebag?" Didn't know who was going to win. Didn't care. Dig deep into that musty cliche bag: That's why they play the game, pal...
It reminded me of the great anecdote of 1961 when Roger Maris was melting under the pressure of surpassing Babe Ruth's now-quaint single-season record of 60 home runs in a single season and one person too many asked, "hey Rog, do you think you can break the record?" and Maris replied, "How the fuck should I know?"
Food brings us together. So do the playoffs. In that spirit, I care about three things:
Fast games
Compelling games
Good cities in which to dine.
Therefore, let's reexamine those predictions, shall we?
Minnesota Twins over New York Yankees: Minneapolis is an underrated town, especially in the summertime, but outside of Manny's steakhouse (http://www.mannyssteakhouse.com/) formerly in the Hyatt Regency and now in the W Hotel on 9th/Marquette I don't know what I was thinking on that one.
Tampa Bay Rays over Texas Rangers: This prediction was made entirely for selfish, gastronomic reasons, the first being a desire to revisit the legendary Bern's (http://www.bernssteakhouse.com/) and to score a tennis lesson in Tampa to establish even a mediocre two-handed backhand. Secondarily, Tampa is more than Bern's, it has wonderful secondary choices from Donatello's (http://www.donatellotampa.com/) - the old-school Italian that started my palate craving for carpaccio to Roy's, the signature exception to the no-chain rule...
Philadelphia over Cincinnati: Picking the Phillies to beat the Reds was solid along baseball lines, and does not require verbosity. Philadelphia was the better obvious choice, but is also an underrated food town, especially for those of us who remember when Walnut Street was anchored by Rib-It and McDonald's. Philadelphia also does an excellent job of adopting the Japanese izakaya tradition of bars that serve above-average food. In this vein, the Standard Tap in Northern Liberties (http://www.yelp.com/biz/standard-tap-philadelphia) leads the way.
There were writers who were pulling for Atlanta to beat San Francisco. This, of course, was nonsense and provided the ultimate proof that years of regular-season hot dogs and October box lunches has stomped the sportswriter taste buds into sawdust. There is no better town in America for food than San Francisco. Any variation on this theme is merely cosmetic, individual matters of taste that cannot be quantified - the difference between choosing Mays or Mantle over the other in their respective primes...
Leonard Koppett was a legendary sports writer for four decades. He is credited with Koppett's Law, which is loosely stated as, "Whatever creates the greatest inconvenience to the largest number of people must happen."
That law, massaged to the sports writers, has read, "Whatever screws the beat writer is what will happen." So, we didn't get Tampa or Philadelphia, but we got San Franscisco and four nights in New York, but had to make Texas work. If you care about food, the writers actually won this time...Who could have predicted that?
I hate predictions. I hate making them. I hate reading them. The Buddha says there's no room for hate in our lives. Hate conflicts with our sangha, and I agree, which means I have to find some peace in a predictions heavy world.
 |
| Remove hate from your life: don't make predictions. |
I don't know who's going to win tomorrow's game. Predictions are part of the job, fodder for the hype machine, so fans can get lathered up in defense of their team or comforted by the warmth of the majority ("We're favored!").
The real problem with it all is that people take predictions so seriously. My postseason predictions went something like this:
AMERICAN LEAGUE
Tampa Bay Rays over Texas Rangers
Minnesota Twins over New York Yankees
Tampa Bay Rays over Minnesota Twins
NATIONAL LEAGUE
Philadelphia Phillies over Cincinnati Reds
San Francisco Giants over Atlanta Braves
Philadelphia Phillies over San Francisco Giants
WORLD SERIES
Philadelphia Phillies over Tampa Bay Rays
As we all know, it was difficult to be more wrong. But, do I really need emails telling me I "ate crow" and that I'm "a douchebag?" Didn't know who was going to win. Didn't care. Dig deep into that musty cliche bag: That's why they play the game, pal...
 |
| Your World Series city |
 |
| When a wrong prediction goes oh, so right... |
It reminded me of the great anecdote of 1961 when Roger Maris was melting under the pressure of surpassing Babe Ruth's now-quaint single-season record of 60 home runs in a single season and one person too many asked, "hey Rog, do you think you can break the record?" and Maris replied, "How the fuck should I know?"
Food brings us together. So do the playoffs. In that spirit, I care about three things:
Fast games
Compelling games
Good cities in which to dine.
Therefore, let's reexamine those predictions, shall we?
Minnesota Twins over New York Yankees: Minneapolis is an underrated town, especially in the summertime, but outside of Manny's steakhouse (http://www.mannyssteakhouse.com/) formerly in the Hyatt Regency and now in the W Hotel on 9th/Marquette I don't know what I was thinking on that one.
Tampa Bay Rays over Texas Rangers: This prediction was made entirely for selfish, gastronomic reasons, the first being a desire to revisit the legendary Bern's (http://www.bernssteakhouse.com/) and to score a tennis lesson in Tampa to establish even a mediocre two-handed backhand. Secondarily, Tampa is more than Bern's, it has wonderful secondary choices from Donatello's (http://www.donatellotampa.com/) - the old-school Italian that started my palate craving for carpaccio to Roy's, the signature exception to the no-chain rule...
Philadelphia over Cincinnati: Picking the Phillies to beat the Reds was solid along baseball lines, and does not require verbosity. Philadelphia was the better obvious choice, but is also an underrated food town, especially for those of us who remember when Walnut Street was anchored by Rib-It and McDonald's. Philadelphia also does an excellent job of adopting the Japanese izakaya tradition of bars that serve above-average food. In this vein, the Standard Tap in Northern Liberties (http://www.yelp.com/biz/standard-tap-philadelphia) leads the way.
There were writers who were pulling for Atlanta to beat San Francisco. This, of course, was nonsense and provided the ultimate proof that years of regular-season hot dogs and October box lunches has stomped the sportswriter taste buds into sawdust. There is no better town in America for food than San Francisco. Any variation on this theme is merely cosmetic, individual matters of taste that cannot be quantified - the difference between choosing Mays or Mantle over the other in their respective primes...
 |
| Boulevard. |
 |
| The classic Berkshire rib chop from Boulevard |
 |
| Beef carpaccio from Pizza Nostra, San Francisco (Potrero Hill) |
That law, massaged to the sports writers, has read, "Whatever screws the beat writer is what will happen." So, we didn't get Tampa or Philadelphia, but we got San Franscisco and four nights in New York, but had to make Texas work. If you care about food, the writers actually won this time...Who could have predicted that?
The World Series of Gastronomy, Part I
New York, October 17 -
Back in the San Francisco days, I dated a woman named Emily. It was one of those aromatic May-December things - she was 21, I was 26, and the enormous gulf of our years tore us apart. It was awful.
We had two things in common, though, and both sustained us through viewing the world from almost completely different lenses. The first was jazz. We loved the music but differed heavily on artists. She as a Wynton Marsalis/Jazz Messengers kind of person. I was a John Coltrane man.
That bears repeating: I was a Coltrane man.
Coltrane now.
Coltrane tomorrow.
Coltrane forever.
We came together where it counted _ at the intersections of Wayne Shorter and Stan Getz _ as well as with Trane overlaps. Lee Morgan _before he was shot to death in between sets by his common-law wife (ironically at an East Village club named Slugs) was a Jazz Messenger but played as a 19-year old on Coltrane's seminal Blue Train) and it was Emily who introduced me to Antonio Carlos Jobim and Joao Gilberto. I may have, yes, called her a "Southern California brat" to her face, but you have to give her credit for that...
But where Emily made the most important imprint on my life was with a single sentence. Oakland, California, it was, Piedmont Ave...
"Food," she said. "Food brings people together."
The first year I began covering baseball was 1998, the Oakland Athletics for the San Jose Mercury News. Obesity statistics in America have clearly reached pandemic proportions and sportswriters around the country have certainly done their part. That year, not only did I track how many baseball games I covered for the Mercury that year (112 of 162) but I also counted how many hot dogs I ate across the American League (144, I believe. I will consult my 1998 scorebook).
144 hot dogs in 112 games.
America has grown, both in education and waist size since those innocent days. And NO, I do not regret asking the sales clerk at the Macy's Westshore in Tampa a month earlier "What is happening to this country?" when it was easier to find size 38x30 jeans instead of my size (33x32).
The citizens of the great city of New York - without being asked their permission - paid out $1.3 billion in taxpayer money for new Yankee Stadium and one of the touches of the new yard is a calorie chart next to each item along the stadium concourses and food court. When the Yankees and Texas Rangers met for Game 3 of the American League Championship Series I had resolved that this would be the season I would avoid the nightmarish box lunches that are the annual fare for the press during the postseason: Roast beef suffocated by plastic, a withered pear, some Lay's potato chips and maybe a brownie.
Hadn't I graduated from this? Didn't I have a more inspired culinary destiny for myself?
It was time to eat healthier, time to stake my claim as an evolved gastronomist.
It was time to renounce, McGwire-like, the year 1998, when I ate 144 hot dogs. (in 112 games).
It was time to order the Nathan's cheese fries at 1341 calories...
In other words, with one basket of cheese fries, I was eating the equivalent of 4 1/2 Nathan's hot dogs (Kobayashi would be proud!)
At that moment I decided it was time to rethink the Golden Arches...Maybe they were good for the world.
After all, one Quarter Pounder with Cheese (510 calories) + a Big Mac (540 calories) + 6-piece Chicken McNugget (280 calories) = 1330 calories combined.
(source: http://nutrition.mcdonalds.com/nutritionexchange/nutritionfacts.pdf)
"You rely on us to deliver quality food, and we take that responsibility seriously. From our team of registered dietitians to our trusted suppliers, we’re dedicated to making you feel good about choosing McDonald's foods and beverages." -- From the McDonald's company web site.
Back in the San Francisco days, I dated a woman named Emily. It was one of those aromatic May-December things - she was 21, I was 26, and the enormous gulf of our years tore us apart. It was awful.
We had two things in common, though, and both sustained us through viewing the world from almost completely different lenses. The first was jazz. We loved the music but differed heavily on artists. She as a Wynton Marsalis/Jazz Messengers kind of person. I was a John Coltrane man.
That bears repeating: I was a Coltrane man.
Coltrane tomorrow.
Coltrane forever.
We came together where it counted _ at the intersections of Wayne Shorter and Stan Getz _ as well as with Trane overlaps. Lee Morgan _before he was shot to death in between sets by his common-law wife (ironically at an East Village club named Slugs) was a Jazz Messenger but played as a 19-year old on Coltrane's seminal Blue Train) and it was Emily who introduced me to Antonio Carlos Jobim and Joao Gilberto. I may have, yes, called her a "Southern California brat" to her face, but you have to give her credit for that...
But where Emily made the most important imprint on my life was with a single sentence. Oakland, California, it was, Piedmont Ave...
"Food," she said. "Food brings people together."
The first year I began covering baseball was 1998, the Oakland Athletics for the San Jose Mercury News. Obesity statistics in America have clearly reached pandemic proportions and sportswriters around the country have certainly done their part. That year, not only did I track how many baseball games I covered for the Mercury that year (112 of 162) but I also counted how many hot dogs I ate across the American League (144, I believe. I will consult my 1998 scorebook).
144 hot dogs in 112 games.
America has grown, both in education and waist size since those innocent days. And NO, I do not regret asking the sales clerk at the Macy's Westshore in Tampa a month earlier "What is happening to this country?" when it was easier to find size 38x30 jeans instead of my size (33x32).
The citizens of the great city of New York - without being asked their permission - paid out $1.3 billion in taxpayer money for new Yankee Stadium and one of the touches of the new yard is a calorie chart next to each item along the stadium concourses and food court. When the Yankees and Texas Rangers met for Game 3 of the American League Championship Series I had resolved that this would be the season I would avoid the nightmarish box lunches that are the annual fare for the press during the postseason: Roast beef suffocated by plastic, a withered pear, some Lay's potato chips and maybe a brownie.
Hadn't I graduated from this? Didn't I have a more inspired culinary destiny for myself?
It was time to eat healthier, time to stake my claim as an evolved gastronomist.
It was time to renounce, McGwire-like, the year 1998, when I ate 144 hot dogs. (in 112 games).
It was time to order the Nathan's cheese fries at 1341 calories...
At that moment I decided it was time to rethink the Golden Arches...Maybe they were good for the world.
After all, one Quarter Pounder with Cheese (510 calories) + a Big Mac (540 calories) + 6-piece Chicken McNugget (280 calories) = 1330 calories combined.
(source: http://nutrition.mcdonalds.com/nutritionexchange/nutritionfacts.pdf)
"You rely on us to deliver quality food, and we take that responsibility seriously. From our team of registered dietitians to our trusted suppliers, we’re dedicated to making you feel good about choosing McDonald's foods and beverages." -- From the McDonald's company web site.
Monday, November 8, 2010
What do you do in the shower?
Here's what I do: I waste the valuable resource of water by showering too long, but what I've lost in green points over the years I've recouped through inspiration.
Today, clearly channeling having watched High Fidelity for the thousandth time the other night, I thought about my two holy grail choices for 2011...
1) The French Laundry, Napa Valley, California (http://www.frenchlaundry.com/)
2) O Ya Boston (http://www.oyarestaurantboston.com/)
Dreams or goals? You be the judge...
Meantime, as the year winds down, two places really stood out: Tojo's Vancouver (http://www.tojos.com/) and Boa Los Angeles (http://boasteak.com/)
Today, clearly channeling having watched High Fidelity for the thousandth time the other night, I thought about my two holy grail choices for 2011...
1) The French Laundry, Napa Valley, California (http://www.frenchlaundry.com/)
2) O Ya Boston (http://www.oyarestaurantboston.com/)
Dreams or goals? You be the judge...
Meantime, as the year winds down, two places really stood out: Tojo's Vancouver (http://www.tojos.com/) and Boa Los Angeles (http://boasteak.com/)
It's been awhile...
NOVEMBER 8, 2010, and much has changed since snapping off a quick photo of a little sushi from my beloved Samurai (827 Boylston Street, Boston) and beginning a transcontinental gastronomic adventure periodically interrupted by the Texas Rangers zooming past the Yankees only to fall flat against the surprising championship charge of the San Francisco Giants.
We have a new World Series champion. We have food. We have toys. We have questions that need answers. We have much to discuss.
But before we begin, a quick note about Samurai: Old-school Bostonian will remember the space as the back-bay staple Gyuhama, down the street from the Boston Public Library. Gyhuma has been gone since summer 2006 and while people like to lament closings and the passage of time, I do not mourn its lost. I'm glad it's gone.
Samurai sushi is better. The atmosphere is better. The drinks are better. The fish is fresher, the rolls more creative and tastier. The flavor of the unagi was not left in the microwave. And Samurai retained Gyuhama's one virtue - it serves until 1 a.m. Tuesday and Wednesday, 2 a.m. Thursday through Saturday.
You see, late-night dining is very important around these parts...
We have a new World Series champion. We have food. We have toys. We have questions that need answers. We have much to discuss.
But before we begin, a quick note about Samurai: Old-school Bostonian will remember the space as the back-bay staple Gyuhama, down the street from the Boston Public Library. Gyhuma has been gone since summer 2006 and while people like to lament closings and the passage of time, I do not mourn its lost. I'm glad it's gone.
Samurai sushi is better. The atmosphere is better. The drinks are better. The fish is fresher, the rolls more creative and tastier. The flavor of the unagi was not left in the microwave. And Samurai retained Gyuhama's one virtue - it serves until 1 a.m. Tuesday and Wednesday, 2 a.m. Thursday through Saturday.
You see, late-night dining is very important around these parts...
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Samurai sushi, Boston
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Saturday, October 9, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Roy's!
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Monday, September 6, 2010
Fang - A photo essay in gastronomy
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| The Company You Keep: Ratto and Murphy |
It was the final year of Tiger Stadium and in the dank corner of the press lounge (earlier I had nearly vomited from the overwhelming stench of bleach), Gary presided over an gastronomic nightmare: overdose heapings of potatoes and fried chicken, upon which the mighty G-Wash pumped frightening amounts of A-1 Steak Sauce.
I stopped him, horrified, and said, "Gary, A-1 is not for fried chicken. It's for steaks and marinades," to which he uttered a now famous line: "Tonight, fried is marinated."
How, from those unpolished beginnings, do Murph and I wind up at Fang, for what has become a tremendous tradition of daytime dining excellence?
And furthermore, how does Ray Ratto, King of Snapple, join us for the feast?
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| Fang Pork Buns with Cilantro |
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| Sesame chicken with sweet potatoes, rice and green apple |
Periodically, when I review the photos of these delights, I am reminded that it cost $500 just to walk into The French Laundry, a ridiculous, even criminal sum of money despite the fact that in one of their dishes they use Jerusalem artichokes, called "sunchokes." The sunchoke is neither from Israel nor an artichoke, but a type of sunflower, but I digress...
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| Mongolian Beef Tower |
Of course, the name "Mongolian" also always brings to mind the wrestler Killer Khan, who like a Jerusalem artichoke was neither from Mongolia nor a killer - but Ozawa Masashi, from Japan, who according to Wrestlepedia, now owns a restaurant in Japan...
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| Killer Khan from Mongolia? |
Still, before watching the WWF in the early 1980s, I had never heard of Mongolia...
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| Fang Five-Spice whitefish |
Meanwhile, the hits kept on coming...
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| Barbecued spare ribs |
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| Fang onion cake |
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| And a grasshopper mojito for me! |
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| Fang after-lunch liquer |
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| And finally, cookies! |
Monday, August 30, 2010
The French Laundry
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| "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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My apologies - HB
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Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Howard Bryant and Peter Fang: A gastronomic love story
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....
Sunday, August 8, 2010
"WELL, GET ON IT WITH, MOTHERF---!"
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| On Carpaccio, you never know who might show up. To be continued... |
Angela's Bistro and Bar
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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Saturday, August 7, 2010
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!
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| That's what I'm talking 'bout! |
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...
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.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Do you take this oyster, forsaking all others?
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| I did not cry. I did not cry! |
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!
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| Cloudy or Demon Killer? You be the judge... |
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...
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Next stop: The House
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...
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."
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
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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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Tuesday, August 3, 2010
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