Service to a Smile

I remember this one episode of The Cosby Show, wherein Vanessa announces, out of the blue, that she has been engaged for like six months. She brings her fiancee, Dabnis Brickey, to dinner to meet Cliff and Clair, and of course, hilarity (as well as a choice array of Cosby-faces) ensues. In his eventual and inevitable man-to-man conversation with Dabnis, Cliff waxes poetic on dinner service:


Cliff: Do you have a favorite food, something you really LOVE?

Dabnis: Oh yeah, on occasion, I enjoy a nice, juicy steak.

Cliff: Steak! Steak, there you go! You got a steak. Just imagine you got a porterhouse and no white lines in it at all. Now, what would you like to go along with it?

Dabnis: Uh, some crispy potatoes!

Cliff: No problem! Now, you got mushrooms, you like your mushrooms.

Dabnis: Yes, sir.

Cliff: You can smell it, can't you? Smell the potatoes?

Dabnis: Yes, sir!

Cliff: Smell the mushrooms!

Dabnis: Yes, sir!

Cliff: Sauteed!

Dabnis: Yes, sir!

Cliff: MMM, boy! Huh?

Dabnis: Yes, sir!

Cliff: All right, now, I'm going to present it to you, right? I go over now...I don't get a plate, I take the garbage can lid, and I turn it upside down! After taking it off the garbage can, I take your steak, your potatoes, your sauteed mushrooms, and I give it to you! Not too appetizing, is it? It's in the presentation. THAT'S how she brought you over here, "on a garbage can lid"!


Oh, Cosby Show, with your infinite wisdom and your family-friendly, primetime-appropriate comedic situations. Cliff Huxtable makes an excellent point here. No matter how creative, delicious, and well-executed a dish may be, it can all be brought down by bad service; conversely (did I use that correctly?), an average meal can be elevated by great service. 

Now I know that 
on more than one occasion, I have been guilty of underemphasizing the role service plays in one's dining experience. I have definitely made the assertion that at the end of the day, it's all about the food, and essentially that's all that matters; which I still assert is eighty percent true. But "eighty percent true" is like "four fifths pregnant" or "more or less dead." In all honesty, how something is presented makes a big difference in how it's received.

I suppose my often exaggerated underplay of service stems from personal exposure to its own exaggerated importance.  Having cooked in a few different Michelin-starred kitchens, I've had a behind-the-scenes look at just how much goes into service and presentation at the highest levels; and the fact that I spend all of my disposable income eating out, I've had many a front row seat to the dinner theater that is service at its highest levels. Only at the ballet will you see more graceful movements as your table is crumbed, your water glass refilled, your fork, knife, spoon, plate replaced, napkin refolded, and chair adjusted. For me, it can become overkill; my shirking of the importance of service altogether is basically a knee-jerk reaction to the overkill. I can remember a recent dinner at a fine dining restaurant where the service was so overattentive that it literally made me uncomfortable. I couldn't look in any direction without seeing a tuxedoed man hovering, waiting to refill my water glass after every sip or slightly adjusting the position of a share plate, assumably to maximize the ergonomic flow of the food on our table.

I know that these standards didn't form themselves, and I assume there are plenty of people out there who enjoy such painstakingly detailed attention; at the risk of generalizing, these often seem to be the same people who completely ignore those serving them, and look at their server only if necessary to express dissatisfaction with something. I, on the other hand, have a hard time not saying 'thank-you' at least once or twice when my water is refilled or my plates cleared. Maybe it's because I know I have the potential to turn restaurant tabletops into Hiroshima in the way I order and eat my food; maybe it's because I have been a server. I'm not trying to make any claims of good character on my behalf, nor will I admit my tendencies as character flaws. And therein, as the bard said, lies the rub.

Service is, at its essence, a connection between people. And because every person is different, that connection has the potential to be very different depending on who you're serving. This, of course, leaves a seemingly infinite gray area covering what constitutes good service. For that reason, restaurants  have handbooks, Michelin has checklists, and servers at the highest levels are impeccably trained. But at the end of the day, proper procedure can only go so far. Most diners would agree that their most memorable good service experiences were based on a great server, not an appropriate number of place setting changes. I think this gets forgotten more often than it should; again, this may be due to those out there who prefer their dining help neither seen nor heard, but in my opinion, all the pomp and circumstance is little more than that.

Obviously, that doesn't mean I want my porterhouse on a garbage can lid. All I'm saying is that I want my food's deliciousness to be the first and foremost priority. Beyond that, there are any number of combinations and contexts within which I can enjoy said food. The lighting, the table surface, and the side on which a server stands to refill my wine glass are not hugely consequential, within reason. Don't get me wrong: I can appreciate efficient, attentive service and the positive effect it has on the dining experience; a dinner at Meadowood last year was one of the better meals I've had in my life. I just get frustrated when it seems that more importance was placed on wall art and linens than on the food; if you have to get one thing spot-on, I think we can all agree that the food is the bullseye to aim for, no? Once you've got that down, go nuts with service.

Better yet, do something different with service! We've all seen white tablecloths, a lengthy parade of course-appropriate utensils, and the shamefully stuffy men's jacket requirement. I know I'm speaking from a California state of mind, but wouldn't you rather be pleasantly surprised by your service than predictably satisfied? To take things out of abstractness, allow me to reference State Bird Provisions, a relatively new restaurant in SF. They hype has started to build about this place, and let me be the first to say, it's legit. I had the good fortune to eat there a few weeks before it was named 'best new restaurant in the country' by Vogue, which I believe was its first major national accolade. Not only is the food fantastic (I must specifically mention the life-changing, house-made garlic knot topped with melted burrata), but they have a very original shtick: dim-sum style service. You can order off the regular menu, or you can wait for one of the trays circulating around the dining room to make it to your table. These trays contain off-menu dishes created literally moments before, utilizing elements from the menu plates integrated with other ingredients and put together in real time. It allows the kitchen flexibility and utilizes the maximum amount of product, while creating an exciting and unexpected bevy of options for  diners. Though it may sound gimmicky, it's not; in fact, it's brilliant. State Bird has created a totally unique dining experience, centered on outstanding food and bolstered by original service.

I'm also inclined to mention the impending wedding of my brother and his fiancee to further illustrate my point. Due to the restrictions of outdoor seating for dinner, Jamie and Kristin discovered that their original plans for dinner service and menu could not be accommodated. Alternatives were presented, and the final decision, forced by restrictions, came out even better than the original plan: I am absolutely thrilled to say that dinner will be rack of lamb, served family style and carved tableside! Does this not sound absolutely phenomenal? How many weddings have you been to where dinner was dry chicken breast or overcooked salmon, served in rehearsed unison and looking straight out of a 1980's playbook? The table is beautifully decorated and your water glass is on the correct side, but actually eating the food just makes you sad. Granted, dinner is not supposed to be the focal point of a wedding, and yes, I have a unique perspective when it comes to food, but you have to admit, wedding meals are often shitty. We can rest assured that, at the very least, Jamie and Kristin's wedding dinner will be one that stands out in everyone's memory; and isn't that something everyone wants at a wedding?

Admittedly, I suppose that all you can realistically hope for when eating out is a smile, extra ketchup when you need it, and a prompt check drop. Beyond that, the spectrum is vast and varied; and somewhere between a garbage can lid and polished silver platter lies a very memorable dining experience. But one thing has been repeatedly proven: diners will tolerate poor service in order to get amazing food; the converse (still correct?), however, is certainly not true. As long as that remains the case, I believe things are right in the restaurant world.

Dirty Mac & Cheese (spoiler alert: no sex stuff)

If you want an inside glimpse of any person's inner child, you need only catch them eating at the end of a rough day. Eyes closed dreamily, perhaps sucking on a giant spoonful of peanut butter, making gutteral noises of pleasure; it's not always pretty, but it's honest.

Rough days make us, as humans, crave comfort, and comfort is conveniently located in... delicious food! It's a good system. Just what type of food usually depends on who your mommy was. Odds are, at least one of your absolute favorite foods is something your mom made just so, or even something packaged she served you; not necessarily anything complicated or complex, just a dish she made for you on the regular that you absolutely loved.

For me, it's quesadillas, roast chicken (that's probably a popular mom fave for many), and good, old mac & cheese (another likely front-runner).

So when I got home this evening at the end of a particularly shitty day, I was all about some mac & cheese. As I collected my ingredients and equipment, which included a glorious United Nations of at least nine different cheeses, I came to realize that we were out of AP flour. I had been hoping to make a creamy, extra-gooey mornay as the base for the mac & cheese, and flour is a necessary ingredient to do so. Upon deeper exploration of the pantry, I encountered a few different whole grain flours. Why not? I perused my options and went with buckwheat flour.

My roux was a bit more finicky than usual, as a result of the whole grains and the difference in gluten content of the buckwheat, but with a little finesse and a fair amount of milk, I whipped that shit to smooth, thick, luscious, bechamel beauty, one like I had never seen before.

The whole grain buckwheat added texture, color, and flavor that completely altered the appearence and flavor profile of the sauce; it was actually really pretty. I decided to go with it: I added crispy diced bacon, cacao nibs, a pinch of chili flakes and a little cayenne, then finished with sliced green onions. I grated cheeses into the pan willy nilly, from Pecorino, to Cowgirl Creamery's Fat Bottom Girl, Machego, herbed chevre... whatever I could forage from the cheese drawer (which, in our refrigerator, holds great riches). I used orecchiette for my "mac," their tiny, al dente pockets filling up with ooey-gooey molecules of cheesy comfort.

I called it "Dirty Mac & Cheese," and it was sensational.

That's the best part of cooking; every roadblock or wrong turn is an opportunity to try something new and create something original. Necessity is the Mama Celeste of invention... or something like that.

Porchetta: The Other Other White Meat

Porchetta (pronounced 'por-KET-ta') is an Italian culinary invention on par with crushed chili flakes, pizza, and gelato: indispensable, unequivocal, and, at its best, exquisite. Intrinsically and unarguably born and anchored in the country shaped like a boot, these, like many other foods, are as essential to Italian culture and history as the Colliseum, the David, and the meatball (which they do better than anyone).
To make porchetta, for those of you unfamiliar with this most luscious and ingenious method of pork preparation, you traditionally begin with a whole pig, deboned, eviscerated, and cleaned. Next, you take the body, now completely removed of inedible parts, and roll it around a number of different layers, including but not limited to stuffing, meat, and fat. Along with the various layers of piggy perfection, porchetta typically includes a variety of mouth-watering seasonings and flavors, from citrus zest to fresh or dried herbs, sugar, plenty of salt, fennel, black pepper, chili flakes... whatever gets you going. The whole mess is then rolled, tied, and spit roasted over a wood fire for a nice, long time.
The resulting masterpiece is what you see pictured above (courtesy of Roli Roti at the Ferry Building farmers' market): a thick, succulent layering of juicy pork meat, and tender deposits of fat, all surrounded by a skin so crispy you'd slap your pastor to get a taste. Bellissima!
While the Roli Roti booth is a dependable place to get mind-blowing porchetta, the line tends to be equally as mind-blowing. I, myself, have waited forty-five minutes for a Roli Roti porchetta sandwich; and I would have waited longer. It's that good, especially on crusty Acme ciabatta with onion jam and bitter greens (usually arugala or some type of cress). As you near the front of the line, you stand directly in front of the spits, spinning mesmerizingly, dripping their golden juices over roasted potatoes that sit below. If you're really lucky, you may even get offered a sample of crispy skin from the shrapnel littered about the porchetta cutting board. People who are fortunate enough to enjoy this treat almost always end up embarrassed by the sounds they make as they bite into the heavenly morsel and its flavors melt into their taste buds. It gets a little sexual, I'm not gonna lie.
Until recently, I was not aware of a porchetta in SF that even came close to the sandwiches at Roli Roti; and its limited availability (the booth only operates on Saturdays and the porchetta goes pretty fast, as you can imagine) only further elevates its status and appeal. But I ate at NOPA last week and made a thrilling discovery: on Tuesdays, the restaurant pulls its pork chop off the menu and replaces it with a completely house made porchetta. Mother. Of. God.
It was all I could do to keep from getting emotional. How did I not already know about this? Had I really never been to NOPA on a Tuesday? Apparently I hadn't, because there was no way in hell such a beautiful and life-changing circumstance would have gone unnoticed by me. Porchetta is special, and you don't see it all that often, especially done really well (which is pretty much the only way they do things at NOPA).
It goes entirely without saying that I ordered the porchetta and then proceeded to have a deep and complex relationship with it. Its layers were everything you'd want them to be: juicy, fatty, savory, tender, flavor-packed bites that presented a beautiful and fortunate dilemma: I was smiling so wide I had trouble chewing effectively. I saved some for Julia; after all, it was she who first introduced me to porchetta in Tuscany, where they treat its production like something between an art and a religion. In all honesty, I could have eaten two very generous portions by myself, but if  I did that, I might as well have the pork surgically implanted into my aorta, and I'm just not ready for that kind of an operation. Besides, when I went to say goodbye to Laurence, the chef, my gushing praise of the porchetta took things even further: Laurence led me around the corner to where the most recently roasted rolls of porchetta were resting, tore off a crispy, fatty hunk from the best part of the loin, and handed it to me. It dripped bliss over my entire hand and exploded in my mouth into a million rainbows of flavor. Mouth full and stretched into a greasy grin, I thanked Laurence. He smiled, tore off another perfect hunk, and stuffed it into Julia's to-go box, feigning a fear of getting caught and glancing furtively around in mock stealth. Rest assured, his secret was safe with me.
If you didn't already know about it, get your ass to NOPA on a Tuesday and get your hands on some serious porchetta. Then maybe hit up Roli Roti on Saturday morning? No, no, that would be excessive, wouldn't it? Almost as excessive as taking pork and rolling it around more pork and adding extra pork fat...

The Birth of the "Duckeasy"

San Francisco is no stranger to getting around regulation. A city best known for giving Prohibition the finger and pioneering the decriminalization and legitimazation of cannabis sales is not going to bat an eyelash when you try to take away its most opulent and savored of edible offal; I'm referring, of course, to foie gras, arguably the crowned jewel of haute cuisine and hot cuisine alike. From seared torchons with toast points, to the secret ingredient in a $50 hamburger that people will swear on their grandmother is worth every penny, foie means a lot to a lot of people. And when you snatch something like that away with little warning, and minimal justification, you're bound to get some resistance.

It's a good thing SF chefs are a naturally clever bunch, because as long as you know the right people, you'd never know it was gone. Just like the Speakeasies that peppered this city during Prohibition, pioneering the way for those who weren't willing to let go, weren't willing to be told "No, I know better than you what is good for you," and the first Bay Area cannabis dispensaries to open their doors in turbulent and uncertain times, the chefs with the means and the know-how are doing their part to keep alive an important piece of food culture; and not just because of its potentially exquisite texture and flavor (though those things do matter very, very, very, very, very much), but also because this ban was improperly and hastily galvanized by a special interest group and forewent much of the standard review and research to which a regulation of its nature would typically be subject.

The fact of the matter is, the production of foie gras is not a black and white matter. There are, naturally, shades of grey among the ways ducks and geese can be raised, fed, and slaughtered, just as there are with any animal. And not to completely digress, but how can foie gras be categorically banned while industrially farmed chickens suffer conditions that would pass for extreme in Guantanamo? You've seen the truckfulls of birds going down the highway at 60 miles per hour, leaving a trail of feathers and emitting the stench of filthy, bacteria-ridden sadness just waiting to be an E. Coli outbreak. But I digress...

When will we learn that banning something is an ineffective way to prevent it? It arguably increases its popularity, it certainly doesn't make it hard to get, it adds mystique, and, if anything, creates competition, which, in our beautifully capitalist society, inevitably drives the improvement of product quality. So, in essence, by banning something, you are ensuring that it gets better, and that it gets to more people.

And one thing is for sure: those people are going to enjoy it that much more. I know I certainly did.

Last Sunday I was able to attend one of these so-called "Duckeasies," thrown by a couple friends at a disclosed-last-minute location downtown. The amuse bouche, foie gras mousse and Welch's grape jam on Wonderbread, was delightfully playful and set the tone perfectly for the dinner: playful and whimsical, toying with the concept of foie as haute cuisine and using it in atypically rustic presentations and nestled among comfort foods. The foie was a more than welcome substitution for peanut butter in the amuse, without interrupting the inevitably pleasing nostalgia of Welch's on Wonderbread. It brought smiles to every face it was placed in front of.

Next came a cold wonton spoon; while enjoyable, it was not my favorite course. Its textures of quail egg and cherry tomato ran together and were a bit too gooey for me. Perhaps such texture was intended, but it just didn't blow me away. Then came a beet salad with a foie torchon, both impeccable and brilliant in its presentation, the beets cut into impressive cylinders about 2" thick and sandwiched together around some chèvre, so that the effect was something like a giant, exaggerated, purple Oreo. Looks aside, the salad was delicious, the texture of the foie marrying with that of the chèvre in delicate harmony and coating everything else in your mouth.

A corn soup came next. It was the sleeper hit of the meal, which I have to say, forgoing humility, that I had predicted it to be; the thing is, when you put foie in a soup, it attaches itself to every drop and the whole entire bowl becomes so unbelievably velvety and rich you'd swear you were a vampire feeding on a faerie (my apologies if you don't get the True Blood reference). With any other serving of foie, you inevitably end up with a foie-less bite or two. In soups like this one, you maximize every drop of your sordid affair, and it's soooooo good.

The hits just kept coming: Poutine with duck heart gravy (maybe the best part of the dish), béchamel, mozzarella curds, and shaved foie. I will never have Poutine as good as that, ever. Unless I eat that one again. So much love went into that dish, you could taste it in every bite.

After that came skewers of foie and grilled peaches, stood up on a thick wooden chopping block; in the center of the block sat a fluffy pile of amaretto whipped cream, tiny pieces of salty, crispy duck skin sticking out, and a pile of warm raisin atrium bread with date butter. Visually and gastronomically, this was probably the most impressive piece of the night. Julia had called it early; she devoured hers in the time it took me to photograph mine.

The Chawanmushi that came next was probably my least favorite course. Not to say it wasn't enjoyable, but its cold nature made it a more challenging vehicle for the foie to shine through. I got more flavor from a lot of the condiments (daikon, wakame, cucumber, nasturtium pod kimchi, and togerashi) than I did from the foie. Plus, I am not the biggest fan of cold, savory puddings and porridges, popular as they may be in many Asian cuisines. All that said, I did still find plenty of enjoyment in what were clearly a carefully selected array of flavors and textures.

Finishing off the savory side was a big slice of seared foie, chanterelles, and a duck egg, set up perfectly to create your own special open-faced sandwich; which I, of course, did. It was everything you'd want it to be: warm, in every possible sense of the word, texturally satisfying on a number of levels (crunchy bread, tender mushrooms, seared foie, runny egg), and exploding with favor. Umami ran around the insides of my mouth like a riot, lighting up my taste buds like they were in a pinball machine. You just wanted to chew it forever.

They finished us off with some vanilla ice cream topped with shaved foie, and some "foiecolate chip cookies"(chocolate chip cookies made with foie gras in place of butter... drool) to take home, just to make sure they didn't fall short of complete and total excess. It was an unforgettable and unequivocal experience, and it went off beautifully, completely heedless of an arbitrary, unjustified ban on a very beautiful and wonderful product.

So raise your torchons, your lobes, your burgers dripping goose fat, and your chocolate covered foie gras bonbons (yes, they exist). And toast the ban on foie... because it's never been so good!

A Mighty Sandwich

The sandwich is a hell of a culinary vehicle, one that should not be underestimated; though quite often, it is. Invented by the Earl of Sandwich in the mid-eighteenth century, supposedly out of the necessity to eat without having to stop gambling, it is as potentially delicious as it is convenient. Its iterations are limited only by the chef's imagination, and I have enjoyed some doozies; take Waterbar's Softshell Crab "BLT," for instance, put together with pancetta, heirloom tomatoes, crisp Bibb lettuce, and spicy aioli on thick-cut brioche. The thing is so deviously yummy, crispy and crisp and juicy and fresh; and when you're chewing a bite with everything in it, the flavor profile is totally awesome.

But sometimes a sandwich isn't intended to be a culinary work of art. Sometimes you make a sandwich simply because you have some fresh bread and some good meat and the two just go together. Such were the circumstances within which I found myself the other day.

I had a fresh baguette and a flawlessly cooked New York Strip. Even if I had nothing but these two ingredients, I would be in good shape, but I had worked an event the night before where we'd made a thick, creamy, blue cheese dressing, and I'd brought it home knowing I could put it to good use. It was the perfect spread for the sandwich. I slathered a thick layer on both pieces of bread, then toasted them in the oven at 350, finishing on broil for a minute or 2 to get some nice golden color.

And what's a steak sandwich without onions, right? I sliced one into rings and caramelized them nice and slow with some oil and a touch of butter... oh, and some of the fat I trimmed off the steak, cut up into juicy, little morsels and nestled in among the onions, releasing flavor all over the pan. You can't imitate that real beef flavor; there's nothing like it, and it is the tits. I got the pan nice and brown, then deglazed every last bit of goodness with some red wine, letting it all reduce to French Onion Soup-style richness. I was ready to build.

The steak was sliced thin, heated up gently, and sat like ribbons atop a bed of bubbly, pungent Gorgonzola, just barely tinted blue, that melted down the sides of the baguette and ran together with the pink juices of the steak to create gentle, aromatic pools on the white plate.

Sexy.

I piled the onions high atop the other piece of gorgonzola bread and sprinkled them with a handful of fresh rosemary leaves from the garden. Then, taking care to keep the ingredients on their respective buns, pressed the two halves together gently, slowly applying pressure and watching for the moment when the fillings just began to poke out the sides. I let the whole thing sit for a moment so that everybody at the party could get to know one another.

Then I took that thing down. The tangy gorgonzola spread brought a punch; the onions were sweet, smooth, and rich; the steak was juicy, succulent, and flavorful. Each part depended on the others for balance and they complemented one another exquisitely. Every bite I took brought me to pause and appreciate the perfection and exceptional deliciousness that I was holding.

And thus, the beauty of a sandwich: a pretty, little package that can be packed with so much show-stopping flavor that you almost can't believe it. Let us always try to make our sandwiches the very best sandwiches they can be.

Not that I'm saying I support KFC...

But I really like the new marketing campaign for their popcorn chicken. The whole thing is basically muckraking directed towards McDonalds (which I couldn't be happier about), and they attack the ambiguity of the chicken nuggett. "What part of the chicken is nugget?" the commercial asks. It goes on to let us know that KFC makes popcorn chicken; the latter being distinguished by the fact that it is off-the-bone breast meat as opposed to pressed, formed, nuggets. Given the fact that KFC is a massive fast-food corporation, I still don't trust their chicken; but this commercial speaks to a far bigger point in a really positive trend that is gaining ground in the way Americans eat.
Thanks to the efforts of people like Alice Waters, Anthony Bourdain, and even good, old Ermeril Lagasse, the spotlight has been shone on what real food is. People are actually starting to give a shit about what they eat for the first time in a long time. And I don't just mean people, I mean People. Like, all of them. Sure there's still a long way to go, but you can see it happening, very slowly, in commercials like this. You saw the same thing in recent Domino's commercials that surprised focus groups by suddenly revealing that they were actually at the farms where Domino's gets their tomatoes. People were shocked and delighted to find out that the pizzas they were eating had -gasp!- fresh tomatoes in the sauce. Just like people are going to be stoked to hear that the chicken they are eating is -gasp!- real chicken.
Ironic and potentially disturbing as these circumstances are, take faith in the fact that they are baby steps on the journey to America eating real again. The fact that people care about where there food comes from, even in these incredibly general terms, is a step in the right direction. As people all over the country, from Alice Waters to the high school lunch lady, continue to do their part in leading that march, maybe one day that McNugget will even cease to Mcbe...
But I'm getting dangerously close to sounding like a full-on picket-weilding idealist, and that wasn't my intention. Let me just say that it makes me happy to see the people who feed us being held accountable for how they do so, even in small and tragically ironic ways. Because for a very long time, they weren't. Which was bad.
So here's to you, KFC. Thanks for promising not to feed us fake chicken.

Cocoa-Habanero Wings

Let's be honest: there aren't many people out there who don't like chicken wings. Hot, mild, sweet, tangy, messy, crispy, spicy, juicy... whatever your preference, wings are a crowd-pleaser. I, personally, think it has at least something to do with the fact that you have to throw manners to the wind and just get in there if you really want to enjoy them. I hold that to be a somewhat universal law in food: if you have to work a little bit for it (wings, crabs, lobster claws, etc.), it just tastes better. Maybe that's why I became a cook.

So when Julia and I were grocery shopping the other day and she grabbed a pack of raw chicken wings, I got excited. Making wings, for me, is one of the easiest and funnest ways to cook. You need nothing more than a bowl, a bag, and your imagination. I go foraging through my pantry and fridge, scanning the labels excitedly and grabbing armfuls of spice-jars, cans and bottles that clink joyfully as I haul them onto the counter. Sometimes I have to rely on taste to identify an unmarked spice bag (hello, harissa spice mix) or mason jar (mmm, apricot-vanilla jam); it's all part of the fun. From there, it's just about putting shit into the bowl and tasting as you go.
Seriously.
I mean, use your head; don't start with chocolate milk and add a dash of mustard. Think about how you want your wings to taste. Sweet? Start with some jam, maybe, or even fruit juice. Want some spice? Just add something spicy. Anything spicy, in fact. Just add it in small amounts and check it carefully and slowly as you go. There are very few spices and flavors that won't work. The key is adding little amounts of an ingredient at first, then adjusting more generously as you start to taste what works. My mom always said, "You can always add more, but you can never take away." Follow that guideline and you pretty much can't go wrong.
It's a damn shame that there are people who believe that Hooters' wings are the best thing out there. Even sadder are the giant plastic bags of T.G.I.Friday's frozen wings in the supermarket troughs, flash frozen and frostbitten, covered in high-fructose corn syrup. And don't even get me started on boneless "wings." At that point you're just settling for the lowest common denominator, and you might as well get yourself a box of chicken nuggets and call it a day. Jackass.

So this is what I came up with; it was a HUGE hit with a panel of wing aficionados. Full disclosure: the panel consisted of Julia and myself. That being said, the wings are sweet, earthy, and had some nice kick that sort of snuck up on us, which I loved (albeit more so than Julia). I do, however, guarantee you that they were tastier, more succulent, and kicked the crap out of most of the wings you're used to tearing through. And you can tell Hooters I said that.

If you wanna try them, put all this stuff in a big bowl:

1/4 C    canola oil
1 T    chili oil
1 T    worcestershire sauce
1 1/2 T    rice wine vinegar
2 T    jalapeno jam (this is what I used, but any jam can be subbed in; a spicy jam is, obviously, best if you want more kick.)
1 T    honey
2 t    soy sauce
2 t    habanero pepper (finely minced habanero w/ seeds works, as does jarred habanero paste from mercados.)

2 T cocoa powder
1 T garlic powder
pinch of salt

Whisk all this stuff together to a smooth texture, then toss it in a large ziplock bag with 6-12 wings and refrigerate it for up to 24 hrs.

Lay the wings on a sheet tray and bake at 350 degrees, uncovered, for an hour, basting every 15 minutes.* Then eat the hell out of them.



*After you lay the wings out to bake, pour the remaining sauce from the bag into a bowl (or small saucepot) and whisk in 1-2 T of melted butter; keep it warm and use it to baste the wings with a pastry brush every 15 minutes, or more often if you want to baby them (which is juuuuuuust fiiiiiiiiine).

Risotto Innovation

Last weekend we had dinner at Jane's house, and she made one of her specialties: Mom's Gooey Chicken. What this entails, essentially, is a chicken broken down into its eight pieces (for those who have never seen a chicken: two wings, breasts, thighs, and legs), and baked at 350 atop a generous layer of peppers, onions, and a somewhat secret recipe of seasoning and sauces. I know Worcestershire sauce plays a key role, but the rest is a bit of a mystery. At any rate, as the chicken cooks, it renders its fat and juices into the peppers, onions, and sauce, thickening like only natural animal fat can. Once everything cooks together, a few key stirs and what you have beneath (and all over) the chicken is a viscous, luscious, hearty sauce with a flavor all its own. It is called Mom's Gooey Chicken for a reason, and that reason is: it is very, very gooey. And holy moly, it is DELICIOUS.

Anyway, this is admittedly not a revolutionary way to cook chicken and it's not why I'm writing... though now that I'm here, I'm glad that Mom's Gooey Chicken is getting lauded, whatever the circumstances, because it's freaking scrumptious. No, what was new and neat and turned into gastronomic gold is what we did with the scraps.

After we polished off the chicken, we took a metal spatula and scraped all that amazing incredible goodness off the bottom of the roasting pan. I mean, seriously, we got in there and scooped up every last bit. What we ended up with was a ziplock bag of... goo. And if we're being honest, it wasn't much to look at. You know what pan scrapings look like, they're dark and sludgy and a little chunky; and I realize at this point I'm not doing a very good job of foreshadowing anything delicious, but bear with me...

I had assumed we'd end up using it for a sauce, maybe adding some booze to thin it or some flour to thicken it. We talked about making a tart out of it, or maybe just tossing some root vegetables in with a little water and making a hearty soup. Our (almost) final decision was to toss it with some pasta, something, ideally, like a rigatoni or a farfalle, whose shape and texture would best absorb and hold its ooey-gooey goodness. And then Julia took it one step further; what kind of pasta would do the absolute most absorbing? The answer was the pasta that is not a pasta at all: risotto.

We toasted the Arborio in a heavy pot for a few minutes, then added the goo and let it reduce a bit as the little grains of rice began to drink up the flavor-rich moisture. From then, we cooked it in typical risotto style; the water we used to hydrate and cook the rice had nothing more than a pinch of salt, a drizzle of oilve oil, and a parmesan rind. We stirred in some frozen peas, finished with some grated Reggiano, and dinner was served.

The flavor was even more concentrated than it had been on the chicken. At this point, the goo had been cooked down so long that it was simply bursting with hearty goodness. It was earthy, sweet, a little tangy, and had that juicy, sticky mouthfeel imparted from the chicken fat. Just so much flavor in every bite, it made me smile all the way to the last spoonful. Gotta love our new house favorite: Mom's Gooey Risotto.

*In retrospect, the one tiny thing I would have done differently is to have actually deglazed the pan, most likely with some white wine (though almost any wine would work). Also, this dish could be replicated (or improved upon) by using the scrapings from any roast dish. Ideally, you want some type of roast beast, as opposed to just a bunch of veggies, because the fat and gelatin from the meat or poultry is what will get into the goo to get it thick and velvety. However, if you must omit the meat, you could use a generous chunk of butter to help achieve the ideal texture and flavor (hell, throw the butter in even if there's meat!). Just roast your food as you normally would, and then once you pull out the main event, throw the roasting pan on a burner at high heat, wait for everything to start bubbling, then add your wine or booze (about a half a cup) to facilitate scraping the goodness off the pan. Sample booze generously.

Lunch & Tasting with Barone Ricasoli at Perbacco

Through a series of fortunate events, Julia and I recently found ourselves invited to attend a wine tasting and lunch at Perbacco. The occasion was courtesy of Barone Francesco Ricasoli, proprietor of Brolio, the oldest winery in Italy. Julia was there to photograph the luncheon and I to write about it, but let's be honest: we were there to feast on some of SF's most exceptional Italian cuisine and drink fantastic wine.

As each of the ten guests mingled into the private dining room on the second floor of Perbacco, we sipped a wonderfully tart and refreshing 2010 Albia Rose, a blend of Sangiovese and Merlot varietals. It was crisp and just a bit fruity, not that nectary-sweet picnic wine that fancy ladies drink on hot summer afternoons. An ideal palate cleanser, it was a wonderful first step in the journey upon which our taste-buds were about to embark. As we sipped our wine, Francesco chatted with us about Brolio, the 617-acre estate in Chianti that is home to the vineyards, labratories, and winemaking facilities responsible for Ricasoli's wines. He also pointed out the labels on his bottles of Colledila '07 and Casalferro '07, which featured antique drawings of the Tuscan countryside. Apparently the drawings had been found in an envelope on the Brolio estate only recently, but were drawn by an artist from Siena, depicting the landscape of Chianti, in 1584. They made excellent labels, as they were not only charming drawings but also reminders of the deep history behind Brolio's wines.

As I neared the end of my glass of Rose, the last guest arrived and Francesco invited us to sit. He sat at the middle of the table and welcomed us warmly as Brolio's Cru wines were poured in front of us: 2007 vintages of Castello di Brolio (Sangiovese with a little bit of Cab & Merlot), Colledila (100% Sangiovese), and Casalferro (100% Merlot). Each was superb, and all were quite bold in character, as expected. The cinnamon and vanilla notes were right up front, and the oak and spice warmed your tongue and tastebuds. It was wine that was easy to drink, but undoubtedly complex. Most notable was the smoothness, a particularly velvety mouthfeel somewhat surprising for a wine coming out of Chianti. We sniffed and sipped, swished and swallowed, as Francesco talked about his family's history, as well as his philosophy regarding Italian winemaking. His father had been forced to sell the winery and brand name in the early 1970s due to financial hardship, and it was purchased by spirits behemoth Seagram, who assumed that producing spirits qualified them to produce wine. After a a sufficient amount of failure in doing so, Francesco convinced them to sell the winery back to him in 1993. He did this, he says, "to get back the lost potential of this amazing estate." In control of Brolio once again, he set out to make wine.

Waiters brought in beautiful plates of fritto misto, grilled calamari, heirloom tomato with burrata, and salumi to start our meal as we listened and chatted. They poured us a 2010 Toricella Chardonnay, which complemented the seafood nicely. I found that the bright, citrus notes in the Chardonnay paired particularly well with the crispy, buttery fritto misto. Not to go unlauded, however, was the heirloom tomato and burrata plate. The tomatoes were firm but juicy, dazzlingly sweet, and striped with beautiful reds, yellows and greens. They would have stolen the show if it weren't for the pillow-soft burrata whose creamy insides ran onto the plate to collect with the tomatoes' juices for a swirling, stunning pool of pink & pale yellow that you just wanted to dive into.

In 2005, Francesco began experimenting, collaborating with different scientific institutions and universities, such as the Siena Ente Vini (Wine Authority). It was the first example in Italian winemaking where there were to be extensive, scientific studies in viniculture and viticulture. Francesco and his team at Brolio looked at every aspect of grapevine cultivation, growth, and harvest, constantly searching for the "why" behind the myriad circumstances of wine-making. They felt that though there was much to be learned about Chianti and its potential for great wines, it was, as of yet, not fully tapped into. That meant emphasizing Chianti, rather than a specific varietal.

"We are not producing varietal wines," Francesco explains emphatically. Rather, they produce excellent wines made from varietals that work best with the climate and topography of Brolio. Seventy percent of the soil in the vineyards at Brolio is the soil that has been there forever. By "respecting the soil," as Francesco puts it, he is able to let the land 'do its thing,' so to speak. This is what terroir, everyone's favorite buzz word, is all about, and it was beautifully exemplified by the Casalferro. As Francesco put it, the Merlot had been "Chianti-fied." The terroir essentially outmuscled the typical varietal characteristics of the grape to the point that the Merlot didn't actually taste much like Merlot. There was a slight and pleasant mustiness in the bouquet and far less fruit in the palate than what one would expect; in all, surprising but really nice.

The next course laid before us was a duet of agnolotti: small pillows of roasted veal and Savoy cabbage with a luscious sugo, and large, plump discs of braised rabbit complemented by small, bronze-hued chanterelle mushrooms and a rich Moscato jus. The most striking aspect of the dish, by far, was the brilliant golden tint of the pastas, making it clear to any cook that the chef had used only the best eggs in his preparation. The flavor and texture of the dough only reinforced this as we chewed contently and savored every mouthful. Brolio's 2008 Chianti Classico and 2008 Chianti Classico Riserva Rocca Guicciarda found their way into our glasses as we ate. The dark fruit notes and intense aroma stood up to the bold meatiness of each pasta, but the balance in the wines did well to share the spotlight with the more delicate veal. It was exquisite pasta paired with exquisite wine; what more could I ask for in life?

There was undoubtedly an overarching theme throughout Francesco's thoughts and musings on wine and wine-making: the idea of reaching a harmony between the grapes and the land so that when it comes to human intervention, the winemakers at Brolio have to do as little as possible. "The wine is not working for me," he smiles. "I am working for the wine." He relates being described as a "modernist" due to his scientific methods in wine-making, but Francesco doesn't see it that way. He is simply trying to make exceptional wine by whatever means work best. Currently, he is working on capturing the DNA of ancient Sangiovese vines in order to get his own grapes as close as possible to their ancestors. Brolio is using modern scientific knowledge to, in a sense, go back in history. To be growing centuries-old vines in their natural habitat of Chianti, but with the viticultural knowledge of today, yields luscious possibilities for some very, very delicious wine.

Our main course was a pan-seared hanger steak with an heirloom tomato panzanella salad. While others may have found fault in serving heirloom tomatoes twice in one meal, I could not have been more excited to see these sun-soaked beauties on my plate again. My steak was cooked to a spot-on medium rare and sliced to show this off, its juices escaping onto the plate much like the attempts of my own drool as I stared excitedly at the spectacle. I enjoyed the heirlooms no less this time around, and every forkful of beef and tomato threw a party in my mouth that made my eyes close gently and my lips stretch into a grin. With this course, we enjoyed four vintages of Brolio's Chianti Classico: 2001, 2003, 2005, and 2006. Francesco took the time to point out the difference in each vintage, allowing us to form our own opinions but giving his own as well. Though he claimed that the 2003 was one of their worst, I must admit that, taking a sip after a bite of my steak, I had no complaints. My favorite was the 2005, particularly due to the contrast between its up-front smoothness and heavy tannin. It was not abrasive in any way, yet still grabbed my tastebuds aggressively as I swished and swallowed. It is not as highly acclaimed as the '06 or the '01, but perhaps its partnership with the steak is what won me over.

When I asked Francesco if there were any new or exciting projects on the horizon for him or the winery, he shook his head with a smile. While they will continue to study and evolve their methods in order to constantly make their wines better, there is nothing that will steal their focus. In his own words, Francesco is doing his best to"track down the tradition of tomorrow" in winemaking. With science and history working hand in hand, it would appear that he is on the right track.

Eat With Your Eyes

If anyone is actually checking in on this site, feel free to also waste your time drooling over amateur food photography on my brand new photo blog, Eat With Your Eyes. It's just a way for me to keep my best food photos in one place as I try to break deeper (read: at all) into the legitimate world of food journalism, or somewhere thereabouts.

Anyway, the photos aren't horrible, so seriously, check it out.