I love playing with comfort food.

Everyone has those special dishes that warm both your stomach and your heart, that you just want to hug and devour at the same time. For me, one of those dishes is Mac & Cheese. I had an impulsive craving today for good ol' Mac & Cheese, but wasn't sure what I had in the house in terms of Mac or Cheese. Fingers crossed, I surmised the fridge and pantry situations; I was in luck.

Not only would I be able to throw together an impromptu pot of gushy, cheesy love, I grabbed a couple of ingredients that would stir things up, put a different spin on a familiar favorite... and away we go.

I got the pot of water going and set aside a bag of Artisan tricolor pasta shells from Italy. Meanwhile, I rendered some bacon, then added brunoise onions and garlic, finishing with a couple tablespoons of Chipotle paste my aunt and uncle had brought from Mexico when they visited. I added a little butter and some pasta water and brought it all together in a delicious, bacony sauce with a serious touch of heat. A little milk (Milk? I know, but we didn't have any cream in the house), and it was a creamy ragu-like sauce ready to cover the pasta with sexy decadence.

Next came a motley assortment of grated cheeses (a little bit of everything we had in the house), and, once that was incorporated, a few crumbles of chevre and a few of a triple cream brie-esque specimen with a rind so nice it melted in your mouth. Stirring lovingly, I watched the soft cheeses swirl into the oversized pan, languishing among the bits of bacon and draping themselves about the pasta shells. I couldn't stop drooling.

A few more seconds in the pan, and then the whole delicious lot of it into a Pyrex. I scraped every last bit of creamy, gushy goodness over the pasta and finished with a generous amount of dried Mexican queso and grated Australian Parmesan. Some garlic cracked pepper and it was into the oven at 350.

Twenty minutes later I was savoring forkfuls of perfect Mac & Cheese. The shells were al dente, each bite a gushy, squishy, cheesy, morsel from heaven. The heat from the Chipotle warmed me all over and the United Nations of cheeses were crispy on top and melty, stringy happiness throughout. The bacon added both umami and texture in addition to that perfect flavor that only bacon does. I paired with a glass of Muscat, whose cool fruitiness was the ideal companion to such spicy richness. Seconds were a must. Of everything.

It's always fun to do a fresh spin on a classic, simple plate of good, old-fashioned comfort food. Chipotle Mac 'n' Cheese with Bacon: now on file and freaking delicious.

Joelly's Visit

Joe arrived to SF last Tuesday, sparking a little vacation (for him, Julia, & myself) that ended up revolving, inevitably, around food. Prior to his arrival my special lady and I had back-and-forthed about where to take Joe on his first visit to the city, indeed his first visit to the West Coast. I have to admit that my original agendas (Twin Peaks, the sea lions at Fisherman's Wharf, Ocean Beach) were soon 86ed in favor of Julia's ideas of simply following our appetites around Northern California. The following is a chronicle of every bite we took: from Joe's arrival at SFO to his return to the same, no finger-lickin' mouthful goes unmentioned.

Tuesday, August 31st, Lunch: Joe's plane landed ten minutes early at 10:25 AM. Naturally he was hungry, and we spent the drive from the airport debating the ideal lunch spot. Joe expressed a craving for Mexican, and wouldn't you know it, our exit off the highway dropped us in the Mission. Without a second thought, we made our way up Mission St. to 24th. El Farolito. Joe got a Carne Asada Super Suiza, Julia a Torta al Pastor, me a Carne Asada Super Burrito. As we peeled back the foil in our living room and sank our teeth into our respective meals, grunts and groans of pleasure and disbelief were audible over the decadent chomping and chewing of avocado, steak, cheese, pork, tortilla, torta, sour scream, rice, beans, caramelized onions, and pico de gallo, a bright palette of Mexican flavor smeared together and wrapped and grilled. Glorious. Joe declared it the best quesadilla he'd ever eaten.

Tuesday, August 31st, Dinner: Joe made it to Waterbar just before the kitchen closed in time to grab some snacks. I sent him the Yellowtail sashimi with pickled nectarine, watermelon, and mint; he ordered a steaming, glistening, juicy plate of Asian-style barbecue short ribs with a fresh horseradish slaw. Tasty. The deep burgundy of the rib glaze pools around the tender, fatty meat with honey sweetness and a hint of kick. Plus, Joelly is quite the rib enthusiast so I knew it would be a home run. He waited for me to finish my shift and we went to an industry spot with a few of the other Waterbar cooks. After a few rounds we headed back to our spot with a small group to kick it in the garden with herb & beers. Julia came through clutch around 3 AM with munchies: homemade asiago garlic bread on a loaf of Acme ciabatta. Great cap on the nite.

Wednesday, September 1st, Lunch: We awoke mildly hungover and were compensated with absolutely gorgeous weather. Donning sunglasses, we bounded into the 80 degree sunshine headed for Ike's Sandwiches at 16th & Sanchez. Ike's is to sandwiches what a Tyrannosaurus is to lizards. The sandwiches are enormous, overwhelming, incredible, dripping, golden, absolutely crammed with goodness. Julia had the Napoleon Complex: turkey, honey poppy seed dressing, avocado, & havarti. It was sweet and moist and smooth and you kind of wanted to kiss it softly but passionately. I had the Menage-a-Trois: chicken breast, honey, honey mustard, bbq, pepperjack, swiss, & smoked gouda. Holy mother of God, this thing was succulent. The various sauces and condiments swam together and united in creamy, tangy, harmony. The three cheeses were in perfect ratio. It was a thing of art. Joe opted for the most outrageous of the three, The King Koopa: all-beef meatballs, mozzarella sticks, stuffed jalapeno poppers, and marinara. Are you serious? Yes, I'm serious. And believe it or not, of the over 200 sandwiches they have on the menu, this is not the most ridiculous. Suffice it to say we ate until we literally could not eat any more. We passed in and out of food comas in Dolores Park, people-watching and basking in the sunshine and the sandwich buzz.

Somehow we found room for Bi-Rite Creamery ice cream on our way out of the Mission. Joe got a scoop of Ricanelas, which is cinnamon ice cream with Snickerdoodle cookie dough swirled into every bite. Unreal, and for my taste, hands-down the best ice cream I've ever had. Julia got a scoop of balsamic strawberry and I got a cooling scoop of mint-chip... and a scoop of chocolate. We spooned and slurped and dripped our way home, where we would part ways for dinner. Julia was meeting her best friend Kaitlin for Kaitlin's birthday dinner at Aziza, a fantastic Moroccan restaurant in the Inner Richmond.

Wednesday, September 1st, Dinner: Joe and I had reservations at a San Francisco landmark, The House of Prime Rib. It was my first time dining there and I had high expectations; I was not disappointed. We arrived early so we could grab a martini at the bar, fully embracing the whole steakhouse experience, then scored a spacious yet cozy booth and let the games begin. The meal began with the house salad, crisp iceberg and their creamy house secret dressing contrasting to make every bite delicious. The hot sourdough loaf brought to our table was as soft and steamy on the inside as it was crusty and golden on the outside. Then arrived the prime rib, sliced tableside and jaw-droppingly succulent. Juicy like a summer peach, tender, and fatty, surrounded by mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed spinach, and accompanied by a Yorkshire Pudding. It was like trying to eat an entire delicious circus. It's funny; my former vegetarianism seems more ironic every day. I attacked that steak like a jungle cat, and when it was over I had to stop myself from gnawing the bone. Espresso was a necessary finish on the meal, dessert an impossibility. So, so good.

Thursday, September 2nd, Lunch: Sonoma bound, we met Kaitlin for lunch at Sol Food in San Rafael, home of the best Puerto Rican food you will ever taste. Seriously. The four of us joined forces and ordered aggressively: 2 bistec flatbread sandwiches and a steak salad, 3 pieces of oregano roast chicken, 2 orders of garlic tostones, 1 order of sweet plantains, four limeades and a mess of rice and pink beans. We ate until the buttons flew off our clothes so hard that they embedded themselves in the plaster on the wall. We poured their secret recipe hot sauce copiously and slurped the bubbly, fizzy limeade until our satiated burps punctuated the conversation regularly. Completely stuffed and glowing satisfaction, we said goodbye to Kaitlin and drove north.

We made it to five wineries: Sebastiani, Ravenwood, Nicholson Ranch, Roche, and Charles Creek. Highlights of the tastings included everything from dry Roses to heavy Cabs. Blends, sweets, tannins, chocolate, cinnamon, citrus, blackberries, scents and tastes and notes swirled together and separated delicately, each touching your tongue and cheeks in a different spot, lighting up your mouth and dancing with your tastebuds. We tasted a Port infused with chocolate so fantastic and different that Joe had to buy a bottle for Mom & Dad. All said and done, we ended up buying five bottles between the three of us: a Cab, a Merlot, a Syrah, a Gewurtztraminer, and a Cab/Grenache blend.

Thursday, September 2nd, Dinner: There's nothing as decadent, relaxing, and delicious as going through good bottles of wine with good friends and good food. Julia went all out at the grocery store, appeasing Joe's demands for fish tacos and adding shrimp and calamari to the menu. When we got to the incredible and impeccably decorated house where we were fortunate enough to be staying, we fired up the charcoal bbq with some mesquite and gots to cookin'. There was a beautiful, tangy, vinegary purple cabbage slaw, grilled tomatillo salsa, summer squash, corn on the cob with chili and lime, and gorgeous red snapper for the tacos. I marinated the calimari with chili, paprika, lime, garlic, and cilantro, and the shrimp with pineapple, brown sugar, lime, and jalapeno for some sweet-spicy-tangy. The mesquite gave everything a gorgeous punch of smokiness and we descended on the food like lions to the kill, faces caked with sauce and plastered with huge smiles. Drunk with vacation relaxation and really excellent wine, manners and poise were thrown to wind and we reveled in the bacchanalian summer seafood feast before us. At one point Joe had to inquire whether Julia and I had plans to eat him, and was this the reason we were fattening him up. I have to admit, the way we'd been feeding him, it wasn't an unreasonable question.

Friday, September 3rd, Lunch: We woke up around noon and cleaned up some of the damage from the nite before, then headed into Sonoma Town Square for lunch at The Girl & The Fig. We had heard great things, and how can you go wrong with a French bistro in the heart of wine country? While we waited for our table on the patio, I enjoyed a lavender mojito, Julia a lemon verbana iced tea, and Joe a California IPA. The patio ended up being beautiful, with fresh flowers all around giving off a myriad of delicious smells rivaled only by the tasty looking plates coming out of the kitchen. We started off with salads. My heirloom tomato, watermelon, and feta was completely refreshing and perfect for the hot, summer day. The tomatoes were plump and perfect in their yellows and reds, probably one of the last times this year they would be as such. Julia ordered the arugula, goat cheese, and fig salad with candied pecans and crispy pancetta. The ratio of sweet to salty to creamy to tangy to peppery couldn't have been more balanced, so that in every forkful you got the perfect bite without even trying. Joe's weddge salad had a nice mellow green goddess dressing beneath it, the tarragon tickling your taste buds in every crunch. Entrees stepped it up even further: mine was a Croque Monsieur done to perfection on a brioche that I swear I could have slept on. Julia had one of her favorite summer lunches, Moules Frites. The broth of the mussels was a buttery, garlicky surprise you wanted to float around in all day, and the matchstick fries were just crispy enough to be perfect. Joe decided on the simple but delicious salami and brie sandwich on baguette; the fig jam on the sandwich was just what it needed to rise to the challenge of competing with everything else, and its sweetness paired nicely with the creamy brie and spicy salami. It was our last bite in Sonoma and a hell of a way to say goodbye.

Friday, September 3rd, Dinner: For our final meal together in California, we decided on the Catalan tapas restaurant Contigo in Noe Valley. Julia and I had been there together once before, and Julia had returned on multiple occasions with others, so we knew we could trust it to be a fitting send-off for Joe. Plus, his obsession with croquetas and the search for the perfect one made Contigo a fitting spot to bring him. We managed to get a late reservation and, once seated, began scanning the menu and discussing options as if it were a United Nations meeting. We decided on roughly ten plates and sat back, ready for the parade of tapas to begin. Unfortunately, we were soon informed that the lobster mushroom stuffed calamari we had ordered was 86ed... so were the croquetas. As Joe cursed his luck, we decided on some alternatives and comforted ourselves in the free glasses of Cava and Muscat that the waiter offered as consolation. Soon the first plate arrived, and the party was started. Naturally we started with Pan con Tomate, a Catalan staple; this is actually the first time I had tried this dish during tomato season and holy moly, was it great. The simplicity of crushed summer tomatoes on garlic toast is a beautiful thing. Next we had lamb and beef albondigas, juicy and textured and wonderfully tender. There were toasts with avocado, pickled onion, and wood oven roasted sardine that was so fresh you'd swear they had a tank in the kitchen. Joe "doesn't like sardines" (mostly because he only knows them as the salty, oily, canned fish from the supermarket), but we got him to try one and he didn't object. The olive oil fried Soul Food Farm chicken breast was truly cooked to perfection, breaded crispy golden brown on the outside and unbelievably juicy on the inside, really letting the chicken speak for itself. And the accompanying salad of cucumber, tomato, grape, and cumin was refreshing and different. Next came a flatbread with corn, shaved summer squash, caramelized onions, and Manchego... and our additions of farm egg and fatted calf bacon. It was deliciously crispy and melty and fresh; the corn gave sweetness, the bacon added saltiness, the Manchego and egg, together, as creamy as can be. It was like a summer fiesta in Spain on a plate. Naturally we had a side of patatas bravas, dependable and scrumptious as always, and a side of chard with almonds, garlic, and golden raisins, thanks to Julia. Buttery, sweet, and garlicky, it made eating your vegetables something anyone would want to do. We finished with dessert: an apple flan that was like no flan I had ever tasted, with wedges of caramelized apple on top that could have been right out of Mom's homemade pie. The Blue Bottle Coffee ice cream wasn't anything mind-blowing, but being able to really taste that exquisite coffee made for a nice cap on the meal. We pushed back our chairs and waddled out of the restaurant as satiated and smiling as we had after every meal prior. If there's one thing Julia and I can do in SF, it's get you fed. I think Joe understands that now better than ever before.

Saturday we stopped by the In & Out in Daly City on our way to the airport, determined to cram one last authentic California snack into Joe's visit. His departure went off almost without a hitch: he forgetfully packed the Chocolate Port in his carry-on and had it confiscated going through security. Oops.

A small price to pay for to the Gods of gluttonfest that had blessed us for the past four days, no doubt.

Do I Dare to Eat a Peach?

So after a 7 month hiatus, I have decided to resume my blog again. At this point I don't think anyone's reading anymore so I'm pretty much writing for my own benefit. So long Spain, back in SF, working at Waterbar, and living with Julia. That about catches things up.

My alarm clock went off at 4:00 this morning, and as the coffee maker turned itself on, I hopped in the shower, already feeling the excited energy anticipating the day ahead. An hour or so later I was 2 cups of joe and one bowl of mj deep. Eric, Waterbar's purchasing manager, pulled up in front of my Castro apartment in a Zipcar station wagon, and we were on our way. By 7 am we were heading south in the East Bay, sun beginning to pierce the fog and break into brilliant blue.

Our destination was Masumoto Family Farm outside of Fresno. Waterbar had adopted an Elberta peach tree there, one of many that "Mas" adopts out to restaurants, companies, and families nearby. Elberta peaches are the second most prized peaches around, I learn as the day goes on. The most highly regarded, the most "stunning" (as Mas passionately characterizes them) are the Sun Crest. Sadly, we will not munch Sun Crest today.

Upon our arrival at the farm, we get cleaned up and grab brunch: perfectly battered french toast with homemade peach marmalade (guess where they got the peaches). To stay cool there was fresh cut watermelon and a homemade lime granita that was hella addictive.

We had arrived a bit late and missed the group introduction and background from Mas, but Eric had covered the majority of it at various points in the nearly four hour drive. Nevertheless, Mas greeted Eric with a warm embrace and said he'd meet us at our tree momentarily. We approached said tree, 2nd from the end in the first row, taking it all in. The peaches exploded off its branches, pulling them down as those of a weeping willow. Shiny green glinted in the blazing Fresno sun with artistic splashes of yellow, crimson, gold, pink, rose running together. It looked as if the tree itself was ready for us to plunge our teeth into its juicy orange flesh, the squish and explosion of peachy yumminess bursting with flavor, intensity, earth, sugar, sunshine!

Mas talked to us for about fifteen minutes, filling us in on this year's nuances: a cooler spring and summer had resulted in smaller fruit, which was bad for business; for some reason, this year the riper fruit was on the outside of the tree, as opposed to the inside; et al. He departed as warmly as he had arrived and we gots to pickin'. We picked high, with ladders, and low, often finding the very best peaches on the ground in need of nothing more than a gentle rinse.

No doubt, half of the fruit was almost begging to get picked. The method for choosing which fruit is ripe & ready is to first feel it gently for softness. If it gives just a little at the surface, give it a little tug. If the peach comes right off the branch, you've found yourself a keeper. If it resists, it's not ready to leave the party. We collected roughly 20 dozen in less than 2 hours, moving at a leisurely pace and taking frequent breaks for conversation, irresistibly fresh peaches, and visits from different members of the Masumoto family. One such visit included nectarines that screamed flavor like a scarlet and honey siren, dripping with sweet juice so good that your eyes closed involuntarily as you ravenously slurped it from your fingers...

We did one last lap around the tree checking for ripe and ready and decided to pack it up and get a move on. When the car was packed, we joined the Masumoto family in the shade. They busted out more granita, and after 2 hours in the blazing sun, nothing could have been better. It reminded me of the limeade at Sol Food in Marin, super tart but super sweet at the same time, and just about as refreshing as it gets. And as if that weren't enough, ten minutes later we were in the Masumotos' pool. Perfect.

After a glorious swim, we grabbed some In & Out Burger (double double animal style and a chocolate shake, please) and then hit the road north. I passed out in the back seat with my iPod blaring and woke up about 30 minutes outside of Oakland. Eric was kind enough to stop at Bi-Rite Market in The Mission before he dropped me off so I could buy some key accoutrement for the meal I had been dreaming about the whole ride home. I grabbed a couple of pork chops, an aromatic German Riesling, and a few shallots.

I cooked dinner nice and slowly, taking the time to make my knife cuts clean and my sauces chronic. I used all fresh herbs from the garden, the good olive oil Julia's mom had given us, Meyer lemons from the tree in our backyard, peaches picked that morning at Masumoto's, and the beautiful, stunningly marbled, bone-in pork chops.

Dinner was:
Grilled, Herb Crusted, Bone-In Pork Chop
Green Beans & Shallots w Bacon & Roasted Garlic
Sweet Chipotle Roasted Potatoes
Grilled Elberta Peach w Lavender Salt


There was savory, sweet, salty, smokey, crispy, chewy, tender, juicy, aromatic, spicy, creamy, tart, bacony gooooooodness. The Riesling, Hattenheimer 2008, was light, aromatic and on the fruity side, so it both cut the heavier flavors and stood up to the sweetness of the grilled peach. Bonus.

So that's my first shot after the hiatus; hopefully I stick with this...

Done and DONE.

Lasarte is officially in my past. WOW.

My last day finished rather uneventfully, with a relatively slow nite at the restaurant, different from other nites only due to the fact that we had to scrub down the giant grills and hoods in the carne and fish partidas. It took an extra 45 minutes of manual labor to end the shift, but I couldn't have cared less, as I knew each aggressive move of the sponge on the grease-caked steel brought me one moment closer to freedom. As everyone filed out, I said my goodbyes to various cooks, bosses, dishwashers, etc. Then I walked out the doors and breathed the most delicious breath of cold, Spanish nite air that my lungs have ever tasted.

There was an informal and impromptu 'mini-fiesta' at my apartment to celebrate the end, and while I thought it would be three to five people with a couple of beers, it ended up being more than 15, which was fantastic. We drank, smoked, laughed, and recounted the restaurant's stories, both mundane and absurd, into the wee hours of the morning. Some time before 4am, I declared that it was time for bed, and the last few stragglers made their way for the door. Saturday I woke up nice and late, feeling rested and ready to get the hell out of dodge. I got a haircut and some lunch, packed my bags (with some difficulty), and caught a ride to the train station in SanSe from Giovanni. By the time the clock struck five, I was G-O-N-E, gone.

The train ride passed quickly enough and by 10 I was in Madrid. One overpriced cab ride later and I was at Ceci's apartment. We made a quick trip down the street for two bottles of wine and two pizzas, then returned to her apartment to finish all of it, naturally. When there was nothing left to eat or drink, we put on Land of the Lost, starring Will Ferrell. Definitely not Oscar material, but there couldn't have been a better cap on the nite. Wine? Check. Pizza? Check. Cheezeball American comedy? Check. I was a happy boy.

Today we woke up around 1 and headed to a restaurant for comida with a bunch of Ceci's classmates. It ended up being around 20 people, which was a blast. Tons of food (octopus, calamari, bomb croquetas, best tortilla I've had in Spain), Sangria, pitchers of beer, and lively conversation. It also didn't hurt that most of the group was beautiful women, which was a welcome sight compared to the troll population that inhabits Lasarte. Everyone was super nice and warm and welcoming and the meal was absolutely perfect. We weaved through the city to a bar afterwards, and then, realizing we were tipsier than we'd intended, Ceci and I made our way back to her apartment.

While she napped, I prepped my things for my upcoming travel plans and enjoyed some much needed rest and downtime. Tomorrow I wake up at 7 for the trip to Morocco. Going solo is definitely a little intimidating, but after the last few months, my adventure confidence is high. I plan to see as much as I can, eat the most bizarre street food I can find (mmm, camel), and just go for broke, figuratively and literally. Thursday I return to Madrid for half a day before my departure to Pisa to see Julia. It's approaching midnight, so I should probably start thinking about sleep.

Africa, here I come...

Brillante!

So it’s my last weekend here in Lasarte. Wow. Can’t believe I’m this close to being finished. As long as some of the days may have seemed, I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t fly by. And now, looking back at the road behind me, I must admit, it’s been an overwhelmingly positive experience.

Yesterday was, by far, the best day of service I’ve had at the restaurant. I awoke with relative ease, fueled by the knowledge that it was the last weekend I’d be working. A quick cup of coffee after my shower and I was off and running. The morning flew by as we prepped for the busy day, and lunchtime arrived before I knew it. Incredibly, there was a surprise in store: instead of the usual Sunday lunch of what I call "grease soup" (chunks of chewing-gum-consistency beef and diced peppers in a pot covered by 3 inches of oil and grease), we ate what was, hands down, the best meal we’ve been served in the kitchen. Ever.

Gabi (the friend who took me to Asturias last month) and his dad often hunt wild boar in the mountains around their town. With incredible generosity, Gabi brought one (‘javeli’ in Spanish) to the restaurant on Wednesday, butchered, broken down, and ready to be cooked. He spent his spare time during the week prepping, marinating, and stewing this glorious beast, and yesterday we were served a huge, mouth-watering pot of stewed boar, in all of its so-tender-it-falls-off-the-bone glory. This was my first time trying boar, and naturally I loved it. I had two huge bowls, sopping up every last drop with hunks of bread. Oh, and I can’t forget the honey ice cream that the pasteleria served us for dessert. At the end of the meal, I could do nothing more than stretch out on my chair, rub my full belly, and grin in satisfaction. De-LACIOUS.

Full of fuel from the lunch to end all lunches, I spent an hour shucking and cleaning my oysters. As I neared completion, Giovanni (who plates the oysters with me during service) was called away to empty and clean one of the walk-ins in preparation for the restaurant’s impending holiday. This would take at least a couple of hours, which meant I would be solo during service. On a slow day, such circumstances would be insignificant, but with the books full, it was slightly daunting. Nevertheless, I looked forward to the challenge.

The rush began, and the restaurant was slammed within 30 minutes of opening the doors. I have to admit, I did nothing but kick ass. I reiterate that the oyster dish is not overly difficult or complex (a mere five touches and it’s done), but when you start the day given five different tables, simultaneously, it’s easy to fall into the weeds. Nevertheless, the weeds remained at bay for the full length of service. I kept track of everything myself, I caught errors that Sany missed, I helped out at the other stations, and every plate went out like an impeccable gem. Not once did I miss a beat, break a sweat, or let a mistake occur. Sany stayed out of my way and let me do my thing, and I reveled in the whiplash ballet that a busy service becomes: the pressure, the competitiveness, the poise, the attention to detail, the necessity to move with both grace and speed, the ability to act without thinking, to anticipate timing... you gotta love it.

At the end of the day, minutes away from the freedom of the weekend, Sany called us together for our usual end-of-week huddle. "Hoy fue un servicio brillante," she beamed. Today’s service was brilliant. To hear this sentence come out of the mouth of someone like Sany is like hearing George Walker Bush recite a Shakespearean sonnet. I was taken aback, floored, and elated. I thanked her with heartfelt words of "gracias" and headed out the door, already feeling my body start to relax and go into chillout mode. I got home, changed into sweatpants, and sank into the couch, smiling from ear to ear as my muscles instinctively began to relax.

The next few hours were spent listening to music and drinking Rioja as we (Giovanni, Jay, Romina, and I) reflected on the past week and the fact that we were almost done. At one point, Sany came up in conversation (as she often does), and Jay paid me a huge compliment: "Some said it was impossible," he said with a grin, "but I think you’ve conquered Sany. You won." And as a smile crept over my own face, I nodded my head in agreement. I’d been thinking about it over the past week, noticing how she almost never yelled at me anymore, how she stayed off my back for the most part during service, how she continued to make pleasant conversation, ask about my girlfriend, laugh at my jokes... hell, she even calls me "Senor Hinojo" ("Mr. Fennel") now due to the fact that I have become the go-to guy when we need an excessive quantity of the infamous and meticulous fennel ‘risotto.’ And, she has promised coffee every morning next week since it’s our last week before closing! Jay is right; whether on my own or with the help of my partida, I have won Sany over. That fact is most likely the biggest accomplishment with which I will leave this place. Fuckin’ A.

Anyway, I look forward to enjoying the rest of my final weekend. Cooking some American food for dinner tonite (sorry, Jamo, I spell how I wanna spell): Mac n’ Cheese and Chicken Nuggets. Tomorrow Jay and I make one last daytrip to Bilbao to see the Guggenheim (this time when it’s actually open), and then I have three days of work before I pack up and head back to Madrid. And then Morocco. And then Tuscany. And then... HOME! Home for takeout Thai food, family, friends, Christmas, a bed that wasn’t issued by a correctional facility, my dogs, HBO, and a house in which I’m not scared to walk barefoot.

Wish me ‘buena suerte’ as I push through the final three days at Restaurante Martin Berasategui...

Coming down the home stretch...

So today marks the beginning of my last full week at Martin. Which is sort of mind-blowing. Just throwin' that out there...

This past weekend was somewhat uneventful; I had intended a day-trip to Pamplona, but the combination of a hefty bar tab Sunday nite and torrential downpour on Tuesday & Wednesday yielded a weekend spent mostly in cozy sweats watching movies on the couch. Oh yeah, and EATING. Shocker.

It was Vaughan and Kevin's last weekend here, so Saturday nite was their big 'adios' dinner. We snacked on clams and beer while we cooked, and dinner itself was appropriately excessive; it had to be in order to commemorate their send-off. Surf 'n Turf was the name of the game: ribeye steaks, sauteed tiger prawns, mashed potatoes, sauteed wild mushroom medley, and a creamy roquefort sauce to go over... well, everything. Sauteed chard and leeks on the side, a few bottles of teriffic wine, ample beer, and we were as good as it gets. Seventy-five percent of the table could not finish their plates, which, for this crowd, is saying a lot.

Like I said, the rest of the weekend left little to blog about, but I wanted to take a chance to look back and reflect aloud (or, as aloud as one can get when writing and not speaking) on that from whence I came. My initial reactions to almost everything around me, upon arriving here, were not far from despair. I was hating my crowded apartment, the restaurant kicked my ass up and down the street, I wasn't sure about my roommates, the town of Lasarte was far from what I had imagined... I thought I was going to struggle pretty hard to get through this experience.

Now I look around me and cannot believe I once felt the way I did. My apartment, though not the most spic n' span I've ever inhabited, has truly become a comfortable place and feels like my own. My roommates turned out to be truly good friends and incredibly fun people, and I am genuinely sad to see them go. The restaurant is a breeze now, all of its original challenges bested and then some on the road to becoming a significantly better chef. Even Lasarte, though admittedly still kind of a lame town, has grown on me; at least Naiban, the bar I come to every day, has grown to become a favorite spot of mine. Plus, I have done so much amazing traveling and seen so many unbelievable places and things that when I do have a day or weekend when I stay local, I kind of appreciate having my tiny, crappy, little town that I know so well.

I still have seven work days (15 shifts) left at the restaurant, so the battle is far from over, but I'm starting to get that excited flutter in the pit of my stomach that signifies a change on the horizon. Gotta keep my head down and keep moving forward, but it won't be long now...

Turkey Surprise!!!

Okay, so I had no choice but to share the events that occurred last nite with you all. Sit back and hear a tale of the most memorable Thanksgiving of my life...

We got off work a little bit early due to a slow night, and as we Americans (Kevin, Kyle, and I) climbed the stairs to our apartment, we were lamenting the total lack of any Thanksgivingness in our lives. Suffice it to say we were all in pretty low spirits... to make things even worse, dinner at the restaurant had been the deep fried ham rolls. Ugh.

I unlocked the door with a sigh and pushed it open to see Vaughan (who had gone home midday, sick and nearly throwing up) standing there with a fork and knife. Before I had a chance to ask him how he was feeling and what he was doing waiting for us at the door, he throws his hands up and screams, "HAPPY THANKSGIVING, BITCHES! SURPRISE!" We continue into the apartment to see that the table is set and two bottles of wine, one already open, sit in the middle. In complete shock, mouths agape, we make our way into the kitchen, where Vaughan is putting the finishing touches on the meal. I was expecting a valiant effort, but considering we only have a single induction burner and nothing else to cook with, I didn't have very high expectations. Nonetheless, I would have been beyond happy with even some turkey breast and some boiled potatoes, a mere hint at a real Thanksgiving.

What I saw completely blew me away: creamy mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans with garlic, cranberry sauce from scratch, gravy, six perfectly cooked turkey legs, caramelized onions, stuffing made with sausage and foie, and apple pie. Even thinking about it now, I'm filled with joy and awe. And what's really crazy about all this is the aforementioned lack of cooking apparati. Vaughan used our induction burner and stacked four to five pots at a time, one on top of the other, using the heat from the ones below as a makeshift bain-marie to cook the food above and/or keep everything warm. All this food, for six people, in two hours! Pardon my French, but HOLY SHIT.

Best of all, everything was absolutely delicious. We gorged and gobbled and guzzled until we couldn't consume any more, then sat back to take in the beauty that is Thanksgiving carnage: bones strewn about, gravy puddles on the table, stained shirts and hands, plates licked nearly clean. I don't think anyone at that table has been that happy in a very long time. No words can express our gratitude to Vaughan for bringing Thanksgiving to Spain. We sat around drinking and laughing for another hour before the massive amounts of food, wine, beer, whiskey, and triptophan forced us to retire. Every one of us fell asleep with giant grins on his face, for sure. There is no question, we have a lot to be thankful for.

Happy belated Thanksgiving, everyone. I'm going to go daydream about that stuffing some more...


P.S. - As always, pics are here if you're interested:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=350572&id=521205092&l=73d0804af8

Bday weekend in SanSe!

So this was quite an incredible birthday celebration, I have to say. You all know I like to stretch out my birthday as long as possible, and though I was out of my country and my comfort zone and therefore not able to squeeze a full 3-4 weeks out of it, I did get a solid 3 days, and they were unbelievable days at that.

The nite of my actual birthday, Jay and I went to the local bar after work for a drink. There happened to be an AMAZING reggae/rap group playing there that nite that consisted of a dj and 3 singers/rappers. They performed songs in English, Spanish, French, and Senegalese, and they were beyond talented. Moreover, to my dismay, Nayad, the bar's owner, is friends with me and knew it was my birthday, so she got them to call me up in front of everyone... to stand there. For like 10 minutes. I really didn't know what I was supposed to do, and I didn't want to be a wet blanket and say no, so I kind of danced in place awkwardly. Thank God I had friends there to make fun of me for the rest of the nite regarding my awkward dancing. Oh well... a unique experience at least.

The next day I got through the day quickly and met Julia at the bust station at midnite. It being Sunday, there wasn't much open, but we managed to find a bar that seemed to be staying open for a bunch of hammered, middle-aged men to play darts. We were able to get a couple drinks in before the men stumbled out and it seemed appropriate to follow suit. Next morning we found the artisan bakery where my restaurant buys its bread and bought a chocolate brioche, a croissant, and a custard croissant to eat with our cafe con leche. The weather was perect, and as we ate we enjoyed the euphoric feeling one gets from drinking good Spanish coffee and eating artisan baked goods in the sun at an outdoor cafe by the beach. Glorious.

We headed to our hotel (Sunday and Tuesday nites were motels out of convenience due to the late arrival, very early departure, and proximity to the bus station), and on the way actually met a woman named Yvette, who was, of all things, born and raised in Cali! She bought us a drink and we chatted about the States, and got some restaurant/pincho bar recommendations. Arrived to the hotel, enjoyed the view for a few minutes, and headed out for what were our only plans for the day: EAT.

We hit up 4 or 5 different pincho bars, and spent the day trying surefire hits, surprising gambles, local fare, gastronomic art, and lots of PORK. Bacon-mushroom-shrimp skewers, mountains of foie, cuttlefish, Spanish peppers, olives, anchovies, blood sausage... There is no way I can list everything we ate, but hit the link at the end of this blog to see the pics and descriptions of every single bite. Our mouths exploded in ecstasy all day and into the nite; we sampled regional Spanish wines, frequently defaulting to wine from Toro, which is the mind-blowing red I discovered early in my time here. Every bite was better than the one before and we headed back to the hotel full, happy, and euphoric. A bottle of Cava greeted us in our room upon our arrival, and we spent the rest of the nite relaxing like two lovebirds. Bubble bath, balcony, bacon chocolate bars... It couldn't have been better.

Tuesday was much of the same. More pinchos, some of the best Spanish tortilla I've ever had. Mmm, baguette with bacon, goat cheese, and honey... again, hit the link for the full rundown. We fueled up and climbed the mountain at the north side of town. Insane views, beautiful, historic castles, watched the sun set over the mountains next to the sea , sitting on the castle wall. It was like a movie. Then back down the mountain to refill our tanks at the pincho bar that actually won the 2009 gastronomic award for best pincho: the award winner was seared scallop with clams, potato cream and citrus foam. The award was well deserved, without a doubt. Definitely the best place we ate at all weekend, and the Toro at this place was the best glass I've had so far. After dinner the weekend had to draw to a close, unfortunately. Headed to the motel and pretty much went right to bed, considering we had to wake up at 4:30 this morning so Julia could catch an early bus to the airport.

Today I have been lost in thought, reflecting on all the incredible things we saw, did, and of course ate! I feel very lucky to have spent such an amazing couple of days celebrating my birthday. I've basically got two weeks left here, and if I'm lucky, these memories will carry me right through to the end. If not, there's always the trip to Pamplona I have planned for the coming weekend.

For now, however, I am about to be late for work... so I am OUT!

Link for pics is here:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=349757&id=521205092&l=4e733f5a91

Vive le France

It is gray, gloomy, and raining here in Lasarte, but cozy clothes and cafe con leche on a day off make everything better.

Yesterday I woke up and hopped on the train to Saint Jean de Luz, a very small, very old town in Southern France. I knew nothing about the town, what there was to do, or how to get there, but the more time I spend over here, the more these little adventures seem to appeal to me. I got some info from the guy at the train station and in less than an hour, I was there.

The town itself was very quaint: lots of old, old buildings, churches, and streets, but with the contemporary touch of copious boutiques, bars, restaurants, etc. The town clearly realized the tourist appeal of its antiquity and built as many opportunities as possible to take tourists' money. I was starving when I arrived, so I scoped out a few cafes and found one that seemed to call out to me. They served me the best croque monsieur I have ever tasted in my entire life. The cheese atop the sandwich was the absolute perfect balance of crispy, bubbly, and melty, and the mornay, ham, and bread beneath just melted together into creamy bites of heaven. Washed down by a glass of Bordeaux, my day was off to a good start.

From there, I spent a few hours wandering around the town. I window shopped in what were actually some cool little stores, walked along the water, snapped photos of old buildings, etc. Grabbed a chocolate croissant from a little bakery, and good God, it was like eating a chocolate filled cloud. Tried exploring some streets off the beaten path and found a cemetery outside town that totally blew my mind. It had clearly been around for at least a couple hundred years (based on the inscriptions on some of the headstones), and some of the markers were beyond impressive. Pyramids, giant crosses, obelisks, mausoleums, this place was like the Cadillac showroom of graveyards. I think I snapped as many photos within its walls as I did the entire rest of the day.

It started to get dark, so I headed back into town, found a wine shop, and bought a bottle of Bordeaux to drink upon my return home. Then for dinner I knew I had to do something nice and French... obviously, duck confit was the way to go. Very yummy, with frites and a salad, watching some tennis tournament live from Paris. I made it back to the train station, only to find that despite what the arrivals/departures screen said, trains in Saint Jean de Luz show up whenever they please. I watched three different listed departure times come and go and started to panic a little, thinking that I might be stranded for the night; thankfully, after 90 minutes of waiting, my train arrived. The night ended nicely with the Bordeaux (though to my unfortunate surprise, it was only so-so) and a movie.

Today will be spent hiding from daylight, watching movies, and digesting the 35 euro worth of Doner Kebab my roommates and I just consumed. Looking forward to work tomorrow, really looking forward to my birthday weekend with Julia in 5 days, and really, REALLY looking forward to being done in like three weeks!!! Europe has been fantastic, but the stars and stripes are calling me home...

See you soon!

King of the Oysters

So last week was the final week of good friend and roommate Juan Carlos from Mexico. Up to this week, he was in charge of the oyster dish that I have alluded to several times; up to this week, my triumphs were encapsulated by applying the sauce during plating without getting bitch-slapped across the kitchen by Sany; up to this week, I was still a very, very minor part of the dish (roughly 10% contribution).

This week is different.

With the opening left by Juan Carlos' departure, someone was going to be assigned to pick up the slack on the oysters. True to form, Sany made no such declarations, but allowed the first few days of the week to be something of a free-for-all. When it was time to prep, she doled out random oyster responsibilities at will. When it was time to plate, she either asked whoever was closest or let someone try to jump in. Seeing that the position was apparently to be won as if it were a Surge commercial (anyone else remember that soda and those commercials?), I kicked my ass into gear. Today marked, to put it as dramatically as possible, my arrival at the mountain peak.

I have been put officially in charge of the dish, which means I did it perfectly, and did so enough times to prove to Sany that she can trust me (and Sany trusts people about half as far as she can shotput them). I prep the mis en place, I set things for service, I plate, I keep track of the orders, it's all me. And today I even had to train a new guy in all things oyster related... and might I add, I actually did so with patience, and with appropriate explanation when necessary. Imagine that! Using words and gestures to communicate my instructions instead of disgusted faces and curse words! Best of all, service went off without a hitch (on a pretty busy day), and there were even a few times I caught mistakes Sany didn't. Yahoo for me!

Okay, I realize that I may be making a slightly bigger deal of this than it actually is. After all, as I've previously mentioned, the oyster dish is pretty damn simple. But the way I see it, this blog should be at least somewhat entertaining, and we all know how much Johnny loves a good story full of drama and superlatives, so forgive me if I overly vivify an otherwise mundane course of events (BEST OYSTER PLATER EVER!!!). Moreover, to earn any ground in the land of Sany actually is a pretty big deal, and this marks the furthest I've come since I started with her; it's like getting promoted by the Soup Nazi.

Anyway, big deal or not, I am a happy camper. And to be honest, I was getting really bored with the complete lack of responsibility; having to stand around and wait for a single task all throughout service was making me want to shove the oyster shucker into my eye. At least now there's some multitasking required and I feel somewhat more engaged.

By the way, if anyone's interested, Julia is kicking ass in Tuscany! The white truffle festival starts in her town this weekend and the restaurant is booked solid for like three weeks. I spoke to her today and she had that wonderful Julia energy that comes from being just on the brink of overwhelmed but not there yet, and loving every minute of it. She's also working part time some mornings in a little cafe doing random cooking tasks: butchering wild boar, making sandwiches, baking pastries, whatever's around. She's fully settled in, and though living alone in a tiny town isn't easy, she's making the best of it. Best of all, she comes to San Sebastian next weekend for my birthday!

Alright, it's almost time for dinner service; time to don my apron and play with some more oysters. No sweat, right? Less than a month left here; can't say I'm sad about that, but I'll be making the best of the next few weeks.

Till next time... Viva las ostras!