Yamo!

By the way, when in SF, do drop in to check out the teeny Burmese place Yamo on 18th between Mission and Valencia. This counter service hole-in-the-wall is dirt cheap, and utterly fresh-- seeing as how there would be absolutely no place to keep much of anything prepared in advance. I had the potstickers and the tea salad. The potstickers were decent and pure in their pork and vegetable simplicity, and came with the delicately crisp bottoms so prized in a pan-fried dumpling. I prefer a more tricked-out kind with lots of ginger and chives and stuff, but that's ok. The real winner of my meal was the salad: a small heap of finely shredded cabbage is tossed with tea leaves, green onions, fried garlic, lentils, peanuts, sesame, sprouts, dried shrimp and I don't even know what else. The result is an intriguing mix of crunchy, salty, herby and spicy. It's not dissimilar to Thai salads, I would say. This presentation differs from what I understand to be the more traditional little-piles-of-stuff approach, but I have no complaints. I wonder if I can search out some Burmese in this town..?

Home on the range

Once again here I am in Minneapolis, where the as-of-yet lack of lack of leafy greeness has been compensated for by warm temperatures and lots of sunshine. My appreciation is renewed for how much space this city affords its residents for a fraction of the price of Paris or San Francisco, allowing for such luxuries as multiple bathrooms, sunrooms, covered porches (think bicycle storage), and backyards. Taking advantage of the latter, last night we fired up what was my first bbq in well over a year [edit: actually no-- there was the wildly good June '06 bbq at Mario's!]. We started out with eggplant, zucchini and asparagus all brushed with chile-garlic oil, and quickly moved on to Ryan's killer burger concoction: good-quality beef mixed with salt, plenty of diced red onion, local amablu cheese, a bit of garlic, and lots of fresh ground pepper. On grilled homemade sesame buns, much else in the way of condiments would have detracted from the burger's inherent charred, juicy and salty glory. I'm not positive that other burgers can live up to those standards-- the bar has been raised, and raised high. Finally, we made the practically foolproof Cook's Illustrated grilled pizza, topped simply with garlic oil, San Marzano tomatoes, pretty good brick mozzarella (alas, why is fresh mozz so damn expensive??) and extras like fresh basil, grilled veggies and italian sausage. Awesome. To flaunt my overblown patriotism (ahem), an apple pie was clearly in order (props again to Cook's for their insight). And although the folks at Sonny's down the street were inexplicably out of vanilla, their dense, crunchy almond ice cream stood in just fine (ok, wonderfully).

Beer, burgers, pie... come on, bring on summertime already!

I'm tasteless-- literally

Besieged by a lingering cold, my sense of taste has been rendered null and void. At times like these, I feel like time slows to a crawl and I pass my colorless days in shadow, a meager shell of a woman. Alright, perhaps I hyperbolize, but when I lose my god-given right to enjoy eating it can seem pretty grim.

I only have a few days left in SF, which leaves me with maybe only a dozen or so meal opportunities... will I be up to the task??

Hedonism chez Tartine

This past weekend I went on a brief bender at Bar Tartine, dining solo on Saturday night and returning Sunday morning for brunch. I can consequently report that all the good things I had heard about Bar Tartine are true-- the food was honest, simple yet refined and, most importantly of course, very, very tasty. Prices are understandably moderate yet far from prohibitive. Here's the rundown...

Saturday dinner
Walking in at about 7:00, I was seated immediately at the classy marble bar, in front of the garde manger/dessert station. I ordered a glass of Spanish tempranillo rosé from the adorable and friendly bartender/ server, and was soon after brought a sliced hunk of Tartine's signature bread (chewy and almost eggy interior with a fantastic balance of creaminess/acidity surrounded by a dark, crunchy crust) with a small slab of butter. Partly with a mind to cost but mainly because they were more intriguing to me, I ordered two starters as my meal. My server reassured me that the amount of food would be sufficient given its richness, and she was absolutely right. I started with a chilled white asparagus soup with pickled ramps, sautéed local prawns and piment d'espelette. This was hands-down the best asparagus soup I've ever had, period. The soup itself was slightly nutty with real white asparagus character, creamy without being at all heavy, and properly salted. Striped with bright green oil made from the ramp tops, in the center of the bowl were three rosy shrimp, a hidden tangle of ramps and one fried prawn's head. Without hesitation, I investigated the head-- it was shatteringly crisp throughout and utterly shrimpy, in roasty-sweet way. I devoured it. The prawns themselves were tender, almost to the point of melting, and fantastically sweet-- these two presentations of the prawn seemed to be a sly nod to ama ebi. The ramps added a pleasing textural contrast, a bit like enokis, their acidity brightening the other flavors. The piment, dusted over all, united everything with its earthiness and subtle spice. Excellent! Next came a dish whose singular weirdness I simply could not resist: braised pork belly, egg salad, fried potato and baby squid. Yes, on the same plate. Such a combination references nothing that I know of (any insight out there?), but I sensed that it would all come together in the end. And it did: the egg salad mimicked the fatty softness of the belly, the tiny sautéed squids were like the egg yet more toothsome, the diced fried potato lent textural interest and were a logical counterpart to the pork, and then just when you thought this was all sounding morbidly rich... a generous drizzle of salsa verde cut through like a laser with its herbal lemony-ness. Without its acidic punch, the whole would have seemed greasy and leaden-- in fact there was a decent slick of oil on the plate, ironically from the salsa. But it all balanced out enough for my taste, and I even mopped up that oil slick with the last of the wonderful bread. Observing my gluttony, my thoughtful server splashed a bit more wine into my by-now empty glass to wash down my last few bites. At this point I could have stopped eating as it was plenty of food. However, in fulfilling my "professional obligation" to try dessert (ha- but no, it really is partly true), I went ahead and ordered a rose geranium panna cotta with crumbled coconut macaroon, rhubarb confit and rhubarb consommé. Desserts at Bar Tartine seem to take after the bakery: simple, pretty and enormous. The panna cotta itself was perfectly wobbly and voluptuous, although the delicate scent of rose geranium became lost behind the tang of the accompanying big pile of meltingly tender shredded rhubarb. The little pile of toasty macaroon crumbs kept their integrity even after having sat in the consommé, which was poured from a silver creamer into the bowl tableside. The glowing pinkness of the lightly syrupy liquid made the presentation very lovely, along with a pretty pink rosebud and a few petals scattered on top. It was a nice spring dessert, it's just too bad I didn't have someone to share it with since it was huge.

Sunday brunch
I found brunch to not be at quite as high a caliber as dinner. I went for the Leb Lebi, a Tunisian chickpea stew with olive oil tuna, toasted hunks of bread, capers, harissa and poached eggs. It was not bad, but not outstanding. The tuna in particular wasn't as good as I expect from oil-packed varieties. My friends got scrambled eggs with gravlax, green garlic and asparagus, french toast with carmelized fruit, and a Portuguese cilantro soup with a poached egg (possibly the best thing I tried, which incidentally is also on the dinner menu). I envied a woman at a neighboring table with good-looking poached eggs on toast with thin shavings of country ham. Lastly, we shared a Meyer lemon Napoleon: small palmiers layered with lemon cream, flanked by lavender caramel (alas, recrystallized) and a large heap (indeed too large) of seductively tart lemon confit. Nice flavors, but the balance of elements was off. In the end, I've had better or as-good brunch for cheaper in the city, so I think I'll stick to Bar Tartine for dinner.

Down by the bay, where the watermelon grows...

Having so far been neither swallowed up in "the big one" nor run over by a cablecar, I continue the habit of eating myself to (near) death in the hilly streets of San Francisco.
The gist: Pancho Villa (carnitas, lengua etc), Yum Yum Fish (assorted nigiri), Pearl City (tasty fried quail with spiced salt but lackluster mu-shu), Pizzeria Delfina (perfect tuna confit with white beans and a great rhubarb-kumquat tart), lots of chinese BBQ, Chow (pretty decent Cobb salad), May's (tuna+egg combo), more Okazu-ya, and of course the totally fantastic roast pork (twice!) by the extremely sweet people at the Roli Roti truck at the Ferry Building market (almost as good as my beloved Pork of the Gods of from Latte di Luna). Haven't done much cooking myself at all lately, although this morning I did grill up a fantastic hangar steak from golden Gate Meat Co. (easily better than any I've had in France), which went deliciously aside over-easy eggs and a wild arugula salad dressed with Meyer lemon olive oil.

In other foodsy news, today I began what I think will be a great stage at restaurant "X," which out of discretion I won't name. All the crew was extremely friendly and helpful, and it was great to be in an environment where stagiares are really encouraged to learn, taste, be efficient, and ask questions. And even apart from all the great product I'm getting to see and taste, I think some of the most valuable information to be absorbed is in observing the fine-tuned system of the place: there are many cooks all together in a small space, so efficiency and organization must be maximized. Add to that the fact that every night turns more or less as many covers as on the weekend. Add also the fact that it is commonly regarded as one of the best restaurants in the city, with service also up to that par, and it becomes clear that there are some real lessons to be learned about running a profitable and popular fine dining restaurant. But do the goods deliver? At the end of the day I tried one dessert, a new item: a frozen carrot chiboust, bruleed to order, with carrot puree, coconut-tapioca soup, pineapple foam and ginger-lime sherbet. My verdict: damn good-- and good-looking, which in this business is just as important.

S to tha F!

Here I am, in alternately sunny/monsoon-y San Francisco, surrounded by the best food, many happenings, and of course more gays than you can shake a stick at (no pun intended).
The abbreviated food rundown of the past couple weeks.... some excellent Chinese (mu shu, possibly the best hot & sour soup), excellent sushi (I'm obsessed with Okazu-Ya's Yin Yang roll-- spicy ika with uni and topped with black and wasabi tobiko), pretty good tacos, excellent Mexican seafood (tostadas de pulpo!), awesome brunch (think crabcake benedict), etc etc etc. I've been pretty good about keeping up with photos, however I just need to upload them onto a computer.

San Francisco... it's good to be back!

Happy b-day, big boy!

Ryan's 25th trip around the sun was commemorated foodwise with an awesome brownie-stuffed marble cake (courtesy of Bob), lots of hummus, tomato basil risotto, and crispy garlicky roast chicken. See the rest of the pictures here. Happy birthday, big boy!!!!!

The world through a fish's eye...

Lacking a scanner, I went ahead and took digital photos of my first batch of fisheye pictures, which are mostly from my Christmas eve spent in Denier. See all the photos here.

Thanks!

Thanks a lot to Dara for her nice article in City Pages this week. We appreciate it.

Exhausted, proud, sad... Auriga: the end of an era

Sadly, very sadly, Auriga is no more. Vultures are already upon it, picking and scrutinizing the remains. Our last week was difficult, physically and emotionally. To call it stressful would be an understatement of the highest order-- we did a nearly unfathomable amount of business between Tuesday and Saturday, so much in fact that it was almost ridiculous. By the way, I'm going to take this opportunity, as this is my blog and my prerogative, to briefly say a big FUCK YOU to those involved in the gift certificate "scandal." I now have an even greater antipathy for Fox News (no big surprise there), as they may be largely responsible for the stampede of insensitive assholes who showed up in the last couple of days of business demanding reimbursement.... reimbursement for a GIFT, no less..... the definition of GIFT being something you have not purchased for yourself, but rather was given to you out of generosity and kindness. And here we are, over thirty people out of work, owners up to their eyeballs in debt and all kinds of hell, and these jerks show up asking for a check. For their gift. But.... those people are certainly not among the many wonderful folks who came by to show their support and wish us all well one last time this past week. My sincere thanks to all of you, especially the regulars who've been coming in for years, whether it be for happy hour pizzas or Catalan stew or even your weddings or whatever. I wasn't part of Auriga from the beginning, I've been gone for almost a year, and I only was back for one utterly insane final week, but I honestly feel like I never left.... Auriga had its own community, some of you knew that and some did not. But it was there and it was real. I hope we're all going to go on and do some great things out there, together or not. For my part, I am proud and truly honored to have landed --by chance-- in the midst of such a beautiful place. Auriga, you will be sorely missed.

Back in business!

I had my first day of official "work" in 10 months today, much of which was spent scribbling halfwit dessert code on several blank pages. Such is my feeble effort at organization. No, but really, things went totally fine. Planning aside (which is always perhaps the biggest challenge, whether a rookie or seasoned pro), I was able to execute a few simple things, thereby quelling the vague fear that the act of leaving France had vaporized my pastry skills... like a pumpkinized stagecoach after the glamorous ball. The very first thing at all that I attacked were the macarons...... yes, my old nemesis. It was a spiritual test: I knew that if I could successfully pull off a batch of those damned things right off the bat it would be a good omen. And lo and behold, the heavens opened up and showered macaron fortune upon me! Except that they're way too dry, but it's not entirely my fault as I wasn't able to steam them off the parchment like in France. Can we easily get sulfurized paper here? I don't know. And I haven't looked. But that's ok, the point is that my macarons should taste as good as they look after they've soaked up some humidity from their filling from a couple leisurely days hanging out in the fridge. A technique borrowed from Mr. Hermé, I might add. Anyways, if all continues as planned, the new menu should go up in its entirety this coming Tuesday, with potential early appearances by select items as early as Sunday.

It's good to be back in the land of crazy line cooks.

A taste of Vietnam

It's so good to eat quality Vietnamese food again, it's almost unbelievable. How could I have gone so long without Quang's? Granted, I had no shortage of other delicious things available to me for the past 10 months, but Vietnamese food this damn good --and for this damn cheap!-- is sadly lacking, indeed, nonexistent, in Paris. And Quang's isn't the only choice here, of course. I've also revisited Pho Tau Bay, which is also very good, but in my opinion the real heavyweight contender for Nicollet Avenue Champion of Vietnamese is perhaps Bubble Delite-- not in terms of ambiance or service, but they have some damn good food, much of which seems a bit more authentic and less modified for Minnesotan tastes than some of the other usual suspects on that street. If only we could breed an all-powerful mutant baby between the ambiance and service of Jasmine Deli with both the authenticity and bubble tea selection of Bubble Delite and the efficiency and consistency of Quang's, I think the resulting bánh mì and bun thit nuong could crush capitalism, end global warming, reverse misogyny and unify all the races and religions in perfect harmony, bringing about a golden, utopic era for humankind!!!!!!!!!

Ok, at least it would be the best lunch in town.

The gentle tingling of.... culture shock!

So, here's some initial perceptions I've been having as I go through the wacky mind game called Reverse Culture Shock (uh, is that a real term?). Are any of my observations especially revelatory (or, for that matter, accurate), whether being compared to France or not? No, I certainly don't think so. But judge for yourself.

*Americans are LOUD. This is more what I'm used to now... BUT HERE EVERYONE SOUNDS LIKE THIIIIIIIIIIS. I find many "indoor voices" --which is to say, for speaking with someone right next to you-- here to be at the volume level I might use for communicating amidst the quickening gale of a level 3 hurricane.

*Kids are bratty. Granted, French kids can definitely be bratty, but they're generally much less so (and quieter!... see above).

*Strangers are friendlier here, which is nothing new considering this is Minnesota. I'm no longer used to looking people in the eye and simply saying "hello," or even smiling, as I walk down the street.

*American TV, advertising and basically most media is such sickening, repulsive and mindless garbage that I can hardly even believe it-- although I already had thought in a less alarming extent that before leaving. Don't get me wrong, a lot of mainstream French stuff is pretty bad too, but here....... it's..... well, just take a look for yourselves.

*Our public transportation in pitiful for a metropolis of our size and population density. Again, I already knew that, but the feeling has been reinforced exponentially.

*It feels as if there are no grocery stores. It's like I should be taking a team of camels on a fortnight's expedition to get my provisions, which must then last me until the spring.

Well, those are just a few, and let's just say that they are the milder, edited ones. And thus begins by attempt at readjustment.

From international metropolis to in the middle of the Midwest

White Castle, down the street. Photo from Wing Young Huie's Lake Street USA project.

May Day 2000. Can you spot me??

On the 21 bus. Photo from Wing Young Huie's Lake Street USA project.

Mon quartier.

Anodyne, down the street.

Shockingly, impossibly, I suddenly find myself once again in my hometown of Minneapolis, and obviously also in my greater homeland, the US. Home, home... the definition blurs when you adopt a new one. In the short time I've been back, everything is somehow familiar and foreign at the same time, like in a dream where you know it's your house but the appearance is warped and alien. Perhaps I exaggerate a bit, but anyone who's gone through a similar cultural shock can understand. As certain storefronts have changed, moved, or been somehow otherwise altered, it lends the landscape a very confused feel to my mind... "ok, this I recognize, that I recognize-- hey, what the hell is that doing there?!"

But overall, compared to the bustle and clamor of Paris, it's almost as if I'm half-expecting a tumbleweed to float dreamily down my street. It feels unnatural to call and order a pizza, let alone in my native tongue. I have to consciously stop myself from using my automatic "bonjour/merci/au revoir." I have developed a schizophrenic Franglish inner monologue. Spaciousness is also a major change.

Readjustment will certainly take some time.

Breaking up is hard to do.

Il faut que je te laisse pour l'instant. Prends soin de toi.

Je t'aime. Je reviendrai.

A la prochaine, Paris.

I DONE IT!

My celebratory parade. Really.

Freshly diploma-ed, I feel like a woman reborn! Ok, maybe not exactly, but it feels pretty good nonetheless. It was an enormous relief to finish my exam, from which I will post some photos soon. Things went pretty smoothly for the most part, until a slightly mad dash at the end which was still not a huge ordeal. My viennoiserie turned out very very well, my macarons also, and aside from a few other small problems things worked out ok.

Only few short days left now before I leave, during which I will be trying to enjoy Paris to the very last moment.....

BONNE ANNEE!!!!!!!!

Adios 2006, the future is now! And what better way to start out the new year than with my final exam, which I began today and will finish tomorrow. My morning got off to a rough start when I woke up at 4:00 in the fitful throes of Macaron Anxiety Dreamland and could not get back to sleep. This episode was later followed by the the semi-realization of those dreams when I flunked my first batch of the fussy little cookies early on in the morning. I did, however, make a rapid recovery, after which everything went fairly smoothly. Needless to say, I'm a bit tuckered out. Hopefully I will be able to report news of success tomorrow afternoon...

From classroom to coalmine... oh, and happy b-day, Jeebus.

The collective meal at the awesome art squat Théâtre de Verre, next to Bonnes Nouvelles.

Gooey warm chocolate and Grand Marnier tart. Yes, it was as good as it looks. Hot and cold desserts class.

La Caprice: Oreo-coated black truffle ice cream with liquid cognac center and warm lemon madeleines. Hot and cold desserts class.

Yann Tiersen at Le Bataclan. My copine Christine is in the backround.

And the bow goes to.... !

And just like that, more than 8 months in Paris have flown by quicker than the blink of an eye. Spring, summer and fall have come and gone, Christmas has passed, and 24 weeks spent chez Lenôtre have blazed by in a sugary blur. My last week of class turned out to be my favorite, that being hot and cold plated desserts. Good desserts, ideas, and techniques-- and no superiority-complex jerks. All that remains as far as school goes is my exam, which I hope to pass in quiet solitude immediately after New Years. Naturally it's intimidating... especially given the fact that if I screw it up I have a quite narrow window before I return to the US in which I could redo it. Every single one of my other classmates have passed theirs, so hopefully I can follow suite with no major catastrophes.

I spent last week in production, where instead of sweating over a hot stove I instead froze slowly but surely to my core in a very cold lab as I put the finishing touches on a seemingly neverending number of bûches. The French take their jelly rolls seriously: designer bûches can easily fetch prices upwards of 100 euros, take last year's Lolita Lempicka, for example. This year Lenôtre collaborated with well-known architect Philippe Starck in creating a seemingly minimalist bûche, which was in fact anything but. I saw the (frankly quite unimposing) thing a few times at school, but not its fabrication. The labyrinth of production is extensive, and I was busy in my own world of red glitter-coated raspberries. I think a secret elite team took care of the Starck contraption. But as far as degustation goes, I actually had the good fortune to be able to taste a genuine homemade bûche out in La France Profonde with a clan of frenchies, at the end of a gargantuan meal that stretched until nearly 3 am. How did I end up in Denier? Grace à mon ami Benoît for inviting me, and of course the rest of the Lesieux family for having graciously hosted and humored a displaced americaine on Christmas Eve. Sadly, I was able to properly photo-document neither my personal record-breaking consumption of oysters nor the stark yet lovely countryside, as I lost my camera battery charger over a week ago (a regrettable occurence which I hope to rectify very soon). However, I have in the meantime been taking some pictures with my nifty fisheye camera, which I may be able to post eventually.

The distasteful task of preparing for the imminent trek back home is upon me. It's impressive how many things I have accumulated, not to mention all the stuff I plan to get before leaving, largely pastry-related. A substantial amount will likely stay behind, which is indeed practical but also a mind trick whereby I will be able to feel like I haven't left my life here in Paris for good.

Home stretch

As impossible and unthinkable as it may be, I am down to my last week of classes at Lenôtre, it being one of three plated desserts classes at the school (although I still have a week scheduled in production and then of course my exam). This past week I also was in plated desserts, which was excellent, despite a pronounced Genius French Man vs. Silly Foreign Girl group dynamic. Although not unusual, that divide was heightened this particular week by the mysterious alchemical ringleadership of the Hotshot Professional From A Certain Big Hotel... granted, this type of Jonesy exists everywhere in the world, but believe me when I say that they're that much worse when they're French. I would say the French culinary school breed of Jonesy can generally be identified by the following characteristics: consistent inability and/or unwillingness to clean up after himself partnered with the tendancy to make big messes, diminuitive stature (ok, that one is not always true), know-it-all attitude, and last but certainly not least-- thinly veiled chauvinism.
Anyhow, perhaps I'll expand on that note in a later retrospective on general French-American cultural differences from my point of view. For now I try to just roll my eyes and keep on working. Ya can't let Jonesy getcha down!

Happy Frenchgiving

Feasting on the bounty: Chris, yours truly and Benoît

Chris receives the medal for most food eaten, shown here with triumphant second helping of biscuits and gravy.

The green bean casserole.

Hannah, our Japanese contingent.

The dessert cart.

Let the last Sunday of November be known henceforth as Frenchgiving, and let it be good! And let there be a great overabundance of food in relation to the number of guests, and let there be many languages spoken among them.

The inaugural menu: green bean casserole (my way: haricots verts in a creamy mushroom sauce and topped with fried shallots), herbed stuffing (both vegetarian and with homemade pork sausage), buttermilk biscuits (yes, buttermilk can be found here under the name "lait fermenté"), gravy, gingery sweet potato pie (texture ended up a bit weird), apple crisp, assorted cheese, grapes, wine... and chicken wings that were to be in lieu of turkey but never ended up in the roasting pan. Sadly lacking was cranberry sauce or an analog thereof, though I hear it's available for a pretty penny at some expat-oriented stores such as the conspicously-named restaurant and grocery Thanksgiving in the 4ème. And I similarly missed the forethought to search out sage for the stuffing, a bit regrettable but forgivable nonetheless. Despite the fact that fewer people attended than had been anticipated, it was a success. We ate both excessively and well, which is after all the original act that knows no cultural boundaries.

All my photos of this momentous event in French history can be seen here.