unlocking the Asian mystique - Entry 1: Bangkok

12/25/11 

It's a slog to get to Bangkok on a free airline ticket.  12 hours to Seoul, 5.5 hours to Singapore, 8 hour layover (not entirely sure what the hell I did with myself but somehow the time passed), and 2.5 hours into Bangkok.  But, when the ticket is free, and flies you on Singapore and Thai Airways, there's not too much to complain about.  Hot towels, hot meals, plenty of beverages, loads of free movies on a personal screen, free toothbrush/paste and socks (socks!), and, of course, all that time alone with the delightful company of yourself. 

After two days of travel (a truth, not an exaggeration when you work in the time zone math), I arrived into BGK on Xmas day.  No better place for a Jewish girl to be.  From the airport, I could've shelled out an entire $10 (actually, despite my sarcasm, $10US is actually a significant sum for anything in BGK...) for a taxi, but I was hell-bent on proving that I could successfully navigate the train system while flying solo.  I did, and I only embarrassed myself for about 10 seconds when realizing that there are "change only" and "bill and change" machines at the station.  An hour later, I successfully glided into my hotel room at the Wow! Bangkok -- and yes, the "!" is part of the name.  Umm, there is not really much Wow to the Wow, but it's nicely located in the Sukhamvit district less than 5 minutes from a BTS Skytrain stop, clean, tidy, and relatively inexpensive at about $70 a night. 

I hadn't seen Jami since Mary's wedding in October 2010 -- wowsa -- so it would've been pretty sweet reuniting anywhere, let alone Thailand.  Unfortunately J had arrived at 7am and having already been tromping around, exploring markets, for 4 hours, she was fairly beat.  We took long hot showers to shed the plane icks and then rested for an hour or two before heading out to officially activate vacation mode.  If I had said that last sentence while actually on the trip, I would've done it my Robot voice.  Jami really liked my robot voice. 

So, Bangkok is situated along the Chao Phraya River, which winds through the Eastern region of the city.  The Wow! (and many other hotels) are located on the Western side of town near the business/shopping/financial districts, but majority of the big sightseeing destinations (Grand Palace, all the Wats, etc.) are near the river.  Quick note:  you are much better off traveling b/t the east and west regions by train v. by taxi as traffic in the city is Manhattan/LA-bad, no joke.  Anyway, so - given that much of the beauty of the city dwells riverside, a great way to take in Bangkok is on a boat.  We spent about two hours of our first evening on a long-boat which we hired randomly (and bargained hard for) along the river, down near Chinatown district I believe.  Seen at sunset, it's pretty breathtaking -- that ethereal, golden light illuminates the Royal Barges Museum, Wat Rakhang, Wat Arun; it's like a little curio case welcoming you to the East.

At odds with the beauty of the landscape is the tourist ritual, and charming privilege, of feeding the slimy bug-eyed carp that fill the river, with little bags of bread crust.  

Strangely satisfying.  As for the fisherman we passed, I did question the sanity of any human who willingly consumes those fish.  But, chances are, I ate fish from that very locale at some point on my trip given most of the fish I ate was simply called "steamed fish" or "fried fish"...

At the conclusion of our sunset cruise, we were hungrier than carp (not a misspelling).  We ambled through a very expansive flower market (Jami questioning the business rationale of a thousand vendors selling an identical product at an identical price in an identical location) and through smaller food markets un-dotted by tourists (where Jami told me to hold my horses on the mystery meats, etc. for at least 24 hours) and had significant trouble in locating a reasonable institution for eating.  I did, however, succeed in drinking a Coke out of a bag (they like to keep their bottles).  And eventually, like 2 hours later, we ended up in the central part of the city which somewhat resembles Times Square and found a restaurant lacking in white people (a frequent goal of ours).  Granted, it took about 2 hours for the bulk of our food to come, but it wasn't disappointing.  My fried "fish" in chili sauce made my mouth burn for hours (in a very delicious way), our plate of "northern Thai appetizers" surprised with its zesty sausage pieces, and the green curry introduced us to the baby eggplant (very bitter, but I just had to keep eating them to make sure they were still bitter, and, they were). 

It was a big day.  So then, we slept. 

12/26/11

We didn't necessarily mean to do it, but we slept in. That's what happens after you travel for like 48 hours.  Starting a bit later than expected meant beginning the day with lunch v. breakfast.   Jami had been talking about going to Cabbages and Condoms – a restaurant affiliated with The Population and Community Development Association, which provides family planning education and resources in rural areas (and decorated head to toe with sculptures built purely from colorful arrays of condoms) – before we even got our plane tickets, I think, so it was a must for lunch.  Latex scent-sations aside, it's a pretty cool place.  We sat outside on the patio, which is leafy and quiet, and had an assortment of items.  Pork dumplings wrapped in little packets of morning-glory blue wrappers, crunchy coconut bits and nuts served on leaves (of some sort, an "ancient" Thai appetizer), soups, cold Tigers, of course.

 

Lunch accomplished, it was time for culture.  We headed to the Grand Palace, which also houses the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, around 3, and were met at the gates by a gentleman who informed us that the temple was now closed to visitors - for "yellow families only" is how I believe he phrased it.  But, we were in luck, he was quite friendly and "advice for you - all free!"  Why, thank you!  He told us that essentially all the temples were now closed for the day.  And he was so charismatic and genuine that with wide unblinking stares we nodded along to his narrative about this one special temple and unquestioningly hopped into his friend's tuk-tuk to go to said temple (very cheap fare -- government tuk-tuk!).  We did go to a temple -- it was beautiful -- but perhaps we should've been dubious when a man at the temple told us about its history...and also pointed out the blue-tiles lining the main Buddha's base:  "sapphire color.  you know why sapphire?  sapphire for protection. you should buy a sapphire here in Thailand.  in fact very good deal on sapphires today..."  Our next stop was miraculous a jewelry store.   Where I may or may not have purchased a sapphire.  (Hint:  I did).  It was around this point that we realized we had fully been had, but we still had another stop, and our driver couldn't collect his "free petrol" without one more stop, at a silk shop, where we were pretty much kicked out for "wasting the shopkeeper's time." 

We had one last chance for culture left in the day:  the Jim Thompson House, which we knew was closing up shop soon.  We urged our driver on and arrived at 5:15; ticket sales had ended.  Fortunately, we counted this last defeat as a win, as you can pretty much see the grounds and home in its entirety without purchasing a ticket.  Jim was an American architect who found his way into civil service in the mid 20^th century, which provided extensive travel opportunities.  He was discharged at the close of WWII and opted to move and settle in Bangkok, where I think he assumed a life similar to the Dos Equis Man.  He built a bad-ass open-air teak home in traditional Thai style, filled with luxurious antiques from the around the world, and established a lucrative silk business, before disappearing into the jungles of Malaysia, never to be seen again…  

Our next order of business was having a poorly-made cocktail on the 60-something floor of some massive hotel.  We selected the Banyan Tree, and may I insert here how maddening it is when you can see something that tall but can’t figure out how to actually find a route that leads to the building’s entrance?    I wouldn’t recommend eating at the Banyan Tree restaurant, as a dozen oysters will cost you nearly $50 (ridiculous by even Geneva standards…), but the views from the roof are amazing.  Plus, if you forget to bring closed-toes shoes, you just might get to experience what it’s like to put on a pair of black leather orthopedic clogs that have likely been worn by at least 876 other tourists, most of them considerably less hygienic than yourself.  I have never been so sad to see my flip-flops taken away (with tongs), and I have absolutely never worn such a hideous pair of shoes in my lifetime.  So – tip:  bring some closed-toes shoes with you.  Doesn’t matter unstylish they are, if they’re closed-toed, they’re allowed in, unlike my Havianas. 

Cocktail had, we tuk-tuked our way to the infamous Patpong District.  Before diving in, we had some $1 bowls of soup street-side.  Thus fortified, we made our way into the maze of booths selling must-have gear such as t-shirts emblazoned with catchy and creative slogans like “iPooed”, tattoo “sleeves” (to fit in with the general populace), and flashlights that project classy images like spread-eagled women.  As you can imagine, I picked up at least one of each item.  Eventually your attention turns from the upscale merchandise to the fellow wanderers:  a mass of tourists (of the old white and male variety, mostly), hookers, and sex show hawkers who eagerly show you a list of what’s on stage.  I never knew the human vagina was capable of such a wide array of wonders.  Seriously, these women could lose their arms, legs, and mouths and survive better than most able-bodied women. 

We turned down all the offers and found a quiet little French bar where we could sip Tigers and people-watch.  It’s interesting, the direction your conversation turns, in such a tawdry atmosphere…  And after a couple beers, your curiosity gets the best of you.  It’s unavoidable.  We took a hawker up on the offer “you watch for free!” and climbed a narrow set of stairs to take in our first and most definitely last and only ping-pong show.  Did you know that it’s possible to actually pop a balloon with a plastic dart shot from your nether-regions?  Did you know that a mouth is not required to operate a whistle? And as for the obvious portion of this show, there is nothing quite like having your thigh grazed by a ping-pong ball that is not used for a table-top game.  This latter event, save for scarring me for life, also satiated our curiosity.  We went to pay for our beers (100BHT each x 2 = 200BHT, or about $7) and were given a bill for 3000BHG (about $100).  I guess the show was not in fact free, and we had not just purchased beers, but “lady drinks”.  As I still haven’t figured out what exactly a lady drink is, I cannot tell you.  But they are not free. Or cheap.   We promptly entered into a heated argument with the lady in charge, the madame of the house, who I think may have been trained by the Russian mob.  Given the quality of her English, the quality of our Thai, and her general scariness, the conversation didn’t go very well.  Eventually I threw 1000bht at her, said “that’s it!  Jami, we’re leaving!”, and we fled.  As we turned she screamed some things, and a colossal-sized Thai bounder appeared and pursued us down the staircase.  We didn’t stop running until we were in a cab outside the Patpong and even then Jami kept turning around to see if we were being followed.  So far so good, so I guess we escaped.       

Eggs (emphasis on the egg part) -cellent holiday weekend

For the first time potentially ever in my life, I opted to not go anywhere at all for the holidays.  I didn't go home (was there for a full week at Thanksgiving...and it's far...), I didn't away anywhere, I simply stayed put right here in SF.  In my mind's eye, it was going to be a glorious four days:  I'd go to yoga each day, I'd take long runs, I'd read the paper, I'd wander obscure neighborhoods on sun-dappled sidewalks, perhaps go see a movie or two by myself.

In reality...I discovered that four days sans social contact is not all that it's cracked up to be.  I'm decent company, reasonably entertaining, but I'm ready to return to a peopled life.  External factors also cropped up to spoil my plans:  on Thursday night the cold from hell hit me out of nowhere.  I managed to spend Fri baking cookies and entertaining a 9 yr-old and a 12 yr-old On Friday, and I looked forward to adult company that evening for dinner.  Alas, I could not smell nor taste nor go a minute without snotting, so I declined and stayed put on my couch.  Saturday, it rained all day long, thus, I hadn't the strength to leave and go anywhere.

So in summary, I had a couple of runs, but no yoga, no paper-reading, no wandering, and no movies.  The one thing I did manage to do was a bit of cooking though.  And that was my savior and sustenance for the soul this long weekend.  The highlight was my Thursday morning welcome to the holidays breakfast, classic eggs benedict:

I didn't have to experience any of that nervousness I always get when I order benedict and go to cut into the egg and worry that it's going to be over-done - I knew the eggs would be perfectly soft and runny.  And they were.  For those of you seeking to make it yourselves, I'll save you the trouble of looking up a recipe and give it to you here.  And with that, I'm going to finish watching yet another movie (Pineapple Express), blow my nose again, and mentally prepare myself for the return to productivity.  Hope you all had a lovely Xmas!!

• Poaching the eggs:  Grease the bottom of a large, deep skillet (so the eggs don't stick).  Fill 1/2 way with water and bring to a boil.  Crack eggs, one at a time, into a measuring cup and then transfer them into the water, getting the lip of the cup as close to the water as possible.  Simmer the eggs 3-4 minutes (I found 3 to work).  You want the whites to set firm but the yolks (duh) to stay good and runny.  
• Making the sauce:  You need 3 egg yolks, a Tblsp of fresh lemon juice, 1 Tblsp of water, a dash of salt and pepper (white if you have it), and 1/2 C butter.  For the butter, cut it into about 5 thick slices, and a double boiler.  Whisk the eggs, lemon, and salt and pepper together, and pour into the top of the double boiler once the water is going.   Add once slice of butter and start whisking.  As it melts, add in the additional slices one at a time.  You need to watch this stuff -- you want to incorporate the butter in but you can't actually cook the sauce -- the eggs will curdle.  If you do see any signs of curdling,  add a tablespoon of hot water and quickly incorporate.   
• Getting it all pulled together:  Get all your ingredients and cooking implements set up first.  Toast the muffin and fry the canadian bacon slices as the eggs cook.  Then transfer the muffin and bacon to a plate, and slip the cooked eggs into a bath of hot water in a large bowl.  THEN do the sauce -- it's fast and you want that to be hot. 

Uva Oops-o-Teca

Uva Enoteca:  A small, dim, warm wine bar within walking distance of my house, a punctuation point of delicacy in my otherwise rough and tumble neighborhood.  Uva offers a lovely list of Italian wines – anything the friendly wait staff has ever recommended has been entirely consumable – and a tidy selection of items that will please your palette (they also tend to drain your wallet more than they fill your belly…but at least it’s enjoyable).  And I paid Uva and its wines and snacks a visit last night.

Let me backtrack here to explain how I ended up at Uva.  On Friday, I had the pleasure (in some form or another) of meeting a Spanish gentleman.  We’ll call him Jon, because that it is his name.  Jon:  Spanish, not tremendously handsome, but off the charts on the charm scale.  I came to speak with him as he was blocking the entrance to a booth that held my purse, which I had gone to retrieve.  I politely asked him to step aside; he agreed, under the condition that I would, in return, select one of three options.  I selected Option 1:  a kiss on either cheek for Jon, and from there, we had several cocktails too many together.  He captured my phone number by the night’s end, and he texted me not once but twice on Sunday morning asking if I’d fancy a date.  He really likes the word fancy. 

I suggested Tues night, and Uva as the destination.  As we waited for our table, I sat perched on a stool at the bar while he did something that resembled pacing in place around my chair.  Nervous energy?
The first topic of conversation involved him remarking something about living with his parents when he’s back in Spain, which no matter how charming it sounds in an accent is still a red flag.  But I shrugged it off to cultural discrepancies.  He mentioned a brother – and when prompted he indicated that the brother was older – 27.  Which clearly begged the follow-up question of Jon’s age.  23.  23.  23.  Pacing explained.   

Do not roll your eyes here and mutter that age does not matter, because when I’m 30 and you’re 23, it in fact does matter.  And I found this all out before we’d even sat down.  I grew more hopeful when he seemed knowledgeable on wines and made appropriately observant facial expressions and gestures when tasting the bottle of red (delicious, soft-bodied, intensely fruit-forward Italian wine with a name that I regrettably forget).
He also let me select the few small bites that we ordered without opposition:  the country-style pate (spiked with bits of mushroom – nice, firm, varied texture, but lacking in flavor), chicken terrine (delicious – soft, creamy bits interrupted by small segments of richly smoked meat and nuggets of crisp asparagus), and mushrooms (chanterelles served cold, sprinkled through with fresh herbs and just perfect). 

Our conversation was enjoyable enough but reflecting, I think it was more flash than substance.  It consisted mostly of flirtatious banter spiked with small exchanges of typical first-date information.  He was Western European male to a t in his mannerisms, with extended bouts of flattery and a constant desire for tactile connection.  Overall, it was a fairly unremarkable date.

And then the bill came.  It sat there for a moment until I flipped it over to doodle some things on the back in an effort to illustrate a conversation we were having about punctuation (British v. American English…), and when we flipped it back over, he asked, “do you have cash or a credit card?”

Which should obviously be irrelevant as I should never be putting either in on a first date.  I’m by no means an advocate of the male always paying, but on a first date, it is a requirement.  I will always remember a date I went on w/ a certain Steve C in high school.  We split that bill.  That was our only date.  

And so it goes: Jon ended his chances for date #2 right then and there.  To boot, it was clear that Jon thought there was a possibility that I’d end the night by accompanying him back to what I can only interpret as a boarding house for foreign kids (yes, because, he’s 23).  That is funny on multiple levels, but most of all because it was so far from actually happening.  

Well, c’est la vie.  Or, however you say that in Spanish.  I’m now left to figure out how to respond to the text message that I literally just received while typing this entry.  I think I will select the no response avenue but am open to any suggestions.  

Cooking for One on a Tuesday

I have exactly five days left working in the valley.  Here, I'm supposed to jab your ribs and wink and tell you, "not that I'm counting down or anything!"  I'm totally counting down.  But when you can count the days on one hand, it's really not that difficult.

These are lovely days, filled with late arrivals, minimal amounts of actual work that needs accomplishment, extended lunches, multiple beverage breaks, and early departures.  I left at 4pm today and headed over to the pool for a swim.  I would've followed my workout with a leisurely nap in the steam room but it's closed for repairs until tomorrow afternoon. I hope that date is accurate as I plan to repeat my afternoon tomorrow and would like the steam to happen this time.

As working out has become somewhat of a rarity for me lately (I swear that is due for a change), I was starving when I got home and craving the nourishment that is needed to make it through two episodes of Gossip Girl.  Cooked up one of my favorite weekday meals.  It covers all the food groups, is low in fat, can be prepared in under 20 minutes, and most importantly, it's delicious.  It needs to be shared.  Before I do that, I will warn you though, it contains canned tuna, tuna in olive oil at that, which I know might cause some a bit of fear.  You have to trust me on this one and know that I wouldn't put it out there if I didn't fully back it up.  So:  Tuesday Tuna Pasta.  Try it -- you'll like it.

Ingredients

• 1 can tuna in olive oil (you can get pricier cans at the grocery, but the Trader Joe's version is like $1.50/can and tastes lovely) 
• 1 red bell pepper, chopped in coarse pieces
• A generous handful of fresh broccoli, chopped into small pieces
• Extra olive oil 
• Fresh parm cheese
• To season:  salt and pepper and then either some red pepper flakes or about 1 Tblsp of dijon mustard  

So -- put enough olive oil in the pan to coat it thinly.  If you like the idea of mustard, whisk that into the oil.  Bring to medium heat.  Toss in the red pepper and broccoli; when it's been going for about 5 minutes, bring your pasta water to a boil.  When the veggies are getting tender, add in the salt and pepper, the red pepper (if you're doing that instead of the mustard) and the tuna (add the oil, too).  Use a wooden spoon to break up the tuna.  You're pasta water should be ready -- add in your pasta (I use cappelini) -- and while it's cooking turn the heat down on your toppings to low to keep it hot while your pasta finishes.  Strain it, add the veggies/tuna, and top w/ some parm.

Too Much Goodness for One Meal

Tuesday afternoon, 3:43pm.  Laying in the sun in the Panhandle, sipping a fountain Diet Coke (vastly superior to the canned variety and not even comparable to the bottled option, which I actually refuse to drink), letting my hair air dry from this morning’s outdoor swim, and generally killing time until 6:15 yoga.  It’s not a bad day.  It’s also the type of Tuesday I can kiss goodbye in a matter of weeks provided that some paperwork gets wrapped up in the next day or two, putting me on a new career path that is hopefully closer to what I think I want to do with myself. 

If that fails, perhaps I will break things off with Max and seek out a wealthy old man to be my mate that can support a lifestyle that enables me to dine at Spruce at least once per week.  

I am newly obsessed with this dining destination, tucked onto sleepy Sacramento Street up in the very tony Laurel Heights Hood, after this past Saturday.  Max received a Spruce gift certificate over the holidays which meant that once we were able to secure a reservation (over 1.5 months in advance…) we could sit down and order to our heart’s content without dreading the check’s arrival.  Three appetizers?  Priciest entrée on the menu for me?  Bottle of wine we’d otherwise never order while dining out?  Check, check, and check.  No pun intended. 

We started off with a glass of celebratory Prosecco (well actually we started off with martinis down the street but that was a separate event), and then dug into appetizer number one:  foie gras done two ways -- 1)  a delicate pan-seared chunk, and 2)  a creamy pate served with a dollop of pureed pineapple (it worked).  At the end of the day, foie gras is really not much more than fat.  If you’ve ever cooked it before, it’s a quick process that you need to oversee closely, else you’re liable to watch this seriously high-priced organ meat liquefy right before your eyes.  That said, it is much tastier than eating a hunk of fat that you’ve peeled, say, from the crisped skin of a turkey or edges of a prime rib.  It’s all in the texture, as it begins to melt into umami-goodness as soon as it lands on your tongue. 

We should’ve ended the pate experience at that, but we were charmed by the charcuterie menu and didn’t want it to feel neglected, so we tried just one item, the duck pate.  I guess we didn’t want the duck to feel that we are discriminatory, only open to geese – we are indeed equal opportunists.

Thus covered on the meaty side of things, we switched gears to appetizer number three, a small portion of fresh pasta tossed simply in copious amounts of butter and topped off with a generous shaving of black truffle.  I love it when you order truffles and they assure you that the little lump of pasta lightly garnished is worth it by giving you the weight of your truffle topping in ounces.  Or fragments of an ounce, rather.  Perhaps someday I shall try to make my fortune by moving to France, purchasing a truffle pig, and unearthing a few multi-pound mushrooms…

Is it too much to read about all this food?  I almost feel like a glutton just rehashing the memories of the meal on paper.  At the same time, the next time I’m eating a casual weekday meal of (canned) tuna (in olive oil) with broccoli over pasta, I can read this and make believe that the bite of pasta is covered in truffles, or that the bite of tuna is actually a chunk of roasted sea bass, combined on my fork with a piece of a lobster, smothered in a rich and lemony beurre blanc.  And I can recall what it was like moving onto dessert, and nibbling at the rich chocolate concoction with hints of citrus and passion fruit.  I can remember washing it down with my final sips of sancerre and savoring the last moments at the table, tucked away in a quiet corner with the candle light flickering, before heading out and stepping eyes half shut out of decadence-induced sleepyness into a cab. 

Perhaps I won’t actually try to remember the meal when I’m eating tuna and pasta given that I’m pretty sure my imigination isn’t strong enough to trick my palette to that degree, but having the details of a really great meal captured on paper is a permanent reminder of how great food can be. 

This Is One Cheap Hors D'Oeuvre

This past weekend we celebrated my roommate Eliz's boyfriend Matt's birthday.  In between saving lives and not sleeping, Dr. Eliz prepared dinner for 20 at our house on Saturday night.  It was an affair to remember, from the spinach cannelloni to the pasta bolognese to the satisfyingly salty dill bread.  I heard that the mini-cheesecakes and hand-decorated cake supplied by our friend Dylan were also to die for, but after consuming multiple pounds of cheese and carbs, I was ok with skimping on the dessert options.  The array of solid consumables was complemented by copious amounts of wine and champagne in addition to hand-crafted French 75s and dirty vodka martinis supplied by bar-tending friends, as well as no less than about five bottles of scotch brought for the birthday boy.  

How I love the dinner party hosted at my own home.  It's no secret that I prefer to be the chef as this means I have control over the menu and the kitchen, but second best is having a roommate man the helm so I can simply enjoy the champagne and not stress over timing the food, keeping everything hot, organizing the courses, and of course, being ultimately responsible for the clean-up phases.  Meanwhile, I can still enjoy the dinner party benefits:  the food never stops flowing, the drinks are easily accessible, the company is familiar, and there is no check served at the night's conclusion.  And I can enjoy the benefits of being in my own home:  I can control the music (although, must admit, it was stressful given Saturday night's company, which is given to eclectic -- and more importantly strong -- tastes in music), and when the night is over, I have to walk only as far as my bedroom.  Oh - and I can wear weather-inappropriate outfits including sleeveless tops and open-toed shoes even if it's 40 degrees outside, because I don't ever have to go outdoors.  Fantastic. 

A big part of a successful dinner party, in my personal opinion, is having the right things out on the table for when guests first arrive.  Growing up, we had Friday night Shabbat dinners at my Nana's house.  Please don't expect that my fondness for food is something that has developed over time -- when I was little I'd race into Nana's door and head straight for the little silver tray of Pigs in a Blanket.  Yes, that humble appetizer that consists of mini hotdogs swaddled in dainty segments of Pilsbury crescent dough (I'm referring to the classic Midwest version; no chorizo in artisan cornmeal crust here).  Please, no commentary on the fact that we were eating traif on the Sabbath. 

I could also expound on the many delightful bites my mother always has ready and waiting any time she entertains, the simple pleasures of Muenster and artichoke dip or bacon spread on mini-ryes, but the list would be too long and deserving of its own entry. 

Instead I'll bring things back around to this past Saturday night, which found guests munching on peppery sweet marinated olives, caprese bruschetta, and chicken liver spread -- this last guest being the owner of this entry's title.  For less than $4, you can purchase a pound of chicken livers and prepare a poor man's pate that I'll eat alongside a foie gras spread anytime.  Of course, you need to be ok with eating the livers of chickens, but if you're able to get past that, your mouth will be richly rewarded.  20 recent guests can testify.  Without further ado, a small present -- a great recipe from a fall 2009 Saveur issue for chicken liver spread.  Enjoy, and keep the dinner party spirit alive. 

Chicken Liver Crostini 

• 1 lb. chicken livers, trimmed
• 4 anchovy filets in oil, drained and finely chopped
• 1 medium onion, finely chopped
• 1 medium carrot, finely chopped
• 1 rib celery, finely chopped
• 1 clove garlic, finely chopped
• 2 tbsp. vin santo or sherry
• 1⁄4 cup chicken broth
• 1⁄4 cup finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
• 2 tbsp. salted capers, rinsed and chopped
• 2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice plus 1 tbsp. lemon zest
• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
• 1 baguette, cut into 36 slices

Heat 3 tbsp. oil in a 12" skillet over medium-high heat. Rinse chicken livers and pat dry with paper towels. Add to skillet and cook, flipping once, until browned and slightly pink on the inside, about 4 minutes. Remove skillet from heat, transfer livers to a cutting board using a slotted spoon (so oil is left behind), and finely chop them. Transfer to a plate and set aside.

Return skillet to medium-high heat. Add anchovies and cook, stirring frequently, until they dissolve in the oil, 2–3 minutes. Add onions, carrots, celery, and garlic; cook, stirring, until soft, 10 minutes. Add vin santo and cook, stirring, until evaporated, about 30 seconds. Add chicken broth and cook until liquid is mostly evaporated, about 2 minutes. Add livers and their juices, along with parsley, capers, lemon juice, and zest; season mixture with salt and pepper and cook until hot, about 2 minutes. Remove skillet from heat; let cool slightly. Transfer liver mixture to bowl of a food processor and pulse until chunky (or, if you prefer, purée until smooth). Refrigerate.

Put bread slices on a baking sheet and brush lightly with oil; bake until golden, about 10 minutes. Let cool slightly and serve with liver mixture.  

To Barbacco, and Quality Dining Companions

Perbacco is one of my favorite feasting destinations in the city.  Max introduced me to this spot one one (rare) warm summer evening, after a lengthy walk through the Nob Hill and Financial District neighborhoods in search of a suitable restaurant.  It's Italian -- and particularly memorable are the tagliatelle in a pork sugo and the pappardelle with braised rabbit.  It's been too long since I've eaten there -- last fall I believe -- and so my palette-memory won't allow me to recall the details for you.

That is not actually my purpose, anyway.  Recently, Perbacco opened a sister restaurant, just next door: Barbacco.  Italian small plate options seem to have become a dime a dozen in the city, but this one is worth taking note of and being sure to check out (if you live here) or ensuring that I help you check it out (if you come visit -- and please do).  I went last week with a friend for a glass of wine, but as we are both perpetually hungry we had to do a bit of dabbling in the culinary offerings.  My favorite -- the fresh sardines.  Served simply, with a drizzle of olive oil and a pinch of lemon.  The texture is tender yet firm and they had not a hint of the fishiness that I think keeps so many people away from being willing to try this poor man's fish.  We also enjoyed the ribollita - which my friend describes as "baked minestrone soup.  It's a very apt description.  The version served here (unique as I believe that ribollita is traditionally a soup) is like a moist cake, slightly crisped golden brown on the outside.  It has a creamy texture thanks to the cannellini beans and a wonderfully rich flavor owed not only to the rich mix of vegetables but also the seasoning mix, rich in garlic.  And, don't forget the bruschette with lardo.  Yes, essentially, they carved the white portion of your bacon out and spread it in a thick layer across a gently grilled slice of baguette (nicely oiled), and then sprinkled it gently with truffle salt.  I also had two glasses of Barbera, just a hint of spice and pepper.

I returned last night for a full-fledged dinner with my girl friends. After a week of eating in, conservatively, I think I deserved the slight splurge, including the three glasses of wine that accompanied my meal.  To that effect -- try the Scarbolo Friulano that they have by the glass.  After drinking some dismal riesling blend that was served at an overly-warm temperature and offered slightly oaky and certainly not any bright or mineral notes as I'd requested -- recommended by the waiter that I'm fairly sure knows not much about suggesting wines (umm, and I think he knows of my sentiments as he may have overheard me running my mouth...) -- I switched to something of my own selection and then turned one of my friends onto my choice, as well.  In the way of food, given that there were four of us and we were starving following our extended wait, there were many dishes that landed at our "communal table (all the tables are actually communal, meaning that if you're a six-top you'll share with a couple - no sweat).  New favorites include the polpette, Silcian-style meatballs that absolutely melt in your mouth and are crammed with flavor, and the burrata, which is heaven when spread in a thick, creamy layer across a toast point.  My roommate Eliz is right -- fresh mozzarella is lovely, but it can't compare to its formless sister, which in recent times has truly stolen the spotlight from her sibling.  Yes, cheeses are female.

Enjoying the culinary spoils of a new restaurant is certainly one of life's great pleasures, but dining with good company might actually be more sustaining.  While it may seem to you that I focus at least 70% of my time and energy on food, this is incorrect.  It certainly can be no more than 50%.  That leaves an entire other half to my life, and right now a large portion of that half is taken up with determining my ideal job and strategizing how to get it.  It's simply not as much fun to write about what exciting postings I have discovered or the networking emails I've sent or the cover letters  I've written that likely go largely unread as it is to describe what last went into my mouth.  That said, the majority of comes OUT of my mouth these days IS related to such topics.  And here is where I reconnect to my initial statement re: the value of outstanding company, as I owe much to my recent Barbacco dining compatriots -- both from last week and last night.    

 I may not have discovered my dream job out in Oakland, but I did discover a remarkable female support group that allows me to complain at length about my struggle to nail down how shall I continue sustaining myself in life (this from a financial perspective) once I move on from salad dressing.  And while some of them might not embody my particular style of eating -- highly carnivorous, often calorie-laden -- they are always up for eating with me and making the experience a pleasure.