Welcome 2009

Here's to a fruitful new year!

It's 2009...eat it up!

Festivities, Food and Otherwise

This year’s holiday season has been extra festive! It all started a few weeks back when Amanda was in town from L.A. and the Tribe got together for a Friends’ Thanksgiving at my house. She and I cooked scallop ravioli in a truffle cream sauce, bacon and leek potatoes au gratin, a celery slaw with wilted dinosaur kale, and I whipped together a six layer pumpkin trifle. We were all thankful to have our redhead back from the west coast, if only for a short weekend (and a chance to meet her new beaux…p.s. we loved him!). Then, there were drinks and feasts all over town…everywhere from Union Square Café with Dad to The Supper Club’s holiday party in Little Italy to fancy frogs’ legs with Flavia and Celest at La Grenouille. Speaking of Celest, she celebrated her birthday in style at Bar Carrera. I created a special menu item for her occasion: Chocolate & Honey Brioche Buns topped with sherry-soaked, caramelized bananas. Just a few days before, we were all toasting Erin’s birthday at her cozy East Village favorite, Supper. In between all this, I worked in weekend trips to Chicago (for an event dinner with Charlie Trotter himself) and Washington D.C., where I was treated to a tour of our capital’s culinary gems by none other than Oprah’s personal chef, Art Smith. His new D.C. spot, Art and Soul, won high marks from me and the new man in my life for its sophisticated twist on Southern soul food.

The Christmas holiday wouldn’t have been complete though, if I hadn’t had the chance to spend a night in—in Bushwick that is—when all the girls gathered at Sara’s house to trim her tree, sip some bourbon-spiked Jacques Torres “wicked” hot chocolate, exchange gifts and watch When Harry Met Sally. It was Christmas classics all around!

Wrapping up 2008 has been such a whirlwind, I’m looking forward to a quiet beckoning of 2009 on the Mexican Riviera. Feliz Navidad!

Christmas Cucumber Margaritas

The Santa Fe Reporter just published my recipe for Blood Orange Margaritas in their holiday drinking guide!

I know what you’re thinking,

“Christmas Margaritas? Maybe if I were from Texas…”

But I go home to Buffalo every Christmas, a spot known not for its warm winds and cool drinks, but rather, its cold weather and hot wings. Geography aside, every Christmas I am charged with concocting a holiday cocktail for the family. Last year, I paired Maple Manhattans with hors d’ oeuvre sized Potato Latkes. The year before, I donned my mamma’s Christmas Tree apron and served negronis up, with a special double order, on ice, for Aunt Susie. The youngest of her three kiddies had just announced he no longer believed in Santa…cut her some slack.

This year, I’m chomping at the bit to wow the fam with my cucumber margaritas. Maybe it’s because I’m headed to Mexico for New Year’s (with a man whose “over the top” mantra perfectly suits my own penchant for all things “top notch!”), or maybe it’s because these chili-rimmed cocktails take on the traditional red & green holiday hues, but whatever the reason, margaritas always make sense to me. Happily, cucumbers never go out of season and neither does tequila. Erin and I have been known to pour margaritas from the lazy days of summer to first snow, right through onto spring. We quelled her gambling habit with a poker game and mango margaritas last June. On Thanksgiving, her conservative Connecticut brood surprised me by serving pint sized frozen margaritas to pair with turkey. We even have a herradura spiked shrimp canapé on our Dinner Belle menu! Whatever the reason, I believe it can always be tequila season.

Christmas Cucumber Margaritas (serves 4)

• 1 Cucumber (peeled & cored)
  
• 1 Jalapeño Pepper
  
• 6 ounces Tequila
  
• 4 ounces Cointreau
  
• 2 ounces Simple Syrup
  
• 1 cup Lime Juice
  
• Cayenne Pepper (to taste)
  
• Kosher Salt
  
• Cucumber slice (garnish)
  

To prepare simple syrup, mix one part water with two parts sugar and bring to a boil in a saucepan, stirring to dissolve sugar; remove from heat and allow to cool. Place the cucumber, jalapeño, tequila, Cointreau, simple syrup, and lime juice in a blender and process until smooth. Then, on a small plate, mix a few pinches of ground cayenne pepper with salt; run a lime wedge around the rim of a martini glass, and holding the glass inverted, dust the wet glass on the outside rim with the cayenne/salt mixture until evenly coated. If you keep the salt on the outside rim it won’t fall into your drink. Pour the margarita mix from the blender into the glass and garnish with a cucumber wedge.

If you like heat, add a few of the jalapeño seeds to the blended mix. If not, be sure to remove them. Cayenne pepper is also quite hot so be sure to use it sparingly, according to taste.

Leftovers: The Tasty Finale!

Click here to check out our Leftovers webisodes & my recipe for Caprese Tomato "Boats"

Leftovers: The Basil Lady

Click here to check out our Leftovers webisodes & my recipe for Caprese Tomato "Boats"

Leftovers: Who Can Handle Heat?

Click here to check out our Tomato Talk webisodes & my recipe for Caprese Tomato "Boats"

Tomato Talk: The Australian

Click here to check out more Tomato Talk webisodes & my recipe for Caprese Tomato "Boats"

In Search of a Good Dinner Party

Gobble, Gobble! It's turkey time, and when Americans pull up seats to give thanks at dining tables across the country next Thursday, home chefs will have slaved over stove tops and filled centerpieces with cranberries. A great dinner party should taste impressive and feel easy. There's no simple recipe for success, but I recently caught up with Christopher Koulouris of the newly launched Scallywag & Vagabond magazine to give him my take on how to throw a fabulous dinner party and make gourmet comfort food chic. Read my interview and check out photos of Celest and me at the Launch Party last week. Once again, my Tribe and I will be spread out across the country for the holiday this season, but unlike last year I'll be celebrating closer to home at Erin's house in Connecticut. Wherever you land, whomever you're with, whatever is on the menu, Happy Thanksgiving!

The Big Apple

There’s nothing like a freshly picked Pink Lady from the Union Square Farmers’ Market, unless it’s a McIntosh you’ve picked yourself from an upstate apple orchard. I went home to Buffalo a few weeks back and returned to my favorite childhood farm to pick apples and pumpkins. The fields were polka-dotted orange with future jack-o-lanterns, while the orchards were bursting with trees, boughs heavy with several varieties of Manhattan’s signature fruit. Adam and Eve would be hard pressed to disagree, the scene looked like heaven on earth.

Back at Mamma’s, we made applesauce, caramel-candied apples and pumpkin pie from fresh pumpkin puree. I toasted my signature Naughty & Nice Pumpkin Seeds for snacking on the plane, and headed back to NYC with five pounds of apples in tow. The Dinner Belle threw a big bash for Macy’s that week, and I’d planned to impress our clients with apple tartlets a la mode made from “chef-picked” Macs. Our guests were not disappointed. The tartlets were a huge hit, and topped with Mario Batali’s salted caramel gelato, there weren’t any leftover for our staff meal.

Individually-portioned apple tarts showcase autumn’s favorite fruit.Topped with brown butter crumble and salted caramel ice cream, then drizzled with a caramel dipping sauce and dark chocolate ganache, these tartlets are a perfectly balanced dessert for those, like me, who crave salt in their dolce.

Apple Tartlets a la Mode (makes 8)

DOUGH: recipe in My Recipes

FILLING:
•3 cups McIntosh Apples (about 6, skinned and chopped small)
•1 Lemon (squeeze over chopped apples to prevent browning)
•2 cups Sugar
•6 TB Flour
•2 cups Sour Cream
•2 Eggs (beaten)
•1 t Vanilla
•1 pinch Salt

TOPPING:
•½ cup Sugar
•3 t Cinnamon
•½ cup Flour
•6 TB Butter
•1 pinch Fleur de Sel

For the tart dough, follow my recipe for Pâte Brisée and add a pinch or two of sugar to the mix. You’ll be rolling out the dough and cutting tart shell bottoms to fit the size of your individually-portioned ramekins. I made eight tartlets from one batch of pâte brisée and used 2 ½ inch terra-cotta ramekins, but any small vessel for baking will do. Don’t forget to butter your ramekins to prevent the dough from sticking!

To make the filling, first mix the sugar and flour. Then add the sour cream, beaten eggs, vanilla and salt to the batter. Finally, fold in the apples and mix gently. Pour filling into unbaked tart shells, cover the edges with aluminum foil, and bake at 400 degrees until golden, approximately 40 minutes.

While the tartlets are baking, mix all the ingredients together for the topping, and cut into it with knives or use your hands to crumble. Taste for seasoning and then refrigerate to prevent melting.
Remove the tartlets from the oven once golden, and peel away all the aluminum foil. Sprinkle the tarts with the cinnamon-sugar crumble and bake for another 5-10 minutes until the crumble has begun to melt and the edges of the tarts have just begun to color.

Remove from oven and serve hot. These tartlets can be enjoyed ungarnished, but I went all out and loaded ‘em up with a scoop of Mario’s salted caramel gelato from Otto (link), a drizzle of salty caramel sauce, and a second drizzle of dark chocolate ganache. Finished with all the drizzle drama, they are standing ovation worthy, (I should know, Macy’s stood and applauded)!

Tomato Talk: Eating Green

Click here to check out more Tomato Talk webisodes & my recipe for Caprese Tomato "Boats"

Yes We Did

Change has come to America.

Eat it up!

Boo!

My Tribe and I have some scary adventures on the horizon this All Hallow's Eve that venture to take us to The Promised Land party in Bushwick (I'm afraid the scary part of that plan is Bushwick, sorry Sara!). Last year was a much more civilized affair, dinner at Otto with Madame X, Angelina Jolie (no Brad, but one of her brats was in tow), a 1960's cocktail party a la Erin, a Moulin Rouge clad Celest, my date, a self-described "crappy ghost", and of course, Sara, dressed as me.

Happy Halloween!

Tomato Talk: "Summer's Sunset" Fruit

Artichoke-Tomato “Marmalade” (serves a crowd)

• 1 TB Sea Salt
• 10 Artichokes
• 2 Lemons (cut in half)
• 1 TB Black Peppercorn
• 3 TB Olive Oil
• 3 Yellow Onions (chopped)
• 12 Garlic Cloves (diced)
• 3 LB Tomatoes (chopped)
• 2 TB Tomato Paste
• 1 bunch fresh Thyme Leaves (reserved)
• More Salt & Pepper to taste
• Crostini

Cook the artichokes in a large stockpot. Fill it halfway with water and add the sea salt. Bring the water to a boil over medium heat.

Trim off the artichoke stems and discard the tough outer leaves that grow at the base of the artichoke. With a pair of kitchen shears, cut off about 1 inch from the top of the artichokes and then clip off the pointy tips of each leaf. This takes a long time so be prepared!

The secret to making Artichoke-Tomato “Marmelade” is to rub the cut leaves with the lemon halves and then add the artichokes, lemon shells, and peppercorns to the pot of boiling water. This prevents them from browning.

Reduce the heat to simmer and cook until the artichokes are tender. This should take about 30 to 45 minutes depending on the size of the artichokes.

Turn the artichokes over from time to time to make sure they all get cooked thoroughly. Once cooked, drain and cool.

While you are cooking the artichokes, heat enough olive oil to cover the bottom of large sauté pan over medium heat. Add the onions and garlic and sauté until they are soft and golden in color (about 7 min).

Next, add the tomatoes, cover the pan, and cook for at least 15 minutes or until the tomatoes begin to get soft and mushy. Then uncover, stir in the tomato paste and 2 TB thyme leaves, and turn off the heat.

Back to the cooling artichokes. Quarter them and cut out the hearts. Scrape out the hearts and clean off the little hairs. Dice the hearts and add them to the tomato mixture. Stir and check seasoning; add salt and pepper to taste.

Pick all the leaves off the quartered chokes. Serve this dip on the leaves of the artichoke, or on crostini, and garnish with extra sprigs of thyme. See my recipe for making crostini on Midnight Eggs.

Caprese Tomato “Boats”

Caprese Tomato “Boats” (serves 4)

• 10 Perfect Plum Tomatoes
• 2 Pork Sausages (half sweet fennel & half hot Italian)
• 1 ball Buffalo Mozzarella
• 1 wedge Parmigiano-Reggiano
• 1 pinch Chili Flakes
• 1 clove Garlic
• 1 Lemon (zested)
• 1 bunch Arugula
• 1 bunch Basil
• Salt & Pepper to taste
• Extra Virgin Olive Oil

Choose the 8 firmest tomatoes and slice a vertical opening across the length of each. Scoop out the tomato boats and place on a bed of arugula. Chop the remaining toms along with the sausages. Crush the garlic.

On medium heat, add olive oil to a sauté pan and brown the garlic. Once hot, add the meat and tomatoes. Stir and season with salt, pepper, chili flakes and lemon zest. While the mixture is cooking through (about 8 minutes), line the boats with a slice of buffalo mozzarella and tear off 8 perfect basil leaves.

Transfer the mixture to the boats and stuff each tomato. Top with a basil leaf and a sprinkling of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. The steam from the pork diffuses through the basil leaf creating a gorgeous aroma.

Nini's Wedding, by Kimberly and Celest

Kimberly: This has been a summer for weddings! Andrew and Carl, my neighbors back in Buff, and then the season culminated with Nini’s Beverly Hills bash.

Celest: I love weddings, and I never understand people who complain about being invited to too many of them.

Kimberly: And by “people” do you mean Erin?

Celest: Of course not. That girl could smile her way through seven back-to-back weekend destination weddings.

Kimberly: I think she did last June.

Celest: Honestly, weddings are an excellent excuse to travel and dress up. There’s cake. Champagne. Diamonds. Dancing. What’s not to love?

Kimberly: But not all destinations are equal.

Celest: No, not even close!

Kimberly: California set the bar. I didn’t really know what to expect, other than good food, since I’d consulted on the menu with the Four Season’s caterers. As it happened, the service was fantastic and the food really was done beautifully. The setting: sunset, rooftop penthouse of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, perfect weather, and all of L.A. spread out around us. Not a bad setup! The gustatory standouts turned out to be the crab quesadillas, the loin of beef, the Peking duck crepes and the truffled-porcini ravioli. And I don’t love wedding cake, so I wasn’t sad there was none of that.

Celest: I was a little sad. But I got over it by jumping on the chocolate crème brulee. And having another glass of champagne. Besides, by the time it was the hour for sweets, I’d had just enough to drink to make me really want a cigarette even more than I wanted dessert.

Kimberly: Aunt Linda to the rescue!

Celest: The groom’s Aunt Linda, from Something-or-other-shire, outside London, was our favorite guest at the party. And not just because she shared her cigs.

Kimberly: I fell in love when she said she was a Radiohead fan and her teenage daughters owed all their good taste in music to her. She was so sassy.

Celest: “Sassy” was Erica and her wedding table talk of hot sex with the half-Hatian she met in New York during the bachelorette weekend:

“You guys. Like really. No, I mean really. Seriously, like really. Really, like—hot. He was. Seriously. Really. You have no idea. Seriously. Hot!”

Kimberly: Ha! She is so California!

Celest: The event really was beautiful, but nothing compared to Nini’s Elizabeth Filmore gown.

Kimberly: Except maybe those heirloom earrings.

Celest: Fucking true. Those were stunning, and she was glowing, and her family was so proud and kind to all the guests…

Kimberly: I know. And planning the whole ordeal caused her so much stress, but nailing every detail the way she did and gathering that size family together was an incredible feat. She pulled it off with great class, and the New Yorkers, UK-ers, West Coasters, USC Trojans, Vietnamese, Brits, film folks and everybody in between seemed so happy to be there.

Celest: Like Cynthia.

Kimberly: I love Cynthia!

Celest: I’m thrilled for Michael and Nini, who deserve all the happiness in the world. And I was so jealous to know that they were spending the rest of the week in California, since we were leaving.

Kimberly: Don’t remind me. I didn’t want to leave Cali. It was tough to turn in the Prius and face down a redeye after such an astonishing trip of wine and sunshine, coastline and perfect produce at every turn. My vacation really made me understand how people loose their hearts to that other coast. Seems like a good life…

Celest: Yeah, it does. But nothing beats getting to come home to New York and the Manhattan skyline at sunrise.

Kimberly: Except bragging rights. Telling everyone on your travels, “I’m just visiting. I’m a New Yorker.”

XO, Cali!

A Good Day for L.A., by Celest

The next day, Kimberly and I awoke a little hung over, which was the perfect state in which to find ourselves since, on TV, Andrea Mitchell was announcing that John McCain had just picked an unknown governor of Alaska, with a bouffant hairstyle, to serve as his running mate. We marveled, horrified, then headed to a breakfast of eggs benedict and got back into the Prius, Big Sur-bound. The cabernet suitors were right—that drive should be enjoyed in the daylight. It is breathtakingly beautiful, and we wondered what it looked like before the recent, tragic fires. Best evidence it was so gorgeous: Kimberly and Celest were compelled to go for a hike. And not just any hike. We attempted the renowned Waterfall hike at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. Two Manhattanites found themselves traipsing through the redwoods, crossing freezing cold streams barefooted, and loving nature! With Amanda prodding, Kimberly hiked to the top of a volcano in Saba, but the two of us basically just hunted down the perfect spot to sit and dish while Kimberly smoked a joint perched atop a fallen tree trunk. We fantasized about trading in days spent on the 6 Train and nights spent at The Box for days spent whale watching and nights spent stargazing. Then, we started to get bitten by bugs and we headed back to the car. Fast. Back on the road, driving down to Santa Barbara, I suggested we not miss boutique shopping on State Street.

Santa Barbara wasn’t unfamiliar; I was there a few years ago with Sara and Amanda. This time, Kimberly and I walked on the beach, ate some killer fish tacos, did some shopping and downed another bottle of California red while soaking in our private hot tub, back at the B&B where we’d rented the only room the place had left—the Honeymoon Cottage! On the way out of town, we marveled at the mansions in the hills above the ocean and wished we’d had time on this trip to visit a spa…

I have little love lost for L.A.—the “industry town” feel, the smog, the macrobiotic diets, unsavory celebrities. But, I was on a California high when we drove into the city, listening to “Paper Planes” by M.I.A., our aviators shielding us from the sunset. Plus, we were filled with the excitement of seeing our west coast friends. First stop >was Nini’s pre-party at the X Bar at the Hyatt Regency hotel. The wedding guests intermingled on the outdoor patio. We sipped cocktails and lounged around a giant, mod “bonfire” that protected those of us in short dresses from the cool night air. We munched on tuna ceviche, mango, brie and mushroom quesadillas (a wonderfully odd combination), and mini Ruben sandwiches. After catching up with Nini about nerves and the big event around the corner, we said our goodbyes to the party and headed out to Hollywood, Amanda’s neighborhood.

We drank some wine at her apartment, then headed out for the rest of the evening, along with my dear roommate from college who also now lives on the west coast, Remy. The four of us drove a couple of blocks to the famed Chateau Marmont, our Saturday night destination. I know little about the “scene” in L.A., but even I had heard of CM. We crawled though a throng of skinny jeans and nightwear Ray Bans to get to the bar, where we were shocked (and thrilled) to find that the bartender was none other than our former NYU classmate (and Erin’s partner in a popular condom commercial, back in 2002), Joe. L.A.’s stock improved considerably when we were hooked up with fabulous tequila cocktails by a friendly face amongst the “players.”

It felt good to have a packed social schedule in a far away city. Besides, of course, Nini and the girls from her bachelorette party in NYC, we saw lots of familiar faces. Friends had invited us to be houseguests in one part of Hollywood. Amanda showed us her part. Remy and her girlfriend, Maria, invited us out to West Hollywood for brunch and treated us to an outdoor café and a mini tour of Boystown. And there was one other person I was excited to see while in L.A.—my hot, Irish, ex-boyfriend, now friend, who is a chef and caterer and has his own, great food website called the Healthy Irishman. Gavan, with whom all of my best L.A. memories before this trip were created, took me to lunch in Brentwood and then walking on the beach and through parts of Santa Monica. We ate at an adorable café and I had the most delicious and simple vegetarian omelet. Over coffee (green tea for him—healthy, remember) we caught up on life and talked about our blogs and the food we love to eat and (in his case) cook. He showed me his local farmers market and made me laugh with his characteristic Irish wit.

After Kimberly joined up, he pointed the two of us toward Venice, his own neighborhood, and my favorite part of the city. If there is a place in L.A. at all comparable to my own, beloved East Village, Venice Beach has got to be it. I loved the clothing, furniture, stationer boutiques and the people watching—surfers, tattoo artists, bikers, etc. Kimberly wasn’t that impressed (she insists all of L.A. is just plain ugly), but agreed that the Mexican food we gobbled before leaving was exceptional. At Tortilla Grill I had a fish burrito with delicious, grilled tilapia and fresh avocado and she ate cheese enchiladas before we split a plate of chicken flautas. The flautas were perfection - cigar sized, fried golden and dipped in pico de gallo. It was the best Mexican food either of us had had since Texas and it made up for plenty of L.A.’s other sins.

Hwy 1 is Fun, Fun, Fun, by Celest

Renting a Prius to drive the California coast just seemed like the right move. As a sanctimonious New Yorker, I love being able to exclude myself from the guilt I associate with the driving culture of the rest of the country. So renting a hybrid for a week of joy riding on the west coast helped further the hero status in my own mind. I only had to hold my proverbial nose once, when we filled up at the evil Exxon. But that car held us in good stead as we hugged the cliffs and navigated the fog and curves of Hwy 1. In return for a little wicked gasoline consumption, Kimberly and I got a front row seat to some of the most spectacular scenery in America. Soundtrack courtesy of Coldplay, Dave Matthews and other sappy favorites.

We met up first in San Francisco. We sipped glasses of merlot (I suggest you not attempt this if you’re not guided by a Californian well-versed in varietals; bad merlot can be worse than bad sex) in the lobby of a fancy hotel near Union Square. She filled me in on her journey to the Russian River Valley and her adventures around the city. Next day, Kimberly humored my coffee obsession and we headed to the famed and revered Blue Bottle Coffee for caffeine and my own curiosity quenching. Amongst coffee snobs, Blue Bottle is a destination for serious espresso enthusiasts, a place synonymous with pricey drinks, handcrafted by seriously skilled baristas, and on-site bean roasting. My favorite New York espresso bar, Abraco, was even started by an alumnus of the place. Some people think coffee bars like Blue Bottle, that seem to lack a sense of humor about themselves, are pretentious and revolting. I often think they are chic. And I buy easily into the “artisan” argument for jacked prices—needless to say, I loved Blue Bottle! The place is grey and minimalist in design, with huge windows that open to the cobblestone streets, taking advantage of San Fran’s mild weather. They are kinda famous for their iced coffees, which they let me taste. They were loathe to make me an iced cappucino, explaining that it would “change the composition of the espresso to pour it over ice” (alright, alright, a little too much, even for me). But when I explained I don’t like sugar in my coffee (their iced coffees are already slightly sweetened), they acquiesced and I ended up with a great drink. I also downed a perfectly pulled shot of espresso and Kimberly and I both had lunch there too, since the food looked so appealing. Mine was classic egg salad on brioche, hers a delicious salad of faro and brightly colored tomatoes. Simple pleasures. California’s gift.

We spent the rest of the day wandering around the Mission District—simply the coolest area of an achingly cool city—window shopping, people watching and relaxing in Dolores Park. On the way to the park, we picked up goodies at Tartine Bakery. The glass cases at this bakery were filled with tempting items, but we settled on a snowy, coconut cake with passion fruit preserves and a decadent, chocolate, hazelnut tart with cookie crust. We also grabbed a thick slice of country bread made with Lucques olives, gruyere cheese, lemon zest, and herbs De Provence, which we ended up devouring later that evening, as we looked for a place off the coast where we could stop for dinner. The sweets were enjoyed a little melted by the sun, as we sat in the park and speculated on the character and careers of the San Franciscans who surrounded us on a Thursday afternoon, at their leisure to sunbathe and drink beer (in the open!), smoke pot (basically, in the open!) and play with their dogs. It was dreamy, and hard to leave. But we had to get on the road and start making our way south.

I know that highway maintenance is not the sexiest project funded by taxpayers, but if you ever have the fortune to drive this piece of road, the expanse of the Pacific Ocean right outside your window, you will instinctively understand what a national treasure Hwy 1 is. A few years back, Sara and Amanda and I drove from L.A. to Santa Barbara for a little holiday and spa retreat. The drive along the coast between those two cities is beautiful, but I realize after this most recent trip, that’s just the beginning of the beauty. As we left San Francisco, Kimberly and I were lucky to have a clear view for many miles. The vista is so dramatic! We reminisced about our trip together to the Amalfi Coast a couple of summers ago and compared the two vistas which are known to be some of the most stunning in the world. We drove with the windows rolled down and sucked in the air, unbelievably scented with various combinations of salt water, pine, moss, florals, fir trees, barnyards and marshlands. Kimberly mused at how smelling the land there makes her understand why she loves California wines so much. Those scents are all in there! She’s a sucker for those vibrant smelling, New World reds.

Once it got dark, we pulled off into the town of Monterey. Our original plan, to carry on our drive into Big Sur that night, after eating dinner, was derailed when a couple of dashing gentlemen invited us to share expensive, tempting bottles of Silver Oak Cabernet with them. Between our desire to drink the offered wine and their insistence that we would miss the best scenery of our drive if we made our way from Monterey to Big Sur in the dark, we were convinced to stay right where we were. Four bottles of wine were drunk. The talk was of local artichokes and national politics. The gentlemen were Latin. Turned out to be a late night...

San Fran-Fucking-Cisco

I love San Francisco. I feel like I could live there. If I didn’t already live in the greatest city on the planet, a move might be imminent. As is, I give myself five years before the lure of The West is too profound to ignore. Ideally, I’d be bi-coastal.

The thing is, I’ve never lived inside of, or even close to, awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping natural beauty, and I want to. I want to live somewhere that is more connected to the land than NYC could ever be. Don’t get me wrong, I refuse to trade in a dizzying restaurant scene, the politics of the Urban Elite, or the guilt-assuaging convenience of a city run on public transportation, for a spacious apartment on a hill, but the great thing about San Fran is, I don’t have to. It’s got it all. And I’ve been known to want it all. Including the single most impressive farmers’ market spread I’ve ever encountered.

I’m gonna say it, and it ain’t gonna be popular ‘round these parts, BUT, in my humble opinion, the food in San Francisco is better than the food in New York. I’m not talking about restaurants, I’m not talking about scenes or experiences, I’m strictly talking food. And what that really amounts to is produce and proteins, both of which are in a league of their own out west. (Don’t get me started on the wines. Thomas Keller and I share a love of Red Zin that is beyond.)

It’s not shocking really, food and wine taste better in Cali because food and wine are grown in Cali. The Ferry Plaza Farmer’s Market is as exceptional as it is because the climate allows for an abundant harvest that is unmatched anywhere else in The Lower 48 (that, plus the fact you can actually eat a meal while wandering through the farmers’ stalls…for some absurd reason that only underscores the inadequacies of the markets back east, prepared foods are illegal to sell at the Greenmarkets in New York). Anywho, food might prompt me to move west someday, but it was my Papa who prompted me to vacation with him in San Francisco last August.

And so we did. We crammed a lifetime of memories into a weeklong stay at the St. Regis Hotel. We dined every night and almost never had a reservation. With the exception of a weekend drive through the Russian River Valley and a planned pit-stop at Charlie Palmer’s exquisite Dry Creek Kitchen in Healdsburg, our daily strategy was to take BART to a new neighborhood in San Fran and explore it head-to-toe before deciding on a dinner destination. Adventuring in this way, we found ourselves at both Michael Mina’s and Mel’s Drive-In on Union Square, walking through The Slanted Door in the northeast corner of the restored Ferry Building across from The Embarcadero, taking the ferry to Sausalito to dine on oysters at Fish, stumbling into Terzo in Cow Hollow after watching a Bills game in a sports bar in Pacific Heights, where someone recommended we try Nopa on Divisadero the next night (we did!), and finally, seated contentedly at a bar in The Mission for a four-course meal and perfect negronis at Range. Not once was I disappointed. And I don’t suffer from low expectations.

But the truly serendipitous experience was the party we limbo-ed into after walking back from Range on a Sunday night. We passed a half closed security gate at what turned out to be a warehouse-style, Mission sculpture studio and asked what all the hubbub was about (read: live music and loud voices sounding like they were having a grand old time). When we learned it was a private party in celebration of the wood-burning pizza ovens that were built in the space for the Slow Food Nation festival that was about to commence, my eyes widened, my Dad got us invited, and we did back-bends under the gate to gain entrance. Hands down, it was the best anti-restaurant experience I’ve had. Everything about it felt sincere (Californians are so fucking nice, especially to blonde chefs from New York!), but what was remarkable, once again, was the food. Andrew Mariani (SCRIBEwinery), Chris Kronner (Serpentine, Slow Club), Nico Monday (Chez Panisse), and Anthony Strong (Pizzeria Delfina) presided over a slow feast of heirloom tomatoes, wood-fired pizzas, roasted poblanos, ratatouille, cucumber and beet salad, just-baked, sardine-topped, Tartine panzanella, wood-fired wild salmon, roasted potatoes, peaches and arugula, a whole slow-roasted goat, nectarine upside down cake and Bi-Rite Creamery Vanilla Bean ice cream cones. As the chefs de-virginized the ovens, guests toasted a veritable Who’s Who of Bay Area foodies including Slow Food Nations’s mother hen, Alice Waters. For a traveling New York foodie such as myself, it was bliss.

The ovens weren’t the only ones to get lucky that night. In addition to meeting what seemed like every important person in food, wine and farming in San Fran, I also met myself a genuine cowboy. A metrosexual in a suit he was not; this is a man who works with his hands and knew what to do with them. As the party wound down, he and I helped our hosts load pickup trucks with chairs and return them to their restaurant homes. Before I knew it, dawn was encroaching and I found myself in what one chef described as “the Meatpacking District—seven years ago.” This up-and-coming neighborhood curiously termed “The Dogpatch” is home to Serpentine, Slow Club, and little else. As the sun began to yawn its way into day, the Dogpatch had the feel of a ghost town Hollywood set. To my east coast eyes, it looked like a completely foreign landscape. Withered signs of old world life blended among ultra-modern steel and concrete design; I half expected tumbleweed to come rattling down the deserted street, but instead, the clickedy-clack of a pair of cowboy boots came up behind me. He was offering me a cheeseburger. Chef Kronner was behind the stove cooking up the perfect hangover prevention medicine, and the cowboy and I rode off into the sunrise beef and buns in hand.

We saw a lot more of each other that trip. My dad approved. The cowboy took me to a secret speakeasy wine bar behind Zuni Café and we road his motorcycle around town, in search of hilltop vistas from which to set our sights on that famous bridge which actually is not at all gold. The cowboy may not put the saint in San, but he absolutely put the fucking in Frisco!