Fish on Friday

Why is this fish sweating? He isn’t. Fish can’t sweat. They don’t have sweat glands. But he does look rather distressed. Why does he look distressed? Because he was painted that way. He’s not real.

If he did have the slightest understanding of human food ways, Fridays would be met with a great deal of anxiety indeed. There are more than one billion Catholics around the world.

And it’s Lent.

My family was not the greatest model of a Catholic household. Neither son was an alter boy, holy days of obligation were not obligatory, and an experiment with Catholic school was an unmitigated disaster for my sister, ending with her prompt placement in a public school after her habit-wearing instructress was not-so-quietly removed in a piece of protective (for others) outerwear. So the story goes. But somehow, we always managed to eat fish on Fridays.

To my own horror, this invariably meant a tuna fish sandwich in my lunchbox, the smell of which permeated the plastic and even the skin of the accompanying brownish banana. I loathed this part of Lent. But, of course, Lent is about privation and penance. Lent is also about alms-giving, but try as I might, no one– not even the poorest of my classmates– wanted my tuna sandwich.

The one, bright, fish-related candle upon my Lenten cake was the occasional Friday foray to Anthony’s Fish and Chips, a dark, wood panelled establishment housed in a mini-mall that smelled, unsurprisingly, of grease– both from the fryer and from the heads of the old men that always seemed to be loitering around the place. My mother or sister would send themselves down the road to pick up a bright pink box filled with monoliths of battered cod and hot, steamy fried potatoes. Fish and Chips. It was the only seafood we ever saw as kids, barring the occasional shrimp cocktail. I loved it.

I had nearly forgotten how much I enjoyed fish and chips until it was suggested the other week that, while visiting friends in Redwood City, we all go have some for lunch.

We went to Al’s Fish n’ Chips on Roosevelt Boulevard, located in an unassuming mini-mall not unlike those of my suburban youth. It led me to question whether or not there was some sort of zoning law specifically targeting such establishments.

We ordered several items, but the fish and chips ($7.95 for a two-piece order) really stood out in my mind. It was (and I don’t use this word often) perfect. A crisp, flavorful batter coating that complimented rather than competed with the tender, steamy cod inside. The chips were nearly the same. A tad thinner than the usual chunky chips associated with the dish, but still thick enough to produce both exterior crunch and inner steam. Everything we consumed there was fresh and really very good (the black beans? Yes, do try). I nearly wet myself with joy. And I cursed myself for not having my camera with me.

The following weekend, I rode up to Sausalito for a morning run to Heath Ceramics with my friend Mark. He suggested lunch at Fish nearby. There was no need to twist my arm. No guessing what we ordered.

I was a bit shocked at the sticker price– $21.00 for beer-battered fish (3 pieces) and chips. It was, however, extremely good. I just had to tell myself that I was sitting in a restaurant inSausalito and not in a suburban mini-mall. Perhaps the proximity of a bait and tackle shop adds incalculably more to property value than, say, a Tan n’ Nails.

The final stop on my cod binge was a place in my neighborhood I’ve wandered by for years– Piccadilly Fish n’ Chips. A fire knocked it out of commission a little while back but it has returned. I ordered the 2-piece fish and chips, of course, for $6.95. Since this is classic English takeaway, I did just that. What made me happiest was the fact that my order was wrapped in newspaper– the SF Weekly. I stifled any impulse I had to engage in Cockney rhyming slang, since I was the only person in the place apart from the sweet woman making my fish who is, I believe, Korean. And I’m not a Cockney. I took away my take-away.

When I arrived home, I found that the fish and chips had continued to steam as they snuggled in the Pink Section– exactly what is supposed to happen. To my joy, the fish was still crispy, but not beer-battered; more tempura in style– delicate, brittle and pock-marked. It was good. I ignored the small packets of tartar sauce and made my own impromptu condiment of mayonnaise, chopped sweet pickles and cider vinegar (since I didn’t have the traditional malt vinegar handy). It worked in the pinch. Disappointing, however, were the chips. Rather soggy and bland. Of course, I am partly to blame. I was the first person in Piccadilly’s door at 11:00 am and these were the first batch of chips of the day. I should have known better. The fish (and the price point) will bring me back.

All this battered cod and fries over the past few days. I’m actually not sick of it. Could you, my reading public (yes, all three of you) tell me of other, great places to go for a Friday Night Fish Fry? I’m all ears. And all stomach.

And now for the history lesson.

A Brief History of Fish and Chips

The potato has been known to the English since the late 16th century– about the time that old canard about Sir Walter Raleigh introducing it to a grateful nation started making its rounds. According to The Straight Dope, the Irish refused to plant them, since potatoes were not mentioned in the Bible. They have since eaten their words. It was the French, naturally, who invented pommes frites, in the 1840’s.

Fish has, not surprisingly, been known to the English for a much longer time. They live on an island, after all. Frying the fish is believed to have become popular in England in the early mid-19th century, even being mentioned in Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens.

There is a bit of controversy as to where the inspired idea of combining fried fish with fried potatoes first occurred. A Mr. Lees opened a fish and chip shop in Mossley, Lancashire in 1863 while a Mr. Joseph Malin opened his London shoppe in 1860. Or 1865. No one is certain. The National Federation of Fish Friers recognizes that both should share the Oscar. They ought to know, since an average of 300 million servings of fish and chips are served each year in Britain. That’s six servings for every human.

Fish has a rather entertaining website, its map is drawn on a napkin.

350 Harbor Drive
Sausalito, CA 9465 (latitude and longitude also given)
415) 331-FISH

Open seven days a week
11:30 am- 4:30 pm for lunch
5:30 pm- 8:30 pm for dinner

Piccadilly Fish and Chips

1345 Polk Street (at Pine)
San Francisco, CA 94109

Open seven days a week

Monday- Thursday 11 am – 11 pm
Friday 11 am – midnight
Saturday 11 am – 11 pm
Sunday 1 pm – 11 pm

Al’s Fish n’ Chips

2139 Roosevelt Avenue
Redwood City, CA 94061
650) 366-FISH

Open seven days a week

Monday – Thursday 11 am – 8 pm
Friday – 11 am – 8:30 pm
Saturday – 11 am – 8 pm
Sunday – 11 am – 7:30 pm

* Oh. A food person’s fun(ish) fact about Lent. Marie-Antoine Carême’s last name means “Lent”, derived from the Latin quadragesima. Go now, and impress your friends.

From Lemons, Lemonade

At some point in his motivational speaking career, Dale Carnegie uttered the famous, if misguided words:

“When fate hands you a lemon, make lemonade.”

The fault is not so much in the sentiment– making lemonade out of lemons is, naturally, a rather positive, productive activity. What bothers me is the underlying belief that there is something inherently unpleasant about this citrus fruit. Carnegie was not alone in his thinking. Used car salesmen have given the lemon a bad name over the years, associating them as they do with automobiles that are slick and shiny on the outside, but of dubious dependability under the hood, which is all rather pot vs. kettle when one stops long enough to think about it.

All I know is this– Carnegie’s family certainly didn’t hail from a sunny, Mediterranean clime, or he would never have said it. He might instead have related his comment to the Germans or the idea of an eight-hour work day. When fate hands you a German… you can fill in the rest.

Of course, Carnegie was telling his audience that, when fate hands you something unpleasant, make the best of it. When fate hands me that kind of lemon, I would more than likely stare at it for a moment and say something like, “I don’t think that lemon is mine,” and walk away.

When fate or, more often than not, the supermarket checker hands me an actual lemon, I am more likely to own it. When fate hands me Meyer lemons, I get happy.

I am not about to delve into the history and genetics of the Meyer lemon today. Others have done it well enough that I do not have to. I suggest you let our own Amy Sherman tell you about them. Read her blog post on Meyer lemons.

If you want a few ideas as to what you can do with Meyer lemons, read another Amy’s (Scattergood) fun list “100 things to do with a Meyer lemon” from the Los Angeles Times online to get some great ideas. Some are oddly practical, like playing fetch with them in order to freshen canine breath. If you can come up with other uses, please let me know. No one has mentioned the Meyer lemon as an elbow-softener. Perhaps there are few people who still care for supple joints as I do.

And if you really, really want to know everything you could possibly want to know about the lemon, its history, and its uses, by all means go out and buy yourself a copy of Much Depends on Dinner by Margaret Visser. It’s quite a fascinating read.

Look, I just like lemons. Perhaps it’s my Sicilian heritage and the fact that my ancestors actually earned their bread and marmellata exporting the little yellow fruits. Which leads me to wonder that, had Dale Carnegie been born, say, Dale Carneghi, he might have said, “When fate hands you a lemon, make limoncello.” But he wasn’t and he didn’t, so I am stuck with making lemonade for the purposes of today’s post.

It strikes me as a cruel twist of fate that a fruit which makes such a great summer thirst-quencher should reach its peak in the dead of winter, but that isn’t going to stop me from making it. One still needs to stave off scurvy, even in the chilly months. What better way to pretend that winter isn’t happening than to wear gingham, put some zinc oxide on your nose and pour yourself a tall glass of lemonade? It is denial perfected. After all, I believe it was Mr. Carnegie who also said, “Happiness doesn’t depend on any external conditions, it is governed by our mental attitude.” I am not going to argue with him about that. With that as my new credo, I shall chose to pretend it isn’t raining outside, my complexion isn’t pasty, and I haven’t gained 10 pounds. Instead, you’ll find me inhabiting my inner world, where it’s perpetually sunny, and I am always tan and thin. Thanks for the motivation, Dale.

Meyer Lemonade

Meyer lemons are ideal for making lemonade. Lacking confidence in their own identity (half lemon, half mandarin), they share space well with others. Three flavors that blend well (in lemonade) with the fruit are mint, cucumber, and coriander. Yes, coriander. Don’t ask me how I know. I have chosen mint today because it is pretty.

Ingredients:

1 cup freshly squeezed Meyer lemon juice– about 5 to 6 lemons, depending upon size and juiciness. You can actually squeeze them the night before– the juice won’t separate like orange juice does.

1 cup simple syrup. Mint is added to mine here. I’m not telling you how to make simple syrup.

3 to 4 cups cold, clean water.

Mint sprigs and (very) thinly sliced Meyer lemons for garnish.

Ice cubes, if you’re into them. I find they keep the garnish from floating to the top.

Preparation:

1. Take all the ingredients and dump them into a big enough pitcher. Stir and serve.

Or, if you want to be very French about it and serve it comme un vrai citron pressé…

1. Place lemon juice and syrup in the antique apothecary beakers you found for next to nothing at the marché aux puces in Dijon last autumn. Place on a tray with chilled, bottled Volvic, one pastis glass and spoon per person, and a pack of Gauloises Blondes. Let your guests prepare their own concoctions, according to personal taste.

Note: If you opt for cucumber lemonade, slice up a cucumber thinly, add to the water and refrigerate for 24 hours. For coriander? I haven’t quite figured that one out. I’ll let you know when I do.

Serves 4 to 6.

The French Laundry: Heavy on the Starch

There are some things in this world best left to the imagination; people, places or events so idealized they could never live up to the expectations built up around them — your wedding day or a ménage à trois with a pair of identical twins or, in this case, dinner at what has been referred to as the best restaurant in the world– The French Laundry.

Years ago, a friend organized a chauffeur-driven pilgrimage to the French Laundry. Being fresh out of culinary school, I could scarcely afford the dinner, so I politely declined the invitation. Besides, I had been taught that limousines were for funerals and diplomats, so riding in one was out of the question. I was anything but diplomatic in those days and, had I chosen to spend what little money I had from my $8.50 an hour kitchen job, the only funeral I would have been attending would have been my own after my parents decided to kill me.

I’d regretted not going ever since and often wondered what it would be like to dine there. So when my friend Lyle invited me to join him in place of his mostly vegetarian and largely non-drinking girlfriend, I jumped at the chance. Two days later, I went to see Thomas Keller interviewed along with Dorothy Cann Hamilton at the Commonwealth Club. I enjoyed hearing Keller discuss his philosophies regarding life, food, and a life in food. I was excited that I would soon be sitting in his dining room eating what he had to offer.

I don’t think anyone living beneath a certain sky-high tax bracket can go to The French Laundry without making it into some sort of event. It is not, by it’s own design, a place one goes to grab something to eat. When we visit, we pack our emotional baggage full of inflated expectations and drag it behind us through the little garden and into the front door. It is the one thing the hostess who greets you is unable to check.

My fellow diners and I arrived on time for our 6:30 reservation and were whisked into a little side room, dimly lit and cool like a cave with walls of river rock, where our table awaited us. A little window cut into the rock showed off the wine room. If this was, as I had sensed, a place of worship, we were seated in its chapel.

There were two couples shared our space. One pair dined with such grim seriousness that I thought one of them– or their relationship– might have only days to live. The other couple, from Houston as I gathered from their limited conversation, looked a little bewildered and on their best behaviour. I leaned into the center of our table and whispered to my dinner companions, “Why is everyone so quiet? No one seems to be having a good time!”

It was true. Except for us, of course.

Our waiter soon introduced himself, explaining and expanding upon the nine course menu. He was aware of the two bottles of Burgundy we had brought with us and suggested that we might start with a bottle of champagne, since it went so well with the first four courses. Lyle was presented with a wine list and we were given a moment to look it over. Lyle passed the list over to me and I browsed. We had agreed amongst ourselves that we weren’t interested in champagne, but some sort of white wine was definitely in order. I saw a short list of Austrian wines that interested me. When the waiter returned, asking which champagne we might prefer, I told him we were interested in drinking a still white wine instead. Feeling rather dense, I said as much and handed the list back over to Lyle. Our waiter once again suggested champagne. We once again declined.

Enter the sommelier. We assumed he was the sommelier, since he was very knowledgable about wine, but he did not introduce himself as such. I explained that I was looking at Austrian wines. Lyle mentioned his preference for crisp minerality, for something interesting at around $60. The gentleman returned almost instantly with precisely what we were looking for– an Austrian Riesling. We were very delighted with his selection.

The food began its slow, steady dance to our table. And I do mean dance. Movements are choreographed. Servers perform what is known as ballet service– dishes are served in synchronized sweeps by, in our case, two people. Plates from the left hands glide down in front of diners one and three followed by plates from the right, supplying diners two and four. It is all seemless, perfect. A simple, well flavored gougère here, a doll-sized black sesame tuille cone filled with Scottish salmon served there. Both charming. The two amuses seemed to carry with them bold-faced bullet points in what I imagine to be Thomas Keller’s mission statement: the former promised a mastery of understatement, while the latter promised the evening of theater that lay ahead of us. Conflicting messages certainly, but not incompatible.

Our food selections were noted and our deciphering of lampshades applauded by our waiter.

Wash. Do not use bleach. Iron. I wondered how many of the other diners in the restaurant had an intimate knowledge of laundering. We turned our attention briefly to the linen– not a crease or stain to be found. I noticed that my napkin was the size of an adult diaper and was, in fact, folded as such over my lap. I quietly tucked the edges around my hips and under my crotch and hoped no one noticed as I looked down to admire my handiwork.

With the meal under way, our conversation turned to food, as it invariably does with foodies. “There’s a slight bitterness to the foie gras. What is that?” . “Lyle? Okay. Did that little Tokyo turnip just explode in your mouth like it did in mine?” “Did he say Jurassic Period salt?”

And such like.

I am pleased to tell you– pleased to tell myself, at any rate– that I was too busy enjoying the company of my dining companions and the food before us to be snapping many photos of the food. I did manage one or two, like the one of the Line-Caught Atlantic Halibut shown below:

I made an attempt to capture the pretzel rolls– Lyle’s favorite thing– on film, but it looked rather unappealing in the photograph. “Did you try a pretzel roll yet? God! It tastes just like a pretzel!” We then explained to him that it was, in fact, a soft pretzel which merely lacked a knot.

As we finished off the bottle of Austrian Riesling and tucked into a beautiful Volnay given to Lyle as a birthday present, our conversation became more animated. So, too, did the main dining room. I actually heard laughter from some place other than our table. I turned around to see a room full of 55-to-65 year-olds dining and chatting. Over my right shoulder, a table of European businessmen with deep voices and, surprisingly bright-colored socks. I wondered what they were talking about and where they would go after dinner. I made no plans to join them.

Back at our table, the conversation turned to Evelyn Waugh– Brideshead Revisited and my favorite character, A-A-Antoine. He had a stutter. Lyle’s friend Jack and I offered our impersonations. I asked if he had ever seen or read The Loved One. He offered a detailed rendition Liberace’s brilliant upselling of funeral services at Whispering Glades. I was impressed. Later in the meal, I learned why Jack took such an interest in that scene– he’s a funeral director.

At this point I went up the narrow staircase– a staff member nearly hurling himself over the bannister to make way for me– to wash my hands for the second time and, for the second time, found the single occupancy room empty and spotless. It seemed as if it were merely for show– toilet tissue wrapped in silk ribbon, unused. Cute, but I wondered if people in polite society ever rid themselves of unneccesary body weight, or if they had people to do that for them. I returned to our table to find my diaper folded neatly on the table. We finished our sixth course — a Snake River Farm “Calotte de Boeuf Grillée”– with not too much comment. It was excellent. Technically perfect. Of course it was.

Yet something was not quite right. At least to me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The food was uniformly beautiful, flavorful, and perfectly executed to the detection of both my eyes and palate. The dishware and silver were often conversation pieces. The rooms were lovely– well-appointed and understated as though to counterbalance the fact that this building once housed a brothel.

And the staff? A sudden chill came over me. Or was that the Glacé de Fruits Exotiques set before me after the cheese course?

There was, below the smooth, perfect surfaces of the French Laundry, a subtle uneasiness; a tautness under its skin, like that of a woman fresh from a facelift– eager to please her wealthy lover and utterly unable to relax her facial muscles.

I scanned the members of the staff. Everyone was clean, very attractive, and well tailored. They all smiled, but not too widely, as though no one should have a better time than the guests. Eye contact was always just narrowly avoided. Or did I imagine that? If our waiter would attempt levity, he would say, “I am only joking” before any of us had even the time to react. The fear of offense was fascinating. There was a Stepford-like quality to the members of the front-of-house staff that I found troublesome.

When he spoke at the Commonwealth Club, Thomas Keller stated that “Cooking is about repetition– the perfection of the task at hand.” I would agree with him there. Mr. Keller has perfected his cooking through strict repetition. But that repetition seems to makes its way into the dining room as well, which is unfortunate. When our food was brought to the table, it was described in marvelous detail, but the delivery of information gave the impression of having been memorized, scripted, and completely uniform. No color. Words like gougère and gratinée were mispronounced.

When our bill was presented, we were disappointed but not terribly offended that we had been charged $50 for uncorking the bottle we’d brought with us. In my experience as a waiter, if a guest brings a bottle of wine yet purchases a bottle from a restaurant’s wine list, the corkage fee is waived. But I do not make policy and we were already of the mind to pay it before we even sat down, but it struck a slightly sour note at the end of our evening.

As we looked over our bill, Jack made a generous offer– that he would pay for the food if the rest of us took care of the rest. Then the waiter, who happened to be standing between Lyle and Jack, offered that he would be happy to split the check four ways, if we liked. Jack replied that that wouldn’t be necessary and that we just needed a minute to figure out the bill. Instead of leaving us alone with our bill, our waiter picked it up from the table. I cannot remember why, but I’m sure there was a logical reason for it. Lyle asked what the total was and, in what I hope was an attempt to be helpful, our waiter then read our bill– which was, I’m sure quite conservative by French Laundry standards– out loud.

“Food: $1,020… Wine: $166…”

We were pleased to know that everyone in the room knew how much we spent. Perhaps our waiter thought that a guest at one of the other tables might avail us of his or her superior math skills. We were, all of us, quietly horrified.

The check was paid. Shortbread cookies and copies of the night’s menu were distributed, two round coasters with the restaurant’s name on them which reminded me of dress shields were pocketed and we left.

On the drive home, we talked about our experience. We all enjoyed it very much. The food was wonderful, but only the little Tokyo turnips and chocolate-covered macadamia nuts were hailed as “amazing.” We were well-sated bodily. Just enough food, just enough wine. But none of us saw it as truly fantastic. Not the best meal ever.

And that is our own damned fault. Or mine, at least. There must be such tremendous pressure to operating a restaurant like The French Laundry. It’s an institution. It’s a shrine to which so many come expecting the greatest meal of their lives. With food prices of $240 ($270 if one opts for foie gras), one almost demands it. How can one restaurant satisfy all the unspoken expectations of, well, everyone who has ever dined there, or ever will?

It can’t.

Perhaps Mr. Keller is correct in his approach of uniformity and repetition. It seems to be working for him and, I’m sure, the majority of diners there. It is his consistency that has kept his machinery well-oiled and running more or less smoothly since 1994. I just don’t think it’s for me. Which I can accept as either my own virtue or my own flaw. Whatever the case, it is my own.

I am, however, extremely glad I had the opportunity to dine there. I applaud Keller’s food, his technique, and his sense of fun– at least on the plate. Now if he could just get his waitstaff to loosen up…

Getting Blood from an Orange

Are you as tired of 2008 as I am? The stock market is tanking as miserably as the housing market, winter storms have left us without power for days (and, in one case I know, without a roof), and I just might scream if I listen to any more caucus coverage. The general mood is anything but sanguine. Is there any good news?

Well, yes. California’s citrus crops have been doing rather nicely, especially when compared to last year’s disastrous freeze. I realize this isn’t the most exciting news in the world, but I feel the need keep my joys simple this year, and what could be simpler than a small, roundish piece of fruit?

Of all the known oranges in the universe, my favorite is the Citrus sinensis, or blood orange. There are three common varieties of which I am aware: the Sicilian Tarocco, the Spanish Sanguinello, and the Moro, which is grown right here. Not exactly “right here”, but rather in San Diego. And Texas and Florida, but those are two states I generally try not to think about.

Blood oranges aren’t exactly a revelation to most foodies today. In fact, some may think them overplayed and mildly pretentious (before you say anything, remember: glass houses). But, if you can reach back into your past, when you weren’t so jaded about food a moment…

The first time I encountered a blood orange, I was fascinated. Don’t tell me you weren’t. The stupid thought of, “It’s an orange, but it’s red!” popped out of my mouth. Thank God I was among friends. I think I also used the word “neat”. The flavor was, of course, citrusy, but tinged with berries. The acid wasn’t overpowering and there was a hint of bitterness behind the sweet of it. It was a fruit I could wholly identify with. I bought up several and ate them out-of-hand, I put them into salads, I squeezed them for juice, which I still do. Apparently, so should you. Read on:

Anthocyanin, the pigment, which gives the orange its distinctive interior color (and possibly gives the fruit its subtle berry-flavored notes), is a powerful antioxidant that neutralizes the effects of free-radical chemicals within our bodies. Free radicals, if you haven’t heard, are in part responsible for cancer and, even more horrifying to some people, aging. Anthocyanins also help prevent ulcers and improve one’s vision, so drink and eat up.

Blood Orange Salad

I want to thank Erik Cosselmon of Kokkari for this one. There are innumerable ways to slip blood oranges into salads, but this is my favorite method, by far. It’s great to eat as either a salad course or as dessert.

Ingredients:

3 blood oranges (Moro are used here, but use whichever you want or can find)
2 to 3 dates (I used Medjools), pit removed and cut into slivers
1/4 cup walnuts, either toasted and salted or candied. I vote candied.
Olive oil for drizzling, the best you’ve got.
Rose water for more drizzling.

Preparation:

1. With a very sharp knife, cut skin from the oranges. Slice the flesh into 1/2-inch pieces, across the grain, so that they look rather like bleeding morning glories. Arrange on your serving dish of choice.

2. Sprinkle slivered dates and walnuts over and around the orange slices.

3. Drizzle with olive oil.

4. Drizzle with rose water (orange blossom water works very well, too, if rosewater reminds you too much of your grandmother). Be very sparing with the rose water, otherwise your salad will smell rather whorish, in my opinion.

5. Serve and eat. Exhausting recipe, I know. I’ll do my best to present you with something easier next time.

Kill It and Grill It

… or The Carnivore’s Dilemma.

Originally, I had thought to do a little post on yet another odd celebrity cookbook, this one by Ted (Cat Scratch Fever) Nugent and his wife, Shemane. I thought I might be able to write an entire piece on the cover photo alone. Or Her name. Shemane.

I was immediately drawn to the cover photo with its creepy magenta-red side lighting, as though the blood from an elk Ted had just shot was seeping from the carcass, onto the hood of the truck where it was tied, and over the headlamps like some macabre gel. They may have thought the light looked pretty, so they got out of the truck and had their son take a picture. Or used a self-timer. That seems a more appropriate technique given this book’s subtext of self-sufficiency.

I was also intrigued by the fact that, though Ted may be holding a long phallus of a rifle, Shemane holds an infinitely more sinister-looking instrument of torture. Something that might be a large hunting version of a tomato knife. And a spatula. Of course, with the spatula, she looks more the kill-it-and-griddle-it-type.

Kill It & Grill It is an entertaining read, whether one agrees with Nugent’s politics or not. Just take a look at an excerpt from Chapter 16: Limbrat Etouffée:

“Kill tree-dwelling vermin, remove PJs, take to flame, chow down. Drive safely. It’s really that simple to get a good meal of squirrel. Limbrat whackin’ is truly bigfun [sic] any ol’ way ya choose it– bow and arrow, pistol, rifle, scattergun, slingshot, falconry, grenades, and my favorite, flamethrower. How can ya go wrong? Squirrels are, after all, rodents, so have fun blasting away. That there exists a season or bag-limit on the little shits is mind-boggling to say the least.”

When he’s not busy telling Democratic presidential candidates to either sit on or fellate his AR-15 rifles, Nugent spends a good deal of time hunting his own animal protein. He reportedly has not bought meat for decades. He hunts, he shoots, he eats what he kills. Outspoken arch-conservative or not, he is a man of strong opinions. He’s caused me to take a moment and think about my own meat-eating ways.

I am a carnivore. Okay, I’m an omnivore. I could never give up bacon however I might try. But I’ve often thought about how far removed I am from the proteins I ingest. Would I, as an eater of animal flesh, be able to hunt down and kill my dinner?

In some cases, yes. If the animal isn’t cuddly. I have in the past hunted, killed, and dressed lake trout. Cold blooded animals can be offed by me, naturally, in cold blood. A chicken? I’ve never seen one in the wild but, though unpleasant the task might be, I think I could do it. Maybe it’s that animals whose eyes are on the sides of their heads are less unpleasant to slaughter due to the fact that they cannot look at you with both pleading eyes at the same time.

I once had a lunch date with a man who turned out to be vegan. He was very pleased with his choice of lifestyle, as one should be. Having once dated a vegan in college, I knew that, no matter how wonderful this person might be, we could never have what I would consider a normal dating life. Vegetarianism I can happily accommodate. I eat vegetarian meals quite often. But the minute someone tells me I shouldn’t eat cheese or that consuming honey is morally wrong because it represents bee enslavement, I want to remark that I think narrow-bandwidth thinking and a joyless, hyper-sensitive lifestyle is morally wrong because it results in human boredom.

Fortunately, my lunch date was a bore, or not that cute. I can’t remember. My response to him was adolescent, at best. I ordered a pork dish and started talking about how, as Americans, we needed to start taking more responsibility for the meat products we eat and, should it become necessary, I would be willing look a cow in the eye and slaughter it on the spot.

It was perhaps the quickest lunch I’ve ever eaten outside a fast food restaurant.

And now I realize that, though my statement to the vegan was meant to provoke, it was utterly untrue. I don’t have the guts to kill any animal cute enough to name. Yet I will happily eat from its flesh if someone else has done the dirty work. I am a hypocrite, yes, but a hungry one.

Though I am not a fan of guns, Sean Hannity, the current war, or much of anything loved by Ted Nugent, I have to give a grudging amount of respect to anyone who puts his money where his mouth is. Or his mouth where his bow and arrow have been. He, by and large, feeds his family on what he himself kills. I go to the store and ask if the neatly packaged chops that were once part of whole animals had been humanely treated in their lifetime. Sometimes. Other times, I forget and am shamed. I am aware of my own hypocrisy. Nugent occasionally makes others aware of their own. The fact that Animal Rights activists (in this case, extremists) have issued death threats against Nugent’s children is a rather delicious irony.

By the time you read this post, I will be roaming the island of Santorini. Perhaps I might take the time to spear my own lavraki and throw it on a grill. Or perhaps one might catch me beating an octopus senseless on the rocks in order to tenderize its flesh in time for dinner. I doubt it. I’ll let someone with a little more animal integrity to that for me.

I will be living such an aimless lifestyle for the next two weeks.

Apart from the angry comments from vegans I am likely to receive as a result of this post, I am curious to know the thoughts of you out there who are experiencing the same, or similar, meat-eating moral dilemma.

I’ll see you in two weeks.

Valrhona: The Cultivation of Taste Seminar

This week, I was invited to a Valrhona chocolate seminar at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in San Francisco. Since I’d never been to a chocolate seminar, let alone the Ritz, and since someone was kind enough to invite me, I decided to go.

When I walked through the front door and into the lobby, I was greeted politely and pointed in the direction of the elevators, which took me down to the terrace on the second level. What I found there was a courtyard filled with tables piled with Valrhona information packets, cocoa pods and nibs, and perhaps the most sophisticated tent structure I’ve seen apart from a circus, which was what I half-seriously expected, only more tasteful. This is, after all, the Ritz-Calrton.

Inside the tent, I quickly found a seat near the front. I’ve never been one of those people comfortable sitting in the front row– I don’t want to be called upon unnecessarily– so I took a seat in the second.

As I was claiming my spot, a woman dressed in third world fabric accessorized with an equally ethnic-looking woven headband rushed in to claim her seat at the front of the nearly empty tent. “Oh! They’re playing chocolate music!” she said to no one in particular. Since I was the only other person in her general vicinity, I thought I should respond. When I asked her what she meant by “chocolate music”, she slowed her pace and spoke to me very carefully. “It’s music from chocolate producing countries.” An “of course” was, if not spoken, implied. I thought about how other music collections, compiled solely on the basis of a common national export might sell. Boron music probably wouldn’t do so well. And I didn’t want to know who would be interested in guano music.

At least I was clear on the day’s theme.

While waiting for the seminar to begin, I chatted with some people I knew and then sat down to talk to my neighbor, who I didn’t know– an amateur chocolatier from Marin. When she mentioned how excited she was about her purchase of a new chocolate tempering machine, I knew I was in alien territory. “You mean they have machines to do that?” I asked, sadly in all seriousness. It was clear that what I knew about chocolate could fill a diaper. I’ve formulated opinions about chocolate in my life, to be certain– which types and brands I prefer and why, but I’ve never given the art of making chocolate much thought. I knew, of course, that chocolate is derived from a pod that thrives in equatorial climates, but the rest was a complete blank.

Fortunately, that was about to change…

When the tent was filled and everyone had finally taken their seats, the audience was introduced to Pierre Costet, Valrhona’s chief cacao sourcer and Vanessa Lemoine, their sensorial analysis expert. With the aid of headphones and simultaneous translators of both sexes, we were kept informed– and entertained– for nearly three hours.

There is entirely too much to recount for the purposes of this blog, so I will give you what I think were the highlights…

In a short, dramatic re-creation, Costet, wearing his field cap and wielding a knife, took us through the process of sourcing cacao beans, after which he handed a prop burlap sack to Lemoine for analysis. Not exactly Comédie Française material, but I enjoyed the effort.

After explaining the process of cacao analysis, which included extras holding up their assessments to the audience, Lemoine then handed the sack back to Costet who explained that, if the cacao was found suitable by Valrhona for making chocolate, it must then be determined if the source of the beans is stable. Stable? Equatorial countries are not typically known as stable sources of trade, whether the reasons be political instability (Ivory Coast), political hostility (Venezuela), or a proneness to uninviting weather phenomena (Malaysia). If the source is determined to be stable, Valrhona then proceeds to hammer out a deal with the new grower, opting to set prices directly rather than deal with middlemen and the fluctuations of a volatile cacao exchange. According to Valrhona, this leads to more money for the growers and, hopefully, higher wages for the laborers. In Venezuela, for example, plantation owners must pay wages competitive with those offered by the government– they actually have to entice labor.

Our political correctness satisfied, we could now move on to what we all really came for, tasting chocolate…

We proceeded to examine les coulisses du Grand Chocolat. A coulisse is (not surprising given the nature of the day’s lecture) a theatrical term. It refers to either the wings of a stage or the place where backgrounds are stored. Lemoine was determined to set the stage, to have in place the proper background, before we began to actually taste chocolate.

We were instructed to hold a series of liquids under our nose to examine its odor, which is taken directly into the nasal passage. Did I smell apple? Melon? Dog biscuit? Next, we sipped each the liquid, holding it in our mouths, which helped us detect its aroma, which we learned is information taken indirectly or post nasally. Apparently, 90% of what we think of as taste is actually aroma– information received through the nose, not the tongue. It is little wonder then, I thought, that the French are so tasteful. Then I thought again. Aromatic would be the correct term.

True taste is detected by the tongue. Conventional Western wisdom long kept a short list of four true taste sensations (sweet, salty, bitter, acid) and only recently allowed a fifth umami) onto the team. According to Lemoine, there are more than 1,000. We tried a sixth distinct taste (licorice). I was disappointed we didn’t get to discuss this point further, but I think that might have been a bit overwhelming.

How To Taste Chocolate:

1. Look at it. Is it dark or milky? Is there a sheen or a matte finish?
2. Hold the chocolate to your nose and take in its odor.
3. Break a piece between your fingers. Is there a sharp snap or is there some give? A good snap is a sign of good tempering.
4. Put a piece of the chocolate into your mouth and assess its texture.
5. Allow the chocolate to melt in your mouth. Press it against your palate with your tongue. More of the aroma will now be released. Unless there is something very wrong with you, you will begin to salivate due to the chocolate’s acidity. As you wait for the tang to subside, pay special attention to the back of your tongue. Is bitterness detected? Please limit your thoughts to the chocolate, not your life. Or your neighbor.
6. Repeat as often as necessary.

This approach to tasting chocolate struck me as very similar to the way one approaches the tasting of wine. The information is processed in very much the same way and in the same order. Just as there are those among us who can pick out a Griotte- Chambertin in a blind wine tasting, there are people, like Lemoine, who could spot the Araguani in a crowd. Both, in their own spheres, are given the title Grand Cru. The Griotte-Chambertin is a true Grand Cru, with its own A.O.C. designation. Valrhona’s “Grand Cru” is more of a pretention, but one that tells the public that this is serious chocolate– chocolate identified by terroir (another allusion to wine), cacao varietal, and blending.

I must admit that a chocolate glaze poured over my brain at about the second hour. To read about the different chocolates we tasted, I am sending you over to Dorie Greenspan, who took better notes on the subject than I did. She went to the seminar in New York the day prior.

All the chocolate we tasted was excellent, naturally, but the item I was most excited to try was basically chocolate detritus– the cacao pulp. When fresh, as we tried it, the texture and flavor reminded me of a slightly underripe mango. The bean, unfermented and unroasted, was bitter and unpleasant. I wondered how anyone ever got the idea to turn this bitter little seed into something so utterly sensual and desirable as chocolate.

After the three hours of lecture and tasting, I was ready to stand up and stretch my legs. There were more Valrhona-related treats to be had, prepared by Yann Duytsche (who was plugging his book, Diversiones Dulces at the event)…

…and Valrhona USA’s Derek Poirier. A tasting of five rather playful desserts, including a cocoa nibs foam with candied asparagus, Tainori jelly with tomato and basil, and an Abinao hot chocolate with Cramique brioche and aubergine jam (my hands down favorite)…

The confections were playful, to say the least. I was surprised at how well items like tomato and eggplant lent themselves to sweet dishes, but it all made sense to me upon the realization that they are classified as fruits. The green asparagus did nothing for me, but I enjoyed its culinary pretension.

Stephane Lacroix, sommelier at the Ritz-Carlton, paired a Muscat de Beaumes de Venise with the desserts. I’m afraid I am unable to remember the other wine he chose to pair with them because I was too busy imagining asking for my own private pairing with him. Apologies. Saturated with information, having had my fill of sweets, and with unsavory thoughts now filling my head, I thought it best to leave.

All in all, it was a very fun afternoon. I learned more about chocolate– how it is sourced and processed, and how to approach tasting it– than I ever thought I would. Critically or not, I’ll let each piece melt on my tongue, let myself salivate for a while, and think of Vanessa Lemoine, and all the growers, roasters, sourcers, sensory analysists, and chocolatiers huddled together in every bite. Maybe not every time, that would be exhausting. But sometimes. I promise.

To find out more about Valrhona and their line of chocolates, please visit their website:

Valrhona.com

Avedano’s Meats: Local People, Local Food

I’ve been to Avedano’s Meats on Cortland several times since its grand opening on July 15, mostly just to poke around, but I could never remember the name. My friends who live in Bernal Heights would say things like, “Have you checked out that new place around the corner?” and, “What’s that place called again?” I’m terrible with names (and evidently in this case, so are my friends), which is a great liability. I have to play word association games to remember anything these days. I knew the place was a meat market, in the sense of selling meat, of course, but I was also aware that they sold much more than that. Did they sell skincare products? Doubtful, unless one considers animal fat an excellent facial hydrating agent. Aveda? No. Now you might understand why I am exhausted all the time.

At least now I won’t forget the name.

Avedano’s is the dreamchild of three women– Tia Harrison, Melanie Eisemann, and Angela Wilson. Harrison, if you didn’t know, is also the chef/owner of Sociale (which happens to be a subject of this week’s Check, Please! here on KQED). And, if she’s not busy enough running a restaurant and a quality meat store, her new baby occupies the rest of her time. That is what I would call energetic. I am shamed by my own lethargy.

The location, 235 Cortland Avenue (at Bocana), has been a butcher shop ever since it opened as Cicero’s Meats in 1901. More recently known as Bleuss Meats, its faded streamline moderne sign leant a charming sense of decay to the Bernal neighborhood for years, but I never saw the door open for business. When the place was (minimally) reinvented as a butcher/ sashimi store, I was filled with hope– one just doesn’t find many good butchers operating independently of a supermarket these days. Sadly, the former owners were using this retail-only space to run a wholesale business on the sly, which isn’t exactly legal. So the mini-blinds were pulled down and the door closed again.

The name Avedano derives from Harrison’s grandparents, whose family emigrated from Asti to the Bay Area in 1906 to what I would consider a dramatic welcome. One hundred and one years later, there’s a fresh coat of paint on the old sign with their name on it and the door is once again open. This time, however, I am more than cautiously optimistic.

You won’t find the refrigerated meat case brimming with animal proteins yet, but what is there is excellent: Grass-fed beef from Estancia and Strawberry Mountain, Mary’s Chickens, and wild, local seafood like Monterey sardines. The trio at Avedano’s is currently working to source more local, sustainable meat and fish for their store, so look for more variety in the near future. Until then, enjoy what they’ve got. Just get there early and take a number.

Someone stole the number 1 ticket, which should not be taken as a symbolic gesture since I have yet to experience being treated like number 2 here.

In addition to quality meats, Avedano’s sells a variety of other items…

Such as rarely seen (in San Francisco) pastas like Croxetti from Liguria…

…stamped with a family coat of arms on one side and a cross (hence the name) or a boat or some such symbol on the other. They look like Holy Communion wafers.

Sea salt: $5.00 a jar…

Cupcakes, cookies, and other sweets from Tia’s other, other business, Lucky Cooky Company…

For those of you without time to cook for yourselves, Avedano’s has fresh soups and sandwiches available, which are perfect for lunchtime. If you want dinner, prepared meals like their popular fried chicken and potato salad…

… or gypsy peppers stuffed with Oaxaca cheese are available after 3 pm. If you are of an age group not known for having teeth, or if you simply have a preference for soft foods, like my friend Patrick, they make their own baby food, too. Just inquire.

Sundays are a special treat– fresh tacos. My friend Mark and I sat on the bench outside the store last week inhaling hot, Berkshire pork wrapped in corn tortillas, dripping with lime juice and pickled cabbage for $2.50 a pop. I gave them a rather messy thumbs up.

If you hadn’t guessed by now, I love Avedano’s. For me, it’s one thing for a place to have good, fresh food. Pack a place with nice folks and quirky (and unselfconscious) detail and I am an instant fan…

Avedano’s has got this Holy Trinity of charm in spades. In fact, the last time I was there, I was so wrapped up in the details (like the fact that these women had the store’s walls painted with colors found in vintage advertising leaflets) that I barely took notice of the meat. I just wish I’d taken a clear photo of the magnet that stated, “It’s okay to put fish in your hair” on their magnet board (the stick figure in the green triangle dress at the top center of the photo below).

And this photo of the floor is now the desktop image on my computer…

There’s a lot going on at Avedano’s, but there’s more in store in the near future. Look for more prepared foods, more locally sourced organic products, and maybe even a small cafe or, say, sausage-making classes in the small storefront next door. We’ll just have to wait and see.

Avedano’s
235 Cortland Avenue (at Bocana).
1-415-285-MEAT
Open Tuesday through Sunday, 11 am to 8 pm
http://www.avedanos.com

Luxury Bong Water Now Available

Several months ago, our local bottled water purveyor brought two executives from Pellegrino into our restaurant for dinner. As they sat at the bar digesting their meals with alcohol and animated chatter, I stopped by to say hello.

“Have you seen our new product?” the rep asked as she pulled a plastic bottle of water from her bag. “We’re very excited about it.”

I held the bottle, noted to myself how good it felt in my hand, and gave a silent nod to a condom advertisement tag line I had read in an adult magazine I should not have been looking at as a child. “Ribbed, for her pleasure.” What I enjoyed more than the grippy, pleasure-giving texture of the bottle was its name, 420.

420? Were they serious? I pictured the Pellegrino executives as heavy pot smokers; lighting up, ties loosened, and calling each other “dude” in Italian, or whatever the equivalent would be. I said nothing, but failed in my attempt to stifle a mild fit of inappropriate laughter.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, puzzled. I wiped the smirk from my face and, as seriously as I could, asked one of the pezzi grossi, “Tell me, what made you decide to name this water ‘420′?”

“I like the way the numbers look. The ‘4′ looks like an ‘h’, as in ‘h20′,” he responded, quite proud of his Northern Italian sense of design. Oh dear. Did I have the heart to tell him?

Of course I did.

“Do you know what ‘420′ means in American slang?” He did not, so I felt it was my duty to tell him.

For those of you not in the know or pretending not to be, “420″ is shorthand for marijuana. The term is believed to have originated in the early 1970’s at San Rafael High School, where a group of teenagers would meet after school at 4:20 p.m. around a statue of Louis Pasteur to smoke marijuana. Given their extra-curricular activities, I very much doubt they were mindful enough of Pasteur’s Germ Theory to wash their hands prior to their illegal activity.

How this tradition became widely accepted is unknown to me apart from the fact that, when stoned, people seem to think just about anything is a good idea. Whatever the case, the tradition spread and today April 20th is a day of much celebration and binge-snacking throughout the nation, though somewhat on the sly.

I explained all of this to the surprised and unsmiling Pellegrino people. For extra measure, I dug myself a slightly deeper hole by telling them that their product might be perceived as luxury bong water, but that this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, since they would have a built-in sub-culture market.

Then, after explaining to them what a bong was, I thanked them for the bottle and went back to waiting on my tables.

Had I just just come across the liquid equivalent of the Chevy Nova? There are far worse examples, certainly.

Recently, while cleaning my desk (where the bottle has been used as a paperweight/ conversation piece), I noticed a website address printed on the back of the water bottle, www.fineh2o.com…

“Luxury by the liter.” For some reason, I had hoped they might have translated that to “by the ounce”, if only for their American market.

Clicking for more information about 420, I was informed that this water comes from the Southern Alps of New Zealand and was deposited when my “great, great grandmother was the same age as [me]. Which is a fabulous story to tell someone [I'm] trying to pick up in a bar.”

I somehow doubt any of my great, great grandmothers were concerning themselves with luxury water. Unless one considers irrigating crops a luxury. They were too busy occupying themselves with things like crossing over from Spain to marry into Sicilian crime families and not assimilating well into white culture, preferring to sleep on bearskin rugs with trappers in Montana who were not their husbands.

And if I were to pick up anyone in a bar, I most likely wouldn’t be talking about water, let alone drinking it. But that’s just me.

Another fascinating brand of water from Fine H2O is Heartsease, from Wales, where the Heartsease Pansy grows. Since “heartsease” is two letters away from heart disease, I would hesitate to drink it, no matter how cute the pansies are. I think I’m just a little surprised that these two unfortunately named products come from essentially Anglophone countries.

I admit that I am no water snob. Apart from an extreme loathing of Chicago tap water, which tastes of exhausted Zebra Mussels, I am happy to drink from the local tap, especially ours in San Francisco. I do, of course, realize that there are differences in the flavors and textures of water from various sources– rainwater vs. spring water, etc.– I’m simply too occupied with other things to pay these differences much mind. I left such things to my brother who, on one occasion, spent an entire day at Vichy running around the various fountains excitedly sampling every type of h2o he could find, while the invalids who flocked there to take the waters for their health sat around with graduated beakers waiting to take sips in measured amounts at appointed intervals. He even brought home water from Lourdes in a plastic Virgin Mary-shaped bottle to be enjoyed later. Given current airline restrictions pertaining to liquids, I wonder if the good people at that holy shrine have adapted to the times with a 3 oz. version of Our Lady. Perhaps the local priests might go so far as to bless the clear Ziploc bags in which she must now travel. That would be a nice touch.

I have not seen the Pellegrino representative in our restaurant since that evening. I would like to assume that she was allowed to keep her job, since she wasn’t the one responsible for naming the water. Of course, the Pellegrino people evidently don’t care about the alternative meaning behind their water’s branding. Not enough to change it, anyway. I’m rather glad. I was so disappointed when Coors abandoned their Spanish translated slogan of “Turn It Loose” once it was learned that the phrase was read by their Mexican market as “Suffer From Diarrhea”. Montezuma, it seems, was finally taking his revenge.

To purchase a case of 420 for your next social event, call 1-888-24-WATER or email them at info@fineh2o.com. Just please don’t tell them I sent you.

Brini Maxwell: Drag Queen of Domesticity

I wish I’d thought of that little tag line, but I didn’t.

Sometimes, I think I spend far too much time sitting in front of my computer. Instead of doing something beneficial to myself, like exercising or cleaning my refrigerator, I troll sites like neatorama and thesuperficial.com. I’ve wasted hours online staring at folks making shadow puppets, shuddering over videos of people with unspeakable deformities, and chiding myself for trying to understand someone as crazy as that former Mouseketeer, Brittany Spears. You never saw Annette getting into that kind of trouble. No way.

Fortunately, there is an occasional payoff to my time investment. Enter Brini Maxwell.

I have no idea how she got onto my computer screen, but I am very glad she did. Full of chat, recipes and household tips, Maxwell calls upon the spirits of domestic icons past like Donna Reed and Florence Henderson yet manages to steer clear of mere caricature. As graceful as Dina Merrill (whose delicious strawberry pancakes seem like a slap in the face to her Post cereal heiress mother) and more helpful than Josephine the Plumber, I think she defies comparison, which might suit Maxwell just fine, especially when the occasional attempt has been made to label her the “new” Martha Stewart. As she told The Advocate in 2004:

“I don’t consider myself the next Martha Stewart, I consider myself the next Sue Ann Nivens! I just think it’s like comparing apples and oranges. We talk to different types of people–my audience tends to be very urban, and I think that Martha’s audience is more suburban.”

I don’t see how anyone with such an impressive collection of vintage cookware (not to mention her inexhaustible wardrobe) could be accused of being a “new” anything. And anyone who uses Sue Ann Nivens as a role model is aces in my book.

Here’s a teaser for the episode Meatloaf a la Janet Leigh…

Swedish meatballs, deviled eggs and bridge sandwiches? You’ll find out how to make them along with advice on how to maximize your urban living (and entertaining) potential– on a budget. It’s a “how to” show delivered by a “can do” gal– fortunately one with more than a teaspoon of wit and a hell of a lot of style. I can’t wait to try out her recipe for Crown Roast of Cheese.

Brini Maxwell (created by actor Ben Sander, by the way) has been wildly popular for years in New York– I’ve never claimed cutting edge. I just feel that, given the appalling social skills I’ve witnessed among certain communities in this city, San Francisco needs a good dose of her– like, immediately. Think of this as a public service announcement.

I just subscribed to her NPR video podcast, so I won’t miss a thing. I suggest some of you do, too. And I mean now. You know who you are.

Now why didn’t you think of that?

The Mother of All Cooking Shows

This week marks both the birthday and deathday, if there is such a word, of Julia Child. The fact that no one in my culinary circle has mentioned either event upsets me. Where are the parades? Is anyone laying a wreath of Bay Laurel on her grave?

Some people old enough to do so talk of where they were when they heard of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. I am not that old, so I had to come up with my own where-was-I memories. Karen Carpenter? I was on my way to the newly opened EPCOT Center, the day marred by the endless loop of Superstar running through my brain. Jacqueline Kennedy? Don’t get me started.

The most vivid death for me was Julia Child’s. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing. I was sitting in a traffic jam owing to a fallen tree, crammed into a rental car with five friends near Jemez, New Mexico.

It was a Friday in mid-August, 2004. We were returning from a hike in the mountains and a soak in the local hot springs where, the moment we shucked our clothes and hopped in the steaming water, a hailstorm hit us. And I do mean hit us. It was as though God had opened his comedy closet filled with ping pong balls right onto our heads. Hailstones the size of mothballs screamed down from 10,000 feet, striking us directly or ricocheting off rocks to pelt us in the face. The only safe place was a crag already occupied by a tiny, freakish man– a naked troll with golden dental work– who sat there safe and grinning at his good luck and our misfortune. The couple soaking below us held an oversized umbrella over their heads. Everyone seemed prepared except us. When the attack subsided, we dressed and slumped back to the car, some of us bloodied, all of us bruised.

We were singing stupid songs and fogging up the windows, going nowhere very slowly and laughing about the terrible afternoon we’d just experienced. I had written the word “buffalo” with my index finger on the windshield which, for some reason, was funny only to myself. As I considered explaining to my fellow travelers exactly why it was funny, a radio newscaster announced the death of Julia Child, two days shy of her 92nd birthday.

My first thought was a sad one– Now I’ll never get to meet Julia Child– egocentric, I know. I thought she’d had a good run of it, at least.

My attentioned turned to math, briefly. Two days shy of her 92nd birthday? Since, the day was Friday, August 13th– which would explain the afternoon we were having– that put her birthday at August 15th, my brother’s birthday.

My brother and I had had a competition going about who’s birthday was more significant, his or mine. I touted the fact that I shared my birthday with not only Sally Struthers, but our maternal grandfather and, what I thought was my trump card, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis. I liked to throw in the fact that World War One officially started on that date for good measure. He countered with Rose-Marie and the fact that his day was a holy day of obligation in the Catholic church- the Feast of the Assumption (which, as my friend Bill loves to point out, is called Maria Himmelfahrt in German). Since nuns came to pin medals on his pillow the day he was born, he always claimed victory. He never mentioned the fact that he shared the day with Julia Child. I wonder if he ever new. I’d give him the crown for that coincidence alone.

We weren’t a Julia Child-loving family. No one to my knowledge watched The French Chef. I’d watch re-runs of the Galloping Gourmet, but only out of the corner of my eye because I was too busy building mazes for my hamster out of Lincoln Logs. To me, Julia Child was just some tall lady with a funny voice who cooked and everyone from Dan Ackroyd to John Candy made fun of. I’d always thought of her as some grande dame, her nose as far above the jokes and pokes as her 6′ 2″ body would hold it.

I’d bought The Way To Cook when I was in college, as did many of my friends, because I was serious about cooking. It was and is a serious cookbook– step by step and about as how-to as they get. But I only sought pointers, I knew nothing of finesse and had no sense of humor about cooking– I was too intimidated by it. I certainly didn’t think I’d find either in the work of Julia Child. Of course, I’d never seen her television program.

It wasn’t until several years later when I fell into a job working for Jacques Pepin that I heard she had a sense of humor. Pepin, fresh from taping a television show with Child, told us stories of how, when wine-maker sponsers visited the set of their show, she insisted on serving beer. Other stories followed that fairly shattered the previous image I’d formed of her. She wasn’t the droning, Yankee bore obsessed with detail I’d made her out to be from her book and my own imagination. It’s hard to imagine that I never remembered seeing her on television before, but it’s true. The humor and charm that Pepin described surprised me, but it was her puckishness that left me wanting more of her. However unbearable the rest of my experience on Pepin’s show, I came away with that wonderful knowledge.

It wasn’t until last year that I was finally able to see episodes of The French Chef. My friend John recieved a DVD boxed set of the series’ best episodes for his birthday. An ace home cook and successful cookbook author in his own right, he kindly invited me over to his place for dinner and a viewing. We watched her on his kitchen television as we drank martinis and cooked or, rather, he cooked, I drank martinis. Most memorable were the episodes detailing how to roast a chicken and how to make a tarte tatin. Or how not to, I’d say.

Take a moment and watch her talk about chickens (Sorry, I cannot embed this video, so follow the link. I’ll wait. And now for those of you too lazy to follow a link outisde this page…

It was then that I felt I finally got her. Thank you, John.

Having participated in the production of a number of cooking programs before the onset of their cable television-induced proliferation and, therefore, banality, Child was a trend-setter. I think we can all agree upon that. What impressed me most about her program was its low- budget, public television feel. Child preformed each show– from start to finish– in one take. Along with her many successful dishes prepared on air were many flops, but all were taken in stride and with great sense of humor. Whether blaming her choice of apple for the failure of her tarte tatin or simply explaining, by way of each failure, what went wrong and why, she turned her gaffes into, if not always triumphs, at least into moments of sheer enjoyment. The knowledge that even Julia Child was prone to error on occasion gave courage to her audience, removing much of the fear involved in the making of, say, a Gateau Saint-Honore.

At a time when we, as Americans, generally deferred to the French in all matters gustatory , ignorant of or perhaps in part ashamed of our own culinary heritage, Child not only translated the French way of cooking into a language we could understand and into ingredients we could get our hands on, she served as an entertaining tour guide of French Culture along the way. And she managed all this without dumbing things down– least of all, herself.

In an age where cooking shows are all but shoved down our throats, where any annoying personality is set free to run amok inside our televisions, it can be said that no one can best the original or imitate the inimitable. For better or worse, the Food Network owes its very existence to her. Have they ever said thank you? I wouldn’t know, since I’m not paying attention– I don’t have cable and can’t really stomach cooking shows anymore, with a few exceptions. Nothing would say “we care” like a TV marathon devoted to her original, groundbreaking program. Perhaps WGBH in Boston has already taken the idea and run with it. All I know is someone should.

Granted, Julia Child was practically beatified by the likes of the James Beard Foundation, COPIA and even the Smithsonian Institute while she was alive, but I’m voting for full canonization now that she’s gone. I’d like a new holy day of obligation to supplant the one that no one celebrates anymore. Except Bavarians and my brother, were he still alive. Let’s build a cathedral, a Notre Dame de la Cuisine, say, in her honor– a place of worship where one can go to pray for, if not culinary inspiriation or courage, at least deliverance from evil. Like the fact that Emeril Lagasse has his own band or the mere presence of that squawking Anti-Christ, Rachel Ray.