My life and lunch in alliterations

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Coming Clean

I'm licking my plate and coming clean. Dinner's done and I'm in a food slump, a recipe recession, truant from the kitchen. Meals just don't mean as much to me as they did a few short weeks ago. I have so many notes waiting to be turned into posts: a Washington meritage wine tasting, a bottle of Cayuse and dinner with friends, food and cocktail notes on Spur, pizza and wine reviews of Delancey, the list goes on. I look at them and I think "Who cares? Not me. Not right now." Each experience seems absurdly long ago, almost as if lived by another person, as I eat a 4-minute meal of seared sashimi. 

Admittedly, It's quite good. I whisk warm sesame oil into a concoction of soy sauce, dijon mustard, sherry vinegar and brown sugar. I pour it over golden-on-the-outside-deep-pink-on-the-inside sushi-grade tuna, letting the sweet tangy sauce pool in my slightly curved plates. It keeps hunger at bay but something remains empty. Maybe the problem is that I don't fill up like I used to. 

Instead of laboring in the kitchen and then lingering over the table, I take off my workday and my to-do list and my worries about tomorrow and I take off my clothes and dance through the apartment. When tired and calm and ready, I bundle back up and sit down to write, feverishly filling pages in my journal and actually (YES!) returning to my broken-winged-bird of a novel. I'm feeding Alis and Eric, my beloved characters whose lives become intertwined as the world prepares for first contact with an alien race. It's a young adult sci-fi! And it feels more satisfying than a night spent making mushroom and truffle risotto or beef Bourguignon.  

As much as I love cooking, it doesn't seem a priority when the maitre d' checks the nightly ledger to find a single reservation. Party of one. The server reviews the night's specials and "Oh, yes," my one patron gushes. "The beans sound fabulous. What beer would you recommend? Oh, the Guinness that's been in the fridge since St. Patrick's Day? That's a lovely selection," my dear patron says, and I sit down beside her, simultaneously relishing the speedy satisfaction and chiding the consumption of easy processed foods, bought cheaply for lack of love and integrity. The criticisms, though, like the meal itself, are quickly eaten and cleaned, taken out with the trash.

Many weeknights it would take me the full 2 hours between arriving home and waiting for Bugs' arrival to prepare our dinner. Usually, though, I would cut down on that by spending at least a half day every weekend on meal planning, bookmarking recipes, shopping for ingredients I could double up, and sometimes (if I was really good or if entertaining was involved) doing prep work in advance. Nonetheless, food has been a commitment, a serious chunk of the pie chart.  

Now I sit at my computer or, better yet, dance. Those seem to be two things I can only do wholeheartedly when no one is watching. I go to bed early and wake up early, at Benjamin Franklin's suggestion, but I don't feel any wiser. At least I'm well rested and ready for work. Ready to approach the day as it approaches me, to sidle my toes up to it, braced in their new shoes, and either spit in it's face or laugh as the wind blows the spit right back into mine. 

Maybe I'm just hungry for a meal I can't yet cook or order at a restaurant. Yes, I think a grand meal awaits me, and in the meantime I'll keep eating and dancing and writing and waiting to be made full. 

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Riesling Recess

I could play a montage in my head of last week. In fact, I have been. I've been letting the cool, occasionally rainy days parade back and forth in my head, then forward and back like a slideshow gone awry. Tuesday, one of the tamer nights, included a Riesling tasting at another couple's home. Bugs also wrote about the tasting at bottlevariation.blogspot.com, so visit his blog for another, perhaps more serious and studious viewpoint, but please note that he stole some of his best lines from my tasting notes. Harrumph. Ahem. Here we go. 

We were served poached salmon atop a salad of greens, strawberries, goat cheese, pecans and a delicate roasted garlic vinaigrette. To start, because that's what an evening is, the commencement of the night, we sipped on Chinook's 2008 Cabernet Franc Rose. The peppery, strawberry-driven nose complemented the salad, but the palate, with its tart zing and berry sweetness, wasn't quite subtle enough for the subdued salmon. We waited for others to show up to pour the Riesling, the bottles all brown bagged and numbered, waiting in a quiet queue to be sampled and spat. 

The first, Australian Margaret River's 2006 Leeuwin Estate, greeted our glasses with a pale hay color, but the overwhelming smell of petrol made us shrink our noses. The attack was absurdly acidic, like warheads, but as the surprise wore off I picked up on green apples, sour peaches, a slight yeastiness and even a juiciness on the mid-palate. Overall, though, the $18 wine was too austere. I rated it a 6 and it received an average score of 5.2.

Next, Donnhoff's 2007 Riesling looked like diluted pineapple juice or an old metal shined up. It was sweet like honey and I found myself craving a bite of spicy Thai or Indian food to contradict and somehow satisfy the sweetness on my lips. I could drink a whole bottle of this stuff, but thankfully I limited myself to a glass. The tropical fruit, coconut and melon flavors were fun, but the fruit was subtle. Sweetness dominates this lick-your-lips wine. At $24 and 10% alcohol content, this wine was a worthy pleasure. I rated it a 7.5 and it received an average score of 6.6.

Substance's 2007 was a decent offering from Washington State, though it didn't induce the same level of mass-merriment as Germany's gift to the table. I picked up some fun citrus on the nose, but overall the wine was less expressive. Translucent in appearance, it tasted of tart kiwi, white grape juice, and had an orange and pineapple finish. Though beautifully balanced between sweet and acidic, it tasted cheap, cheaper than $18. I rated it a 6.5 and the group gave an average score of 5.5.

Mr Rigg's 2006 Watervale Riesling, another Australian number, smelled of petroleum and Haribo's raspberry candies. You know those ones with small wax and sugar dots stuck to the outside of a gummy berry? Yes, those! It tasted surprisingly of pineapple juice with vanilla vodka. I would know. We detected granny smith apple and sweet grass, but it was the hints of saline and oyster shell, as well as the firm acidity, that saved it from being cloying. I rated it a 7, the group a 5.5, and I think this is a good buy at only $12.

Domaine Marcel Deiss' 2007  Riesling from Alsace was floral and pretty, but somehow got stuck with the dreaded term "palatable." It smelled like a kitchen with bread rising on the counter and a pot of geraniums on the sill. Tart, with a slightly puckering attack, the pale wine revealed bright highnotes of apricot and pineapple. I rated the $25 wine a 6.5 and it received an average score of 5.8.

Lastly,  Maximin Grunhauser Abtsberg 2007 Spatlese Riesling from Mosel stole the show. Divvied out into our glasses, the syrupy wine shone a darker yellow than those previous, an opaque light gold, like sun reflecting on water. After the harshness of the Australian wines, we welcomed the mild petroleum nose (expect Bugs, who noted a disappointing small of sulphur). It only made the tropical fruit flavors, risidual sugar and fruit acidity more complex. Indeed, it had the best balance of all the wines, and a price point of $35 to prove it. The low 8.5% alcohol content surprised me, but I suppose that's how great wines are made. I licked my teeth, trying to savor it. 

Clearly, I need more Donnhoff and Mosel in my life, more sweet yellow sun colors, more acidic tropical fruit tastiness. I'd like to devour great quantities of these wines from large opulent goblets, but of course that would be terribly indulgent, too terrible to do unless I shared it with you. So, next time, perhaps? 

Next time, next time we all murmured as we embraced and beelined for the door, Bugs bellyaching and me trying to hurry him home. We took a taxi back to Capitol Hill and fell into our bed of routine, each of us careful to set alarms and be asleep by 11, careful to wake up on the right side of the bed and tip toe through another dream-like day. Careful to again eat and drink ourselves into a slumber of domesticity. I look back on Tuesday and wonder if I'll ever sleep in the same bed again. 

Monday, August 10, 2009

CA Cemetery

I'm waiting for my big chance to man the emergency exit, but as many times as I've read the pamphlets and eyed the overhead roof where the oxygen mask pops down, I'm glad it won't be today. In my head I picture myself with a whistle, commanding women to cast off their heels (who wears heels to the airport anyway?) and reprimanding anyone trying to salvage overhead luggage. My inflatable vest's blinking light beams hope for the needy and underaged flyers, though our feet are secured on dry land, probably somewhere in Oregon's Willamette Valley. I'm sure the dream is better than reality. I'm sure my own oncoming emergencies aren't nearly as planned-for or well-executed. 

The plane touches down and I gear up, ready to fight my way through LAX to meet the Queen B curbside. Fighting, it turns out, isn't required. So I wait my place in line politely, containing myself until I'm safe inside the Queen B's hive of a car. Hugs, then driving, and finally, when reality sinks in and we can't contain our excitement, screaming and an impromptu stop at a Cuban restaurant for mojitos. Back at her place, B and I quickly fall into our old routine: horror movies, frozen yogurt, reading side by side with noses buried in books, talking excitedly over drinks, and more horror movies. 

Letting the hours drip slowly into languid days, we bask on the beach, getting sand between the pages of our paperback books. The late afternoon wind chills our arms and whips our hair, so we keep our bathing suits on and head back to her apartment for a soak in the jacuzzi. This is vacation. After 5 days, we drive south to Orange County.

Entering Irvine, I lose myself in the wasteland. I know these roads and stout 1-story businesses are some one's neighborhood spots, some one's salary, but it's someone else, and I can't see any beauty in this washed out, hazy concrete town. This is the real return, and always bittersweet. Years ago I used to fly in to John Wayne airport with my backpack, looking for my dad in the crowd, back when he was allowed past security. Mildly depressed, missing Seattle, but relieved to be away from school, I approached these trips tentatively. Yet here I am again, backpack in tow. 

"It's someone else's cemetery now," I think, driving down Beach Blvd. The said cemetery sits across the street from a Wienerschnitzel and a Walmart, and I remember wandering through its white stones and manicured grass when I was 16. I would actually prefer walking through it to driving past it, but the Queen B and I zoom toward PCH on a hunt for In-N-Out. Animal-style really is what a hamburger's all about, but that's not my cemetery either. 



In Seattle I can at least limit myself to eating Dicks only a few times a year, but I doubt I would have the same willpower if I lived walking distance from an In-N-Out. Wait, what am I talking about? Nothing in Southern California appears to be walking distance from anything else. Except the cemetery, from which the dead can cross the street to purchase 99¢ corn dogs and rolls of toilet paper. 

Saying good-bye to B is hard. 

I spend the next 3 nights on my brother's couch, the faux suede surprisingly comfortable. The birthday card I sent him hangs on his refrigerator, the door's single decoration held in place by its single magnet. I read my inscription several times before opening the fridge to look for salvageable food. Joy of Cooking sits open on his kitchen counter. He brags about owning an older edition, one with descriptions and drawings on how to skin and cook a squirrel. Don't ask me what a lawyer needs with a recipe for squirrel. His car is broken and we walk to the grocery store, over overpasses, under underpasses. I admire that he's the only person in Orange County who walks. But I'm still confused. 

"Why do you still live here?" 

"I doubt I'd find another place that has all the elements I'm looking for." It sounds too thought out, like something our father would say. 

"What elements?" I wonder, noting the lack of earth, wind, fire or water on the freeway. 

I don't get a response. 

I'm lost in Super Irvine, the over crowded but amazingly stocked Persian grocery store. Todd waits at the meat counter, a number in his hand and his eye on today's low low price of beef tongue. The lamb shanks and shoulders look good, I say. I have a great lamb recipe, I say. It may take four hours, but we can wait, eat late, pass the time. Todd nods, doesn't hear, orders the beef tongue. I've had beef tongue twice, both times at Quinn's, and had since sworn it off. The dry, frail, falling-apart meat required heaps of mustard, and I relished my side of cornichon pickles more than the main dish itself. 

Back home we unburden our backpacks of their low-cost bounty. Todd boils the tongue with halved lemons and onions, allowing the meat to tenderize and soak up some flavor and acidity. After an hour and a half he removes the skin (remind me to buy that boy a good paring knife) and chops it into manageable chunks.



Meanwhile, I caramelize two onions in a large skillet and we set up a board for a game of Stratego. Todd has a tendency to cry out "You've sunk my battleship!" whenever I successfully kill one of his army. Don't be fooled, but the box boldly states that Stratego is not a war game. The bombs, marshals, lieutenants and spies suggest otherwise. 

The onions salted and sweated, I remove the cover and up the heat, browning them with a little sugar. We add the beef, browning the tender meat before adding bell pepper and squash. In retrospect, I would have cooked the bell pepper with the onions, caramelizing them from the beginning. We worried that there wouldn't have been enough room in the pan to properly brown the meat, but we should have just removed the veggies when sweet and slightly burnt and then incorporated them again at the end. Ah well, the roughly chopped tomatoes hit the pan last and we use their acidic juices to scrape up the frond on the bottom of the pan. We scoop the hash into Todd's familiar, glazed ceramic bowls and eat while blowing up each other's scouts, detonating each other's bombs and capturing each other's flags. Actually, Todd captures my flag. Five times. 



The beef tongue exceeds all my expectations. The meat is tender and tastes of lemony-oniony brightness, the vegetables are soft and sweet, but the blackened bits, my favorite part, crackle with flavor. We settle into the couch, the generous guest bed, and watch TV with our feet on the coffee table, chatting through commercials and sometimes during shows. Our distant and recent pasts hang in the empty space between us, ominous, waiting to be spoken about in fits and starts. We begin in small, carefully spaced intervals. This is why I'm here, in my hometown. Otherwise the distance between our voices, far-reaching tentacles they may be, is never fully traveled. 

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

The Harvest Vine

I know it's been around for a while, but people have been begging me to go to the Harvest Vine recently. Not with them. They go without me and then rave about it, begging me to follow in their stomach's footsteps. I admit it's a romantic destination and there are few in my life who would romance me. Few meaning one. So on Friday night, specifically chosen as "special date night" since I was to flee the following morning for a week-long vacation to California, Bugs and I walked out of the apartment holding hands and wearing dress shirts to catch a cab to our 8:30 reservation. 

"I'm so glad putting a nice shirt on over jeans means dressing up in Seattle," Bugs said as the cab pulled up. 

"I'm so glad we live in a neighborhood where we can walk to the corner and catch a cab in a minute."

As cool a couple we may be, I stumbled a bit in my heels when exiting the taxi, and I swear the (older, richer, more fashionable) patrons sitting on the porch watched my stumble and then cast their eyes to the floor when we entered. Inside Harvest Vine, however, exists a different world of comfort. 

Yes, forget about interrogating eyes and heeled hipsters with your fashionable food (such is the world when one leaves Captitol Hill!). Our server whisked us down a stone stairway, through a labyrinth of small rooms that made the good-sized restaurant feel hidden and intimate. Sitting just an iron-worked bar away from the booze-filled one (why do I always envy the bar patrons at nice restaurants, who I envision as both spendy and spontaneous?), Bugs claimed the wine list first while I ogled the food menu, revisiting friends' and family's recommendations in my head. At times I do wish someone would bring two wine menus for our table (and yes, sometimes I do get so impatient I ask for my own). Bugs has to pore through it, cover to cover, like his Neal Stephenson novels. He commented on the abundance of Lopez Heridia wines, a tasty Rioja producer, and of sherry. Most of the wines were a double mark-up, pretty standard, though some topped out at triple retail. 

Our friendly and handsomely bearded server brought us a palate cleanser of apple and fennel sorbet with fennel and parsley oil. Green and sweet like good wheatgrass, the sorbet was somehow creamy and crave-worthy as well. I arouse from my last green spoonful, wondering if food might be the fast lane to heaven. 

I assented to Bugs' wish to order the 2005 Muga Reserva Rioja, though he grumbled a bit that the 2004 was unavailable. A delicious decision at $55, and not a bad markup from $25 retail, we loved analyzing it while waiting for food to arrive and then observing the changes with time and food pairings. 

"Who will taste?" The wonderfully bearded and helpful man asked innocently. Bugs simply frowned his mustache a bit, fully prepared for the seriousness of the ordeal, and raised a pointed finger like a student affirming his presence in class. 

"Yes, him," I said, deferring to the expert at the table, though I do enjoy the first taste when I select the wine, or better yet, when a taste is offered to both of us like at our neighborhood favorite Table 219. 

From his askance glance as the waiter uncorked the bottle to his screwed up face as he tasted and discerned the quality, I loved him, like I only love my Bugs. One of the truly special things about date night is admiring your lover in public. 

The nose on the Muga smelled of cherries, blueberries and eucalyptus, the latter fulfilling a broader sense of the herbal, medicinal and alcoholic. 

"A little coconut," Bugs whispered, his nose buried deep in the glass, lifting his thick-rimmed glasses. And then I smelled it, too. Was it a subtle note, only obvious once pointed out, or powers of persuasion? Almost impossible to know in the wine world because in such a land citizens are often engaged in some stage of drunkenness.

Focusing again, I felt the smooth dry mouth feel, running my tongue through the broad tannic background. It finished black, with hints of soil, dark cherries and cocoa chalkiness. As the alcohol and medical smell faded, the acidity of the fruit broke free. I felt citrus on the back of my throat and a pleasing astringency on my tongue. The rich tannins, sharper acids and alcoholic sweetness all balanced on a hair. 

The Guisantes y bee gedarte, fresh peas with Marcona almonds, burnt lemon vinaigrette and ash-rubbed cheese arrived at our table. Though the flavors I forked up eagerly were bright and delicious, I would have preferred the peas just a little more plump and crisp, less cooked, but the nuts almost made up for it with their crunchy texture. Indeed, the dish hinged just as much on texture as it did on taste. Bugs, not usually a nut fan, commented on the spectacular almonds.

"That's because they're texturally important," I responded, savoring both their snap and sweetness. The ash on the cheese brought an essential bitterness, balancing the peas, baptized in their oil and lemon bath. I mopped up the last of the grassy olive oil, staining the bread and table cloth green. And so our waiter presented us with clean plates and forks! Such a surprise after Corson Building, where I paid twice as much to eat four times as many courses on the same dirty plate.

Next we ordered the clams with bacon, onion confit, chorizo and cream sauce ($10). The smoky pork slid around and over the juicy clams, the tenderly-textured dish rendered spicy by the onion and chorizo compote. Though it didn't pair the best with our Muga, the pork and seafood plate evoked a spiciness in the wine that we otherwise would not have noticed.

"I like how the waiter isn't pouring our wine," Bugs confessed, leaning over the table. I'd noticed it subconciously and greatly appreciated the lack the service, too. Of course, just then a gentleman (not our server! not on my watch!) must have overheard us, thinking we were sarcastic, and promptly filled our glasses. We really weren't being sarcastic! We just like to swirl our wine, really. Please let us fill our glasses at our own speed. At least the lights dimmed. Mood lighting is always better with bacon. Or is that the other way around?

I was then served and immediately devoured the blood sausage, which I later recounted in great detail to my very German and very blood-sausage-loving Oma. The crisp black exterior gave way to a rich but delicate interior, entirely reminiscent of bread pudding or a soft bread stuffing delicately flavored with fennel and nutmeg. 

For dessert we ravaged an Espellette pepper chocolate flan, the spiciness just warming the creaminess and sweetness, further flavoring our 1989 Colheita by Porto Kopke. 

As one of the last tables lingering in the stone-walled wine cellar of Harvest Vine, we said goodbye to the romantic lighting, rich food and surprisingly cheery air, leaving the stones to grow cold with the night. When the 11 didn't come, we hailed a cab (it took a little longer than on the hill) and made our way back home to say our goodbyes to each other and do anything but let the bed grow cold like stones.   


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I'm young and live in Seattle and love to eat. Please, come in, peer through my kitchen window.

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