Why Not a Pinot Party?

Twenty-five years is as fine a reason for celebration as any, so that's certainly what happened at Thursday, February 27th's Opening Night Party for World of Pinot Noir. Of course anything feels luxe happening at the Ritz-Carlton Bacara, a hotel that's sort of its own grand Pacific-side world. (Just the collection of the cars you'll never come close to driving parked in the central plaza as you enter tells you that.) But WOPN did its best to spiff up, putting on its metaphorical white tie and tails for the evening. Even the step-and-repeat was attractively classy. (Notice I didn't ruin that effect my getting picture taken in front of it.)

After having your ticket scanned and and your armband affixed (note, they use the clip ones, not the sticky ones--my wrist hairs, unpulled, say thank you), you were ushered into what would turn out to be the sparkling station/room for the whole weekend, and pours of Seppi were handed you. There are worse ways to kick off an evening with wines made in honor of Joseph "Giuseppe" Phelps. Heading out that door, servers offered mini-Wellingtons you could dip into rosemary aioli. Somehow this golfball-sized gourmet delight worked--the flaky crust stayed on, you could eat it three bites tops. You'd been at the event four minutes, and you felt at the least fancy, if not half way to schmancy. 

I'm going to make this look like all I did was eat, but: 1) remember my rules about ballast at drinking events, and 2) food photographs better than wine bottles, if you ask me. So that's mezzi rigatoni pomodoro, the pasta exactly al dente, the sauce essential tomato yet kicked up with gunciale and a hit of Grana Padano. What's more, spiced sausage offered that great fat, with its own heat cutting the fat too, and then the lovely, light cloud-like tufts of whipped garlic ricotta. I fought the urge for seconds and the second didn't win.

This shrimp cocktail positively glowed. (Sorry.) But I was a real sucker for the lighting from under the ice trick. The shrimp were cooked precisely, but that trick of locking them both into each other and into the serving spoon made it hard to unhook them, in a weird way, and I even tried to eat them before I had had much to drink, I promise. 

While it is the World of Pinot, it's always heartening to see providers from our very region, and you can't get one much closer to Bacara than the Cultured Abalone, who not only brought their delicious mollusks but also had a rep on site to tell you about their terrific farm. The presentation of the seared abalone was a straightforward sear in garlic sea salt butter, then hit with herbs and citrus, but these wonders of the sea are so delicious, that's all they need. It was an honor to indulge in them, and to get to nod to what was once a food in great supply on our coast.

OK, yes there was wine. But I've got two more wine-soaked entries to write about WOPN 2025 and its grand tastings, so will go lighter on all that here, if you don't mind. You can see a hint of some of the range of stuff on offer in the photo. I drank from a different bottle of La Follette, a 2022 Heintz, a vineyard that runs deep in lore with Williams Selyem fans. It lived up to my expectations, racy and wild, with good fruit rounded with a bevy of attractive side notes--hillside sage, white pepper, baking spice. I also enjoyed a 2021 Ram's Gate Bush Crispo Vineyard that should be in the dictionary alongside Russian River Valley Pinot. A classic. And other wines we'll get to in future posts.

It was tricky to tell who the crowd was. Certainly a lot of winemakers, but one local who will go unnamed suggested, "Most people stay partying in their rooms and then show up here later and buzzed." I didn't stick around for that, saving myself for two days of grand tastings. Did I mention there would be grand tastings? There was also fine rock n roll from Dan Curcio of Moonshiner Collective, stuck trying to juice us up when there was plenty of juice to drink for that. Maybe you had to hangout until the very end to see if the dance floor got used. I know the step-and-repeat did.

Mollie Does Deli

Chef Mollie Ahlstrand has been a local icon for three decades. Her treasured Trattoria Mollie on Coast Village Road set the bar for Italian cuisine in the region, and welcomed patrons like Oprah Winfrey, Barack Obama, and Ahlstrand’s personal favorite customer ever, Kirk Douglas. In 2018, she moved from Montecito to Santa Barbara proper, opening Mollie’s on State Street next to The Granada Theater. But, as she pointed out in a recent interview, “There was the mudslide and the Thomas Fire and COVID … and the rent and the taxes.” Ahlstrand closed the spot in 2021.

So it might seem surprising she’s back with Mollie’s Italian Deli in the Shepard Place Shops in Carpinteria. The strip mall storefront has seating for a dozen people, plus a few more outside, and is squeezed between the Culture Skate Factory and an animal medical clinic. Coast Village Road the location decidedly is not, despite the attractive white tile walls inside and the homey copper pots, clearly functional and not just decorative, along the walls.

Care to read the rest then do so at the Independent's site.

Drinking "Hidden" Italy: Poggio Stenti

 

With late September's plethora of perfect tomatoes, it's been sauce season*. We make so much we freeze it, too, so any evening's pasta can elevate with a blast of the bounty. 

*While I grew up in northern Jersey, I'm just too Slav through-and-through to call it gravy.

That means digging out the right wine to match from the cellar, of course. That's how I came to open a bottle of the 2018 Poggio Stenti Tribulo, a Montecucco Sangiovese DOCG. This is a wine that's very farm-based; the estate's 30 hectares contains vineyards, an olive grove and barley, spelt and wheat crops. So think integrative farming--done 100% organically--and some real terroir. Of course Montecucco isn't exactly a region many know (and only partially because the English language function on the consortium's website only works on a few of the site's pages). It's south of the more famed Tuscan regions like Chianti and Brunello di Montalcino, and closer to the Mediterranean (not that there's much sea influence). 

Even at five years in bottle, it opened a bit grippy to almost chalky, as Chryss put it, but with air it softened up some, while still packing Sangio tannins. The fruit presented raspberries leaning into blackberries, with maybe a quick nap of balsamic vinegar. But this isn't a fruit bomb, not with its suggestions of tar, earth, black pepper, anise. It grew more complex as the night went on (and don't you want your nights to do that?). 

Our tomato sauce was very pleased.

Bella Vista’s Biltmore Bargain

(Chef Marco Fossati in the Biltmore garden)

A parmesan wheel is an impressive hunk of formaggio, pretty much four feet in diameter, two feet tall — a Mack truck tire worth of cheese. Striking all by its mighty self, the wheel is really something to see when hollowed out and turned into a mixing bowl of sorts for your supper. But that’s the kind of treat in store for you if you head to Bella Vista at the Four Seasons Biltmore for a Wednesday Chef’s Table.

It’s almost like an extension of Restaurant Week, a rare chance to sample fine dining at a reduced rate ($45 per person). The menu kicks off with a choice of two first courses, proceeds to a pasta dish — perhaps a Gnocchetti “Cacio de Pepe” that gets prepared tableside in that giant parmesan wheel and finished with extravagant summer truffle — and then a dessert, which some weeks will be a sampler.

Want to read the rest then do so at the Independent's site.

Friend and Dear Friend and a Restaurant's Encouragement

Given my love for Wallace Stevens' "The World as Meditation," how could I not be taken by Odys + Penelope? (And if that isn't the wonkiest beginning of any restaurant write-up, show me its competition.) We had the opportunity to hit the restaurant on the way back from San Diego a couple of weeks back just in time for DineLA. And while I always feel like taking advantage of such promos leaves a bit of a "R" for rube tattooed on your forehead, we'd been wanting to go to O+P since it opened, as we were fans of Hatfield's back in the day when fine dining was still a phrase you could utter and not watch your business model crumble. (Come remember with me now....) That super smart room, the full-view kitchen with so many chefs moving in such precision, the delicious-gorgeous food. We only had it once and missed it ever afterward.

So we looked forward to see what Quin and Karen Hatfield had in store for us at their latest spot. It's somewhat big yet still intimate, partially as the scent of smoke from the big grills in the kitchen hold you in its elemental arms. And right away what seems the least impressive wows you--we haven't had a salad we liked more in ages than their Sugar snap pea “Caesar” with creamy Parmesan slaw and roasted pepitas. Talk about reinventing a wheel that had gone a bit flat. The sliced up snap peas, so bright and crisp and just the right sweet, playing off the right-angled Caesar notes of garlic and anchovy, then the slaw a sort of salve, plus the necessary crunch from the pumpkin seeds. We shared one, wishing we had two. (Not that the grilled Argentinian white prawns with ginger chermoula disappointed, especially with their charcoal depth.)

Fighting FOMO, we went off the DineLA menu as we had to know what the bread-like goodness going out to so many tables was (we've also been to Sycamore Kitchen, and know Karen Hatfield bakes better than nearly anyone). Turns out they were cheese puffs--think gougeres with attitude as they're twice gougere size--and at least four times as yummy, somehow flaky, puffy, and cheesy all at once. What's more, they come with a smoked tomato romesco (that grill is hiding in so many dishes) that was so rich we didn't use the leftover white prawn butter we made them keep on the table for the cheese puffs.

Mains were both also crazy good. Chryss had early summer on a plate, oak grilled salmon, English pea and basil puree, cherry tomato salad, and grilled corn, each element of the dish perfection (it made you want a side of corn, for instance). Grill grill grill. I had the house made pappardelle, pork belly Bolognese, fried sage, supposedly the restaurant's most popular dish. I can see why: that sauce had what seemed like ages of flavor, if that makes sense, rooted in meat generally too good to be reduced like this, and that grill was in there somewhere doing its fiery magic. And someone can make pasta, too, that perfect tension that says fresh.

I could go on about the desserts, like a straightforward yet immaculately prepared chocolate budino with olive oil, sea salt, and a stunning take on the Oreo that should make Nabisco cry (or sue) and a coconut-cashew lime "pie," (it's kind of deconstructed, over the flakiest of tart shells) with local raspberries and toasted coconut ice cream that's all flavor in your face. Or the just inventive enough cocktails, or the helpful, timely, friendly, unobtrusive service. It's a place about comfort edging very close to something like fine dining, but then quick to say, "Servers wear jeans!" or "Smoke is like camping--how casual is that!" You're sure to say, "I need to go back."

Pasta Perfect

Italian food doesn't have it easy. I mean, the tricky part is it's everywhere like air, and I say that as someone who grew up in northern Jersey, where the air is heavier. Sure, we all like air, but it's easy to take for granted, and have you tried any of that pure oxygen? And I refuse to go to more exotic places, like denying yourself air for fun.

Turns out the air is rarer at Factory Kitchen. At the outer edge of the Arts District, when you approach it for the first time you're thinking much more factory than kitchen in a desolate area where stopping at stoplights makes you a tad nervous (and to get from it to DTLA, you'll pass through Skid Row, home of its own strain of TB). Inside it's still pretty factoried-out, but the owners wanted it that way, so that's a kind of charming. And the food is so much more than charming it ends up seeming some sort of oasis, a sense that even amidst massive concrete pillars this grace can happen.

Fro grace is the only word to describe mandilli di seta, that green pasta at the top of the photo above. This handkerchief pasta is where delicious and delicate deliquesce into one thing, a miracle of pasta flavor in something so fine. It's sauced in a Ligurian almond basil pesto with none of the sharp edges you might get in some hearty pesto, even the garlic refined, and the almond flavor much more interesting than pine nuts. Then that's the whole dish. It sort of threatens you to call it too simple, but it recalls the stories of a master artist, when asked to send sample work to get a commission, simply drawing one perfect circle of paint on paper in one quick brushstroke, and saying, "Take that to your patron." Of course perfection is simple--that's exactly why it's so easy to mess up.

The rest of the meal was delightful, too, from the raviolini di pesce you also see in that photo--much heartier dough, but sitting in a "crustacean sauce" that is as wondrous as that name might suggest, plus four exactly prepared mussels, none of that overcooked shellfish issue you so often get with pasta.

We started with another essay in the brilliance of simplicity, the cremosella salad, a mound of kale (really really good baby kale) and pea shoots (all of freshness) and green beans cooked miraculously to a tender-snap (what method?) in just enough dressing. And then creamy mozzarella, which is not burrata, and I didn't know existed (and can't confirm does anywhere else, if the internet can be trusted). Instead of cream in the center, like burrata, the inside is more like a brie-consistency, but still very much mozz. Seems healthier, and the chalkiness paired well with the acid and lemon in the dressing.

We all owe Italian places an apology. Of course, given the chef here--Angelo Auriana--worked at Valentino for nearly two decades, it's not odd he can make such ethereal food.

When Batali's in Your Eye Like a Big Food Mall, That's Eataly!

The worst thing about Eataly--beyond, of course, it's merely at best first blush clever name--is its muchness. It's sort of a Costco of Italian gustatory greatness. The best thing about Eataly--it's sort of a Costco of Italian gustatory greatness. There's no way you could eat it all, even if you were as big as Mario Batali himself, so mostly you walk through with your eyes agog and your salivary glands mimicking Niagara. For it all looks good--it's Italian food, after all. Even just the marbled swirls of perfect prosciutto is enough to make you want to pen prose poems.

In case you've never been, it goes like this--New York City, whole block, extra glam points for being across the street from the Flatiron Building. Walk in and it's a bit of a maze of a market, arranged around topics like kitchen goods or cheese or the wine store that has its own separate entrance, plus 11 restaurants/prepared food stops. For instance, you can get lattes that had some fancier name than latte that will be some of the best coffee you've ever had, very rich and, yes, European. Plus pretty.

After that, the ogle is on. More dried pasta than there are ways to misspell strozzapreti, more gorgeous Alessi-designed gadgets than guesses as to what the gadgets actually do, more imported artisanal beers that you've never seen imported before, more more more. It's impressive and at a certain point almost frightening, to live in a world so rich of things you never before knew you needed to want.

And we're not talking about a watering down of things--this isn't Disney does Italy featuring your host Pinocchio (be sure to buy your wooden dummy on the way out the gift shop). It's all fine quality stuff, often at the price too match. At least the restaurants aren't too dear, and we can vouch for the pasta at La Pizza & Pasta, as well as the good service, and that it is enough separated from the market floor you don't feel to hustled or rushed. I savored my Gnocchi al Ragu di Agnello, the gnocchi tasty and substantial but not too doughy, the lamb ragu just what you want of anything long-stewed, flavor left to sit in itself and become more if itself. (There's that more theme again.)

We also had to take the elevator ride to the rooftop Birreria, even though we had already lunched. It's probably even more pleasant when the roof's glass can be cracked open on a warm day (we were there on a chilly, if clear, November one), but it's a charming space with some good Manhattan tower views. And beer. The house brews have been dreamt up by Sam Calagione of Dogfish Head, Teo Musso of Baladin, and Leonardo Di Vincenzo of Birra Del Borgo (alas Vinnie Cilurzo of Russian River dropped out, despite having clearly an Italian enough name), and on cask they are truly unique. We had the chestnut mild ale Wanda and the thyme pale ale Gina and preferred Gina, liking the herb attack more than being nuts for the nuts. Even better, the bartender was one of those teasingly-insulting types you sort of hope you get in NYC, even if he was too young and handsome to fill out the stereotype of the crotchety old bar keep perfectly. This, I guess, is a sign of progress.

Then, just before we left, to give us one last "this might be some sort of set for a reality show of a life you aren't worthy enough to live" vibe, we walked by cheftestant Travis Masar from the current season of Top Chef. Ah, New York.

There Is an "I" in Special

Comme Ça not only let's you use the word cedilla and learn the html code to make one, it makes you very happy if you eat there, as we did on a recent LA excursion*. On the restaurant's website David Myers claims, “This is the kind of food I cook at home, for myself and my friends,” which makes you wish you hung out at his home and were his friend. For this is French brasserie food, and while I'm bad at languages, I'm pretty sure that word translates as "comfort" or perhaps "contented sigh." There are cocktails that will set the evening's tone (tone=pleased smiley). On a blustery night there's nothing better than a shot of Penicillin, particularly since I'm allergic to the drug itself. This, instead, is blended scotch, lemon, honey, ginger--as if that's not good enough, the bartender pulls out an actual mister (no, not as in Ed or T, but one of these) and delicately sprays Islay scotch over the top, as if a wisp of peaty fog drifted in. The only weird part is this is served over block ice, literally a huge chip off a larger block, which makes getting every last drop of the drink out past the berg in your old-fashioned sized glass a bit tricky. Chryss got some deserved R & R, sort of a Manhattan slightly south of the border, with its rye, reposado, lemon, agave nectar, and ginger served straight up (and therefore no danger to its drinker).

And while her moules and frites were all anyone could ask for (ok, we did ask for a second helping of baguette to sop all that good sauce), I ordered the far-from-just-in-name-only special you can spy above. That's squid ink tagliatelle with lobster and fava beans. That's about three of my favorite things to eat. Each element lived up to the goodness it can be, the lobster actual poached to perfection chunks of meat, the favas the emblem of spring they are, the pasta dark and rich with squidishness. (For some reason the server was selling the dish claiming ink pasta has no flavor, but we all know that's just wrong.) If I had to make a lover's quarrel with the dish it would be the pasta turned a bit into a sticky pile as the dish cooled at the table--perhaps I didn't eat quickly enough, or perhaps a bit more olive oil or butter was needed (not that the dish needed more richness).

If you were wondering, yes, this is the kind of place where you order an apple tart tatin.

*That Dog! Together again, and with a string section and doing things quiet and fucking up (to the point of saying "oh fuck" mid-song) and being damn charming about it. Great show, and we even scored first row seats at the Largo, a mere couple of blocks from Comme Ça.

A Penne That Made No Sense

Ever green (sometimes with jealously, sure, but for now with the desire to re-use and recycle in the kitchen), we decided it was finally time to do something with all those sundried tomatoes that kindly rehydrated in vodka for us so we could make killer bloody Marys. That's the one thing I can definitely recommend in this story of kitchen disappointment, if not outright sadness--leave some vodka in a mason jar with sundried tomatoes and your bloodys will have a terrific boost, and a spicy one if you drop in a dried chipotle or two too.

You might need a cocktail or two to accompany the rest of this tale, for it turns out that making penne with vodka sauce from pre-sauced sundrieds isn't as good as you might imagine (assuming you imagined the the delicious delight we did). We got our pasta water a-boil, then in a big pot with some olive oil added onion and garlic chopped till it went soft, then in went the drained, chopped sundried tomatoes, lots of them (we didn't measure, thinking if we were making things up, numbers weren't going to help beyond adding a fake patina of science to the otherwise gut-led project). We let that cook awhile, for those tomatoes were truly vodka-rich, and we hoped some of that might steam off. A bit of dried basil went in, and salt and pepper. This was a thick stew, deeply colored past red to russet. After a good 20 minutes or so, we took it off the heat and went at it with the handheld mixer/motor-boat, but even Kitchen Aid (if this were Top Chef, insert product placement close-up here) wasn't tough enough and barely extruded the solid out the little vents. So we started with the half and half (hoping we didn't need heavy cream, as we certainly don't need anything with heavy as an adjective near us), a splash or two at a time, figuring we'd be saucing soon. More cream. More motorboat. Not so soon. So in went some pasta water, one of the kitchen's greatest re-use tricks from cooks way back. Eventually we got to a pesto-y paste, hoping that would be enough. A bit of fresh chopped basil and some Grana padano got stirred in.

Once the penne cooked, we drained it, and dumped that into the briefly back on the heat sludge, er, sauce, hoping a bit more moisture might lighten things a bit. It certainly stuck to the tubes well.

As for the taste test, of all things the texture wasn't the biggest problem, for it did seem pesto-esque, if made of different ingredients. Somehow all those sundrieds leaked too much of their tomatoeyness into the vodka, for the sauce didn't seem nearly tomatoey enough. Next time, if there is one, some canned tomato might get mixed in, hoping different registers of the nightshade's favorite fruit might get the sauce to sing. Or at least drip a little bit--this one clung to the wooden stirring spoon like cement that had time to settle.

Perhaps the problem itself is trying to create a dish that seems a bit dubious at best, as Eye-talian as Chico Marx, but who are you going to believe, me or your own taste-buds?

Pasta Imperfect

Since my policy here and at the Indy is do no harm, I try to write only about solid-to-better-than-that places and hope my silence on others might indicate I'm not a fan (of course as soon as I write that I realize there's tons of places I like I haven't written about enough, so all apologies to them). As for the other kind of place, you know what I mean, the kind of establishment that seem trendy, never crowded, and can't update their website despite changing chefs twice since the last menu posted there which now has nothing to do with the food their serving. There's just not enough time to eat mediocre food, especially at less then bargain prices.

But I do want to make it clear that every evening isn't a blaze of gustatory glory for George Eats, either, so figure it might not hurt to discuss a meal I made at home last week that just keep finding the fail, element by element. Because that's how easy it is for something to go wrong, but wrong is the wrong word, too. For even this meal was adequate--no spit take necessary. Yet it still bugs me, so I figure taking a walk through it can't hurt as a way too see how a better meal succeeds.

The goal was a pasta with fresh peas, just from the Farmers' Market, and some feta and sundried tomatoes and garlic and capers and oregano. Now, anything this direct is going to ride on two things--excellent ingredients and precise cooking. Alas, things were a bit weak on both sides of that claim. The English peas, the first I've spied this spring, just weren't at their peak. It's become pretty clear that with all the legumes (favas, limas, peas), it's a ramping up and tapering of brilliance, so that the key is to gorge whenever that sweet spot of 10 days or so happens, which no doubt varies season to season depending on rain and sun. These were peas still a bit mealy and dry and not the sweet melting treat they should be soon.

Alas, the pasta failed too, despite buying something better. I've finally decided sure, expensive dried pasta is worth it--I don't skimp buying quality beer or fish or cheese, so why should I think the 3 buck difference for pasta is that important? (Because pasta can be so cheap is one of the problems, of course.) We opted to try Montebello, which is artisan organic pasta from Italy, but evidently not from the same neighborhood as Rustichella d'Abruzzo, at least not the same heartiness. And, then, I let the orechiette (a fine shape to hold peas and feta squares, you know) cook perhaps a minute too long, too--that's all it takes to dent your al dente. Combo of lesser (if more expensive) product and sloppier cooking=blander, mushier pasta.

Other points of contention keeping this dish from being even better: dried oregano is fine, but fresh might have helped it zing a bit more. I had planned to give it a quick zip of lemon zest, but forgot; that might have been ok, as the capers did a fine job providing some bracing acidity, and made a clever mime with the peas, too, so the shape gave no hint as to the taste. (A bit of misdirection of the plate never hurts to keep a meal intriguing.) Thanks to my brilliant co-chef for coming up with the one thing that worked that night.

And then the feta was ok, but not of a great quality, and barely melted, too, which was a shame. I like to cut the squares to about 1/4 inch size so you know you're getting some cheese, but it's also good when some melt and coat, too, as this isn't a pasta with a sauce.

So it's so easy to feel a bit of sadness at such a meal, knowing what could be, eating what is, feeling that gap that shows there are more emptinesses than hunger to fill at the table.