The World on a Plate at El Encanto

So that menu above needs some explaining. It was from the September 17 Culinary Experience Dinner at El Encanto, a series I've had the good fortune to write about before for the Indy. Most of the Culinary Experience evenings have invited a guest from south of the border; that story, if you don't visit the link, was about chef Rodrigo Rivera-Río from Monterrey (the 2 R one). So it's easy to assume what you're going to get at one of these is something elevated, often Michelin-starred, from Mexico.

Estrella Jafif, the September 17 chef, lives and works as a caterer and cookbook author in Mexico City. But if you peruse the menu above you'll quickly catch on that Jafif, as she puts it, "grew up surrounded by a lot of cultures and a lot of flavors." Turns out she's a Mexican Jewish chef with roots in Lebanon and Cuba. It's easy to see why she insists, "Food is the best language."

Food, it turns out, can be an offhandedly charming centerpiece for a table, too. The evening's diners were sat at long tables and served relaxed, family style, even while the attentive service was quick to adapt for any eater's or drinker's needs. People across from us got dishes provided free of nuts to avoid allergies; my wife Chryss got a NA pairing that nearly made alcoholic me (wait, I didn't put that right, did I?) jealous. If you want to know, check out the fine product from French Bloom.

I'm going to avoid writing about every last dish extensively because, as you can see from the number of photos, that's a lot of dishes, and somehow I didn't get snaps of the olives or either of the desserts. But that's a creamy and luscious babaganoush above, a delight scooped with fresh-made, airy pitas.

And the hummus got a different twist with both pomegranate seeds and pomegranate molasses, both an acidic bite and some tart-sweetness.

These fried kibbeh crunched but then crumbled as their insides were tender ground beef studded with pine nuts and bulgur. People all do their own kibbeh thing--if Wikipedia can be trusted just the city ofAleppo boasts 17 varieties--so it's hard to be an expert. But I found these hitting that fried food sweet spot. This opening salvo of dishes got elevated by the wine pairing, Villa Bon, “Accueil Les Danaides,” Vandieres, Champagne NV. Bubbles sure can magically re-awaken your taste buds between every bite.

This signature watermelon salad makes a good transition, as it's a favorite dish of Wero Cham of Vinos Boutique, who served as lead sommelier for the night. Plus, it was his recommendation that got Chef Jafif the gig. So she had to make the salad, and a fine one it was for late summer, the melon perhaps somewhat compressed (?), lightly dressed with oil and herbs and spice including nigella seeds, and set off by tufts of a creamy house cheese blend (feta-esque). A scatter of pistachios added more flavor, crunch, and salt. Thanks, Wero, for the menu request!

Beetroot salad could be considered a bore by now (they trended back when Ron Reagan was president!), but this one, with the earthy globes roasted in salt, kept a surprising firmness and tenderness at once. And then their sugar got met with the acid from orange supremes and labneh, and some more pomegranate molasses. 

In a meal aiming for homey comfort, the kibbeh tartare above was the closest to a challenge food, for your eyes aren't deceiving you--that's about a half inch thick of raw ground beef in the bowl. Spread across some toasted bread it worked, if finding a place between domesticated animal and something gamier without being wild. The heat from a slice of jalapeño also served as a way to cut the meat's meatiness a bit. And sure, there's bulgur, again, and some tamarind to give the typically Lebanese dish bit of a Mexican accent.

As if to mirror the international house of flavors approach, Cham choose to pour two wines with this set of dishes: Barrigón, Charelo-Albariño, Queréraro 2022 and a Bruno Giacosa, Barbera D-Alba, Piedmont 2022. The Mexican Barrigón was described as an orange wine, as it had some skin contact, but you had to squint to glimpse that color. The flavor was grippy and lovely, though. And the Barbera had its tannic grip and rich red fruit that helped open up the tartare into something more encompassing than its initial one-note hit might suggest.

More wine, crummier photos, sorry. But that's a couple servings of the local vermillion rockfish, topped with tahini and chermoula, and sat on some more oil-based chermoula and labneh (there should be walnuts and almonds, but we got the remaining pieces from the no-nuts diners). Quite a delish dish that made sure the fish was the star. It paired perfectly with the one local pour, a Sanguis, Chardonnay, “Whale Song,” Sta. Rita Hills, 2023--dry, mineral, with a waft of lemon blossoms.

Let's do these together, as they went together so well, too. Sometimes meat and potatoes, even when they are "just" meat and potatoes, aren't just meat and potatoes. That's a platter of wood-fire crusted Baharat ribeye with roasted tomatoes, and potato confit, sliced thin as window panes. Crusted isn't just aspirational--the steak crunched--yet as you can see, was immaculately medium rare every other bit of its insides. Baharat, a spice mixture that's been around at least 10 centuries, so, yeah, there's a variation or a thousand, means all sorts of rich flavors engulf the tender beef, from paprika to cumin to cardamom. Every time I think, for my own health, the health of the planet, the kindness of sweet cow faces, and the fact that eating a whole steak I always get bored 2/3 of the way in, somebody serves me a dish like this. I might just be damned to be an occasional carnivore.

Particularly so there's something perfect to pair with that wine, a Chateau Musar, Red Blend, Bekaa Valley 2004. Yep, a wine old enough to vote, from Lebanon (how fitting!), silky, fruit-forward (black cherries and raspberries, and even some dried fruit notes) without being a fruit bomb blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cinsault, and Carignan. 

Even better, it rang nostalgic bells for the long gone but not forgotten weekend wine bar Five & a 1/4 run by Jeremy Bohrer back in the day, the kind of place where some Chateau Masur was almost expected. 

So the meal did that, too, creating circles of culinary delight, not to mention truly connecting chats with the folks across the table from you.

 

Ewe Owe Yourself a Cocktail at Black Sheep

Owner-GM-maitre 'd Ruben Perez admits his head's swimming a bit, and it's because his lovely brasserie Black Sheep has just begun a cocktail program, having landed a full liquor license. Don't blame the drinks themselves--Ruben is an always sober if jovial host--but the way a bar program led to a revamp of what Black Sheep is. (Don't worry, nothing is messing with Wednesday moules-frites night.) It's just the goal is to loosen the mood bit--a bit less expensive, a bit less formal, a bit more raucous. And, yes, to provide some kick-ass drinks. It's made for the past few days to be a bit of a business blur for him.

Speaking of blur, sorry the photo above doesn't do the drinks we enjoyed justice--it's dim but not too dark in the dining room, and it seemed rude to illuminate or flash. But both cocktails were winners, the further an Aztec Goddess which fully earns its name as its base liquor is Casa del Sol Añejo, aged in barrels for 14 months, usually just sipped. It's luxurious and rich and round and a fine offering to Mayahuel, the Aztec goddess of agave. (Hence the drink's name.) And don't even think it's merely a high test Marg, for its other ingredients are Yuzu, egg whites, bitters, and Thai basil. It truly takes you on an adventure.

The nearer drink is from the Classics list, a Corpse Reviver #2. Long time readers of this blog might know it's one of my favorite cocktails, witness a post waxing poetic about them way back in 2012. Black Sheep nails it, starting with the absinthe wash that brings the anise to your nose as much as to your tongue. And then the Sipsmith gin, Lillet Blanc, Cointreau, and lemon all do their magic conjoining trick, leading to a sweet-n-sour, Goldilocks approved utter delight. Also crucial--they got some elegant glassware to show off their creations, an essential touch for an elevated cocktail service.

And the cocktails better be elevated to keep up with the fine food coming out of Chefs Jake Reimer and Robert Perez's kitchen. Start, as we did, with the salt-roasted pickled beets, pictured above. You pick up a lick of that salt but then all the good earthiness you expect from the tender beets, although it's all that sauce that sends the dish into the stratosphere. It's an aji, blood orange, and Yuzu kosho citronette, with both a heat kick from the first and last ingredients and then the tang from all of them, all neatly rounded by sweet and salt. We ordered baguette to sop up what was left. That Pt. Reyes blue cheese espuma is something else, too, like whipped cream and blue cheese had a baby, and now you're all for infant munching. (Hmm...metaphor took a dark corner, sorry.) An effortlessly sophisticated, wildly pleasing dish. 

Chryss got to sing the praises of the sea with the local catch--this evening a Channel Islands halibut--served moqueca baiana style, that is a Brazilian fish stew/curry. It's zippy with coconut milk, lime juice, red palm oil, tomatoes, and red bell peppers all reduced and whirred into a smooth sauce. The cucumbers keep things a refreshing cool, sort of yogurtless raita.

We shared a side of fried fingerling potatoes that were a wonder of texture and smokiness--I've got to assume they had a moment directly in some open fire or were buried in embers? Crisp and crackly on the outside, moist and meaty in the middle. Plenty of Maldon salt making it clear why finishing salt's a thing. What set the dish truly apart was the romesco, the Catalan wonder paste that makes everything extra delicious--more red peppers, almonds and maybe hazelnuts pine nuts, etc. Also note the wide-ranging influences that weave through the kitchen. The chefs know their stuff, and will make whatever is certain to please you. (This dish really reminded me of something you'd get at Gjelina down in Venice.)

Last but not least for me was this steak. Sure, ordering the filet mignon can feel like waving your hand high when they ask, "Who lacks a culinary imagination?" But I was celebrating and feeling carnivorous. Even more, it comes bathed in a double-Cognac peppercorn Bordelaise, which is so my jam I wish someone made actual jam from it. (Note to self: start new business.) Some of that sauce even, sloppily, got on some potatoes. It's great to eat messy, you know. If you want a steak that the kitchen nails, you aren't going to do better than this one.

We had no room for dessert. We have a great desire to go back.

Confessing My Love for a 22-Year-Old

Last night for my 50th birthday, my wife and I shared a 22-year-old. I have to admit to some anxiety before the first taste, as I had been thinking about this 22-year-old for years, hoping after I had bought it that I'd taken proper care of it, that it would live up to its promise, the weight of waiting. What if I'd done something wrong and ruined it along its journey to maturity? I'd never forgive myself. But now that it was at last mine, plush and luscious in my mouth, I have to admit, it was very very good.

Wait, you might be confused...I'm talking about a bottle of 1991 Chateau Montelena Cabernet Sauvignon. It was the first expensive bottle of wine I ever bought, perhaps almost $40 back in 1995 (ah, those innocent, cheaper me days), and I've been storing it ever since, assuming there'd be a right time, a right steak (come to think of it, I was a pescatarian when I bought it). I would not want to begin to count the bottles of wine I've purchased/consumed since then, as the Montelena bided its time. Perhaps it felt it was waiting for me, too.

It was a relief bringing the bottle to a restaurant for corkage, as I didn't have to do the opening honors and face the fear of the cork crumbling or the cork lifting and emitting a damp cardboard tinge that might mean taint. The cork itself pulled clean, and was well-reddened, so it seems I stored the bottle relatively well. Not a whiff of TCA, either. And now the Cab sat, an open question, drinking air from a century different than the last it had contact with. We had cocktails to start, as this was Sly's, and you don't pass on Mandy's cocktails even for a 22-year-old.

Finally it was time, and we had much to toast to as it wasn't just my birthday, but my wife had just been named Santa Barbara Poet Laureate--a glorious coincidence for the bottle to be part of. Its color carmine even to its edges--not a bit of brown even for its age. The nose was muted, although that keep changing with the night, some red berry, some leather. The taste, of all things, dignified, although again as it opened more and more it let its wild side out, more bramble in that berry. And it left your mouth better than when it began, teaching your tongue how to taste, making my medium rare Kansas City New York bone-on beef in a drizzle of Bearnaise beautiful.The bottle just kept opening, a night of possibility, growing fuller, deeper, more delicious. As if I needed another lesson in how the best things in life are worth a wait.

Meditation at Campanile

All the new blogging is about loss. In this it resembles all the old blogging. Or so the story goes with Mark Peel, as I've blogged about the demise of his Tar Pit, and now it's time to bid a fine farewell to Campanile too. Yes, I'm going to over-romanticize this, and perhaps blow it out of proportion, as I only had the chance to eat there thrice, but when someone like Jonathan Gold can write, "It is hard to overstate Campanile's contributions to American cooking," I'll take his word for it. And indeed, beyond being a paragon of California cuisine--by partially helping invent it--from 1989 until its close this November, Campanile was also a kitchen that launched a thousand careers, it seems. It would be hard for me to imagine the LA dining scene without Suzanne Goin and Lucques and AOC, Suzanne Tracht and Jar, Nancy Silverton--originally co-owner and Peel's ex--and La Brea Breads and Mozza and Short Order, Matt Molina and Dahlia Narvaez, also Mozza, and more (I miss the Kidders' closed Literati II, I wish I could afford Manfred Krankl's Sin Qua Non wines).

Simply put, the spot just felt special. Part of that is the incredible space, all air and light and arch. It's one of the rare spots in LA where things truly feel Mediterranean, and then knowing the history, that Chaplin built it, lost it in the divorce to his child bride--well, it's all high Hollywood and just enough tawdry to be everything you believe LA to be, isn't it? Plus, while I'd never been until probably 2005 or so, well past the restaurant's most acclaimed ground-breaking days, it still always had that air of "this is where things happened." (Go back and look at that chef list, or a fuller one here.) It's sort of like the Brancacci Chapel in Florence, and those Massacio frescoes that first put perspective onto a wall. They are gorgeous on their own, but you stand there knowing in your spot stood Michelangelo 500 years prior, studying, studying. That all adds up to something.

Our last visit was mere days before the closing, and was not altogether auspicious. We had a 5:30 reservation as we wanted to get back to Santa Barbara at a reasonable hour (and had run a half marathon that morning, if I can brag a bit), but they were just clearing out the ending at 6 wine tasting, the very last they would do and a sparkling wine blowout (people seemed immensely, bubbly festive). Somehow just one poor waiter had the whole front room, and that included the worst behaved non-drunk table I've ever seen at a restaurant--three generations from one family, with the grandmom the most demandingly worst: every time anyone on staff went by, she'd bug the person for something, and somehow the table, all the way down to the base tablecloth, got reset 3 times. The unfortunate waiter did his best--that table was one clearly determined to remain unpleased--and we got a free glass of wine, so he did his best to make us happy.

And we were. For it still was that beautiful room, and Peel himself peeked in at one point looking a bit like an uncle surprised to see all his family in his house, and those cocktails, if arriving a bit late, were the even more cleverly made than named Pancho Victorias--think of it as a high class margarita with grapefruit juice, kaffir lime, and a float of Lagavulin (there's the Brit for you, and a smoky one it is). I can't vouch for Chryss' meal, although she seemed mighty pleased with carrot soup to start and fresh sheep's milk cheese ravioli with wild mushrooms and tomato cream sauce. I started with a strawberry salad, the berries themselves still vividly ripe despite it being fall (I guess it's strawberry season all year anymore), but they really were mere jewels amidst the greens of all sorts and the Humboldt fog cheese smearing about, making the dressing a creamy delight.

I had to eat something light like that as I followed with one of Campanile's signature dishes--aged USDA prime rib with flageolet beans, bitter greens, and black olive tapenade. At least that's how it's billed on the menu, but what arrives might surprise. For, and perhaps all my Florence talk earlier helps make me think this, it seems this might be bistecca alla Fiorentina by another name. It's not--not that thick, not that hanging over the platter. It's more refined, if a big hunk o' beef can ever be so, not even the prime rib of a Lawry's; indeed, there's no rib on the plate at all. The beef arrives, sliced, still done to perfect order, its juices mixing onto the beans (never enough beans) and greens beneath, making a sauce combo few plates can match. As for that tapenade, it's not doled on after grilling, it's fired right onto the beef, so the charry, crsipy crunch isn't just from the grill, it's the olives, too.

I guess the good news is Campanile can't ever really be gone--Peel promises to do something new (but he said that about Tar Pit too, so I worry); all his former chefs cook away with bits of Campanile set in their repertoires; even the space will be a restaurant again, run by a well-respected chef I like, Walter Manzke. And then there's that steak. I can still taste it, almost as if both its charcoal/olive crunch and then sweet sweet melt were still on my tongue.

My Steak Has a First Name, It's D-I-A-N-E

Enough oysters--let's get meaty! Or that will be my theme for this day (the third of the trip), as we'll get to in a bit. First there's a quick breakfast at Blackbird down the street from the motel, a cute coffee shop with a not-particularly-cheery clerk but good lattes, an indescribably gooey sticky bun that comes from Bovine Bakery in Pt. Reyes Station (great baked goods, but that's got to be the worst name--"eat here and become a cow!"). The photos on display are impressive, too, very much Walker Evans-esque black-and-white shots of the same people in the same poses and settings years apart. It seems an easy cliche, capturing time on the move like this, but the portraits are all gorgeous.

As is our drive, up and up the Sonoma and eventually Mendocino coasts. There's a quick stop to see the church in Bodega Bay, luckily free of birds, a peek at Land's End in Jenner, to watch the Russian River pour into the Pacific, and a lot of thinking about Denis Johnson's wonderful, twisted gothic Already Dead, which describes this coast so well. We also stop at Fort Ross, as a bit of a walk mid roadtrip is always welcome and the place seems so odd: what did they need to fight off then--nobody is here now. Just to show we took pictures of things other than food, here's one of my favorites from Fort Ross:

Now the dress up kids camp that was occupying the other end of the fort in their faux Russian colonial wear didn't offer us any of their rations, so we got back to the car and kept heading north, through Sea Ranch, the most branded community in America it seems (especially given its paradisaical location), to Gualala and a Yelp-aided chosen place called Bones Roadhouse, that offers Texas-style wood pit barbecue...with a view of the Pacific. There's also several Lagunitas beers on tap so the food almost doesn't matter. It ends up fine, the slow smoked Memphis pulled pork I have is deeply flavorful and tender and of the two squeeze bottle BBQ sauce choices, the mild is actually better--more range of flavor than just hot. The mac 'n' cheese side is a bit too soft, but we'll make up for that with an amazing mac 'n' cheese in a few days.

Full, we head north, with a brief stop at the Point Arena lighthouse as we seem to be collecting those. (It is worthy, if nothing else than for the view, and the bit of a charge being 115 feet up in the air in the replacement for a lighthouse that the 1906 earthquake toppled.) Our goal is Mendocino, where we have a great TravelZoo deal to stay at the MacCallum House Inn for two nights. I'll get to the food there in a bit, but I want to comment on one clever thing they do--each guest gets a $7 credit wooden poker chip to use each night in the bar or restaurant. Of course you never spend just $7, so it's a shrewd loss leader.

For dinner this night, however, we drive even further north, to the town of Fort Bragg, working hard to be something as the timber industry about it went elsewhere. It's also the home of North Coast Brewing, and their Tap Room and Grill, not-quite-gruesomely located in an old funeral home, where we plan to have dinner and drink beer. And not just ant beer, for North Coast is home to one of my all-time favorites, Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout. If you've never had this beer on tap, you've never had it, and if you've never had it at the brewery, you've never had it as good as it gets. Creamy on the mouth, bread and hops on the nose, and then that deep complexity of bittersweet chocolate and coffee and toffee followed by more hops than you might expect in a malt-monster like this one (it is 75 IBUs). One time when a friend tasted and it simply said, "It's sweet," I almost punched him. Luckily he wasn't there that night.

As for food, Chryss was perfectly happy with her mussels and frites, even if it was a bit of a miserly portion. No doubt, they were made in some mighty good beer (oh, they had Red Seal on cask, too--making a good beer yet better). I opted for what at North Coast is something crazy expensive, the steak Diane special for $29.95.We're talking one serious slab of Brandt beef , rather indelicately but deliciously drowned in the Diane sauce, zippy with barely crushed peppercorns and warmed (but not flambéed) with brandy.

That was a lot of cow, especially given the sides would have made (as slightly larger portions), a wonderful dinner all by themselves. The braised greens were done just to the point of soft and so redolent of garlic I made sure Chryss ate some so we would both reek equally. That savory bread pudding was sort of more a stuffing, chock-full of wild mushrooms and red pepper and the bread moist on the inside but the outer edges were pleasingly crisp and crusty from time in the oven.

We skipped on dessert as we had those $7 chips burning a hole in our pockets for back at the MacCallum. There we sat in the bar area and Chryss enjoyed an Eldeflower martini--made with St. Germain Elderflower Liqueur, of course, but also Square One Cucumber Vodka, orange bitters, and sparkling wine--something light, bubbly, and lovely, while I had to have some of the best the region has to offer, a Germain Robin brandy, the Fine, which might be the bottom of their barrel, but then their barrels are so much better than most that at $8 for a very healthy few fingers of it, I couldn't say no, especially on a misty Mendocino evening alongside the hearth at the Gray Whale Bar.

When Is a Restaurant Not a Restaurant? When It's a Jar

There's that old line, "Simple is not always best but the best is always simple." I guess I believe that about 75% of the time, which leaves me room for the dazzle of Hearst Castle, the prose of Joyce, and moles of infinite ingredients known only to the wisest of abuelas. Then there's steak. It would seem easy to do one well, just get a high grade cut of beef, season, cook to temperature. But if that were true, why do some steaks sing, and others make you question why you want to chew cow slabs about three-and-a-half bites in?

I'm not sure I have the answer to that, being a writer second and cook third, but as an eater first and foremost, I know 100% sure that the best steak I can get is at Jar in Los Angeles. Part of that is the room, no doubt, swank as all get-out with its non-ironic paneling, b&w photos and color swatches adorning those walls, then those simple flying saucer light fixtures, too many of them almost, but always emitting just the right glow. I was there last when it was still daylight outside and the room almost seemed impossible. It says, "Here, you need a martini, dry," and makes you want to call your date a doll. Heck, for all we know, steaks weren't even bad for you in those days.

But the steaks are splendid. That good grill char, but also the pleasure only beef brings, a mouth-watering joy of the chew, but the best never become too much chew--it feels good to sense the food breaking down in your mouth, if that's not too explicit. A Jar steak won't get to that point that mediocre steaks do, when the meat sort of seems to go to pulp--like you can chew the flavor out. (I know I'm making painstaking, and perhaps gross-making, too much out of this.) Part of that is the fat seems incorporated--you want that fat taste, but you don't want its texture too much. (It's like wanting butter in the flaky dough of the croissant, not on top or oozing out.)

In the case of my last steak there, it probably helped it was aged, which means the enzymes do their magical chemistry trick, and the steak gets yet smoother, the fat more integrated, everything better. You almost don't need the lobster Bearnaise or the creamy horseradish sauce, but, of course, you do, as luxury might as well lap in luxury. (I might just eat the sauces on their own.)

But, as for that last steak, it was one not on the regular menu, the oxymoronic bone-in filet (no doubt the bone helped add to the flavor, too). The waiter sold it well, and it lived up to his billing, all 14 oz. of it. But then there was the billing. I really don't get the reserve waitstaff seem to feel when announcing specials--how hard is it to say, "Those lobster and shiitake stuffed squash blossoms are $16," (or whatever they cost--we didn't order them, so we don't know). I guess part of it is, if you're eating at a place like Jar, you shouldn't suddenly get thrifty. I get that. But I also want to know when the steak--and again I must say it might have been the best beef I've ever had--I ordered would set me back $63. That's a good twenty bucks more than any other steak meant for one.