Letting it Roll Fowl

I make it a practice not to mock chickens as I go to San Diego sometimes and there's a really big one down there. OK, seriously, there is mock chicken, except at Mary's Secret Garden it's called "chycken," and I think I know why. For Mary's is all vegan, and often raw, even, so the chycken is either some vegetable protein made yummy or the work of seitan, but when it appears in Mary's sun-dried tomato mushroom pasta--as homey and lovely a heaping plate as you could dream for--it almost seems like another type of mushroom, with that good sort of rubbery chewiness you might get from a hearty portobello, say. It, and the large variety of mushrooms full of their earthiness, also do a fine job carrying the light white wine and basil pesto sauce, so every bite is rich and rewarding. And that doesn't even get me to the whole wheat linguine, which is lighter than you might expect and certainly doesn't have that air of "it's good for you"-ness that often seems to pervade vegetarian restaurants' pasta dishes. One of Mary's greatest secrets is it actually want to serve you food that pleases. Thanks, Mary. (Note there are greens in there, too, for more variety of texture and taste, and nuts, and a sprinkling of parmesan cheeze, guaranteed to displease your spellcheck but still make you a happy eater.)

So after several visits to Mary's Secret Garden in Ventura, I am not yet a vegetarian, even with the deluxe raw tostada, the Syrian hummus plate, the secret burger (of soy meat), and the tofu pad thai. Enjoying their housemade kombucha isn't even enough of an elixir to turn me. As long as there's a match and a pig left on the planet, I will hanker for bacon.

But Mary's is the place I want to be if the last oinker ever hoofs it off to that great sty in the sky.

Do You Know the Way to Jina Bae

When the Independent handed out its first Foodie Awards last October, we worked hard to come up with cleverish (the best ones probably weren't mine, don't worry) names for each honor as we definitely didn't mean for them to be "best French restaurant" or anything like that (and anyway in Santa Barbara that category in the best-of contests generally means "best restaurant with a French-sounding name," which begins to suggest some of the problems with best-of issues)(oh, they do sell advertising though). That said, there was no name as apt as the one given to A-Ru Japanese Restaurant -- The Fish Out of Water Award. For the joke isn't just that this is sushi (arguably the county's best) in the Santa Ynez Valley, just down the 246 from Frank Ostini and his pith helmet and grill. It goes further, as it's tucked into a strip mall (official address 225 McMurray Rd.), an unlikely location for food so fine. And what's more, and more again, A-Ru is owned by Jina Bae, a Korean woman. That's not how sushi is supposed to happen, if you ask the traditionalists.


But if you sat them down at Bae's restaurant, they'd shut up fast, beyond the occasional moan of pleasure. For everything here is plus quality, and not just the fish she gets herself several times a week at the fish markets in LA. That tofu in the miso--and what could be, and often is, more of a toss-off than miso at a sushi spot--how did she find tofu so silky and lovely? That eel sauce several rolls sport--it seems extra punchy, with depth you usually don't get in the roll itself, let alone the drizzled accompaniment.


So, if you're up in Wine Country and want something different to eat, or if you're driving back from Paso, say, or San Francisco, or Seattle, or Juneau.... Well, I'm planning trips north just to visit A-Ru more frequently, let's put it that way.

If Chef Means Boss, What Does That Make Springsteen?

Generally I feel pretty removed from popular culture. For instance, after being coerced into watching the full video for Lady Gaga's "Born This Way," was I outraged she lifted so much from Madonna's "Express Yourself"? Of course not. I was pissed off she lifted Bernard Herrmann's title theme from Vertigo.

So, what does this have to do with food, you might ask? It's that I find Top Chef sort of irresistible. Sure, it's all ginned up with twist silliness one hopes most chefs don't have to deal with, from cooking with one hand to stripping down, diving in, and catching your own conch (although you'd think Ludo Lefebvre would have been a natural for that on Top Chef Masters). Yes, over the course of its eight seasons it's mirrored the real world problems with high-end kitchens and rewarded more white men then women or people of color as top chef. Yes, you completely know it's edited in a way to leave you guessing till the end what's going to happen, even if what's going to happen is pretty clear, really. Heck, they even toss in red herrings (not actual fish--that would be more amusing, to at one point pummel the contestants with yet-flapping red snapper or something), for I'm sure I wasn't alone assuming Wednesday night when they focused on Jamie sous-chefing the jalapenos and asking about seeds, something would end up too fiery for some judge, but not a pepperoni-sauce-loving Gail. (Poor Gail--I swear there's an unwritten rule that she must get edited to look a bit dufusily goofy every episode to make Padma look even better, sort of like Vivian Vance and Lucille Ball back in the day...but then again, once you consider how they dress Padma, that idea sort of goes out the window--never has a beautiful woman worn more ugly unflattering outfits on one show that wasn't a comedy.)

The good news is [spoiler alert!] that Richard Blais can finally rest becalmed at the top of self doubt mountain--victory is his. And it wasn't easy, as Mike Isabella matched him dish for dish (almost--Blais sneakily worked in an amuse bouche, too, that people loved and you have to assume that brown-nosey extra mile can't hurt in a world as regimented and suck-upy as the kitchen). And, as is so often when things get close on TC, dessert almost turned out to be Blais' downfall as he took a great risk and (no surprise) nitrogened up some ice cream. The surprise--he made it flavored with foie gras. Makes sense, richness into richness on some level, especially at a restaurant he named Tongue & Cheek (a clever play on the usual phrase, plus a tip of the cap to something offal, even if his menu was actually hoof-n-snout light beyond some sweetbreads and marrow). Alas, the first servings of it were too freeze-dried up, and if you ask me he won the evening by correcting the mistake before the second round of judges hit the restaurant. What better sign of how good a cook you are than to be able to make improvements on the fly?

And, as far as temperaments go, I'm always going to side with the self-doubter rather than the brazen Jersey boy, despite being a Jersey boy myself. So sorry, Mike, but pack your pride and go.

Hope Is the Thing with Anchors

As much as I love living in Santa Barbara (I mean, it's SANTA BARBARA), it's great to get out into the bigger world every now and then and see how real city folk live and eat and drink. Turns out that if the bigger world = San Francisco, you pretty much can't go wrong. It certainly helps we stayed at the Hotel Vitale,* an Embarcadero-crossing away from foodie nirvana the Ferry Building†. But we also Open Table researched our way into Anchor & Hope, and found a true delight.

One thing that's endlessly charming about San Francisco is all the rewards that await you down alleys. That could be a inventive cocktail haven like 15 Romolo, tucked away amidst the strip joints and Beat Museum off Broadway in North Beach, or it could be Anchor & Hope, whose address is 83 Minna Street, but the min- part is more of a clue than the Street part. That said the place just oozes charm, huge and airy as it's a renovated turn-of-the-last century mechanic's warehouse and all decked out with things you'd see by the sea. Made me homesick for my college days in Baltimore, but back then Bawlamer wasn't so polished, that's for sure.

A&H brings together two wonderful things--great beer and the choicest seafood. They even want you to follow them on Twitter if you're a beer geek, they're that into the updates. And a fine list they have, both on draught and bottle. We stuck to the tap all night and were more than happy pairing up the food with the suds, brews from the familiar (North Coast's La Merle) to the not (Linden Street's Burning Oak Black Lager). You can check the list yourself, but do note the perhaps drunken-counting-typo: that beer sampler says "five" beers but clearly lists, and delivers, six.

The food menu is short-ish but that's a blessing, as you'll want everything. Somehow we passed on the oysters and clams, although everyone around us didn't and seemed happy as, well, you know.... Instead we opted to share a starter and a salad (a simple, let it speak for its greeny self mix of wild arugula, pickled fennel, roasted olives, shaved grana padano in a light lemon vinaigrette). That starter was a clever item called salmon pastrami--house cured, then smoked again (if I remember right). It's heavy on the salt, but rich on the taste, and made me wonder what it would be like in a Reuben. At A&H it comes with a perfectly fried egg atop waiting to go gooey, potatoes roti beneath to provide ballast and yolk absorption, and a scattering of sliced asparagus full of spring (both the season and the texture). A lovely dish.

My companion opted to order another app for her main, but when it came out it looked like a main so she sure didn't get gypped.The scallops were seared expertly, paired surprisingly well with their bed of kohlrabi and mustard green, and then set off by the apple miso broth. Lots of layers of flavor all adding to something unexpected. And speaking of surprise, the scallops come with tuna very thinly shaved adorning them and waving. Really. For a long time. So if you get unsettled by your meal moving, it might not be the dish for you.

I more than enjoyed the cod with pork belly (I cannot resist) with three of the best little neck clams I've ever enjoyed--how wonderful when clams as a component of a composed dish can be cooked precisely and not be chewy afterthoughts. Sorry this photo does not do the dish justice, partially because it's poorly lit, partially because it's hard to see the slight bed of cavolo nero that added green, and partially because you can't smell the photo. The sauce is billed as a lemon parsley jus, but that doesn't do it jus-tice, for there's just enough of tomato in it to make it richer but not a tomato sauce. I wanted a bottle of it to take home.

And yes, since it was my birthday, I had to have some dessert, as everyone knows the calories you consume on your birthday don't count. Again, a short list, but everything sounded delish, and not just because I was enjoying an Allagash Curieux Bourbon Barrel Aged Triple at this point (dessert in a glass, sure). We went for something already off the menu, so I'm glad we ate when we did. Generally I eschew the chocolate offerings as they tend, even when good, to be good for three-and-a-half bites, then seem too much of a good thing. Here the chocolate mousse, though, seemed irresistible, with sea salt and a caramelly whipped cream and then a sprinkling of what Cracker Jack would be at the world's best ballpark. You know me--a lover of that sweet-salt mix, and this totally knocked that out of the park.

*Truly a wonderful hotel, and not just for the location. And on top of that--literally on top--is Spa Vitale, where you can start your treatments (just what the doctor ordered) with a wonderful bath that will make you feel wonderfully weightless.

†The Ferry Building and its wonders will get its own entry soon, promise.

Get Your Za-Za's Out

You'd think by now I'd be more flexible in real life, for metaphorically I'm a great self-kicker. Nothing makes me want to apply my boot to my butt more than not getting to a spot I just know is going to be good for too long a time. Of course I do this frequently, for even eating out too much, there's only so much time, so much money, so many inches in the waistband.

I fixed one such problem by finally making it to Full of Life Flatbread in Los Alamos on a weekend, when their production space gets turned into a restaurant. Pulling into its stretch of the 135, everything else in town at 5 on a Sunday seems sleepy, except for the cars, the families, the hubbub at their lovely spot that manages to mix some Western saloonish swagger with hip art (an amazing angel made from skateboards, say) and hippie-ish touches (not just the organic, local focus, but using old paperbacks as their check delivery systems--reuse, recycle, reread?). The spot is certainly full of life, with people sharing wines, running into old friends, getting greeted like the regulars many luckily seemed to be (if the place didn't leave me in such a good mood I'd damn them for their luck). It can't hurt it offers a lovely Santa Ynez Valley wine list with great by-the-glass choices, too, plus local brews from Firestone and Figueroa Mountain. And, of course, the dining room has that huge hearth of a pizza oven that just sort of makes for a primal home scene--no doubt any caveman would have killed for a saber-tooth flatbread back in the day.

Also, don't be fooled and think Full of Life is full of itself with anything approaching veggie indignation at all things meaty or more, for in addition to numerous bacon offerings, my special appetizer of the day (or any day, without a doubt) was crispy foie gras toast with wild-gathered black trumpet mushrooms on levain bread grilled with bacon & a farm egg yolk, shaved Sonoma foie gras, over green garlic fondue. Richness, thy name is this dish (which is why its name is so long, I guess). It's a brilliant way to get you the luscious punch of foie gras at 1/4 the amount you might need in a different dish, for the trumpet mushrooms, the egg a-run, the depth of the garlic fondue all just added layer and layer of yum.

We ate more, of course we did, although that first was the kind of dish that almost didn't need an entree; it's a hearty portion, in addition to a taste sensation. Still, it's a pizza joint (joke) so we had pizza, the two specials for the day (trust me, they really mean special when they use the word). That means we enjoyed (and are enjoying for two days of lunch, too, so the not cheap price doesn't seem quite so dear) a local chanterelle flatbread with Henry's cured + smoked pork belly bacon, stinging nettles, and a farm egg AND an artisanal burrata mozzarella flatbread with rapini braised with garlic & hot pepper, ember-roasted picholine olives & pepperoncino.Here they are sharing a double-decker stand that makes them seem even more decadent, a kind of two-story tribute to all pizza could dream to be.

If you've had their frozen variety, which are the best frozen pizzas you can get, you're still not prepared for these. That crust, for one, after just getting slid from the oven, tastes even more of the fire's woody-goodness. And when the quality of the toppings is this good--I'm mean, chanterelles, folks!--it all becomes yet more wonderful.

That's the Way the Pastry Contest Crumbles

You know a contest has been a hit when one judge claims, “The entries from the professional pastry chefs were remarkable,” the second judge suggests, “I think I indulged too much,” and the third confesses, “And [after] some … well, let’s just say I licked my fingers.” Such was the case with the Kings and Queens of Pastry Contest held March 19 at Whole Foods Market and cosponsored by The Independent and UCSB Arts & Lectures, which came up with this contest and other events to expand its Food for Thought series of lectures and films with more community participation.

Want to read the rest, then go read it at the Indy's site.

As I Frito-Lays Dying

Really? Like the folks who eat Cheetos suddenly are panicked they're eating crap? Like the folks who eat good-for-you foods suddenly have a hankering for cheesy taste that stains their fingers to the point you can't just lick it off, you sort of have to scrape your fingers with your teeth to remove it?

And why, yes, sometimes I eat Cheetos; they keep me awake on long car drives, if you must know. And I mostly eat "natural" food. (That we now have the term natural food tells you everything you need to know, doesn't it.) But if I'm going to eat a Cheeto, it damn well better be miserable for me--that's the whole point.