The surprising thing isn’t that the Wine Cask is having a beer dinner on May 31 — they did one back in October, after all; it’s that the five-course menu kicks off with Korean chicken-skin tacos with kimchi and Asian slaw. “We’d never serve that in the dining room,” admitted Chef Brandon Hughes. “But when you think about it, everybody’s favorite part of the chicken is the skin.” It’s a bit of crispy evidence that this meal is really a chance for the Wine Cask team to think out of the fine-dining box.
Want to read the rest then go do so at the Indy's site.
UPDATE (6/3/12): Matt Kettmann, senior editor at the Indy, wrote up the dinner itself perfectly, and not just because he quoted me as we were seated at the same table. I'd write something, but when someone else has done it so well, I will just point you there instead.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Full of Change Flatbread
More than a mecca for all-natural pizza, Full of Life Flatbread (225 Bell St., Los Alamos, [805] 344-4400, fulloflifefoods.com) is the dining nerve center for Santa Barbara wine country. You can’t throw one of their famous homemade s’mores without hitting a talented winemaker most evenings. But this weekends-only restaurant has been shaking things up of late.
Want to read the rest then go do so at the Indy's site.
Want to read the rest then go do so at the Indy's site.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Odds Are You Need the Edge Off for Vacation Eve
There's not much choice on a vacation eve, as you run screaming into it, hoping to get all your jobs done so you can enjoy yourself some, but that never quite happens to your satisfaction (you like a job done well), and tomorrow is vacation. You don't want to go into that feeling like you have to work at taking it easy and having a good time.
So what else could you have on a Friday evening but a Corpse Reviver #2? You see the ingredients before you, except for the lemon already drained of its juice, since the finished cocktails are there, too. That mason jar is filled with the real cherries we're still running on from last year (and it's just about season for the next round of cherries--homemade are so much better than the bright red store-bought ones that taste like food coloring).
This drink is a favorite of Dr. Cocktail's (Ted Haigh, before he earned his Ph.D. the hard way, by not passing out at the bar), and if you want to buy some odd ingredients, it will be yours, too. To make one (this is Dr. Cocktail's recipe):
1 oz. gin (oh my have we been loving Death's Door, which even got an LA Times shoutout today)
1 oz. Cointreau (that means Citronge in our house)
1 oz. Lillet Blanc (you need this for Vespers, too, and you want Vespers if you like martinis*)
1 oz. fresh squeezed lemon juice (it's good to live in CA)
1-3 drops (not dashes) Pernod
Shake all of that in a lot of ice. Strain into up glass. Add that stemless cherry.
This is a sum-of-its-parts cocktail--you'd never guess at how the flavors play with each other, creating something that's easy to drink to the point you'll want a second. And two Corpse Reviver #2's are Corpse Reviver 4 whether you're adding our multiplying, so you're ok. Now go have a vacation.
*Notice I did not say gin martini, for that's like saying chef Suzanne Goin or poet James Wright or pitcher Tom Seaver--some things just are what they are so don't want useless syllables.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Deep in the Fart of Texas
I won't make a stupid dick joke. I won't make a stupid dick joke. I won't make a stupid dick joke.
OK, now that I have that out of the way, I have to inform you that the size of food is getting out of hand, especially in Texas, and of course since it's Texas I can't say they should know better. But if you go to a Texas Ranger's game, which is well worth doing since their team is very very good, you can purchase either a Boomstick or a Bratbino, each two-feet long and a pound of meat, the former a hotdog, the latter a brat.
People, we aren't supposed to eat that much. Evidently the Rangers' food service Delaware North Companies (who are all over--they run the concessions in Yosemite, for instance) says the sausage serves four, but who the heck wants three other mouths on his wiener? (Excuse me, I have to go read my opening again.) Seriously, this is just a road map to a mess at the ballpark, especially when that Bratbino comes standard with sauerkraut but can be topped with chili, nacho cheese, grilled onions, and jalapenos. After all, this is Texas, so you need to Mex-up your German food, even if "nacho cheese" just means "yellow not found in nature cheese-esque glop."
There better be a concession that sells Tums the size of Stetsons.
OK, now that I have that out of the way, I have to inform you that the size of food is getting out of hand, especially in Texas, and of course since it's Texas I can't say they should know better. But if you go to a Texas Ranger's game, which is well worth doing since their team is very very good, you can purchase either a Boomstick or a Bratbino, each two-feet long and a pound of meat, the former a hotdog, the latter a brat.
People, we aren't supposed to eat that much. Evidently the Rangers' food service Delaware North Companies (who are all over--they run the concessions in Yosemite, for instance) says the sausage serves four, but who the heck wants three other mouths on his wiener? (Excuse me, I have to go read my opening again.) Seriously, this is just a road map to a mess at the ballpark, especially when that Bratbino comes standard with sauerkraut but can be topped with chili, nacho cheese, grilled onions, and jalapenos. After all, this is Texas, so you need to Mex-up your German food, even if "nacho cheese" just means "yellow not found in nature cheese-esque glop."
There better be a concession that sells Tums the size of Stetsons.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
My Lines Have Sour Grapes
This is how (not that you asked) my mind works. A friend sent this article from Slate--"Brewing the Best: Pliny the Younger is supposedly the best beer in the world. What does that even mean?"--and so I began considering the differences between the culture of beer and that of wine. How it's easier to be a wine snob, partially due to the money (as with everything, the best almost always costs the most and therefore excludes), partially due to America's wines still fighting newcomer status (even all these years after the 1976 Judgment of Paris) and therefore leaving us provincial, opening the door to snobbery, partially due to beer making you burp, and it's hard to hold your nose high mid-belch.
I also wanted to agree with Brian Palmer's claim that there seems to be less of a mystery in the making of beer as opposed to wine. I've known many a homebrewer (pleased to meet me), but very few home winemakers. Plus even the process seems more straightforwardly work-person-like: you boil your beer, it's just like cooking, and then when you add the yeast stuff happens in the carboy--you get to see it a-swirling and a-foaming, and sometimes even get to clean it up if it blows the bubbler. Wine seems to involve sitting and waiting and hoping--those barrels don't permit us to see much, and then some evaporates and that gets called the angel's share, as if you need the gods on your side to do it proper.
But I knew people did make wine at home, and how that happened piqued my curiosity. So I Googled, and ended up at the Artful Winemaker, and they kindly offered me a video about how the magic (art?) happens. You really need to go watch, or else my critique won't make much sense. You're still reading, go watch. I mean it. OK, thanks.
First, it appears only white folks can make wine at home. Second, when you're selling a plastic device to make wine, be sure to put it amidst as many real wine-signifying sets as possible--roll out those barrels and shoot amidst the vines. Third, get somebody who looks like Mitt Romney to be your pitchman, as that's about all someone who looks like Mitt is good for.
This video also offers a textbook of wine-talk for dummies, starting with the woman describing that Cab-Shiraz blend as "spicy, warm"--just like my Mexican hot chocolate. Later wine expert Dave LaRocque (I looked him up and he has had a long career, mostly in the wine industry of Niagara--good grapes, now with more honeymooners!)* claims you can make "approachable wine that is soft, fruit-forward, and easy to drink," which, beyond sounding like a personal ad from the Key West Blade, certainly sounds better than saying "you might as well slurp this plonk down for there's nothing to taste or savor."
But back to our Mitt-a-like, let's not ignore how he describes the process of winemaking. We know he's no snob, for he says, "I especially like white wine, so I ordered the Chardonnay," which is sort of like saying, "I especially like movies, so I watch Titanic weekly...oh, my blue-lipped Leo." If you're waiting for how the wine gets its, oh, let's call it grapiness, you have to wait till 1:40 into the video, after we hear about "everything you need" (labels are held up) and after, for that Chardonnay, there's "oak for that oaky, buttery flavor many people love in the best Chardonnays." The acorn doesn't fall far from the vine, I guess. If you like mangling language as much as you like making wine at home, this is the kit for you; after two weeks you get to add "a stabilizer and clarifier to make sure the wine completes the fermentation process." That certainly makes things clear to me, especially since I've thrown my dictionary away.
Best of all, you can be an Artful Winemaker, no muss no fuss. Our expert pal Dave LaRocque shrewdly points out, "You don't have to do the crushing of the grapes with your own feet." So, evidently in the Niagara wine region, they still make wine like this. LaRocque sums things up by claiming the Artful Winemaker is "even for those people who don't know anything about wine." The good news is I can fix that sentence for him. All he needs to do is edit out the "even."
Think I'll go drink me a beer.
*Yes, I am a California wine snob.
I also wanted to agree with Brian Palmer's claim that there seems to be less of a mystery in the making of beer as opposed to wine. I've known many a homebrewer (pleased to meet me), but very few home winemakers. Plus even the process seems more straightforwardly work-person-like: you boil your beer, it's just like cooking, and then when you add the yeast stuff happens in the carboy--you get to see it a-swirling and a-foaming, and sometimes even get to clean it up if it blows the bubbler. Wine seems to involve sitting and waiting and hoping--those barrels don't permit us to see much, and then some evaporates and that gets called the angel's share, as if you need the gods on your side to do it proper.
But I knew people did make wine at home, and how that happened piqued my curiosity. So I Googled, and ended up at the Artful Winemaker, and they kindly offered me a video about how the magic (art?) happens. You really need to go watch, or else my critique won't make much sense. You're still reading, go watch. I mean it. OK, thanks.
First, it appears only white folks can make wine at home. Second, when you're selling a plastic device to make wine, be sure to put it amidst as many real wine-signifying sets as possible--roll out those barrels and shoot amidst the vines. Third, get somebody who looks like Mitt Romney to be your pitchman, as that's about all someone who looks like Mitt is good for.
This video also offers a textbook of wine-talk for dummies, starting with the woman describing that Cab-Shiraz blend as "spicy, warm"--just like my Mexican hot chocolate. Later wine expert Dave LaRocque (I looked him up and he has had a long career, mostly in the wine industry of Niagara--good grapes, now with more honeymooners!)* claims you can make "approachable wine that is soft, fruit-forward, and easy to drink," which, beyond sounding like a personal ad from the Key West Blade, certainly sounds better than saying "you might as well slurp this plonk down for there's nothing to taste or savor."
But back to our Mitt-a-like, let's not ignore how he describes the process of winemaking. We know he's no snob, for he says, "I especially like white wine, so I ordered the Chardonnay," which is sort of like saying, "I especially like movies, so I watch Titanic weekly...oh, my blue-lipped Leo." If you're waiting for how the wine gets its, oh, let's call it grapiness, you have to wait till 1:40 into the video, after we hear about "everything you need" (labels are held up) and after, for that Chardonnay, there's "oak for that oaky, buttery flavor many people love in the best Chardonnays." The acorn doesn't fall far from the vine, I guess. If you like mangling language as much as you like making wine at home, this is the kit for you; after two weeks you get to add "a stabilizer and clarifier to make sure the wine completes the fermentation process." That certainly makes things clear to me, especially since I've thrown my dictionary away.
Best of all, you can be an Artful Winemaker, no muss no fuss. Our expert pal Dave LaRocque shrewdly points out, "You don't have to do the crushing of the grapes with your own feet." So, evidently in the Niagara wine region, they still make wine like this. LaRocque sums things up by claiming the Artful Winemaker is "even for those people who don't know anything about wine." The good news is I can fix that sentence for him. All he needs to do is edit out the "even."
Think I'll go drink me a beer.
*Yes, I am a California wine snob.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Grazing Acres
I'm one of those people not good at planning menus day in advance (no, that's not a missing "s" typo), so that means I tend to end up at a store each evening prior to dinner. I like to flatter myself and pretend this is some European way of living, stopping at the market for whatever's fresh, but I know it's just bad foresight on my part. As a westsider, this means I end up on the Mesa most evenings at Lazy Acres (sometimes we even walk, which is uphill both ways and makes you feel very worthy of a second drink with dinner).
Now, this isn't going to be a review of the store, but I do want to focus on one thing they do, sort of, and that's the issue--cheese samples. I'm all for them of course, for if I were offered the choice of never breathing again or never consuming cheese, I'd take a moment to think that through and perhaps sigh with my very last breath happily scented of fromage. The problem is their teasing nature, at least at Lazy Acres. For often by even 7 pm, which doesn't seem too too late to me (but then again I keep flattering myself to be Europeanish), the pickings are completely picked over. There are a couple ways to solve this dilemma: the one I prefer is, keep stocking up that cheese. The second, get the set up for the samples put away the minute they're finished. I don't want my time in the store to be the equivalent of a teasing peep show.
Alas, it's not just the store that could do things differently when it comes to the samples. The Felix Ungar in me (and does that name even signify for 50% of the population any more? who is this generation's televisual neat-freak?) frets that people might not understand the unspoken toothpick code, and confuse the pick-up and discard spots, even with the discard looking like a mini-garbage pail. But I tend to get over that qualm but thinking, "Yum, free cheese!" The other part is the public might not be worthy of samples for they don't understand that "sample" doesn't mean "how many cubes can I shish-kebob onto my toothpick?" No wonder the samples run out so quickly--it's possible some people build a whole cheese course from the options each evening.
Now, this isn't going to be a review of the store, but I do want to focus on one thing they do, sort of, and that's the issue--cheese samples. I'm all for them of course, for if I were offered the choice of never breathing again or never consuming cheese, I'd take a moment to think that through and perhaps sigh with my very last breath happily scented of fromage. The problem is their teasing nature, at least at Lazy Acres. For often by even 7 pm, which doesn't seem too too late to me (but then again I keep flattering myself to be Europeanish), the pickings are completely picked over. There are a couple ways to solve this dilemma: the one I prefer is, keep stocking up that cheese. The second, get the set up for the samples put away the minute they're finished. I don't want my time in the store to be the equivalent of a teasing peep show.
Alas, it's not just the store that could do things differently when it comes to the samples. The Felix Ungar in me (and does that name even signify for 50% of the population any more? who is this generation's televisual neat-freak?) frets that people might not understand the unspoken toothpick code, and confuse the pick-up and discard spots, even with the discard looking like a mini-garbage pail. But I tend to get over that qualm but thinking, "Yum, free cheese!" The other part is the public might not be worthy of samples for they don't understand that "sample" doesn't mean "how many cubes can I shish-kebob onto my toothpick?" No wonder the samples run out so quickly--it's possible some people build a whole cheese course from the options each evening.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Gold and the Doughnut Factory
You really don't need me to point out what a talented writer Jonathan Gold is--the Pulitzer committee has already done that for you. His appetite seems voracious; his desire to share infectious; his ability to be pals-y without being pushy helps create an "us" of folks serious about food high and low--the only necessary commonality is for everything to be delicious.
As, for instance, in the closing of his LA Times article on Saturday about Umamicatessen, a new downtown spot that features several different vendors in one space, not the least of which is the twee-ly named "& a [drawing of a donut]." The review's finish goes like this:
There is a bemusement that's utterly delightful in these two paragraphs, a sense Gold is both in on a joke but willing to laugh at himself, too. (He's anything but pretentious, even if it often seems he's not just tasted but studied the peasant cuisines of countries that haven't even been founded yet, not to mention all those of countries forgotten, too.) He is both that cynical man (a useful trait for a critic) and one who is ever on the search for enjoyment (the most important trait for a critic). His sentences are wonderfully rhythmic--voiced, which is no surprise if you've heard him on KCRW with Evan Kleiman--and note how the short sentence in paragraph two gets to deliver the punchline, punchy as it is. But think of all the other things he does for you here--makes Wine Spectator-speak make sense, helps you taste a $150 cab for a mere $8, gives you an excuse to purchase a doughnut for $8 (remember when you used to get a cocktail for that much?), leaves you wanting that extraordinarily good bite, teaches you to bite petitely and taste slowly, even makes you pleased with an OK world that's not just filled with extraordinary, if fleeting and rare, mouthfuls of doughnut. That's probably most of our lives.
I have a sneaking suspicion it's not Jonathan Gold's, though.
*And I'll be getting back to the foie gras issue and the ban soon on this blog, as long as I don't choke on the foie, as one commenter to Gold's article, who clearly loves all living things, suggested.
As, for instance, in the closing of his LA Times article on Saturday about Umamicatessen, a new downtown spot that features several different vendors in one space, not the least of which is the twee-ly named "& a [drawing of a donut]." The review's finish goes like this:
You should try the foie gras* doughnut at least once: round, hot and crisp, dusted with ground peanuts. One end leaks jam — "forest berry"' from the cult jelly man Robert Lambert in the Bay Area, which tastes like what the Wine Spectator means when they describe the jammy notes in a $150 Napa Cabernet Sauvignon — and the other a loose, mild foie gras mousse.
A cynical man might insist that the foie gras was put into the doughnut mostly to justify the cost of the jam: Nobody is going to pay $8 for a jelly doughnut, no matter how life-changing. But there is that sweet spot in the middle of the doughnut where foie meets jam, the peanut dust comes into play and you are essentially dealing with the most luxurious peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the world. It is an extraordinarily good bite. Then you're left with the rest of what is merely an extremely good doughnut, but somehow that's OK too.
There is a bemusement that's utterly delightful in these two paragraphs, a sense Gold is both in on a joke but willing to laugh at himself, too. (He's anything but pretentious, even if it often seems he's not just tasted but studied the peasant cuisines of countries that haven't even been founded yet, not to mention all those of countries forgotten, too.) He is both that cynical man (a useful trait for a critic) and one who is ever on the search for enjoyment (the most important trait for a critic). His sentences are wonderfully rhythmic--voiced, which is no surprise if you've heard him on KCRW with Evan Kleiman--and note how the short sentence in paragraph two gets to deliver the punchline, punchy as it is. But think of all the other things he does for you here--makes Wine Spectator-speak make sense, helps you taste a $150 cab for a mere $8, gives you an excuse to purchase a doughnut for $8 (remember when you used to get a cocktail for that much?), leaves you wanting that extraordinarily good bite, teaches you to bite petitely and taste slowly, even makes you pleased with an OK world that's not just filled with extraordinary, if fleeting and rare, mouthfuls of doughnut. That's probably most of our lives.
I have a sneaking suspicion it's not Jonathan Gold's, though.
*And I'll be getting back to the foie gras issue and the ban soon on this blog, as long as I don't choke on the foie, as one commenter to Gold's article, who clearly loves all living things, suggested.
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