sybarites

A short distance from our flat, near the MUNI train stop on Cole Street, is a tiny lighted room with a CLOSED sign in the window that is flanked by giant, empty bottles of sake.  It is next to a large and busy creperie and there is no name; the door leading into this space does not directly face the sidewalk but is rather tucked back around a corner.  It is a sushi restaurant, but it took us several months to figure this out.   We only noticed it because it sits directly across the street from our table in the picture window at the wine bar, and our gaze often fell on this puzzling little operation.

With help from the interweb, we found the name of this boîte: Hama-Ko, and its business hours of 5-9pm.   (No wonder the CLOSED side of the sign is more sun-faded than the OPEN side.)   The customer reviews on Yelp described such an eclectic, fantastic, rule-laden treasure of a sushi joint, that we promised ourselves a visit.   With little expectation of trick-or-treaters last night, we decided it was time.    We arrived slightly before 6pm and were turned away:  they weren’t ready for customers yet.

A half hour later, we returned and were this time warmly welcomed by the wife of the husband-and-wife team that run Hama-ko, sat down at one of 6 tables and ordered a “large sake”.  These are the rules:   be polite, order all your sushi at one time (no fooling around ordering one or two pieces at a time), eat what is recommended, accept unavailability, don’t be loud, turn off your cell phone, don’t add wasabi to your soy sauce, and appreciate your food.  Breaking the rules, we understand, risks a venomous stink eye.  A man at the table next to us walked up to the sushi bar at which the husband-chef worked and asked if he could make a California roll with salmon and lemon on top, something called a “49er roll”.  The chef immediately shook his head no, no he wouldn’t make that, and if “you want a 49er roll, go down the street [to the other sushi place on Cole]”.  The man backed off, saying he wouldn’t go because the sushi here was better.   A grunt and nod from behind the bar. We stuck rigidly to the menu.

And so, unagi, sea scallop, tuna sashimi, monkfish liver, Tokyo roll (prawn & avocado), tako and sake-steamed lobster.  Has it been too long since we’ve had sushi?   Each bite was a pleasure, so fresh, so light.  The unagi – something we both really like – was particularly enjoyable, the warm sauce gently drizzled over warm eel.  We could have been in someone’s home, a little trip to Japan.   There’s no question that we’ll go back.

Upon returning from this near ritual of a supper, I unexpectedly got sucked in to Diners, Drive Ins and Dives on the Food Network, hosted by some jack-ass with bad hair and an wrap-around sunglasses clinging to the back of his head.  Thus I was dragged from delicate sushi to monstrously huge fried things with cheese.   However, at last there was one positive outcome of having watched part of the program:  an inspiration for this morning’s cool weather breakfast of bacon and tomato hash.     A little worcestershire, a good dose of salt, this eye-opener should effectively offset any good that a meal of pure fish and rice could have done.

In an odd conjunction of circumstances last week, we found ourselves eating a dinner of sake and hot dogs.    I had bought some fancy schmancy Niman Ranch hot dogs and gourmet buns with plans to load those babies up with caramelized onions, big lashes of classic French’s mustard and dripping wads of sauerkraut.   Marc likes to steam the buns until they nearly devolve into the dough from whence they came.  Fried up good, these are some tasty dogs.

And then, unexpectedly, we found ourselves with two bottles of sake.   America’s First Sake Store™ True Sake , is located in Hayes Valley, conventiently within walking distance of our place.  October is a bright and sunny T-shirt month here, so we strolled down the hill with no particular intention of buying anything and came away with some new clothes and two interesing-looking bottles of sake.   Don’t know anything about sake, couldn’t name one type or brand to save my life, but we decided a taste test of them would be fun.    What else does one do with such a shop?   We got some blue kind and another bottle that was greenish, both covered in Japanese-  it’s like a blind tasting because we can’t read the labels.

And so, a proper tasting of sake (one was drier than the other one, that’s the best I can do), and squishy, overloaded, messy hot dogs.   How I adore living in this city.

Arguably, art should mimic life and not the other way around.   And arguably, advertising is not really art.   Yet, I purposely arrange my morning coffee to mimic an ad I once saw for Starbucks, trying to sell their beans for people to brew at home.   The image was of one small, rickety folding chair set on a back step of a house in what looked like it could be a garden; on the chair sat a folded section of newspaper and a large Starbucks mug.  The caption  was something like “Coffee for one.”

I’m not a regular ‘bucks drinker anymore, but I never forgot that ad.    Here, in this flat, I find an opportunity to approximate this scenario-  my coffee, my reading material of choice, our wee, cozy garden in the morning sun.

…and a dog nose sniffing through the bedroom window.

My French, she is returning!  But not really.   Usually, she returns only in the form of a thick Québecois accent for humourous commentary.   And yet here, we have les salades d’été.

First, a whim of le Marc in the form of a spicy ceviche with  roasted corn and red pepper salad. This was a first course of a 4-course menu, 3 of which escape my memory.   This is the inaugural attempt at home-made ceviche as the idea of it does flirt with danger:  fish cooked only in citric acid.   Mind you, if underdone, what is the worst that could happen?   The fish was extremely fresh; at worst, we would end up with citrus flavoured sushi, hardly a tragedy.   But the plate, she held perfectly “cooked” mahi mahi, with a pleasantly savoury hint of spiciness from a tiny red chile.

Et puis, nous avons le Salade de Fennels, Mango et Walnuts.  C’était si bel.

Finalement, the French Laundry Salad of Black Mission Figs with Roasted Sweet Peppers and Shaved Fennel.  An impromptu purchase of the fresh figs was what prompted this incarnation.  In the recipe, he writes “In the summer, I’ll find a fennel patch alongside the road, where the buds are still green and haven’t blossomed, and I’l cut all the tops off.”   Off the side of the road!  And it’s true, we see fennel growing everywhere here.  I snap off some wispy fronds as Sammy and I walk by and rub it into my fingers to have the scent with me for awhile.    That licorice bite with the sweet figs and tangy balsamic, a first course that is California.

“Sam so wishes he were human right now.”

“He’s looking at us wondering where his plate is;   ‘Um, I’ll have two tacos, please thank-you.'”

“He wouldn’t even taste the home-made mayonnaise.”

This week turned out to be so very San Francisco.  I patronized two exceptional restaurants, bought a bouquet of flowers I don’t recognize, heard the foghorns drifting up from the bay at night, concocted a delectable dessert, watched a naked protest and walked across the Golden Gate bridge.   “What was that, I’m sorry?   A naked protest?”   Indeed, that is what it was.   Naked men on bikes – one on rollerskates – riding slowly down Market Street at 2:00 in the afternoon on a Saturday.   We were stopped at an intersection so caught the chant, “Less gas, more ass!”   The precise details about what they were protesting was unclear, but from the chant, and the fact that they were on bicycles, I surmised that they were protesting overuse of fossil fuels.   But then why were they naked?   Oh wait-  because it’s San Francisco, and because “ass” rhymes so well with “gas”.

I finally made the short journey to Citizen Cupcake, the restaurant that produces the desserts to end all desserts.  I met two friends for dinner and the rules were that we could not order the same foods.   Ergo, a berry shortcake, a lemon-drop inspired medley, and my chocolate cake-like, Brazil-nut-studded, pineapple-shot-accompanied miracle.   The other two desserts were good, but frankly, my thoughts were focused too keenly on my own plate to have justly tasted the others.  Chocolate, no less!   I have to change my self-described rule of never ordering chocolate. But what really set it apart- what really made it something extraordinary – was the spicy pineapple shot.  There must’ve been cayenne in that there drink, or somethin’, because it made my eyes widen – and then water – in delighted surprise.  Served with chocolate cake and Brazil nuts?  Who thinks of this!?   Elizabeth Falker, that’s who. My new hero, she who created the recipe for the sweetness I built last Tuesday: condensed vanilla custard with caramel crisps and pistachio cookies.  Jaw-achingly sweet, even though the cookies are almost savory with their saffron edge.   It is, perhaps, a little much when consumed in the same day as the cherry pie Marc made (the first pie he has ever made), but somehow, we managed to find enough will-power to eat both.  For breakfast.

I came to the realization some time ago that I am not a dessert person. I rarely order from the dessert menu, am never tempted by the ubiquitous chocolate concoctions available for $8.00. Occasionally, I might be talked into sharing a few bites of something with a fruit compote. My after-dinner weakness takes the form of cheese, much harder to resist than sweetness: a lovely, hard, rich cheese to nibble on between sips of a dessert wine, a creamy blue cheese to melt on the tongue.

But then, from the library, I borrowed Elizabeth Falkner’s Demolition Desserts, and have been unexpectedly converted to the dark side. She’s local, this woman, owner and operator of Citizen Cake and Citizen Cupcake. I know of her, I’ve read about her in cooking magazines, seen her on TV, but have yet to walk the short distance to her restaurant to sample the art. It’s definitely on the list of places to try, indeed, walking to the library constitutes a quarter of the distance it would take to get to the café, and we practically drive past it each week for groceries, but I haven’t mustered the motivation to go out just for dessert. Now, perhaps, ça vaut le voyage.

This is a book in which I am actually tempted to try each and every one of the recipes. The pictures make my mouth water and I enjoy reading the background explanation for each creation, how she came up with the idea and the title for each. The fact that each dessert has a title should be proof that they are works of art, like “Untitled II: Chocolate with Raspberry and Fennel Tones“. The first recipe in book, and the first one I tried, was perhaps not art per se, but rather a plain warm-up to what was to come: I started wtih Chocolate Chip Cookies Straight Up. I have, what I consider, The Best Chocolate Chip cookie recipe- doesn’t everyone? – so I was curious to try another person’s interpretation of The Best, especially that of an artiste. Plus, I had on hand some fabulous Dagoba dark chocolate chips (I will never go back to milk chocolate) and turbinado sugar which, at Elizabeth’s suggestion, decided to experiment with in a cookie recipe. The one main difference I noticed in this version was that it included baking powder, which I had never put in cookies, but which yielded very pretty, puffy, chewy cookies. Alas, they were not as good as The Best. I suppose personal taste is everything.

Skipping ahead, I settled on a plated dessert to try: Norcal (An Homage to Laura Chenel) – chevre rice pudding, dates, candied kumquats, pistachios, honey. I chose this one only because we had goat cheese on the point of souring in the fridge, which turned out to be an unlikely and fortuitous happenstance. Kumquats just happened to be on sale and, oddly, Medjool dates were actually on special display at the grocery, so it was practically destined. I didn’t realize that rice pudding could taste this good. How could I ever have known that such ingredients could be combined to transform what is normally a cloudy sludge into light, fluffy, salty, sweet magic? I will never look at rice the same way again.

Thus initiated, it took little time to decide on the next experiment: Lovelova: Persian Strawberry and Saffron Pavlova. This, now this, is quite possibly the best dessert I have ever tasted. It is rose-perfumed bliss, every bite enveloping my senses with strawberries and saffron, roses and pistachios; it is something to taste with the whole mouth. I am astonished and continue to be astonished with how good this is. I have not, as yet, bought the twenty-two dollar bottle of pistachio oil which is the only thing I skipped in the presentation of this dessert, but now, I feel that the droplets of dressing to surround the sweetness warrant the purchase. It certainly won’t expire because there will be no shortage of occasions to use it. This sensational dessert and I am only three recipes in! We have some amazing 3-course meals in our future.

By the bye, I include this photo of Coconut-Lime Cake with Mascarpone Frosting. It sounded good in the magazine, but the dry, heavy cake is an example of why I don’t normally go in for dessert. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the picture. And the frosting.

For some reason, I’ve been noticing the sidewalk writing lately. I don’t know if it’s because we walk so often now that we don’t have a car, or if it’s because people hereabouts tend to express themselves more frequently by writing in wet pavement, but it seems more prominent. April 16, 1970 must have been a particularly inspiring and particularly empty day in the neighbourhood as it is the day that DANNY SCHUMACHER wrote his name and the date in at least 5 different places.

Several statements have caught my notice these days:

• Love Yourself
• Scott Loves Jason
• POOP (with a smiley face with X’s for eyes)
• Fuck Nixon
• Fuck Teeth
• Eat Your Acid, We Ate Ours
• Let Them Eat Cats
• The Joy of Soy

… and a home-printed poster taped to a tree in Golden Gate Park that was a memorial to someone’s dog named Dude- “he fought for a long time to stay with us but lost the battle in the end. So long, Dude!”

And while we’re on the topic, I can’t forget the out-of-the-ordinary folks that cross our path in the course of our walks: the guy wearing several random pieces of suede safety-pinned around his person in order to form a kind of neo-native-punk look, complete with feather-decorated mohawk and bead jewellery; the man singing the Star-Spangled Banner, opera-style, alone in his parking garage on a Tuesday morning so that it echoed into the street; the man walking down Stanyan carrying a large American flag for seemingly no reason; the woman who, half-way through walking across an intersection, stopped to get on her unicycle, turn right, and proceed down the hill; the man who asked me about Sam “How’s the baby-boy this morning?” He’s fine. He’d like to know how you are.

First of firsts: I successfully created mayonnaise. The qualifier is important here because this is not my first attempt, but it is the first time mayonnaise was actually realized.

The first attempt was made in Istanbul when, in a fit of craving for tuna salad sandwiches, we gathered together the ingredients I figured would make mayo in the small kitchen in the apartment we had rented. Needless to say, there was no convenience mayo to be found in sealed jars in the local market; plenty of baklava, pistachios and lamb, not a hint of mayo. What exactly constituted this creamy dressing/spread was kind of blurry- I was certain there was egg yolk involved (otherwise why all the hulabaloo about keeping potato salad out of the sun at picnics?) and there was definitely oil, because emulsification was a an ingredient.. but beyond that…? Anyway, that first feeble shot was grossly short of anything resembling Miracle Whip. The version of last weekend, because approached with a recipe in hand and the trepidation associated with a previous failure, was a delicious success! Orangette, a food blogger whom I read and who now writes for Bon Appétit, described how to properly obtain a creamy, salty, even spreadable condiment and I was inclined to believe her report. Marc had insisted that we purchase an “emergency” jar of convenience mayo- justifiably, I suppose, as he was witness to the first attempt. But after having tasted the real thing, it remains unopened on the pantry shelf. Sprinkled with chives, it was first applied to home-made burgers, and since then has graced our plates several times- enough that we even had to make a second batch! I don’t know that we’ll go back.

Second of firsts: the Bay To Breakers race in San Francisco. 12 kilometeres, hordes of people, several rollerskaters, numerous mobile beer kegs built from transformed shopping carts, costumes, live bands and plenty of nonchalant nudity. It is really less a race and more a public parade. It wends its way through the park about 2 blocks south our our place so this year we spectated, not knowing what was what; next year we’ll definitely participate.

And last, but certainly not least, this past weekend marked the first time I had ever tasted morel mushrooms. Why, you ask? Partly because the sign above their bin in the grocery reads $59.99/lb. and partly because they’re seasonal. But if ever there is a time to lash out and buy them, it’s for use in one of the French Laundry recipes: Pan-Roasted Main Jumbo Scallops with Morel Mushrooms and Asparagus Purée. Sure, we’ll get four ounces. Even the people at the check-out comment on them “Oh wow, going with the morels, huh? I hear they’re awesome.” [direct quote] (Of course, this is the Rainbow Grocery, a place where the beers are gourmet, where the cheese is made from raw milk and where you can buy three different kinds of pink salt. In bulk.)

Once again, this recipe proved to be over-the-top laborious and as such, exceedingly enjoyable as an afternoon’s pursuit. The asparagus stems blanched and puréed, the morels sauteed in a little alot of butter with shallots and brunoise, tomato diamonds, seared scallops with ladles of buerre montée, and I produced this representation of springtime on a plate.

A few brief bites and it’s over, but this is the kind of thing that makes me realize why it is worth whatever we pay for good food. Good food, and good wine- for we enjoyed this with a bottle of Chardonnay (Chardonnay! something at which I normally wrinkle my nose in distaste!) purchased at Bouchaine whilst wine touring in Napa with Dave and Makela the week before. We had viewed the very vines from which this wine was produced, which I suppose is not that miraculous, but when consumed with such glorious food, that one Sunday-evening appetizer made the Monday that followed that much lighter.