Mirror to the Local Soul

I learned at a very young age that to really get to know a culture, you need to shop where the natives shop.  I also learned at a very young age that of all shopping, I prefer the food kind of shopping.

When I was about 10 years old, I lived in the diesel-crusted capitol city of a middle-eastern country, and for some inexplicable reason my parents allowed me to go to the local koutche store and bread shop alone.  There, I would buy warm, fresh barbari or nan-e taftoon and carry it to our marble and parquet home, where my mother would prepare simple sandwiches with crunchy green onions, a creamy cheese or butter, and salt.  This freedom was brought to an abrupt halt by a violent revolution that involved lots of hostages and embassy explosions that gripped the Western world for quite some time. 

But this story is about a western culture in another hemisphere in a new millennium.

My friend Vanessa was in town recently from Boston, on vacation, and so she was a tourist.  When she visits, she always brings a few trinkets from her most recent adventures—prayer beads, bracelets, necklaces—that she no doubt procures from bazaars and independent artisans that sell their crafts along pathways to this or that point of significance.  While Vanessa likes food as much as I do, she tends to survey local cultures through their crafts. 

Through these two perspectives—of food and of crafts—we discovered a view of San Francisco that I, as a local, had not yet seen.  It was the view from Treasure Island, filtered that day through the Treasure Island Flea.

It is oddly fitting to find a flea market on a place called Treasure Island, though if you’re unfamiliar with this particular Treasure Island you wouldn’t know that it dangles like a patina pendant from the Bay Bridge, halfway between Oakland and San Francisco. 

Admittedly, it was a pretty cold and windy Saturday morning, even with the mostly clear, blue sky.  Treasure Island Flea is held on the last Saturday of the month, a kind of appetizer to the Bay Area’s mother-of-all-flea-markets, the Alameda flea market, made popular recently by the Afghani protagonist from the wildly popular book The Kite Runner.  We paid our $3 entrance fees, and I scanned the tent tops for the food stalls—sadly, way at the other end of the market.  We started to troll the booths. 

Sometimes, you get lucky.

I immediately spotted a chunky, silver David Yurman-style necklace that the vendor explained was from the ‘70s.  I plunked down a whopping six bucks, and chirping with delight, showed off my acquisition.  People craned their necks to see, anxious to find the next treasure hidden in these piles of old bracelets and necklaces.  I could feel the silent, competitive energy, and felt triumphant.

We grazed through stalls of vintage American ‘70s and ‘80s clothing, 20^th century jewelry, accessories, and household goods like brass lions, hammered buckets, and lawn chairs. Somebody walked by with a large paper cone filled with miniature donuts covered with icing and colored sprinkles.  We were getting closer to the food.  I felt like one of those hungry lions on the Discovery Channel, stalking its knock-kneed prey.  I distinctly remember craving coffee. 

My friend Sheryl had joined us, and eventually, we three separated, each immersed in our own obsessions.  I made a break for the food stalls, but not without a brief delay to purchase two dashing, pink, deer-resistant plants from a horticulturalist. 

I shamelessly inspected each small kitchen, not hesitating to stare at other people’s food and how they were eating it, here in the wind with no tables and a sea-level view of San Francisco’s east face.  South American, Italian, Greek, the choices were all intriguing.  It was hard to decide, which reminds me of when I was in grade school, and my friend Sally and I would ride our bikes into town on half-day Tuesdays to buy candy, and I would labor for minutes (read: hours to a 2^nd grader) over which candy bar to buy… Marathon, Butterfinger, Almond Joy… so many choices, only one lifetime!  I might have been better off growing up in an Eastern Bloc country, where I hear the options were much more limited. 

I decided on an arepa, because I’d never eaten one.  Oh, it was good!  A crusty, gluten-free bread pocket stuffed with black beans, avocado, shredded cheese, and tomato.  Oh, the joy!  People ogled at my arepa, and I pointed to the stall with my saucy fingers.

It didn’t take long for Vanessa and Sheryl to fall in line.  There was immediate and unanimous consensus that we must have—and share—one of those paper cones stuffed with Harvey’s mini donuts.  We did.  Chocolate glazed, if you’re wondering.  At the bottom, the donut crumbs float in the melted chocolate.  You want to be the one holding the cone at the end.

Freshly juiced, we poked around a jewelry table, where the artist assembles necklaces with chain and found objects like old keys, locks, etched glass hearts, and so on.  We each bought one, a silent bond.

At this flea market, floating on the Bay, you won’t find any Moroccan spices, prayer beads, or dreamweavers. Rather, you'll find food, crafts, and treasures of two water-rimmed cities in 21^st century America.

Special thanks to Vanessa, guest photographer for all the images in this blog post.

Truffle Popcorn

It was Tuesday, around 11:52 a.m., and I was hungry.  Lunch hungry.  But I had a lunch date at 2:30, so I needed to eat something that could hold me for a couple of hours but not fill me up, because I knew I was going to stuff myself at the restaurant.


A pantry scan turned up a half-eaten bag of raw pistachios, a set of red, green, and orange colored honey sticks, and a few cans of sustainably-caught-along-the-California-coast wild sardines.  Ho hum.


Then I saw the popcorn.  And I could only think of Truffle Popcorn.  Michael Mina's Truffle Popcorn.

Truffle Popcorn Parts

For those of you who have eaten truffle popcorn, you probably have truffle oil in your kitchen, because once you've tasted truffle popcorn, you must make and eat it often.  I first had truffle popcorn at Michael Mina, a stellar restaurant on the first floor of the Westin St. Francis Hotel, which sits astride the city's Union Square.  The popcorn was served in a raised bowl, which sat in something like an iron ring supported by iron legs.  The pulpy, pink pomegranate martini that was served with it was equally divine.  Since then, there has been no match.


I'm not exactly sure how Michael's people make his truffle popcorn.  I've tried to replicate it a few times, and have developed a recipe that is light and truffle-y with a pinch of salt and a complement of fresh parsley.  I know it's good, because I ate the entire bowl before I remembered I was going to photograph it.  That's why there's only one photo here, of the ingredients.


Lately, I've been using a bag of Amish Country Rainbow Popcorn, which I bought from a Mennonite clerk in Rawlins, Wyoming last September (warning: don't be like my parents and think rainbow popcorn pops into colored popcorn).  I wouldn't be surprised if Michael Mina uses butter in his recipe, but I like to keep mine simple.  


This is my recipe, for one person:


2 to 3 cups popped corn (I prefer an air popper for a clean, light pop)
2 to 3 teaspoons truffle oil
Generous tablespoon fresh, chopped parsley (do not attempt this recipe with dried parsley.  Ew.)
Truffle salt


Drizzle a teaspoon of truffle oil around the bottom of the bowl.  Drop half of your popped corn into the bowl.  Add another drizzle of truffle oil, half of the parsley, and a pinch of truffle salt.  Drop the rest of your popped corn into the bowl, and finish with the remaining oil, parsley, and another pinch of salt.  Stir it up.  Carry your bowl to your favorite sitting spot, and eat.

If you happen to have a pomegranate martini on hand, you might want to bring that too.

Hungry Girl Eats at Nem Nuong, Little Saigon, Orange County

Too often I fall in love with one dish or another that I first sampled in some far away place.  Then I can't get it out of my mind, and I just want to go back, or try to make it.  


By far away, I mean somewhere that I can't reasonably get to on a weeknight for dinner, like Orange County, CA.


And more specifically, a Vietnamese restaurant named Nem Nuong, which is tucked away in the back of the lackluster Mall of Fortune in Garden Grove in Orange County.  Even if you had the address right, and your GPS was spot on, you might think twice before actually getting out of your car and walking into the restaurant.


My Vietnamese friend Kim (seriously) recommended it when she heard I was going to Huntington Beach to visit friends.  I have a policy about eating in ethnic restaurants, which I do as often as possible.  The policy requires that in order to eat in an ethnic restaurant, most of the clientele must be of that ethnicity.  Not negotiable, ever.  For my Vietnamese friend to recommend this restaurant 500 miles away was a solid endorsement.  Plus, she practically drooled when she told me about the spring rolls.  "They famous," she said.

Meat Rolls (Brodard image)

I was a little nervous about dragging my friends to this restaurant, site unseen.  But when I mentioned it, they were floored!  Turns out the restaurant, part of the Brodard Group (of two) Restaurants, is locally famous, and centered in the Little Saigon part of town.  They'd been there before, and were happy to go back.


We ordered the Vegetarian Saigon Style Spring Rolls, oversized, stuffed with shredded tofu, mushrooms, vermicelli, sweet potato, lettuce, cucumber, carrot and mint.  All wrapped in a perfect rice paper, served with a delicious dipping sauce.  They lived up to their reputation, and made a meal unto themselves.  I must have more, as soon as possible.  We ordered a table full of dishes, some soups, some noodles, the works.  The waiters patiently rearranged our condiments and sauces when we bungled the  accompaniments.  By meal's end, we were stuffed, and the sizable restaurant was full.  


Total bill for six people for dinner: $89.00, including drinks and tip.  We'll all go back for more.

Splitboard: The New Snowboard for Backcountry Boarders

As a snowboarder, I often gaze longingly outside ski resort boundaries at all the fresh powder.  I snap back to reality when it hits me how hard--and dangerous--it will be to trek up to the ridge and make it down to the chair lift without an emergency Ski Patrol escort.

I was thrilled to learn about splitboards, just this week.  A splitboard, according to splitboard.com, is a regular snowboard that splits apart into two halves that become skis.  You can see how they work in this video.  Here's another one; turn up the volume on your computer first (remember to close your door if you are in the office).

I thought I had discovered a brand new product, but splitboards have been around for about 20 years.  A core group of backcountry snowboarders, who likely got fed up with trudging through the snow carrying a board on the way up and skis on the way down, stuck with the idea.  A side benefit is that, even though splitboards will set you back several hundred bucks, you don't have to arrange or pay for a helicopter to fly you up the mountain.

Kudos to the people at splitboard.com, who, not long ago, decided to build an online forum for "splitters."  This online forum pools together user feedback.  The result?  One, new ideas.  Two, the product development process has greatly improved.  Manufacturers have already modified snowboard gear to accommodate splitboards.  And let's face it, the snowboard business could use something more fresh than hip-hugger pants.

It's inspiring to see an industry embrace customer innovation and feedback to fulfill an unmet need and expand the category in the process, without adding blue crystals.

My Face is Burning!

My face is burning.  It started last night, in the Jeep on the way home.  One by one, it happened to the other passengers too.  About every hour, someone would cry out "My face is burning!"

Actually, it all started before last night.  Without going too far back, this particular story started just a few days after the recent cascade of epic disasters hit Japan.  When I heard the news of potential radiation danger in Tokyo, I called my friend Ellie-ko, who I met shortly after she migrated here from Japan 15 years ago, but who I haven't seen in two or three years outside of Facebook.  If you have kids you know how quickly these years can go by without seeing your friends.  It's not that you lose your friends when you have kids, it's that you get a lot more friends.  First, there are the pre-school friends, then the soccer friends, the baseball friends, then the school friends, and so on.  And you still only have 365 24-hour days to hang out with these friends.

With the news that Ellie-ko's family was okay, the subject matter quickly turned to catch-up, which then with remarkable speed turned into a plan to go snowboarding at Sugarbowl.  Sugarbowl is the first ski resort you hit when you drive the 80 East toward Reno from San Francisco.  Its convenient location makes it easy to get there, snowboard, and come home on the same day.

Which is precisely what we did.

When we planned this day trip, we were unaware that a string of winter storms would dump epic snow there just before our arrival.

Can you tell there is a house under here?  Yes, a whole house.

I recruited my friend Cindy, a telemark skier who needed a day off from managing a dynamic household that includes three kids.  We were accompanied by Bill, a dad and skier who, when chatting with Ellie-ko at their kids' curbside drop-off the day before, asked if he might come along too.

Our foursome was complete, and the Jeep was loaded with gear by 7 a.m. behind the local Peet's Coffee & Tea.  The sun just rising--which, by the way, it does here 10 minutes after it does there, at Sugarbowl--a medium half-caf and petite vanilla bean scone in hand, I hit the gas and we hit the highway.

We were among the first customers to arrive at Ikeda's in Auburn.  This is a popular half-way point where travelers load up on road food, mountain snacks, and fresh baked pie.  Apparently the chicken pot pies are to die for.  Ikeda is located a few doors up the street from Lou La Bonte's.  Lou La Bonte's has always fascinated me from the freeway.  It's the kind of dark, windowless restaurant that was popular in the 1940s.  I imagine very senior citizens pulling their oxygen machines along with them on the way to their dinner tables as they talk through their cigarettes.

This fellow had already put 30 hours into clearing this private driveway.

Just before Donner Pass, the slopes, sun kissed, white, and mostly empty, came into view.  Did I mention it was already 50 degrees?  We parked, stepped out of the car, and removed layers of clothing.  This was spring skiing, right on time.  And if you've ever boarded or skied on peanut butter, you know exactly what it was like.  I heard someone refer to it as "trying to board on thick cake batter."  The waxing hut was busy all day.

We made our way to the top of Mt. Lincoln.  I like to traverse almost all the way over to the west, past Silver Belt and across The '58 to just before The Palisades.  These are a series of tall butte-like cliffs, which, to descend safely, require a measurably higher level of skill than I have right now.  There is a lot of terrain along this north face to explore--mostly trees, chutes, and cliffs.  After a few runs here, we slogged our way over to Mt. Disney, met up with our friend Liz who moved from San Francisco to Truckee a while back, and carved our way through very forgiving snow on the wide groomers.

One of the highlights of Sugarbowl is the Angel Hair Pasta dish that you can get at the Nob Hill Cafe. We met up with college friends Mike and Margot and ate this lazy meal on the deck in the sun before we geared up for the afternoon.  More Disney, more Mt. Lincoln, and one by one we dispersed across the mountains, finding our own favorite spots.  I had lots of slope to myself after 3:00.

The plan was to meet at the bar at 4:00, which is exactly what happened.  Equipped with Bloody Marys, beer, and wine we sat outside in sunshine and t-shirts and recounted the day.  Helmets and goggles off, our faces exposed, we felt the burn in spite of two applications of sunscreen.  The big ball of gas was low in the sky when we gathered our gear and pointed the Jeep down the mountain.  We stopped in Auburn, again, for an al fresco dinner, and filled our bellies with Tio Pepe's Mexican food and margaritas.

My face is still burning.   I need to dig up that little jar of Darphin Purifying Baum that I got on Cape Cod a while back for sunburn.  It's predicted to reach 80 degrees here today, and the sun coming through the southwest facing window is approaching my computer screen.  I can feel the salty Pacific breeze on my arms.  The air smells warm.  It was a good day on a snowy mountain with old friends and new.

Urban Adventure: Dogpatch

I didn't pack any heat when I navigated my way to Dogpatch, an industrialized corner of San Francisco that is closer to its history than to its future.

Dogpatch is situated about halfway between AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants, your 2010 World Series champions, and Candlestick Park, home of the hapless 49ers. Which is symbolic: the yin of victorious fortune juxtaposed with the yang of past glory. This neighborhood's pedigree is rich, but not in the Pacific Heights kind of way. Here, you meet for drinks in bars with names like Retox. The city's Hell's Angels chapter is headquartered here.

I didn't really know what I was getting into...a friend of a friend knew a guy who had some kind of inventory business that sold wine at deep discounts. And I needed 168 bottles for a fundraiser party just four days away for a crowd of 250 people who live the next county over from Sonoma. After I made the appointment, I called back to see what kinds of payments they accepted, thinking I might need to bring a roll of cash and a beefy guy named Paulie. The response was "don't worry, we'll take care of you."

I brought my dog, just in case.

I'd been in the area before, buying raw materials from screamy Asian ladies who have seen God-knows-what in their lives for my apparel business, so I knew enough to know how to get to the warehouse without a map. Which was good, because no matter how many ways I typed the address into my navigation system, it was not recognized. Which made me wonder, if, in an emergency, the police could find me.

I was hardly comforted when I crossed over the tracks, off of Third Street, and saw a faded sign for the business firmly pointing down a very narrow alley lined with chain link fencing. The building alongside was a beautiful old brick warehouse, long condemned. Its facades had settled, hunched, like a tired old man.

The alley opened into an lot surrounded by more old warehouses, seemingly lifeless. A few cars were parked along the length of a truck that was backed up to the loading dock of what appeared to be the place I was looking for--indicated by the rows and rows of wine boxes stacked on palettes inside.  One or two guys were milling around outside. I parked the Jeep, turned my hat to the rain, climbed onto the dock, and entered the warehouse. The place seemed abandoned, as if someone had just yelled "IRS AGENT!"

I had a feeling I was being watched, by something human or not.  I poked around until a guy showed up, who escorted me to the office.  This was a windowless, overstuffed room with two men sitting at an old desk under flourescent light.  Think gray, white, and cold, and you've got the picture.

"I'm looking for a guy named Larry."

"He's Larry," said one guy.

"He's Larry," said the other guy about the one guy, who looked up at me and asked:

"Are you here to collect money?"

"No.  I'm here to buy wine."

The second Larry excused himself, and left.

"Buy wine" were the magic words.  Within about two minutes there were glasses, a basket of plump fresh strawberries, and seven bottles of wine to open and taste.  I chose the rocks glass over the plastic wine glass, and turned over an open envelope to use as a white background.

The first bottle was a Tuscan white, perfect for sitting at a Florentine cafe table for two on a hot summer day.  I bought a couple cases of that.  The remaining bottles were red--mostly cab blends, some with merlot, some with other exotic grapes.  I opted for a few cases of a 100% cabernet sauvignon, and a few cases of a cabernet/merlot blend.

After the transaction, the Jeep was loaded, and I drove away with a warm feeling about this tough, gray neighborhood.  Partly due to a few sips of wine, but mostly to the discovery of a buried treasure in my own back yard.

Smoked Trout Salad, Outfitted

The Smoked Trout Salad was so good, we went back, and I ordered it again.


With all the rivers and Lake Powell right there, well, in the general vicinity, I should not have been so surprised to find smoked trout on the menu.  The first time I ordered it, the meal arrived at our outdoor table on a fisherman's platter with a thick base layer of fresh mixed greens, long, thick toast points of country bread, cheese, olives, and two generous fillets of smoked trout.  

We were six days in from our jumping off point in Las Vegas, and the meal satisfied.


The outdoor table and matching chairs were black iron, and set with four or five other tables on the wooden porch of Escalante Outfitters.  We'd restocked here before, but didn't recall the cafe, now wireless, that is accessible through the east wall of the store.  Along the northwest corner of the Outfitters is the cash register, behind which is a cozy display of spirits.  I can't be sure, but it may be the only retailer in town that carries this kind refreshment; the town's grocery store pretty much sticks with milk, juice, and soda.  There's a gas station that sells hot dogs and hamburgers, and an intriguing cafe that advertises Mexican food.  I'm saving that for the next trip.  The cafe proper, which apparently focused on just coffee, never seemed to be open.  There's another restaurant up the road a couple of miles that apparently makes a killer sandwich.  That too is for the next trip.


I like this place, this store, which I first visited fourteen years ago, and think of often, which is odd considering it's really just a modest outfitter in the middle of what most people would describe as nowhere.


There's just something different about this store, in this place.  You walk into a cafe hanging off the side of an outfitters, mostly empty tables, a couple of guys peering into their open laptops, a thinly packed display counter, and you just don't expect a whopping good Smoked Trout Salad.  


This is Escalante, Utah, long inhabited by several waves of Native Americans.  In 1876, Mormon pioneers showed up, fleeing among other things religious persecution in a country that had very recently established itself on certain freedoms, including that of religion.  They chose to settle, and there they remain, just a handful of generations after building their first homesteads, many of which you can discern on a slow ride through town from their dark, worn wooden exteriors, simple yet functional design, and sagging roofs.


There's a solemnity in Escalante, almost as if there's a collective "shhh" to remind you that you are deep into a place that is still closer to earth, in its true form, than to man and his forms.


The Outfitters is the symbolic and functional portal, the one place that holds the most things of modern man.  Step outside and you are almost alone again.  No pedestrians, an occasional drive-by vehicle, a few homes that seem uninhabited, but are.  I've often wondered "where is everybody?"


They do come out; the grocery store had two cashiers on duty.  The gas station had two extremely accommodating attendants.  And on Sunday, the day we went back for seconds on that salad, we witnessed several on the Latter-Day walk.  There are farms, with plants growing.  But I've never seen anyone actually farming.  There are homes, but I've never seen anyone sitting on a porch, or coming or going, or swinging on a swingset, or mowing the lawn.  I did see one dog huffing along the side of a road.  I preferred to think he knew where he was going.


Is it possible that this dog's own ancestors accompanied their pioneer companions and  cattle from this town to the Escalante River, seeking a pathway to a more southern land of plenty?  It is well documented that they came through here, and kept south, stopping to make camp at a massive red rock garden.  This garden, one entirely made by earth and no man, is entered from the west through an imposing natural esplanade named Dance Hall Rock.  Just 132 years ago, this abandoned rock rocked with the square-dancing pioneers who had paused on their journey to wait for the scouting and road construction party ahead to pave their way.

Beyond this entry Rock, more rock-- actually Navajo sandstone, famous in the region for its direct relationship to dinosaurs-- in massive undulating mounds, with pits carpeted by desert gardens that landscapers break their backs to emulate.  You could spend hours scaling the rocks, seeing not a soul, hearing not a soul.  Feeling just the wind and the sun, widening your eyes to filter the bright oranges, greens, yellows, pinks, and blues.  


You could get stuck in one of the pits and die.  Quickly.  Or slowly.  I'm serious.


Which is maybe why, after peering into several of these pits and considering such a lonely death, I felt the comfortable joy of a homecoming and was so happy to eat that man-made Smoked Trout Salad back at the Outfitters. 

One Tiny Enoteca

When you're walking the streets of unfamiliar cities, it's often best to surpress the survival of the fittest instinct and squeeze yourself into and through as many dark alleyways as you can find.  If you've been to places like Venice or Florence, in Italy, you know exactly what I mean.  I did this recently, a few times, and oh what beautiful gems were hidden behind the soot-encrusted gray facades!  When the artist Brunilleschi was just figuring out how to illustrate using perspective 600 years ago, he was probably standing at the opening of one end of these long alleys, or maybe he was standing right here, on the edge of the Arno:

Ponte Vecchio at Dusk

I could write miles of paragraphs about the tasty meals I've eaten inside some of these gems, and maybe I will, eventually.  Today, I will write about the tiniest gem of them all, Il Santino Bevitore.


Il Santino is one of those places I can't get out of my mind, and I regret that it is on another continent.  This enoteca gastronomia is located just enough off the beaten path from the Ponte Vecchio, closer to the Ponte alla Carrola, on Via Santo Spirito, Firenze.


I came upon this little enoteca at the end of a long, cool, pedestrian day that included a thorough tour of the Pitti Palace and accompanying Boboli Gardens.  I was with my mother, and we were among the last people to squeeze out of a side gate at dusk.  We were hungry, and in a mindset and position to find a nice meal.  We meandered through the streets looking for an open market that we had encountered earlier in the week, hoping to grab some good street food and a few mementos.


We happened upon a modest storefront on Via dei Serragli that caught our attention.  The establishment was, and still is, Silathai Thai Massage Center.  After five days of trekking the cobblestone of Firenze, Silathai had exactly what we needed.  Foot massages.  


We went in.


The foyer was like a sanctuary, dimly lit and peaceful.  The ceilings were frescoed with  biblical themes, complete with cherubic angels cushioned on billowy white clouds floating in sky blue.  The man behind the desk, at street level, greeted us warmly, and after a discussion of services, put us in the books for full body massages.  Unfortunately, he explained, he could not take us both at the same time, at that moment, but would we be willing to sit in the lounge and have tea for 10 minutes, when both his masseuses would be available?


Sit in the lounge we did, drinkng tea and invoking pranayama.  The massages were fabulous.  We regrouped in Silathai's lounge, that space which blends historic Firenze and ancient mudra in sublime balance.

The Before Picture
(no, seriously, a sculpture from the Palazzo Medici)

Speaking of blends, it was time for cocktails.  Backs cracked and feet restored, we hit the streets, now pitch dark, looking for our next feast.  That's when we found Il Santino.

We came upon Il Santino just past 7 o'clock, er, 19:00, before which time it is a waste to even think about eating dinner in Italy, and in just enough time that we arrived at Il Santino before almost everyone else did.  The floor-to-ceiling glass entry door opened onto one end of a deli counter, which ran most of the distance to the back of the enoteca.  Behind the counter was a brasserie style mirrored wall, and on top of the counter was a massive red and silver meat slicer.  All around, animal parts, salted and dry.  The young proprietor spent his evening loading these parts onto the slicer then transferring the cuts onto serving plates.  Inside the counter, a few traditional Tuscan dishes in various jars and on platters.


Opposite the mirrored wall a few customers sat on a dark wooden bench which also ran the length of the enoteca.  Four tables stood out from the bench, each surrounded by a chair or two.  We pounced on the last one of four tables in the entire shoebox-sized gastronomic delight.  The tables were wooden, round, and about 18" in diameter, roughly the size of an extra large cheese pizza.


Non parlo Italiano, and the server didn't speak English.  She got the point however that we wanted two good glasses of white wine, meat, cheese, and bread.  We tasted a couple of options in the wine category and selected a crispy, cool Italian blend.  Not long after, two generous antipasti platters appeared, one spread with freshly sliced meats, the other covered with small mounds of regional cheeses and a fruit spread.  Next to us sat a family of four, and we gawked curiously at the dishes that periodically arrived at their table.


Stuffed, we paid il conto and left this tiny enoteca, with its meat slicer, wine, and four tables.   It was a place you might not expect to find, or enter, at the end of an alley or the foot of a blackened building.  Despite its diminutive facade, the life inside was big, bold, and familial. 

Joulu, Free

Meet Joulu.

Joulu, in haste

Joulu is a happy California sea lion.  Joulu is running home to the Pacific Ocean from a kennel carrier in which he was placed at the crest of Rodeo Beach, facing west, for his release after a stint in rehab at The Marine Mammal Center (TMMC) in Sausalito, CA.

Joulu is one of about 600 California sea lions, elephant seals, and harbor seals that find their way, mostly involuntarily, to TMMC each year.  I say mostly, because TMMC admits a few marine mammals that are affectionately referred to as Repeat Offenders who just seem to prefer the hospitality in the company of other rescued marine mammals in an environment free of predators.  This is a fraction of the total number that checks into the network of marine mammal centers along American shorelines every year.  These centers rescue, rehabilitate, and release the animals back to the wild.  They also study the animals so that we can understand our oceans better, and educate the public.


Occasionally someone will call and report a fur seal, sea turtle, or a dolphin in distress.  When I arrived at TMMC on January 21, 2011, the day of Joulu's release, a concerned woman had just called to report that a penguin was walking along a road in Montara.  Penguins don't normally frequent the northern hemisphere, which is that half of the planet in which Montara is situated, so the dispatcher thanked her for the call and told her it was probably a migrating sea bird and to call us back if things got worse.   

But this is a story about Joulu, a lovely sea lion who got to go home that day.   

In his picture, he is dashing with impressive agility and speed as California sea lions do.  Unlike seals, for whom sea lions are commonly mistaken, and who scoot along the beach on their bellies, sea lions use their flippers to walk or run.


Joulu, a male juvenile, was first observed on Monterey State Beach on December 23, 2010 drinking water and lethargic on the sand by the base of Wharf #2.  A rescue attempt was aborted when Joulu returned to the ocean.  He was spotted again on December 29, and this time the rescue was a success.  Joulu was transported to Sausalito for the vet team to evaluate on December 30.  At 39 kilos he was moderately underweight, so he received treated for malnutrition and released 22 days later.


Some arrive at TMMC so young that they don't even know how to hunt for food.  As such, they are stabilized and then enrolled in Fish School, where a team of trained volunteers teaches these pups how to catch fish.  Once they are healthy and demonstrate they can hunt for, catch, and eat fish on their own in the pools, the pupils are about ready for release.


For Joulu's release, like most others, a team of TMMC staff and volunteers loaded him into a kennel carrier and lifted him onto the bed of a pick-up truck.

I drove the truck accompanied by a young volunteer who recently moved to the area from Rome, Italy by way of New Jersey.  When we arrived at the release point, a short lumber down the hill to Rodeo Beach from TMMC, a crowd had formed.  Several groups of school children on field trips anticipated Joulu's arrival and release.  They formed a wide lane through which Joulu would parade, hastily, to the water's edge before diving home.

Joulu was ready to go, and vocalized his impatience in the kennel just before another TMMC volunteer leaned down to open the gridded steel door to set him free.  Like most California sea lions in this situation, he bolted.  

Most of the sea lions that check out of TMMC are released in what is known as the Red Triangle.  One apex along the perimeter of this triangle is Bodega Bay, from which one side of the triangle heads southwest just far enough to encompass the Farallon Islands.  There, the triangle turns sharply southeast to Big Sur.  The shoreline along the north route back to Bodega Bay from this point makes up the third side of the triangle.  Any living creature inside this perimeter is part of the food chain, with great white sharks right up close to the top.  Despite sensationalism, sharks tend not to eat people.  They prefer to feed on sea lions.  Things get bloody, and that is why the triangle is named Red.  Which is something of a concern to a lot of people who think about this the first time they see one of these rehab graduates bolt for the water.  

Joulu is likely headed for the Farallon Islands.  We know this because the few animals TMMC has released with tracking mechanisms have done just that, swim almost a straight line west from the coast, skim across the Cordell Bank, and reunite with their cronies on the rocky cliffs of the Farallons.  There's a great book called Devil's Teeth by Susan Casey about the Farallons, which I highly recommend.


As a California sea lion, Joulu is a pinniped, which is a group of animals that includes seals, sea lions, fur seals, and walruses.  They are particularly fascinating.  For one, they are mammals, like us.  They are socialized, and I can tell you first hand they are very clear communicators even though they don't speak English.  They possess giant brown eyes and long whiskers.  They are wild.  They bite.  Their seafood diet is very similar to our seafood diet, so we learn a lot about the quality of our seafood supply by studying their health.

They will look you in the eye from depths no human has ever experienced.

In one special way, as evolution would have it, they have retained an unusual characteristic: they inhabit land and water.  Imagine a life with those dimensions.

I have observed at almost every California sea lion release that when the animal reaches the water's edge, it stops, looks left, looks right, gives something a thought, and then slips easily into the ocean.  You can see Joulu do this in the slide show above.  A few seconds later, a bob up, another look around, and like wild animals do, they dip under, gone.

Four Bakeries and 3,215 Google-Miles of Road Between

If you've ever driven anywhere near the rotary on Cape Cod, in Orleans, at the point where Route 6 veers northish toward Provincetown, then you've been within spitting distance from the Cottage Street Bakery.  I don't know how many times in my life I drove past this humble cottage bakery before learning about it in a cookbook 3,000 miles away in my California home.  This bakery leaves a deceptive first impression.  From the Orleans-Chatham Road, where you get your first view, it's tucked behind scrappy landscaping, across a gravel parking lot, and behind the much more eye-popping Ice Cream Cafe. Unless you knew you were going there, you probably wouldn't.


Lo!  It took a few circle-backs before I finally found it, the first time I knew I was going there.  Here's what happened.


I own a cookbook called The Cape Cod Table, by Lora Brody.  In that cookbook, there is a recipe for Dirt Bombs.  And even though I am not such a muffin fan, these babies are to DIE for.  You make them, people beg for more.  Beg.  As it happens, the Dirt Bombs in this cookbook were inspired by the Cottage Street Bakery.  The picture in the book is tantalizing, with oversized knobby muffins, crumbly, moist on the inside, dredged in butter, and rolled in cinamon sugar.  Hm, I thought.  Well, I'll make a batch and see what happens.  In one muffin, I knew I had to make the pilgrimmage.

Dirt Bombs

Several batches and months later,  I did.


That summer, as I have for many summers past, I spent a few weeks on Cape Cod.  On a late afternoon ride home from the Cape Cod National Seashore, I hijacked my mother and son, and hunted down the real deal, the home, the ground zero of the perfect Dirt Bomb.  The bakery was open, I bought and ate my dirt bomb, and my eyes rolled to the back of my head.


But if you're like most people, you don't live anywhere near Orleans, MA or the Cottage Street Bakery, so you need to do a couple of things.  One, you need to have the recipe to make your own Dirt Bombs.  Here it is, adapted from Lora Brody's recipe:


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For the muffins:
3 cups all purpose flour (I substitute 1/2 cup with almond meal)
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter
1 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
1 cup whole milk (I substitute buttermilk)


For the topping:
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon


Preheat the oven to 400F with the rack in the center position.  Coat a 12-cup muffin with butter or spray.


Make the muffins:  Sift the flour, baking powder, salt, nutmeg and cardamom in a large bowl.  Using an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy.  Mix in the eggs.  Add the dry ingredients alternately with the milk in two additions, mixing gently by hand.  Avoid tough muffins by not over mixing or beating.  The batter will be thick and sticky.


Drop the batter into the muffin tins, and bake for about 20 minutes, just until the tops are tinged brown and a toothpick inserted comes out dry.  As soon as they are cool, turn them onto a rack.


Coat the muffins:  Melt the butter in a shallow bowl.  In a separate shallow bowl, mix the sugar and cinnamon.  Dip the muffins and twirl them around until they are completely coated in butter.  Promptly roll them in the sugar mixture to coat completely.  Best served warm or at room temperature with a tall glass of milk.


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Two, you need to have a backup bakery, a local go-to bakery of your own.  For anyone living near or visiting San Francisco, I have three!


The first is the uniquely organic Rustic Bakery in Kentfield, CA.  It's the best local breakfast around.  Let me tell you the pastries are to die for.  Everything I eat there is the best I've ever had in that food.  The cinnamon rolls-oh!-round, spirally, light, fluffy.  Like I said I'm not big on muffins, but holy cow the Banana Nut is amazing!  The mottled, dumpling-shaped blackberry scones with giant, juicy fruit.  Who knew oatmeal could taste so good?  And they serve coffee in real mugs, not those paper-paper ones.


The second, located precisely 3,214.8 google-miles from Dirt Bomb Central, is the Bovine Bakery in Pt. Reyes Station, CA.  This bakery, like the Cottage Street Bakery, is the perfect checkpoint between a wild seashore immersion and a sleepy afternoon ride home.  If you visit Pt. Reyes National Seashore, which I highly recommend, then you most likely have a good ride home.  A picker-upper at the Bovine Bakery is essential.

Pt. Reyes National Seashore

The third, in Inverness, CA, is Busy Bee Bakery.  If you're more of a berry-pie person, and you can't make it the extra 10 minutes to the Bovine, then this is your spot.  Stop.  Eat berry pie.


Beg for more.


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If you've got a favorite bakery anywhere in the world that makes a best-in-class pastry, I'd love to hear about it.


              

Spoons Plates and One Significant Orto

I was enjoying a brief moment of peace last Saturday morning in a particularly nice local Starbucks, when I realized there was something missing.  So obviously missing it was hard to believe that I was drinking coffee and eating a scone in what was trying to be a café.


I recently returned from Florence, Italy, where I consumed more cups of cappuccino in nine days than I have in the past five years, maybe ten.  Each morning began with a cup and saucer of coffee, piled with creamy foam, in the brightly lit dining room on the mezzanine level of the Orto de’ Medici hotel.  Orto means garden, and the significance of this garden is this:  Lorenzo the Magnificent, the Medici who fathered the Italian renaissance and who owned this building 525 years ago in which he placed an arts school, first met a certain Michelangelo Buonarotti there when the latter was a young teenager and new student of the arts.  The young Michelangelo impressed, and was immediately adopted into the House of Medici, and here we are today still ogling at the works of this master.


A morning cup of coffee in this scene is dazzling, even in the daze of jetlag.  Before the caffeine hits you, though, what really wakes you up is the sound.


The sound of metal spoons clinking on ceramic saucers. 

Firenze Breakfast

Walk into a real café anywhere, and you hear the din of people, orders, and production.  This is an orchestra of the murmur of friends catching up with the day’s news, events, and gossip accented by the sound of orders for a cappuccino or espresso, the airy, pent-up sound of the steamer, and the banging of the machinery, all punctuated by the frequent and high-pitched clinks of metal spoons on ceramic plates.  This last sound we take for granted, and may not even notice until we feel its absence.


Which is precisely what happened in the Starbucks.  In this “café,” we drank from paper cups!  Nibbled pastries from paper bags!  I felt robbed, duped, degraded.  Sure, there was the signature aroma of coffee.  The furniture was very nice, small wooden cafe and family-style bench tables, a few leather lounge chairs.  But the essence, the energy, of Café was absent.  There was hardly any noise.  Conversations were a low hum of chitter-chatter.  Every so often, I heard the thud of the espresso filter emptying its soggy grinds against the rim of a trash bin.  


This experience fell short of the Florentine café culture, where the symphony of sound reverberates, penetrates, and uplifts, where conversations are alive and impassioned, where  crowds form at the counters to shout orders, where people kiss and hug, even though they just saw each other yesterday, and where the sound of metal spoons clinking against plates binds and elevates the energy of The Café.


There's more to it than caffeine.