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.