Musing after a long day of catering

I want to yuppify the falafel shop. I know I know, I've spent many years of my adult life semi-rebelling against the yuppy land from whence I sprang, but it looks like my time spent in the Hay Days, Aux Delices and Yacht Clubs of days past left it's mark. You can take the girl out of the suburb, but......

Accordingly, a new item on my menu: Israeli Granny: red leaf lettuce, chicken, red onions, Syrian cucumbers, red pepper, topped with tatziki, a squeeze of lemon, salt, and pepper. Clean and simple. If my grandma lived in the Levantine instead of Southern California and St. Croix, maybe the green salad drizzled with her famous salad dressing would look a little like this.

Shroom Room: Part Deux

The little town of Comptche is tucked into the county of Mendecino, California and was this weekend added to my official list of "Places That Feel Like God's Country". Hosted by my friend Jenais, who was born on a window seat in the log house her parents built and we stayed in, and her older brother Elijah, I got to know the land. At times the wind wrapping around green craggy hills felt like the moors of Scotland must feel; other moments brought me back to summer camp in Maine lake country.

The trip afforded a day hike involving an activity I've only read about before now: mushroom hunting! Some of our findings:

Look closely to see these tiny buggers fighting their way out of a mossy rock:

The "seaweed in your miso soup" mushroom:

Like a poisonous snake, signalling me to stay away:

The Shrieking Mermaid Corpses in Ursula the Sea Witch's Cave mushroom:

Nothing caps off a day of mushroom hunting like Hot Toddies with the perfect amount of lemon, honey and water.

Other highlights of the weekend included Mr. Zarlin's homemade marmalade, chock full of puckery candied orange peel; leftover chilled cottage cheese pancakes turned blinis wrapped around my morning turkey sandwich; and the best thing I tasted on the trip: Berkeley Bowl walnuts and dates, served out of a ziploc bag- ratio of 4 to 1, of course.

Daphne

I had to snap the cover of Jeff’s “Recipes of Middle Eastern Cooking” book to introduce my first official day of menu recipe testing. Aside from inspiring me visually (I’m a sucker for anything ‘60’s), this book has personal significance to Jeff as part of an anthology of international cuisines passed down to him by his grandma, apparently quite the Jewish cook. I personally marvel at the fact that 50 years ago, some ancient species that existed in the pre-touristic era traveled to these countries and took notes on the local cuisines. All this before any kind of “fusion” could seep into the indigenous recipes. My inaugural test kitchen day started when Jeff picked me up and drove us west on Geary to seek out an elusive Russian bakery for consideration in the sourcing of Rugelach. My pride was checked for the first of many times that day when Jeff smirked at me for pronouncing Rugelach like the Italian salad green instead of the Russian pastry that should be uttered as if you’re hocking a lugi. I swallowed my pride and played the happy passenger as we drove along Geary (which, by the way, I consider to be the Astoria of San Francisco for its melting-pot of world markets and shoppers. In New York you have Egypt and Greece. In SF, it’s Korea and Georgia. I feel so lucky to live in these cities that allow me to taste the world authentically in arm's length of my own apartment).

When we bought the Rugelach at a Georgian bakery I couldn’t help but supplement with snacks from the refrigerator case. The red beans with walnuts were crazily refreshing and the eggplant shaped like an éclair impressed us in its delivery system. Neither Jeff nor I could take more than a couple of the vinegary, garlic-studded mushrooms, though. Jeff sagely commented that the difference between these vegetable salads and those served at my café will be that mine don’t come from a can.


There was a good deal of discussion around the hummus, which makes sense because of all Mediterranean street food we Americans have grown accustomed to buying, hummus is most popular and we all have our preferences. We were good boys and girls and soaked the chickpeas overnight, then boiled them, and turned them into a nice puree with tahini, lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper. For next time, we might add less tahini and more lemon and olive oil. There’s Jeff skimming the foam off of the liquid as we boiled the chickpeas—what a horror to think what might have happened to the flavor had he not been there!

Best food photography series award goes to the eggplants: After a simple roast in the oven, Liane expertly halved these to reveal their steaming insides of seed bundles and stringy meat; they looked a bit Georgia O'Keeffey, if you know what I mean. We then topped them with Greek yogurt, tahini, olive oil, lemon juice, a drip of agave nectar, and crushed tomato innards. I loved the leathery skin up against the mush inside, but when I make it next I might heed mike’s advice and introduce some mint or parsley sprigs, or amp up the texture with pine nuts or almonds for a little crunch.

There’s Daphne mid-drizzle, posing like an amateur.


My expert tasting panel. Look at these faces. They are the future succulent garden supervisors/ competitive restaurant researchers/ pastry chefs/ menu designers/ interior decorators of my café.

Here's Sasha "the human apron" , who heralded in the second seating of the evening. She happily took over the container of pickled mushrooms, slopping them onto her plate of mezzes and reminiscing about the way the acid in the vinegar as it hit the other food reminded her of eating her grandma's Israeli food as a little girl. Emma, our resident Kosher expert, noshes on behind.

Biggest triumph of the day goes to the baked falafel patties. I’m convinced that there is hope for pan-baking instead of deep-frying, as long as the composition is soundly based in quality fresh herbs. Other takeaways: slice or dice the cucumber for tzatziki instead of grating; consider new options for heating pitas (tense debate ensued over whether I should consider baking them in-house or not); and find a new Russian bakery to source my Rugelach.

Hippies Use Side Door

Last night I had the privilege of visiting, for the first time, the home of Captain Mike and Sally, the owners of Cap'N Mike's Holy Smoke Fish company (http://www.holysmokedsalmon.com/). Most Saturday afternoons you can find me at their booth in back of the SF Ferry Building Farmer's Market making gourmet smoked salmon sandwiches, on Acme sourdough bread, with Sally's homemade cream cheese and lavender salt from Eatwell Farms. I like to think of them as my West Coast parents, if I may humbly have the honor of calling them that.

Mike and Sally live nestled amongst Redwoods in Sonoma County and their house couldn't be more them. The first thing you encounter when you pass through the mermaid iron gates that guard their kingdom is Mike's boat, an old school cruising motorboat (sorry Cap'n, I forget the formal name). I squealed with pleasure on reading the little wooden sign hammered on the side, which read something like "All beautiful women and gamblers welcome". Captain and his friend who was a colonel lugged this boat up his long curvy driveway, and after watching it roll down the hill once, successfully buried its keel into the asphalt. It now sits as Mike's hideout, his own little boy tree house, where he can even see patients in the leopard-upholstered "office" that used to be a cockpit.

Sally cooked a meal to remember for us, her "sandwich crew" of myself and 4 young aspiring SF chefs, one of whom pointed out how different this menu was from her summer party menu-- no tomatoes or fava beans in February. She knows better. Instead, we had monster crabs in the heart of crab season and a salad of chicory, radish, and radicchio in neon winter green and red, glistening with lots of olive oil, vinegar, pepper and lavender salt. I loved the unusually high cheese-to-noodle ratio in her white sauce lasagna. I know I disappointed (both the group and myself) by not being able to appreciate the short ribs enough because of my lame recent vendetta with red meat; I took a couple tastes but felt quite alone as the rest of the group rejoiced as it fell off the bone after hours of soaking in honey-infused sauce and voted it the best dish. This is not to mention black cod mashed potato croquettes, or baby artichoke halves roasted with the most fragrant olive oil nested atop a chewy warm homemade crouton "stew".

Here are some pics of Sally cutting her chocolate peanut butter layer cake frosted with chocolate ganache. Sally's desserts were four star pastry chef-quality; one of the sandwich crew, a pastry chef who worked at French Laundry, declared her lemon-meringue tarts the best he'd ever tasted.

These are lessons Mike and Sally have taught me that I will bring to my cafe:

-Organization matters: The sandwich tickets must go in the wooden cash box when we pack up, not the blue tupper bin!

-Every little food expense matters: 50 cents extra if the customer wants capers!

-Making it homemade matters: the pickled onions, the cream cheese, the roasted red peppers....

-Vibe matters: project your positive energy and people will buy your sandwiches!

Sally, I can hear your voice when you read my blog in my ear now: "It wasn't radicchio in the salad!"-- That's what posing a comment at the bottom of the entry is for :)

Mike and Sal, last night was one for the books, but what I have to thank you for most of all is letting me into your salmon biz family.

Culture

This name is Mikey’s favorite. Culture would be a cafe focusing on pickles and plain yogurt. Foods that make your mouth pucker.

Mike just told me that it already exists in Chicago! I suddenly feel foolish- someone came up with the same idea as me, and beat me to it! I’m unoriginal and slow! But then I actually look at their website:

http://www.culture-cafe.com/photos.htm

I guess I’m in the clear since I’m not planning on decorating my walls with dolphins that look like the oil stickers middle school girls collected in scrapbooks.

Also, are there actually cultures involved in pickling? Not so sure about the tie-in there.....

Traveler's Food

Falafel is a traveler’s food. You know that wherever you go, it will be there; it’s a very simple street food that ties together the world. I like the idea of elevating the street culture of different cities around the world.

I believe so strongly in the importance of young people taking the time to get out and learn the rest of the world. Americans are WAY too stuck in our bubble. That is obvious. We need to take a lesson from the Irish, Australian, and English youths (as pronounced by My Cousin Vinny) and take the time before we have to settle down and have a family to become a citizen of the world. No more of this straight-to-the-real-world-out-of-college thing.

Traveler's Food would have the street food they survive on when they’re traveling and the treasures to bring back for the family at home to taste. After diners ordered at the counter, I would corral them into a little international "shop" of packaged goods--Vietnamese candy. Ortiz Spanish Tuna. Coleman’s English Mustard. Black licorice from Sweden--that they'd be forced to peruse while waiting for the food to come out.

(While I was thinking about this concept I became so set on forcing the travel element that I humored the idea of making people show me their passports to prove they had travelled in order to enter my cafe. Kind of make it an elite club of people who share my appreciation for the value of travel. Since, I've decided that could be a slight barrier to profits....most people don't carry passports with them on the average afternoon about town).

Wanted: participation in cafe-naming odyssey

I want to let all of my 5 followers in the audience know that participation is welcome and encouraged on this blog. Please do chime in with ideas for my cafe name, or if you think one of my ideas is particularly dense. Thank you in advance for your contributions :)

Heaps of Plenty

For you visual learners out there, I want to share these beautiful photos taken by Hannah in Tel Aviv. These were captured on my last day in Israel, and eating these with the sun on my back were enough to make me wake my parents up in CT and try to extend my stay in Israel.

At my cafe, these will be displayed elegantly, and sanitarily. Yuppy/Ina Garten style.

If you know someone who can teach me how to make these salads, please holler.

Restaurant Review: Heaven's Dog 1.29.09

I had the unfortunate circumstance on Thursday of arriving over an hour early for my dinner reservation at Heaven’s Dog, the new Charles Phan (of Slanted Door) resto opened two weeks ago on Mission between 7^th and 8^th. Blame it on my having a more “nebulous” schedule than normal and the walk from Hayes Valley being surprisingly brief.

So I did what any normal girl about town would do in my place. I went to the bathroom once. Then I found a little corner around the block to do a few minutes of sun salutations and yoga poses (get the blood flowing before dinner). I tried to stand in the breezy concrete courtyard in front and catch up on phone calls but that was curtailed by a dying battery that raised my blood pressure with every beep (I have a dark past of crying when my cell phone dies). So I left the courtyard with its tall grassy plants and stainless steel furniture and I went to the bathroom again. Then, with no other fun ideas, I planted myself at the bar and got to watching.

The tree trunk slab that is the bar I stood at is the one natural or organic element of the décor at Heaven’s Dog. The industry of the place comes through techno beats like a Nintendo game on the sound system and waiters buzzing around with their eyes down or straight ahead. Is standing at a bar alone drinking lemon water with perfectly cubed ice (sure enough, I read online today that the staff has a self-proclaimed “emphasis on quality ice”) the new undiscovered stress reliever we’ve been searching for? Or was it just Heaven’s Dog?

The methodology of the head bartender hypnotized me, like when she taught her staff how to maneuver a lemon twist for a Sidecar just right; I wanted her to teach me. When I could stand it no more I ordered drink numero uno on the cocktail menu, the Biarritz Monk Buck, named for the Monks who make the enchanting yellow Chartreuse liqueur at a single monastery in France. The BMB combined this pee-yellow herbal nectar with Pellehaut Armagnac, organic ginger and lemon. Dangerously drinkable; I tried to pace myself although I wished I was a big hulking man with a high tolerance so I could go for drink #2 ; I would have ordered a simple Greyhound to take advantage of HD’s organically grown fresh-pressed grapefruit juice. Despite having a supposedly celeb-level bar advisory committee, I appreciated the simple, unpretentious wine list; for example, you could order a glass of “Chardonnay (mostly)” from New Zealand for $6.50.

And then my girlfriends showed up. When you are led away from the bar and into the dining room, the light is kicked up to the brightness of a middle school lunchroom. The ceiling also drops to a white foam core mess a few feet above head level that hints at an airport terminal. Or is it a scene from the Office?

We asked our very agreeable waitress what the most popular menu items were and I chuckled when she listed off about every item on the menu that I wouldn’t have chosen myself. It made me wonder about my general taste in food until I reminded myself that these dishes were winning a two week long test of popularity. We ordered the standard gamut of a couple appetizers, a couple wok dishes, and one noodle dish.

I can’t say the food was remarkable enough to warrant much discussion. Highlight of the meal definitely goes to a waiter accidentally bringing us a second plate of the wok-sizzled spicy green beans with Szechwan pickles and red chilies-- favorite dish of the night till that point and he let us have it for free when we told him we hadn’t ordered it. Other than that, only report back is really enjoying the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc we ordered (another New Zealander: Murdoch James- Martinborough “Blue Rock”).

Man, this is the first restaurant review on my new food blog and most of my notes from the night were about the drinks. What kind of mood was I in?? I think the most euphoric moment of the evening at Heaven’s Dog was when the bartender refilled my glass of ice water with lemon not twice but thrice without my having to lift my gaze from the tree trunk. Showing up with an hour to kill wasn't so unfortunate after all --might be my new favorite approach to de-stressing from a day of work (wink/oops)!

The First Name I Came Up With: Shroom Room

As one of my esteemed inaugural blog readers (welcome!) you may be wondering about my first post. Is Schwarma Queen a real restaurant? Where is it?

The answer is that no, SQ does not yet exist; instead, if you were to plot out the planning process that began maybe when I was given my first cookbook as a little girl (Fanny at Chez Panisse), and will end when I open the doors to my first cafe, this would be one freeze frame, or moment in time.

I believe that in life, the journey is just as important as the destination (namaste, yoga teachers), and in that vein I have created this blog as record to my journey of choosing a name for my cafe, honing its concept, and adding to that snippets of my life in food, which of course color the eventual end point.

So as I said before, Schwarma Queen is the third name I came up with that I really believed would be a good name for my cafe. The first name I came up with was Shroom Room, in 2003, which was the running name for my restaurant for about a year, my senior year in college.

Truth be told, it wasn't I who dreamed up that ingenious name- it was either my dad Randy or his best friend Howard, two creative, entrepreneurial 50-somethings who are very close to my heart. They had visited The Mellow Mushroom, a pizza joint in Charlottesville that apparently struck them enough to bring me back a menu. I proceeded to muse on that for a while and for the first time, came up with the concept for a restaurant in my head.

I have just fished the brainstorming document I wrote on December 22, 2003 (apparently a little personal activity for my Christmas break) from my "food" file folder- it pays to be a packrat! The Shroom Room concept is all coming back to me. It's amazing how much of this concept has endured and will be part of the cafe I open soon: the order-at-the-counter and stay-as-long-as-you-want kind of service; the pitchers of beer and a nice little wine list; the element of choice in the menu (for Shroom Room it was pizza and salad toppings; presently it's yogurt and falafel accompaniments). I have fond memories of driving down to southern California in the back seat of my friend Kim's old Benz and debating whether we would grill our pizzas at Shroom room, or discussing the importance of portion uniformity.

When Shroom Room was conceived of I hadn't yet travelled to Morocco, or Israel, or Sweden (or Vietnam or China or Australia for that matter) so I'm not surprised my concept has changed considerably. Still, it's been fun revisiting the original dream.

Schwarma Queen, 1.28.10

This is what might be written about a cafe that I might have started in the hopefully near future, had I gone with the third name I came up with.....

Why do they call themselves Schwarma Queen if they don’t serve Schwarma? I have eaten Mediterranean street food in Paris, New York and San Francisco and seem to recall clearly enough that at each of those grease-rich eateries there exists like a shrine the vertical rotisserie of sliced meat. Like the swirling cylinder outside of your small town barber shop, this glistening sword of roasted animal beckons to the sandwich searcher and the street passerby who walks through its smell.

Now that I think about it, maybe I didn’t miss the meat tower too much on my first visit to the Queen. She has replaced the meat stick and the overarching dirty factor that usually accompanies it in casual falafel joints with a sense of veggie clean. The menu is fresh, healthy and makes your mouth pucker in the best possible way.

Upon entering SQ in the afternoon you are immediately treated to crisp, savory pita chips that have been brushed with olive oil, dusted with house made Z’atar (the sumac-hyssop-sesame seed spice blend), and oven baked. It’s lucky they give you this snack while you’re waiting in line because it’s the only thing that keeps me from reaching my hand out to grab a beet cube sitting on a mound of chopped veggies like pillaged rubies. These chopped veggie salads are the jewel in Schwarma Queen’s crown: the cauliflower and white cabbage salad died yellow with cumin; the house-made pickled for one week cucumbers; these can be chosen as toppings for a falafel sandwich ($7), or made part of a combo salad plate (4 salads for $8; 6 for $10).

It was cold out so I ordered the plate of rice and lentils topped with roasted chicken and fresh spinach and then slopped with a deluge of homemade lentil soup. The steam that wafted as I mixed it up and delighted in the sweetness of the aromatic soup melted me into my chair.

I noticed more than one diner return to the counter for a second falafel pita after the first was gone. My personal strategy for the next time I return will be to buy a falafel upon entry, order a pint of Boddington’s from the beer list, and follow up later on with falafel numero dos. That’s my idea of royalty.