Where to Drink Cocktails in Rome-The Jerry Thomas Project

(I wrote this soon after my first visit to The Jerry Thomas Project. I’ve since been back, though not as often as I’d like. The city has also seen an explosion of high-end cocktail bars in the last few years. While I haven’t been to all of them yet, I’ve tried a fair few of the top contenders. I still find JT to be the best all around experience due to the consistent excellence of the cocktails paired with perfect service.)

Recently I’ve had the pleasure of sipping a cocktail or three at the Jerry Thomas Project, a speakeasy here in Rome. Now, I have always been grumpy about the speakeasy trend in the States, mostly because I don’t like having to plan ahead to have an excellent drink. In cities like San Francisco or New York, there are so many high quality offerings in so many different kinds of cocktail bars that it becomes simple to imbibe the best and still avoid making reservations. In Rome, the selection is more restricted.

            Let me put it in perspective. I love, adore, delight in great cocktails, deep spirits lists, and bartenders that appreciate my requests and improve upon my fantasies. These things, however, are not historically among the wonders of Rome. While it is easy to find a drinkable Negroni or a Spritz, and the occasional bar will turn out a passable Old Fashioned if I am very specific with the bartender, someone coming from a historically cocktail centered city like SF is going to miss the ubiquitous high quality of the drinking culture. By someone I mean me, in case that wasn’t clear.

Cut to a couple weeks ago, when I went out to girls’ night at a place my embarrassingly cool hair stylist had fleetingly mentioned (and that I totally pretended to know already, because you have to maintain credibility with your stylist). I got to the unmarked door and rang the bell, rolling my eyes at the process and hoping this place was worth the sweaty bus ride to the Centro Storico. Trying not to feel ridiculous, I gave the password and the name of my friend. Minutes later, seated on a comfortable pouf, I was explaining to the charming (bearded) gentleman semi-hopefully what exactly I was seeking in a cocktail.

The perfectly balanced and wonderfully complex martini of Sipsmith London Dry Gin, Vermouth del Professore and a teensy dash of bergamot bitters he brought me soothed a homesickness that I did not even know I felt.

When the aforementioned gentleman returned to check in, the relief and pleasure I felt must have been clear to him. We ended up talking, and I discovered that they have a lovely deep spirits collection, that the vermouth they use is their own production, and that I had found a sort of spiritual home in this city full of churches.

You’re thinking, “It’s just a bar, Homie, don’t be so dramatic!” Maybe, but it is a damn good bar. You like gin? They have the best, from Genevers to London Dry, and they’ll make you the right cocktail with each. Rum, you say? The last time I was there I sniffed out some of their selections, and they are not playing. I think whisky, scotch, bourbon, rye go without saying. But the best part? The part that makes my Mexican heart flutter in my chest and brings an absurd smile to my face? Mezcal! Not only do they have a well-curated selection including anonymous looking bottles that probably aren’t available to mere mortals, but the owner behind the bar is passionate about and expert with them.

Friends, I sipped things I had never even heard of. This is not to be taken lightly. This is any spirits lover’s dream-to have every visit to the bar be a learning experience with the lingering finish of shared enthusiasm. The fact that I have found a place of that caliber in Rome is a gift from a whole pantheon of wine gods.

Is it as good as the spots in SF, New York or London? I would say yes, it is. Like everything, it is slightly different from its hometown counterparts, due in part to its dual role as a bar serving the Italian palate and a locus for greater visibility of cocktail culture in Italy. I think they do an admirable job of being accessible to the less trained palate and interesting for aficionados. The only thing I wish is that I didn’t have to make reservations, but such is the price I must pay to have my gin and drink it too. 

Pescheria dei Consoli, or Hurry And Go Before Success Ruins It

I’ve discovered the Roman fish restaurant, and it is called Pescheria dei Consoli. Though far off the beaten track, this tiny place is worth making the necessary reservations and taking the Metro A down to Numidio Quadrato. The restaurant started as a fish market by day, eatery by night, but well-deserved success has seen them add a lunch seating and expand the restaurant a bit. If it is always packed to the brim, it is with good reason. The fish is impeccably fresh and as locally sourced as possible, the chef has an uncanny ability with pasta sauces, and the prices are borderline ridiculous in their affordability. Anyone who has gone out to a fish restaurant in Rome knows how hard it is to find quality, even in the higher price ranges. Here, they deliver every time.

I took my parents when they were last here, and I admit we gorged ourselves. We started with two mixed fried seafood plates, which meant perfectly crispy moscardini (tiny octopus), whitebait and tender calamari. Next came two platters of marinated seafood and salads such as octopus and potato, octopus and roasted pepper, seafood salad with carrot and celery, boquerones, salmon and pink peppercorns in olive oil and more. Each preparation was delicate but flavorful and clearly made with the freshest of ingredients. 

At this point, our bottle of Vermentino from the Gallura region of Sardegna had run dry, so the friendly staff brought us another, along with the three pasta dishes we had ordered to share among the five of us. The best of the three was without doubt the scialatelli with crab, a huge portion of fresh noodles shaped like thick fettuccine tossed in a fragrant and creamy tomato based sauce and topped with about half a succulent crab. The linguine with lobster and paccheri with perfectly done scampi and truffles, while both delicious, couldn’t compete with the incredible combination of sweet crab, chewy rich noodles and velvety sauce.

Though you might not find the scialatelli on the menu, which changes depending on the catch of the day and seasonal ingredients, there is always at least one dish as extravagantly wonderful. For my last birthday, the chef made the best paccheri (wide smooth tube shaped pasta) I’ve ever had, with cherry tomatoes, scampi, mazzancolle shrimp and squash blossoms. We crave it regularly.

That time we decided to skip their secondi, but I can attest that the grilled calamari, shrimp and scampi are perfectly done and as with everything else, exquisitely fresh. With a bit of lemon squeezed on top, they make you feel as if the beach might be just on the other side of the Pescheria’s nautically decorated window. Even the oysters and sea urchin are excellent, so you really forget you're in Rome!

My only complaint is that service used to be slowish (before the expansion) but was carried out by two really sweet women that liked to go out salsa dancing after work and put correspondingly good music on the restaurant’s playlist. Since growing a bit, service has fallen into the hands of two young men who are perfectly competent and friendly, but attempt to order for you at least once a dinner. For example, you’ll order three mixed fritture, look around at your table mates to make sure they agree, and they’ll break in to say, “Why don’t we do the risotto with lobster and a grilled fish tonight?” complete with diminutives inserted wherever possible (risottino,  prosecchino, that type of thing). You get the feeling that both of the waiters have at least a couple small children each at home and haven’t gotten the hang of turning off dad-mode while at work. 

Nonetheless, it is easy to accept this small flaw by keeping in mind the casual vibe and the correspondingly low price tag of an evening at the Pescheria. We five ate extraordinarily well, drank two bottles of wine, water, and shared a few lemon sorbets, digestifs and coffees between us, and the bill was about 110 euro. For the quality, at that price, I’ll put up with being brought the “conticino” when I ask for the bill.

The Joy of Reading...about Cooking!

I’m currently reading Michael Pollan’s Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation both for fun and to mine it for sociological sources on the role cooked food plays in our lives. I have been greatly enjoying it, and it has inspired me to experiment with lacto-fermentation, baking sourdough bread and other kitchen projects. So far it is fact filled and yet very readable, he has a knack for writing to an educated audience that is fairly well informed but still wants to learn new things. That style might also be part and parcel with the lack of class analysis so far, which indicates that he is writing for an audience that views cooking as a valid intellectual and political interest, not a necessary part of daily life (it is both). To be fair, he has confined himself to the West, and in the West food that we don’t need to cook is increasingly available at all price points.  It does become frustrating, however, to read cursory discourse about the role of second and third wave feminism in redefining women’s relationship to cooking, and even more prominently, the way capitalism has shaped modern cooking and eating habits, without a serious discussion of class woven throughout*.

Apart from my nitpicking of a scholarly and sociopolitical nature, Pollan contends that people chafe at the time demanded by cooking, see it as time wasted and better spent doing literally anything else.  Is this true? It has made me sad as I read.

Pollan ascribes this low-grade dread of the kitchen as a battle between the desire to do fun or productive things (tv, read, email, etc.) and the “drudgery” of preparing a meal from start to finish. He goes on for pages about how everyone in the history of mankind has hated cutting onions, which I think is monstrously unfair to the onion, without which food would be an bland mess exactly 98.3% of the time.  The other enemy of the desire to cook is time, or more precisely the lack of it. It is true that cooking different things every day is time consuming, and that many of the best cooking techniques take as much time as you can give, the more the better.  But why, oh why, should that be imagined as time wasted?

He makes the comparison to alchemy, and I couldn’t agree more with the analogous elements of transformation of materials, scientifically described rituals, dedication to the experimental process.

But cooking is like alchemy is another, less purely material, sense. Cooking is a labor of passionate hunger of the spirit as well as the body. Certainly most days I don’t find the sublime while prepping carrots. But every day I return to the process of creating the elixir of life with renewed fervor. Part of me must continue to cook, to engage the materials and expose them to the elements of water, fire and air, possibly without end, possibly until, as a marketing guy Pollan quotes predicts, the alternatives to cooking are too good and it becomes obsolete. I doubt that will ever happen though. The calling of alchemical discovery is too strong in some of us, even if our privilege allows us to employ alternatives.  

All that being said, I still haven’t convinced anyone that cooking isn’t a waste of time. I can’t think of what I could say that will apply universally. Instead, I can describe the pleasure I felt when I recently learned to dice an onion into regular little pieces. It was as if I was standing victorious on the field of battle. That same class I julienned a vegetable for the first time, and though I will probably never use the technique regularly, doing it then made me want to do a little dance of joy (not advised when holding eight inches of chef’s knife). Those moments arose out of what Pollan calls drudgery, a word that recalls the very antithesis of pleasure. Now every time I dice up an onion a feel an echo of that satisfaction murmuring through me, saying something like, “God you’re good, Homie.”

How is a thoroughly empowering moment spent reveling in developing skill a waste of time? If you had that feeling playing your instrument of choice, or a video game, or ball in the street, wouldn’t that be characterized as a perfectly normal positive? So why is it so hard for the people Pollan describes, himself included, to want to cook? It isn’t actually that hard when all the ritualistic mumbo jumbo is stripped away. Most cooking is popping things into a pot in this order: first veggies, then protein, then liquid. And then you just wait while a low fire does its thing. That is the basis of so many dishes across culinary cultures that it might be the basis of all cooking. Sauteeing, frying, poaching and certainly sous-vide and other high tech type stuff is completely secondary in my mind. Pollan also takes this approach, but he also validates this idea that cooking is hard and strenuous. It doesn’t need to be. Through the course of the book, he learns to take pleasure in the processes of cooking, but he never quite shakes the notion that this pleasure is hard won.

So far, he seems to be arguing that a combination of marketing, technology and wage labor has caused us to renounce cooking as a fact of life. Throughout the book he is attempting to overcome his 21^st century resistance to the kitchen by learning from masters of various cooking approaches: barbeque, California cuisine, etc. I don’t have a complaint about that. In fact, I think it would be great if people let themselves reach back into their cultural and personal memories and remember the way cooking creates pleasure and community in their traditions. I also agree that capitalism has radically changed the way we approach food in the US, particularly through the commodification of ethnically coded products as exotic experiences.

In summary, I rebel against being told that something I love so much is just a chore that must be got through, even if most people do see it that way. Cooking, even the unglamorous slicing and dicing and blood and guts, just isn’t a chore. Not for me.

*Let’s not even start on the way race and ethnicity recreate any conversation around food, from the perspectives of nutrition or gastronomy.

Rabbit-Don't Worry, It Isn't Peter

I've developed a fool proof rabbit recipe that never fails to be delicious. Lucky for me, rabbit is almost always available in the market here at chicken prices, so I make it once every couple weeks. I know it is rarer and more expensive in the States, and I wonder how much that scarcity owes to American squeamishness rather than any lack of supply. Regardless, I love rabbit-its flavor is more complex than that of chicken without being gamey, and it takes all kinds of spices and cooking methods perfectly.

My recipe pairs rabbit with intensely aromatic herbs, crisp white wine, and a few hours over the fire to let the flavors develop. Here are the dirty details:

1 whole rabbit, cut in pieces (get your butcher to do it, and tell her you need neither head or innards)
1 bottle white wine (1 1/2 cup for rabbit, the rest for dinner)
1/2 large white onion, in chunks
1 large clove garlic, smashed but whole
1 sprig of rosemary
2 sprigs of thyme
4-5 dried juniper berries, slightly (gently!) smashed 
A generous sprinkle of whole or freshly cracked black pepper
A generous pinch of your favorite cooking salt, or to taste


On to the method:

In a pot or deep pan, heat up a generous drizzle of olive oil over medium high heat. Rinse and dry the rabbit pieces and then pop them in the hot pan to brown. Add the onion chunks after a couple minutes and let sizzle. When the browning side of the rabbit is nice and golden, flip the pieces over and add the garlic clove. Check your email, dance around the kitchen to some Al Green, sip on a glass of that white wine you opened for the rabbit. Browning takes longer than you think.
When everything is golden (I'd say give it ten minutes a side), add all the herbs, salt and pepper, then pour in a cup and a half of wine and a half cup of water.
Lower the heat to a simmer, stir, put the lid on the pot, and go read a book or snuggle with your partner.  Occasionally remember that there is something on the stove and stir it a bit. If the liquid has reduced too much, add a little more water or a little more wine. This phase will continue for approximately an hour and a half, until the meat has gone from being over cooked to falling off the little bones.
Serve with fresh bread, or saffron rice, or sauteed greens.

If you want to do a ragù, you have two options. The first is to ladle some of the rabbit sauce over pasta and toss them together. This is a perfect, light primo piatto to precede the main course. The second is to take the rabbit off the flame when it has reached the fork-tender stage and let it cool. Once cool, put all the pieces in a bowl and take all the meat off the bones, inevitably shredding it. Add the meat back to the pot and reheat gently, simmering for a few minutes to let it reintegrate with the sauce. Serve hot over pasta for a satisfying main dish.

Regardless of what you do with it, don't forget to bring the rest of the wine to table.


Speaking of the wine, I tend to use an Arneis from Roero, a crisp and mineral Piemontese white, but an aromatic white like a Gewurtztraminer, Muller-Thurgau or Sylvaner would work just as well to add to unctuousness to the rabbit rather than freshness like the Arneis. The key is to pick a bottle you want to drink with the meal, because you only use a cup or so in cooking!

I want to clarify what I intend with respect to the herbs. I have a rosemary bush, and therefore use fresh rosemary. If you don't have one, dried rosemary works just fine. Same with the thyme. I don't grow thyme, but I buy it fresh and then dry it at home in a cookie tray on top of my toaster oven. Just spread the fresh herbs out evenly and leave them. When you turn the toaster oven on it speeds the drying process, but they do well enough on their own as long as you don't live in tropical humidity. Here in Italy, fresh herbs are cheaper and easier to come by if you know where to go. I don't have a fancy garden or budget, so I buy herbs at the open market near Piazza Vittorio, where a big bunch of anything costs a euro (80 cents if I know the vendor). That way I avoid paying for the packaging of super market products and I get much more potent and fresh dried herbs. I dry sage, thyme, mint (though I just got a mint plant), bay leaves and oregano. You really can tell the difference.

As for the juniper, if you can't get it or can't afford it, don't use it. I did a little dance of happiness when I realized juniper is widely available here. A jar from the supermarket costs 2 euro, and it costs about 15 euro/kilo at the open market. You only need a couple berries to infuse a whole pot with flavor, so it lasts forever. However, I know how expensive it is in the US, so like I said, don't worry about it. I like the flavor it gives, but I am also a loving gin drinker. If you don't or can't use it, rosemary and thyme will definitely be enough. If you're stressed by leaving out an ingredient, substitute oregano for an extra mentholated kick, or smoky paprika to make it a darker dish (but in that case go with the Gewurtz)
The bottom line when it comes to the herbs is that you should use what you want and can, in any amount that you see fit. Think of this recipe as a guideline, not a commandment. It'll be tasty regardless.

Some Thoughts On San Francisco Mexican Food

I'm going to have to sadly report that La Taqueria is declining in quality. The prices have gone up, and I didn't love my burrito de carnitas con todo the last time I was there. It was a little dry and strangely both salty and flavorless, as if they had over salted to compensate for the lack of seasoning on the meat (or the quality). The tortilla was drier than it should have been, and I felt that the portion was too small for the ten dollars I paid. Since in the past every element of their burrito has been perfect, including the tortilla, this was a major disappointment.  I haven't found a burrito that I like as much as I used to like theirs, but I have SF homies keeping an eye out. As for other things Mexican, I do have some suggestions.
For nachos and pozole, I'd recommend Zapata on 18th and Collingwood. For great mezcal and tequila I'd recommend Tacolicious/Mosto. The bartenders at the one on Valencia know what's up and will pour you something you'll love if you let them. For shrimp, La Corneta still owns it. Their garlic or chili camarones are delicious with tortillas and guacamole. El Huarache makes awesome quesadillas de cecina and huaraches. I think they're usually at the Alemany farmer's market on Saturdays, and probably at other markets around the Bay.

I'd love a Del Maguey right now to burn all the sickness away. If anyone knows where to get good mezcal in Rome do let me know.

Belly Fat

I'm currently quite sick and yet swamped with work. I scraped up the energy to make a pot of caldo de pollo with chayote, yellow corn, zucchini and carrots, otherwise known as the Mexican cure-all (even more so than Vicks, which I am also using).
However, in order to make myself feel truly better and able to do the things that need to get done, I've decided to turn to the ultimate weapon: experimenting with pork belly.

I bought a small piece of uncured pancetta (pork belly) from my friendly neighborhood pork butcher, and I'm going to cure it. I haven't yet decided if it will be air cured, Italian style, or oven cured, bacon style. I don't have a smoker, but the internet authorities are clear that one isn't necessary.

It'll be a week before any results come in, but just beginning the curing process is making me happy. In the mean time, I've got caldo...and roommate's mom's lasagna.

The cure:
Salt (no curing salt, which means it won't be as pretty when I cook it later but is plenty safe in this case. I'll be ordering curing salt ASAP)
Pepper
Nutmeg
Chili flakes
Brown Sugar (and a bit of Honey)
Cumin (just a touch)
Crushed Garlic
Whole Cloves
Fresh Sage

We'll see what happens with this little test run...if it is successful, the pork butcher is going to be seeing a lot more of me.

In other news, the owner of my local Korean restaurant told me where to find the Korean market. My roommates have no idea what lies in wait for them once I have my hands on some doenjang and gochujang (and hopefully homemade tofu).

Tamarind Chicken

I feel like lately my success rate with new dishes is increasing. The experimental tamarind chicken I made last night turned out quite well, if I may say so myself.
The tamarind glaze included chile de arbol, garlic, light brown sugar and soy sauce. Browning and then baking the legs gave the skin a bit of crispness, and basting with the glaze 25 and 40 minutes into baking helped the sweet sour flavor of the tamarind seep into the flesh of the chicken.
It came out moist and piquant. This despite the fact that I have no idea what the degrees Celsius on my oven mean in Fahrenheit.

Coda alla Homie Sapiens

Monday I simmered veal tail, carrots, caramelized onions and porcini mushrooms in red wine and homemade beef stock for about 5 hours. I had caramelized the onions in butter beforehand, then set them aside and browned the tail in the same pot before adding a cup of red wine, a cup of stock and three fresh tomatos. Then I let it sit. After about three hours I added a little brown sugar to balance the acidity of the wine and tomatos.

When we ate dinner around 9, the meat was falling off the bone and the sauce was velvety rich. It clung to the meat and was beautiful as a gravy on the mashed yukon gold potatoes with parmigiano I served as an accompaniment. The sugo was perfect on pasta the next day, too.

I'm proud of myself. Also, I'm excited for it to get colder, that way I can cook winter food without my roommates thinking I'm crazy. Tonight I'm making tamarind chicken. We'll see how it comes out.

Parmigiano Reggiano

In the aftermath of the May earthquakes in Emilia Romagna, many were left homeless. There were deaths, and of course there was significant damage to homes, businesses and historical sites. Homie Sapiens feels terrible for the people who lost homes or family members.
The quake also broke around 300,000 immense wheels of the region's cheeses, including the famous parmigiano reggiano. Young wheels, aged wheels, teenaged wheels, the producers had everything in basically worthless chunks. So they sold it at a fraction of the market price. My friend, a native of the region, bought up a considerable amount of parmigiano in different stages of aging and enterprisingly offered it around to us. This is how a kilo each of 14 month old, 22 month old and one unknown age parmigiano came to be residing in my welcoming refrigerator.
Initial sampling of the 14 month old parmigiano reggiano reveals a perfect dessert cheese. Paired with honey it is salty, richly savory and a little tangy. I suspect it would be stellar paired with apricot or fig. The cheese on its own is creamy, nutty and a bit peppery. It has the faint floral perfume that only good parmigiano boasts, and a mere hint of the funkiness of aging.
I'll let you know what the others are like when I break them open.
And in case you're wondering, my friend's people were fine.

More (and Better) Gelato

I stand by Fassi's rice and Fior di Luna's pine nut, but my time here in Rome has taught me that there is always a better cup of gelato waiting around the bend. So that you may experience joy, I have slogged through many different offerings of varying quality and have emerged with these recommendations:

Fatamorgana makes innovative flavors with meticulously sourced ingredients (all natural). The flavors change seasonally, but I last had a gelato di zucca (squash) that was intensely squashy and not too sweet. It had toasted pumpkin seeds in it, which I think we can all agree is an awesome detail. I go to the location in Monti on the Piazza degli Zingari.

I Caruso makes the object of my current obsession: fig gelato. I've never eaten an ice cream that so completely evokes the fruit, split open and glistening in my hands, filling my mouth and nose with its perfume and soft pulp. This is a gelato to beat all others. It captures the texture of a ripe fig, not just the flavor. They only make around ten flavors regularly, in addition to changing monthly and weekly flavors. Last week they had pear gelato that was similarly out of this world perfect, down to the slight graininess of a pear's flesh. The classic flavors are also potent and wonderful, particularly the gianduia (chocolate hazelnut) and pistacchio. Find it at Via Collina, 13-15, close to the Repubblica metro stop, amidst the glamorous palazzi of the financial district.

Gelateria del Teatro is another good choice for a lovely pistacchio, and their more innovative flavors can be great. I had a ricotta, raspberry and sage gelato that was fluffy, sweet and aromatic all at once, delivering on the promised flavors. On the other hand, there was barely any fig flavor in the fig and honey gelato (thank goodness I've found a reliable source). Via di San Simone, 70.

I will continue to seek ever more delicious gelato for you, dear readers. It is a thankless and miserable task, but lucky for you I'm just that selfless.

Trattoria Monti, April 26, 2012

 It saddens me to have to write my first negative review here on Homie Sapiens. Normally I gloss over the less than perfect eating experiences because I would rather write delicious reviews than disappointed ones. However, Trattoria Monti was well recommended to me, so I am suffering from frustrated disillusionment. Expecting a reasonably priced, casually elegant meal, instead I received a moderately bad meal in a casually pretentious setting. At forty euro a head for two pastas, two secondi (one vegetarian) and a bottle of wine, I expect better. Let me clarify: I know I can get stellar cuisine for that price, so why settle for less?

On a Wednesday at 10 pm, the restaurant was filled with a well heeled, relatively mature crowd. Since we hadn’t made reservations, we took a ten minute walk around the neighborhood. The service was friendly enough, although the amount of discussion between the waiters before putting our name down seemed more suited to an exclusive club than a neighborhood restaurant. For our first course, we ordered ravioli stuffed with a white fish in a fresh tomato sauce and tagliolini with anchovies, pecorino and golden raisins. My dining companion felt that the filling of his ravioli was a little dry, too compressed and crumbly compared to other versions (including his mother’s, but that is to be expected). I felt my pasta was mediocre in quality and that the flavor of the raisins was completely lost unless you actually had one in your mouth.

We were both hoping the secondi would be better. We were both disappointed. The radicchio torte my friend ordered was one of the most unappetizing sights I have ever seen served in a restaurant. It was a perfectly rounded, uniformly matte brown scoop in the middle of a pale yellow puree, with a crowning sprig of parsley that did nothing to redeem it. It didn’t taste as bad as it looked, but I have to admit to a moment of embarrassment that anyone would serve something so ugly. The texture was bizarrely mushy, and it didn’t really taste like radicchio so much as like hazelnuts, mushrooms and earth. Not terrible, but definitely not great.

My baccala (salt cured cod) with tomatoes and onions should have been easy to execute. I didn’t expect it to be as good as my mother’s, but I am still struggling to understand how the chef could have gone so wrong with a relatively simple combination of flavors. The fish was overcooked to a slightly rubbery texture and the sauce was too sweet and strangely gelatinous. It was also devoid of any chunks of tomato or visible onions, which underscored the unfortunate departure from the rustic, saucy and vibrant baccala I know and love.

Then, though we still had a quarter bottle left of the delicious Sylvaner we were drinking, the waiter pressured us into ordering dessert or coffee. He was obviously trying to rush us out so they could close, which I always find rude but which was especially so considering the three other tables still finishing their meals. To make matters worse, he brought the coffees long before we were done with our wine! This may seem like a petty detail, but drinking the coffee would have completely ruined our palates for the lovely (white) wine we had left. As a consequence, our coffee was stone cold by the time we could drink it. At a restaurant that considers itself as highly as this one does, I expect service to be polite and alert enough to gauge these details.

The only thing I truly enjoyed was the Kuen Hof 2010 Sylvaner from the Sudtirol. It was crisp, with a faint aroma of lemongrass and a lively balance of Asian pear and Alpine minerals. Imagine drinking mountain spring water out of cupped hands after a grueling trek, savoring the traces of stone and lingering winter on your palate. In general the wine list was quite good and reasonable, with a wide selection of bottles for 25 euro or less as well as more expensive options.

Trattoria Monti reminded me that it might be better to avoid things your parents make wonderfully at home. Unfortunately for my friend and me, that would rule out dishes ranging across cuisines from Mexico to Japan. Instead, I will say I am eternally grateful for my mother’s wonderful culinary skills and for the discerning palate she fostered in me. The art of cooking (and eating) is a legacy to be passed on as thoroughly and carefully as any more material inheritance. As one of the next generation of cooks and epicureans in my family, I can only be thankful.

Rome, April 26, 2012

I have been struggling with what to tell you about Rome in the past few weeks. It doesn’t feel necessary to talk about how beautiful this city is, even though it continues to astonish me every time I leave the house. I imagine you would get tired of reading about gelato, though I found a place with better pistachio than Fassi. Though I am constantly inspired to create, the fruits of my labor don’t yet illustrate the contours of my experience here.

So what can I tell you, a month and a half into this adventure? I don’t really have the words to describe how content I feel here in my room with high ceilings, or to truly describe the glorious minutiae of my days doing nothing. To say I awaken gratefully each day doesn’t come close to expressing the pleasure I derive from simply existing in this place. But I owe you an honest attempt, because the only thing that could make this better would be to share it with you.

 My roommate makes espresso, and I sip at leisure while reading the news. Some days I walk to the market and sift through vegetables with a stern face, rejecting cabbages until I find an optimal combination of price and quality. It pleases me to play the discerning buyer, and it has made me some friends among the vendors who consistently prevail. They have the brightest, most fragrant fennel and their chayote has the right waxy sheen. They give me good deals on beets and carrots, of which I buy a lot to experiment with fresh juices, and they always answer my questions when I ask about things I’ve never seen. One woman, whose greens are always beautiful, gives me tips on how to prepare quintessential Italian contorni like the grassy agretti currently in season.

I make lunch every day, sometimes just a salad but more often a pot of soup. Last week it was meaty, sweet borscht with the beet greens wilted on top under a drizzle of olive oil. Then a classic Mexican caldo de res, with its iridescent swirls of fat from the marrow bones and lots of oregano, lime and chili. My roommates eye my creations with dubious faces that become smiles as the first taste settles into their stomachs.

Dinner tends toward the Italian, especially at the frequent dinner parties we are hosting. This past weekend brought two seafood pastas, one with calamari, langoustines and cherry tomatoes and another with clams in white wine and parsley. I like to push the boundaries of tradition with second courses, and so we served a roast chicken with paprika, oranges and fennel one night and mussels in beer and fennel broth the other (we had a lot of fennel). The chicken, a particularly meaty specimen, furnished a leisurely Sunday lunch alongside my roommate’s fragrant Iranian currant rice. The crunchy part from the bottom of the pot was resplendent soaked in the chicken’s citrusy pan juices. The beginning of this week continued to benefit from the same bounteous chicken, whose carcass became a clean broth full of vegetables best eaten with a squirt of sriracha and cilantro.

If it sounds as if I spend my days cooking and eating, I can’t deny that I do. But I also read, in Italian to boost my vocabulary and in English to stimulate my intellect. At museums I let the grace of marble sculptures awe me, so that I am filled with the beauty of their frozen movements. There is always a different church to rest in when I am overwhelmed by the echoes in this ancient place. Laundry affords the singular pleasure of inhaling the scent of sun dried towels, pressing my face to each one as I take it off the line.  

Lest you accuse me of omitting the awkward edges, most days I argue with clerks over absurd details in broken Italian. The lady that lives downstairs is convinced we’re trying to destroy her house with our bad plumbing, so she calls and calls as if yelling will make the pipes reseal. I listen to the list of our transgressions in vague comprehension, though I suspect no amount of Italian will help me understand. Time flies by while I wait in line, only to realize no one is being served in any particular order. My grad student roommate and I commiserate over the egotistical habits of professors and bureaucrats alike. I wait for someone else to clean the bathroom, or take out the trash. On Wednesdays I journey to tango class via a bus that only comes when I’ve given up hope of getting there on time.

Living in Rome is like being in love. You struggle over the smallest, most banal details, but when you go to bed at the end of your day you are suffused with the rightness of being together.

Gelato, April 1, 2012

Let’s talk about gelato. A term often bandied about by neophytes and dessert junkies alike, gelato is actually just the Italian word for ice cream. What has given it legendary connotations worldwide is that in Italy, ice cream is quite simply better than anywhere else. The texture is simultaneously denser and softer than other ice creams, resulting in a velvety mouthfeel. Gelato is never so cold that it is hard. You don’t need to bite it, either. It clings to the spoon or cone, but gives sensuously to the slightest pressure of your tongue.

To be completely fair, San Francisco ice cream makers tend to have more creative flavors (like so much else, ice cream is an SF food fetish). In Italy, you are unlikely to find balsamic and strawberry, or avocado, or bourbon and cornflake, except at a few select shops. However, there isn’t an ice creamery in the US that can match Italian nut flavors like pistachio, pine nut, hazelnut or walnut. In the past week, I admit I’ve eaten more gelato than in the past year. The two gelaterias that stand out so far are G. Fassi, near Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, and Fior di Luna in Trastevere.

Fassi is emphatically of the old school, situated in a cavernous space with promisingly grumpy service. The flavors are mostly traditional, comprising a good twenty five different fruit, chocolate, nut and dessert combos. You pay and get a ticket, then at the counter you order the flavors (multiple) that you want in your cup or cone. My first taste of Fassi was actually an ice cream cake at home. It blew my mind, firstly because of the clarity of the flavors and the phenomenal silky texture, but secondly because this ice cream cake was all ice cream, no cake in sight. It was as if someone had gone to the fount of all good desserts and tailored one to me. Coffee, dark chocolate and vanilla melted beautifully on my tongue, I found it disturbingly difficult to stop eating. My second taste was at peak hours. I got elbowed by several mothers ordering for whole soccer teams, but I walked out victorious with a cup of pistachio and coffee. Both flavors were lusciously tasty, though I've since discovered much better pistachio. Fassi's is ultimately too sweet for me. 

On my third trip to Fassi, I encountered another love at first taste: rice gelato. I expected it to taste like arroz con leche, and at its core it does taste like rice pudding. However, the flavor is so delicate and mildly sweet that you find yourself tasting it over and over to attempt to capture its essence. Also, incredibly, there are actual grains of rice in the gelato, giving your mouth a contrast between the luscious cream and slightly al dente rice. It is, quite frankly, crazy good. Thankfully Fassi is around the corner…life is beautiful.

Fior di Luna is a completely distinct experience, being both very tiny and relatively nontraditional. Texturally, the gelato is a little fluffier than Fassi, though not in a bad way. They take a lot of care in choosing ingredients and the emphasis is on fresh, seasonal fruit flavors. Here, you can only get a cup because they disdain the artificial ingredients in cones (though they do have these fabulous hazelnut wafers that you can eat with your gelato). My favorite flavor so far has been the subtle perfume of pine nut. Their pistachio was slightly too sweet for me, but the winter melon was wonderfully light. They also have chocolate with chili and chocolate with rum, both of which I plan on trying. I look forward to their summer fruit flavors, since the selection expands considerably. If you are in the neighborhood, do try to stop by.

In summation, it is perfectly reasonable to eat gelato every day here. Or so I keep telling myself.

Pizzarium, March 19, 2012

It is raining and so I am hiding out in the empty hostel this afternoon. I did go to San Pietro this morning, mostly because it was on the way to Pizzarium, a pizza al taglio (by the slice) spot that, full disclosure, I saw on Anthony Bourdain. I did not go inside the basilica because the line was coiling throughout the piazza already at 11 am (and plus, last time I was here I spent an hour inside with only three other people. You really can't beat that).
In the piazza I also made the unfortunate discovery that my map does not extend to the area where I wanted to go. After a demoralized moment my determination was increased, as going off the map makes me feel more like the intrepid explorer I imagine myself to be. I started walking in the right general direction, ignoring my growing annoyance at the goggling touristi and even feeling severely tempted by a Big Mac. Such are the evils of low blood sugar.
When I got to Cipro metro, even my second wind was flagging. I walked around halfheartedly, telling myself I would leave if Pizzarium did not appear like a mirage in front of me. Just as I had finally admitted defeat, I looked up to see Pizzarium shimmering before me.
Some insane pizza followed. Also insanely expensive pizza, but as my mouth savored crisp, light crust topped with burrata, mixed greens, salty cured anchovies and tomato pesto, I didn’t care. The crust had those scorch marks that only a wood burning oven can create, and the texture was firm enough to support very juicy toppings without being tough or hard. Arugula, fennel and parsley brought out the flowers and grass flavor of the burrata, which in its creamy turn mellowed the saltiness of the anchovies. Tomato pesto rounded out the flavors with a hint of acid and nuttiness. I smiled the entire time I was eating.
As I was leaving, a pizza topped with perfectly rare tenderloin came out, looking very enticing. I will be going back to try more of the rather haute combinations, including one with copious translucent slices of lardo and another with chicken livers that smelled amazing. The frittura also looked tasty, including three or four equally atypical types of suppli (Roman style rice croquettes similar to arancini).
Pizzarium also has wine and beer and, amazingly, takes credit cards. There is nowhere to sit down, but you can take an artsy palette shaped tray outside to the minimal counter space and two benches, stand, or take your pizza to go to a park. Pizza al taglio is sold by weight, and due to the high end ingredients and attention to detail (and likely the Bourdain endorsement), the pizzas with many toppings range from 20-25 euro a kilo. But you won't be getting that much unless you are feeding a soccer team of gourmand types. Two 3x7 slices will cost around 12 euro. I know…outrageous. But worth it.
Pizzarium is located at Via Della Meloria 41, just off the Via Cipro and just across the street from the Cipro metro (Line A).

Flour+Water, January 19, 2012

Thursday we found ourselves in the Mission, looking for dinner a little on the late side. We stumbled, soaked and shivering, into Flour+Water, where we were treated to one of the best meals I’ve had recently. Of course I had heard the hype, the great things from people who would know, but as a result I almost expected to be disappointed. Happily, my preconceptions did not get in the way of enjoying a stunningly good dinner.

We were seated immediately by a fairly pleasant hostess, but had to wait a bit before seeing our otherwise friendly waiter. They've done a great job using candlelight and warm woods to create an intimate but casual atmosphere, although I suspect at peak times it might feel crowded. At ten pm on a Thursday, it was relaxed and welcoming.

We were offered still and sparkling water, both on tap and complimentary (as it should be). Perusing the wine list revealed a good selection of hard to find Italian wines at very accessible prices ($30-$90). By the glass the choices are fewer, but well curated so that every dish and palate can be satisfyingly matched. Their beer selection is small but includes some standouts, like the Linden St. Brewery Black Lager I drank with my meal.

We decided to start with pastas, skipping the admittedly tempting pork trotter appetizer. I had to have the squid ink spaghetti with clams, squid, watermelon radish and chili oil. I had not had a squid ink pasta since a sublime experience at Rafael, in Lima, so ordering it was my challenge to Flour+Water. The spaghetti was beautiful, dark as night and fragrant with brine and the musky depth of the ink. The texture of the pasta was a perfect al dente, just firm enough to slightly resist my teeth, and the each noodle was silky. It tasted like wet earth and the sea, as poetic as that may sound. Despite being a seafood pasta, it was quite rich. The minimal sauce of ink and seafood juices was just enough to coat the pasta without obscuring the extraordinary flavor and texture of the pasta itself. Perfectly cooked clams and squid provided a nice textural counterpoint to the noodles. The one element that seemed to get lost was the chili oil, since I did not detect any spice whatsoever. It would have been nice to have a bright chili taste to cut the richness just a little, but to be honest I only thought this after the meal. While enjoying the decadence of this phenomenal dish, I thought of little else but my pleasure.

My friends had rosemary pappardelle with braised veal and a prosciutto, braised cabbage, fontina, potato and red onion pizza. The pappardelle was again texturally perfect, further evidence of Flour+Water’s clear mastery of pastas. Paired with the veal, the dish was light but incredibly savory. My first impression was that the rosemary was overpowering, but as I chewed and swallowed the mild, almost sweet veal created a perfect balance with the astringency of the rosemary. My mouth felt completely alert after tasting this dish, and I would order it again in a minute. Unfortunately for this review, I did not taste the pizza, but it looked delicious and my friend quite enjoyed it.

We all split a root vegetable gratin, which was everything gratin should be: creamy and loaded with butter. The root vegetables added a twist to the usual butter and potatoes gratin, making it more complex and even richer in flavor, if that can be believed. I felt like I could hear Thomas Keller extolling the virtues of butter in the background with every bite I took. Trust me that this is a good thing.

We ended with a good macchiato and a chocolate budino; a dense, almost fudgy pudding. This was explosively good, with just enough sea salt to make your mouth salivate and just enough bitterness from the chocolate. It was topped with a coffee caramel whipped cream that would have made me happy on its own. The flavors were perfect, though I would have preferred a slightly less dense consistency for the budino itself. Ultimately it made my mouth so happy that this small concern was just that.

In conclusion, I would like to dispel the idea that this restaurant is somehow overpriced or does not provide value for money. Neither of these assertions is true. The portions were plenty, neither precious nor grotesque. I was honestly surprised that the bill for three people’s meals, a side, dessert, coffee and five beers came out to a modest $30 per person. Considering the stellar quality of the food, good service and elegant surroundings, Flour+Water is one of the more affordable choices at its level. I would recommend it to anyone who appreciates perfect pasta, a good glass of wine and that uniquely Californian aesthetic of well-executed casual elegance.

I loved Flour+Water, and I will be returning as often as possible.

Buon Appetito!

Sunday Night Dinner

I'm currently making a pan roasted chicken breast with a garlic thyme butter. I will serve it sliced over spaghetti squash and fresh spinach tagliolini. With more garlic and olive oil (and maybe a little more butter, because I love the texture of butter on pasta).
I don't own a cast iron skillet, so I'm making do with an oven proof skillet in which to first pan sear the chicken then bake it to doneness at 400 degrees (15 or 20 minutes). The benefit of this method is that you get a nice brown crust on the chicken, making it look all the more appetizing and have a nice textural contrast between crispy skin and juicy meat.
This is my first time making spaghetti squash. I cut it in half, removed the seeds, brushed it with olive oil and put both halves face down on a baking sheet in the oven for 15 minutes, also at 400 degrees. I'll scoop it out and toss it with the pasta to serve. The green pasta and yellow squash should be visually appealing.

It turned out simple and tasty: chunks of juicy chicken, al dente pasta and the sweet fresh taste of the squash. The pan juices, sauteed onions and butter became a light sauce. The squash and pasta didn't mix as easily as I'd have liked, I will have to explore why. I will be making this again, perhaps with some thinly sliced roasted poblano peppers tossed into the pasta.

Perfect Guacamole

There is no good reason to buy already prepared guacamole. It is quite easy to make a delicious version if  you start with good ingredients. Buy fresh, whole avocado, serrano or jalapeño chilies, red onion, garlic, cilantro, lime and salt.

The avocado must be ripe enough to be springy when you squeeze a little, but not squishy or soft. The chilies should be firm and intensely colored whether green, red, or both. Serrano chilies tend to be spicier, but it varies greatly from chili to chili. If you want a serious kick go for the habaneros (with caution, please). Red onions and garlic heads should not have any soft spots or deep discolorations. Cilantro should be green and lustrous, not brown and wilty. Heads up, cilantro and parsley are not the same thing, so ask if you aren't sure. Limes should be firm but not hard, smooth skinned and bright green.

I’m being deliberately vague about quantities, but the ones I mention are for one large avocado. Taste your work often with a spoon, not chips. The salty chip will skew your perception of the flavors.

Dice the garlic first and let it breathe while you chop up everything else. One clove should be plenty.
Slice the avocado(s) all the way around the long way (from the pointy end to the round end then up the other side) then twist the halves a little to pull them apart. Be gentle! To remove the pit, firmly put a knife in it as if you want to cut it in half and pull it out.
Use a spoon and scoop the flesh out into a bowl, avoiding any blackish parts. Smash the avocado with the tines of a fork until it is chunky. You might need to add a little water (but just a dribble).
Roll a lime against the counter, putting pressure on it with the flat of your hand. This releases the juices and softens the lime to make it easier to squeeze. Cut it in half and squeeze half over the avocado. Set aside the other half to add as needed for moisture and to prevent the avocado fro oxidizing (turning brown).
Dice the chilies and add them. Remove some or all of the seeds before dicing to control the level of spice, although since I like it hot I leave them in. Use one jalapeño or a couple serranos at most.
Dice a quarter of a red onion and add it (you can add more later if necessary).
Add the garlic.
Tear off a small handful of cilantro, wash it and roughly chop it. Add it to the bowl.
Still using the fork, mix everything up and gently mash. If dry, add more lime or water.
Salt to taste. Add more of anything that it needs until you love it.

Sprinkle a little queso fresco on top to serve with chips. Put it on top of tacos, quesadillas or tortas, turkey sandwiches, gazpacho…really on anything that you think would be tasty.

If you don’t like anything that I’ve included, I give you permission to take it out. Get creative with your guac: put fruits like mango or peach in it for a tropical vibe, add kumquats or oranges for a citrus kick…anything goes. But remember, if all variations fail you, the classic version above will always be delicious.

Paris, 2010

While in Paris last year for a Political Science program, I obviously prioritized my palate and stomach over everything except museums. Despite the plethora of markets, cafes, restaurants and street food, I found myself craving a gourmet burger to the point of pain. Not a hamburger crepe, which Monsieur Chef at the crepe stand on the corner thoughtfully offered, nor a hamburger on baguette, nor un Big Mac, s'il vous plaît. I wanted a burger like those at Burgermeister in San Francisco (one of my favorite burgers ever): thick and juicy, with top quality ingredients. I thought through all the details of my potential burger, from which buns I would use from the patisserie on the corner to specific cheeses and cuts of bacon. This being Paris, some burger elements are more available (and affordable) than others. Luckily, I don't like ketchup or tomatoes on a good burger, so the terrible winter tomatoes were not an issue.

Anyway, we came up with this:

I believe that is a traditional 80/20 ground beef, gruyère, and thick-cut meaty bacon. Delicious. Seriously, it was great...or maybe I was desperate for some burger goodness. But my friends and I were all thoroughly satisfied by our DIY Parisian burger, so it was a success.

Commodity Fetishes and Fantasy Girls

This DoubleX article about the possible correlation between women’s sexual liberty and men’s achievement bothers me for two central reasons. The first is how it links the notion of a sexual economy in which the man buys sex at a market rate to numbers that suggest women want marriage and babies. The article then suggests that women are ‘underselling’ their sexual capital in order to fulfill their desire for marriage etc., such that the man whose commitment they purchase is varying types of underachiever. Following the logic, I am left with a society of women so desperate for the paradigmatic American family that their standards have just melted away.

The second is the idea that women’s substantive empowerment in all arenas, including the bedroom, actively creates conditions that demotivate men. I don’t disagree at all with the ostensible thesis of the article, which is that men still have the upper hand in hetero premarital relationships. I do find it a bit scary that at one point it argues that more women means more “feminist” sexual permissiveness and thus, more male satisfaction. Feminism, or at least sexual openness, is thus just another way for women to satisfy the male fantasy, while a regressive focus on filling the Lacanian ‘feminine lack’ through marriage is the logical secret to men’s achievement. In a Freudian or Lacanian psychoanalytic framework, desire is the motivator of all describable acts, meaning that without the tantalizing pull of the ‘unassailable’, sexually unavailable woman, the man has nothing to strive for and thus becomes a PBR-swilling, entitled twerp. Or so the psychological logic of the article suggests.

The sexually available woman, who for whatever motive is willing to enter into the sexual relationship, gives a man exactly what he wants according to his fantasy. But with the mystery of “Woman” so easily plumbed, he has no reason to struggle for sex or anything else. According to this construction, women who know what they want and aren’t afraid of their sexuality are apparently holding men back. Or to be even bolder, feminists are holding men back.
The article is not so explicit, but in the past year I’ve seen a few variations on a theme in which the rise of women in the culture and economy threatens the very necessity of maleness. There was even an issue of The Atlantic magazine that worried whether the further growth of women’s power in North American society would make men obsolete. One thing they share, regardless of the sex of the writer, is a more traditional masculine perspective where a man locates his worth in his career, his family and his wealth. This new trend of worrying about the future of males seems to ask, if women’s success only makes life worse for men, then what is the worth of women’s success?

Frankly, I dislike being asked to question the worth of my success because twenty something boys are supposedly underachieving. Also, I’m not waiting for a man to commit to me, nor am I sexually ‘cheap’ (even at the ripe old age of twenty-two). But perhaps that’s just me.

Really though, I know some pretty cool young guys who are down to have relationships, but want to wait on the ‘serious’ part of those relationships (i.e. cohabitation or engagement). Maybe the young women in the article have expectations that are inconsistent with the guys they date because the guys are inappropriate choices. But maybe those bad choices are because women feel sex is bad unless it happens within the context of a ‘serious’ relationship, but they don’t act upon that feeling because modern women are expected to be more open to casual encounters. That second expectation finds support from both feminist and macho perspectives precisely because modern notions of sexual appropriateness mean easier fantasy fulfillment for men along with more sexual empowerment for women. We’re describing young women whose relationships are dissatisfying because they are made to feel like bad women for succumbing to the powerful expectation that sex is the norm in all relationships, regardless of how sexually active they wish to be.
Patriarchy isolates women from fully occupying their sexuality by confusing us all, women and men, with wildly contradictory messages. First it teaches us that sexual women are bad, but then it dictates that men should only value women for their sexual function. Combine that with the aftereffects of the sexual revolution for both sexes, and you have women who have been encouraged to act bad as long as doing so gets them a husband, and men who expect women to be sexually receptive without demanding respect.

As a culture, we still believe strongly in the redemptive power of marriage; strongly enough that a so-called hooker can become a “good” woman, erasing a history that discomfits mainstream culture, or a mistress can become a fairly respectable political wife. Though they are vivid, antithetical to the American family and definitely not virgins, becoming someone’s wife redeems them. In the movies, bad women have been redeemed from Hitchcock’s Marnie to Pretty Woman, and the way they take the leap into respectability is a nice wedding and a future of channeling their sexuality into sex with the husband. Marnie isn’t saved by her marriage, per se, but her husband imagines their forced marriage will reform her wild ways. When she resists his imposition of values and does not want to have sex with him, he (perhaps) rapes her. He has fulfilled his part of the bargain by marrying her and thus saving her from herself and so he takes his due by insisting upon the sexual relationship. He is owed sex because he saves her from living out her life as a bad woman.
If girls grow up secretly believing marriage is what saves women from being floozies, then of course they’ll be disappointed when sex is frankly expected of them and not treated as part of a process of emotional involvement. Marriage is hardly an option in most sexual relationships, utterly defying the cultural bifurcation of femininity into sex object or wife.
Ultimately, the issues at hand follow a common thread. They ask: does women’s success always have to be at the expense of men? Can we talk about this without blaming women somehow? What do you think?

Feria Gastronómica Pictures

Plaza Tupac Amaru in Cusco, which I visited in early August 2010. Read the original post.