"Ame has a new chef," my girlfriend just told me. "You should review it soon."
"Where did you hear that?" I asked.
"Tablehopper," she said.

The routine unfolds at least once a week. A day later, she dropped another morsel from Marcia Gagliardi's weekly e-column in an email with a link to Heart's enticing brunch menu. "Duck scrapple -- sounds good," she wrote. Whenever she has food-related news to share, nine times out of ten, Gagliardi's the source.

I suspect that she is nearly everyone's source, and I wonder why her column has been so successful. She supplies news, reviews, and gossip in one hefty dose every seven days, a slow stream of information by today's media standards; she can't begin to keep up with local food blogs able to post fresh content every few minutes. Likewise, the ubiquity and influence of her weekly missives can't be attributed to content. After all, most food blogs tell you the same stuff much of the time -- who is in, who is out, what is new, and what is hot around the region's food and drink scene. As tidbits of interest get recycled, posted to social networking sites, and otherwise tossed around, slightly varied versions of the same p.r.-planted stories end up peppering the Internet. While she writes entertaining reviews and amuses with her Page 6-like lines on where Hollywood stars and celebrity chefs end up grubbing when they breeze through town, Gagliardi's main strengths are her personality as conveyed through her writing and her organizational prowess. Her columns come to your email inbox, and you read them like you would scan through an email. They're written in an informal, conversational, fun, flirty, personal sort of way. She tells you where she's been -- perhaps a vacation, to Spain or India -- and how she's been -- happy, busy, or sick, maybe -- and lets you know what tasty treats she's uncovered in the past week. She arranges the information she provides clearly and effectively. As you scroll down, each regular section comes tagged with a cute little header. There's a consistent look, appealing feel, and pure readability to it, and that helps define her brand as much as the way she writes.

This week, her brand gets a little bigger and somewhat bolder with the release of her debut book, "The Tablehopper's Guide to Dining and Drinking in San Francisco: Find the Right Spot for Every Occasion." Because there are so many online forums for restaurants and bar recommendations -- like Yelp, Chowhound, and the aforementioned cabal of blogs -- the idea of physically publishing such a book (particularly one so focused in scope) feels like a retro endeavor. Furthermore, as Gagliardi herself lays out in the book, the restaurant business is highly changeable, especially in the midst of a wicked recession. Chefs get new gigs. Places shutter, and others spring up. Pop-up restaurants and mobile food carts are tenuous in the first place. Over the course of a year, the city's food-scape shifts a lot, which is where that weekly e-column comes in handy. The book is a stand-alone summer of 2009 snapshot of one person's favorite places to eat and booze in San Francisco. Will it be useful, even pertinent, in two or three years?

Most popular guidebooks are published by companies with recognizable names internationally trusted for reliability and the rigor with which they dissect a restaurant scene. The brands are expressions of tradition and experience, not personality. Fittingly, their books typically organize the included establishments by neighborhood and cuisine. Gagliardi's tome takes a different path to the glove-box, re-imagining the guidebook form as a funny little pocket concierge that speaks with an enthusiastic, almost antagonistic version of the lively cackle audible in her weekly e-columns. She comes off like a knowing, slightly loud friend reciting a manic monologue. She suggests restaurants based on occasion, not cuisine, effectively organizing her book around why people eat at restaurants -- to celebrate, to romance, to get away, to do business. In town for a convention? Try Waterbar, she advises, noting its "power booths facing the bay" and $20 Bloody Marys. Out on the town with a "Cool (or Bad or Gay) Uncle?" Take him to EPIC Roasthouse for "a variety of options for meaty indulgence, like marrow bones, a porterhouse pork chop, prime rib, and five styles of potatoes," she says, with the authority of someone who has almost certainly done so. She also lists foods folks commonly seek out -- burritos, falafel, dumplings, and chilaquiles -- and includes her favorites. The suggestions appear to spring from the life she has led, and, appropriately, she makes the book personal in every sense, advising readers of eateries catering to customers with special dietary needs, diners with small children, and industry professionals. She tells you where she drank (Dalva) after she lost her last full-time job. She curates business lunches, reconciliatory dinners, quiet nights alone, and tense summits with the in-laws. She wants you to take the information personally, and use it accordingly. In this sense, the book might suit locals more than tourists, new arrivals planning to stay for a while and carve out food-happy routines amongst the city's hills, valleys, parks, and palms. Likewise, framed as such -- a stomach-centric road map for future memories -- it might have a longer life span than your average Zagat.

In assessing this book, you have to talk about Gagliardi's distinctive voice, and style. While those are elements infrequently crucial to the function of conventional guidebooks, here they strike me as inseparable from the content. Gagliardi isn't just peddling her recommendations; she's selling herself, a larger-than-life swashbuckling socialite persona a reader is supposed to find charming, funny, intriguing, and insightful. She dares her audience to flip through the pages for amusement, not just for the practical purpose of finding a good place to eat.

If you take the bait, you might find that persona hard to swallow in hearty helpings. She affects different tones for different topics, channeling a high-fiving keg-tapping dude-yelping frat guy in "For the Fellas" and then a shoe-crazed Sex in the City-aping dame in "For the Ladies." In the world she presents -- surely, hopefully, somewhat facetiously -- dudes like tearing up red meat and chasing cougars ("rawr"), and women enjoy tittering about shoes they saw on sale at Bloomies. In her preamble to the sub-section "Ladies Who Lunch," Gagliardi gets painfully fabulous: "'Ooooh, love the bag.' 'Your hair looks great.' 'He did not say that! What a pig.' 'Another bottle, please.' All that and more. Girl, let's taaaaaalk!" She goes on to recommend Cafe Claude for hot "French-accented garcons," apparently "one of the most important components of a ladies' lunch." Her constant semi-creative enlistment of foreign lingo in entries for Spanish, Mexican, and Italian restaurants is another tedious shtick. She's "an amiga" of the al pastor pork at Taqueria Cancun. Valencia St. cocktails-and-'za spot Beretta has taken off like a "casa on fire." Velvet Cantina's bartenders are "caliente." She's a freewheeling Berlitz gone haywire. She also routinely swings for the fences with punch-lines flimsier than half-frozen phyllo. Of Terzo, Gagliardi writes: "[J]ust in case you're a bad girl, the crispy onions are delicious. . .the look is postmodern, rustic hip, just like your sexy boots." She ruminates on "the newest Hayes Valley (excuse me, 'Zen Valley') location" of Samovar Tea Lounge. I read that and wonder if I should OMG or just LOL. Assuming Gagliardi is a hip, hip lady (like Martha Washington) merely having a good time, the fat layer of formaggio must be an act, a role she is playing, a joke consistently and thoroughly embodied in the interest of toying with guidebook decorum.

Instead of getting a lift from such antics, this book truly succeeds in a strictly practical sense. As someone who loves to eat and earns a little scratch writing about food, I think I know a thing or two about the city's dining scene. Gagliardi knows a lot about the subject, certainly more than I do, and in poring over the pages, my excitement peaks, not when I absorb left-field suggestions I don't anticipate, but when I realize that Gagliardi and I agree about a lot of stuff. We like the same chilaquiles -- vastly different yet equally satisfying variations on the theme at Los Jarritos and Pastores. We both like our burritos toasted on the outside like they're done at Taqueria Castillito near the Safeway on Market and Church. She flips for the spread of dips and pita at Old Jerusalem, and so do I. She recommends La Ciccia's incomparable fregola pasta, and so do I. She likes to get drunk at the Lone Palm, and so do I. These morsels -- our independent shared experiences -- must reveal more about her character than the bad jokes and witticisms flatter than tap water. Regardless of how much fun she had writing it, her book -- clearly designed to be fun -- isn't something I want to curl up with. With tips like these, it doesn't have to be.

Trying everything at Weezy’s Grass Fed Shed

I'm a little late to the game, but I'm finally getting into the Best Food Writing 2009 anthology. It's only been sitting on my nightstand for a few months. If you haven't checked it out yet, there are some great, short pieces on everything from translating modern Indian cooking to an exploration of illegal, raw-milk cheese. Our of all of the work I've read so far (Disclaimer: I'm still not all that far into it), Tim Hayward's short piece, "Too Much of a Mouthful" caught my attention. In it, he explores the current popularity of oversized portions--particularly in the U.K.

Interesting enough, I was finishing Hayward's piece as I sat waiting for a friend on the patio of Weezy's Grass Fed Shed in San Rafael. I'd heard about this place right when they opened from a friend who worked in the area. She boasted that they served Prather Ranch beef burgers for a mere $3.00. I argued with her about the impossibility of that statement, and she assured me that it was true but that they make it all work because the burgers are small.

Great. Perfect. I hate how sluggish I feel after a big burger, so I quickly find a fellow burger lover and we agree to meet for lunch and check it out.

The shed’s small outdoor patio

Now when my friend mentioned that the burgers are small, she wasn't messing around. Think somewhere in between slider and very small burger. Tim Hayward, the writer I just spoke of, would be proud. In his piece, he closes by commenting on the irony of careful food preparation in the U.K. combined with the obscene, difficult-to eat portions:

Any cook worth his Maldon salt, be he three-star chef, sandwich slinger or pie-maker, will have thought long and hard about every aspect of a dish he's created. By the time he's given it a final wipe with the rag and sent it out to delight me he will have used all of his knowledge, skill, experience and training to ensure that it is properly sourced and prepped; perfectly cooked, seasoned, rested, and sauced. Is it really too much to ask then, that it should also fit in my mouth?

Clearly, Louise Clow-Birkenseer ("Weezy') would answer with a resounding "No." Not only are her burgers made with the finest ingredients, they’re also a very civilized and appropriate size. You can swing by and grab one as a late afternoon snack or, as my friend Creg and I decided to do, order a whole bunch (or, let's be honest: pretty much everything on the menu). At that size and that price, why not?

The Contiki burger: a little bit sweet, a little bit savory.

Before I report back on our favorites, a little background: Weezy's started as many great things do: when someone notices a lack of something in their neighborhood or town and decides to fill it. Weezy lives in the sleepy part of San Rafael known as Terra Linda--quite residential with very few good dining options. Weezy missed a good burger. She wanted to walk and pick one up. She'd always wanted to add to the community in some way and felt that really good quality food should be available to everyone at a fair price. Enough said. The shed was born.

Creg and I visited on a quiet and unusually sunny weekday and found Weezy whistling on a stool in the back of the shed forming small meat patties. High school kids were working through the line with smiles and enthusiasm. It all felt very organized but completely laid-back at the same time. For example, as we were hemming and hawing over what kind of fries to order (sweet potato or regular), the kids at the register encouraged us to go with both: We'll mix them up for you! OK, sold. I overhear another customer debating between the limeade or the raspberry lemonade. The cashier's solution? It's so good if you mix them both! We do it all the time. Trust us, you'll love it! I like this carefree, go-for-it attitude. Why take lunch too seriously, after all?

Then as if the kids at the counter aren't excited enough, we go outside to enjoy our burgers and Weezy herself isn't far behind with her own lunch tray. She sits down next to us, soaking in the sun, chatting with customers and introducing herself, and literally oohing and ahhing over her burger. From the sound of things, she's behind these little burgers 110%.

Creg and I tried the White Trash Burger (with American cheese, iceberg lettuce, and Thousand Island dressing), Burger in a Lettuce Cup, the B-rad (with bacon and Tillamook cheddar), the Contiki (with pineapple and Teriyaki sauce), and the Moo-Less Burger (homemade vegan patty with 20 different ingredients served on a bun with cream cheese and special sweet potato sauce).

The Moo-Less Burger

Each burger is right around $3.00 and weighs in at 1/8 of a pound unless you opt to do the "Double Wide" upgrade with is ¼ pound for an additional $.75. I have to say, I'll probably upgrade next time. It seems like a great deal. I expected to really love the White Trash burger, but there was something about the crispy bacon, juicy and perfectly cooked meat, and slightly sharp cheddar that made me grasp onto the B-rad and not let go. Sorry, Creg. I'll give you a bite next time.

I'll be back for this one: the b-rad burger

So as the weather turns warmer, as you look to new spots to try, I'm all for taking Tim Hayward's implied thesis to heart--size matters. Something is lost in quality and in experience when you're presented with an entire pound of it. According her website, for Weezy "it’s not just a job, it’s a lifestyle." I have to say--if I lived just a bit closer, I'd start to integrate Weezy's more into my own.

Weezy's Grass Fed Shed
621 A Del Ganado (in the Scotty's Market Shopping Center)
San Rafael, CA, 94903
(415) 479-7433
Hours: Everyday 11am-8pm; for coffee and pastries (NEW) only 7am-11am
Also, find them on Facebook

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Okay, I'll admit it: I watch the Academy Awards for the outfits. And for the possibility of crazy behavior on the podium, as the sudden release of mind-bending pressure makes these over-coddled thoroughbreds behave like the hundred pounds of crazy they really are. But really, will anything this year top Bjork's swan? Or the pre-MILF Angelina Jolie smooching her brother?

The tyranny of tastefulness, in both dress and behavior, has taken much of the fun out of these silly shows (along with the huge, indigestible blocks of commercials crammed in every six minutes). Still, though, here in the Bay Area we love our Oscar parties, and if you're going to fill the couch in front of the big screen, you've got to provide the munchies to match.

There are many amusing options at #oscarmenu, from District 9 Prawn Kebabs to Avatunatartare, with a side of pink candy cigarettes to puff like Julianne Moore in A Single Man. And don't forget The Blind Side Salad, washed down with a glass of The Hurt Lager, followed (for you art-house fans) with The Peaches of Agnes.

2010 Oscar Nominee/Food Mashups by David Gartner

As Karen Wilson points out in Bon Appetit, there's a lot of cute (fake) food in Fantastic Mr. Fox. Roald Dahl was a man with a keen palate, as his essay on the Dutch Arnhemse Meisjes (which he called, quite simply, the best biscuits in the world) would prove. Director Anderson makes the edibles in his film come brightly and sweetly to life, from the vividly lit grocery-store shelves to the lavishly set table of the animals' dinner party. And then, of course, are the equally alluring (and equally fake) baguettes and buns rising through the roof in the latest Wallace and Gromit animated short, A Matter of Loaf and Death.

However charming they may look on-screen, though, dinky loaves and pies made from Play-Do and paper-mache don't do much to whet the appetite. For that, I suppose, most people will be turning to Julie & Julia, with its walls of gleaming copper pots and its smear-your-face French chocolate cake. You can't go wrong serving La Reine de Saba, Julia Child's unbeatable chocolate-almond cake, although I'd advise your guests against tearing it with their hands like crazed wildebeests. Chocolate cake on the chin: always a little disgusting, even for a professional cutie like Chris Messina.

Down in Los Angeles at the Governor's Ball, our Governator will be supping (budget issues be damned) on mini kobe beef burgers, lobster tempura, crab cakes with mango, black truffle and ricotta pizza, smoked salmon and potato galettes with butler-passed warm brioche, and baked alaska with espresso ice cream and chocolate sorbet, all whipped up by Mr. Kooky Pizza himself, Wolfgang Puck.

Burgers, pizza and ice cream! Clearly, our governor's celebrity chef is in sympathy with the working man struggling to get by on dollar meals, just like the families at the drive-through in Food, Inc. Wouldn't Michael Pollan be proud.

Oscar night is coming. Are you ready? I'm not. In fact, I almost totally forgot about them this year-- and that's saying something, considering the fact that, as a ten year-old, I decided to memorize every Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actor (all four categories) for the first fifty years that Academy Awards were being handed out.*

Granted, this is a food blog, but don't worry, I'm not going to start talking about Julie & Julia. While I am thrilled for Miss Streep's much deserved 27,000th nomination for her performance as Mrs. Child, I think they should have renamed the film Julia Child & That Unpleasant Woman Who Is Mean to Her Husband (It's a good thing I'm not in marketing).

So, instead of discussing the already discussed-to-death aforementioned film which, in my opinion, is only half a great film, I'm bringing you two wholly great ones: Babette's Feast (Babette's Gæstebud, 1987) and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie, 1972). Both films (conveniently enough for today's topic) won Oscars for Best Foreign Language film. Even more happy-making, they both star one, particular actress-- Stephane Audran.

There are few food cinema enthusiasts who have not seen Babette's Feast-- gorgeous with it's stark Jutland scenery and quiet story of two pious sisters who take in a (unbeknownst to them) world famous, war-fleeing chef. It is story of food and the balancing of souls. For Babette, her desire is to prepare a special meal to show her love for the two sisters is one that comes from the depths of hers. The sisters, however, fear that to partake in such a meal would imperil theirs.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie makes for a strange companion piece to Babette's Feast. Where as Babette's Feast is absurdly beautiful, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is beautifully absurd. There is virtually no plot and the principle characters are essentially unlikeable, yet we are compelled to follow them as they weave in and out of dreams and dreams-within-dreams and try, without success, to eat-- anything. Coincidentally, Audran's Alice Senechal is the hostess of a some increasingly elaborate diner parties in which these characters fail to consume a single bite of food until the end of the film.

And with very interesting results indeed.

I saw the two of these films together-- one right after the other-- with a friend of mine while we were both orphaned and nursing hangovers on Christmas Day. I hadn't decided to have a mini Stephane Audran film festival, I simply let my friend Edward choose the films to watch among my collection. I was struck by how differently these to films approach eating and yet both essentially arrive at the same conclusion-- that the sharing of food is communion; a way of restoring both body and soul. In Babette's Feast, old wrongs are forgotten, old loves remembered, and souls are nourished. In The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, the characters cannot manage to feed their souls because they are essentially soulless. And, best of all, they both star one of my favorite actresses.

So go ahead and watch your little Oscar show. Go to your Oscar party. When the stardust has cleared and the losers have finished pretending to be happy for the winners, take an evening out of your busy schedule and watch these two Oscar winners back-to-back. The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie first, then Babette's Feast and you can find out for yourself what I'm talking about. It's a little cinematic food for the soul.

Unless, of course, you don't have one.

* It was for too long my party trick until I started to know people who were born after 1977.

If you've never heard of wheat berries, you're not alone. When I mentioned to a few people that I wanted to write about them, I received some quizzical looks. So, for anyone not familiar with this whole grain, let me end the suspense: wheat berries are simply individual kernels of wheat. They are what King Arthur and other grain companies mill to produce baking flours, from whole wheat to cake and all-purpose. And, just as there are many different types of wheat, there are just as many types of wheat berries, with their color ranging from light tan to a reddish brown. But the most important thing about wheat berries, at least as far as this post is concerned, is that they are scrumptious.

Other than a short stint in the 70s, when the health-food craze hit the United States, wheat berries have been mostly ignored in this country. This is a shame, as these plump and hearty grains are really worth experiencing. With a slightly nutty flavor and a mild chewy consistency, they are wonderful in soups, stews and salads.

My desire to cook wheat berries was born out of a decadent weekend away eating gooey homemade macaroni and cheese, King Ranch casserole, and plenty of breakfast sausage and bacon. After indulging, I craved something moderate and almost ascetic for my next dinner. But because I was starving when I shopped, I also yearned for something hearty and substantial. All this made me reach for a bag of wheat berries at the grocery store, along with, I'm embarrassed to admit, some andouille sausage. So much for an austere lifestyle.

Now before I detail how ridiculously healthy wheat berries are, let me reiterate that they are delightful to eat. Too often, people associate healthy foods with bland or disagreeable flavors (which I think has more to do with under seasoning and overcooking, but that's another story). Yet regardless of nutrition, wheat berries and other whole grains are worth eating simply because they have more complex and nuanced flavors than your standard jasmine or basmati rice. Yes, they're also healthier, but I'm no martyr (remember, I'm the one who bought andouille sausage for my minimalist meal): my real reason for eating wheat berries is because they have so much flavor.

Okay, here's the health info. According to a smarty pants nutritional study at Harvard, there is a "connection between eating whole grains and better health." Eating wheat berries and other whole grains lowers your risk for cardiovascular disease and type 2 diabetes. These grains additionally offer modest protection against colorectal cancer and also just keep everything moving along nicely -- yes, that is exactly what I mean. They are full of fiber, protein and iron. Oh, and did I mention they're really yummy? What more do you need?

Following are a few wheat berry recipes. The first two I've made and loved, and the rest are recipes I hope to try soon. But you don't have to have a specific wheat berry recipe to try this amazing grain. Just use it in place of brown or white rice for your next meal.

If you have a good wheat berry recipe, please share it in the comments section as I'm looking to expand my repertoire.

Cooking Wheat Berries
Wheat berries are great plain, but because you need to cook this grain before you can include it other recipes, you'll need to cook them ahead of time even if you're adding them to soups, salads or stews. Here are some basic instructions for cooking light wheat berries (which are more common than the darker red variety). If you purchase darker red wheat berries, you may need to soak them overnight, but just follow the package directions to be on the safe side.

Makes: 2 cups

Ingredients:
1 cup wheat berries
3 cups water
1 tsp salt

Preparation:

1. Place all ingredients in a medium covered pot.
2. Bring water to a boil and then simmer for 45 minutes to one hour or until done.
3. Drain off any excess water.

Note: One day when I needed to leave the house for a bit, I simmered the wheat berries for a half hour and then turned off the heat and left the pot covered. By the time I returned to the house, the wheat berries were fully cooked and ready to use.

Popped Wheat Berries

One fun way to eat wheat berries is to pop them like popcorn. They're small, so the grains mostly just crack rather than pop, but after seasoning with some sea salt, they are nonetheless downright lip-smackingly tasty to nibble on. They are also a great addition to salads.

Unlike pop corn kernals, you need to first partially cook wheat berries to soften them before placing them in a hot pan. I usually just add extra wheat berries to a pot that I'm making and then pull them out after about 15 minutes of simmering (leaving the remainder to thoroughly cook through according to the instructions above).

Makes: 1/2 cup popped wheat berries

Ingredients:
1/2 cup partially-cooked wheat berries (simmered for 15 minutes only)
1 tsp vegetable or olive oil
Salt to taste

Preparation:

1. Dry wheat berries on a dish towel or with paper towels to pat off the extra moisture from boiling.
2. Place berries in a dry pan on high heat (cast iron works great, but any steel or iron pan that is not non-stick will work well). The grains will now continue to dry in the pan. Be sure to continually shake or stir the grains so as not to burn them.
3. Once all the moisture seems to have evaporated (about 1-2 minutes), add in the oil and continue to shake the pan while the grains begin to pop. Once the wheat berries are mostly popped, remove them from the pan and season with salt.
4. Eat as a snack or as a topping for salads.

Wheat Berries Sautéed with Andouille Sausage, Asparagus and Almonds

This dish is like an eclectic group of friends. They're all unique apart, but together they work. Spicy andouille wants to be the star and steal all the attention, but her steady and charming friend wheat berries keeps her balanced, while fun-loving asparagus adds a loveable charm to the group. Meanwhile, nutty almond is cracking jokes. I agree that this analogy is a bit lame, but still, this is how this dish tastes.

Makes: 4 servings

Ingredients:
2 cups cooked wheat berries
4 andouille sausage links
1/2 cup chopped raw almonds
4 scallions (the white and green parts)
6-8 asparagus stalks with the ends trimmed off and cut into 1/2-inch pieces.
1 tsp olive oil

Preparation:

1. Chop sausage into 1/2-inch pieces and cook in a medium-sized pan until thoroughly browned. Remove and place in a bowl.
2. Saute scallions in the same pan, adding a bit of olive oil if needed (although the sausage grease will most likely be sufficient). Remove from the pan when slightly crisp, placing in the same bowl as the sausage.
3. Brown almonds in the pan and then set in the sausage bowl.
4. Add oil to the pan and then saute asparagus for 2 minutes or until al dente.
5. Add cooked sausage and scallions, along with the browned almonds to the asparagus in the pan and then add in the cooked wheat berries. Mix thoroughly, season with salt and pepper, and serve.

Other Wheat Berry Recipes

Wheat Berries with Sesame, Soy Sauce and Scallions
Wheat Berry Breakfast Bowl
Wheat Berry Pudding

Bourbon & Blood Orange Punch

It all started with a G-chat…

Ali: Do you make punch ever?

Me: My punch knowledge is pretty limited. It's either from middle school (sherbet and ginger ale with random floating fruit) or college (a.k.a. Jungle Juice -- Kool Aide, grain alcohol, batches made in trash bags)...neither of which are particularly appealing.

Ali: Hahahahhaha. I have bad memories of Jungle Juice.

Me: I have no (clear) memories of Jungle Juice.

Ali: Good point. Can we bring anything for Saturday??

(Pause)

Me: Punch?!

And so, our limited experience with punch progressed from the unremarkable and nauseating, to the tasty and tasteful! The party punch was a knockout (har har) and guests were clamoring for a taste of the gorgeous hued elixir.

Fragrant blood oranges, lemon, and a touch of honey bring a floral, citrusy, sweetness to the mix without making it too syrupy sweet. And the warmth from the ginger adds just the right amount of spice and depth. Together, there couldn't be a better match to complement the Maker’s Mark.

What a great way to set the mood for a party. And have I mentioned how happy I am to have graduated from the Awkward Tween Punches and Blackout Punches of the past? This lip-smackingly good Bourbon & Blood Orange Punch should be called Grown & Sexy Punch.

Maker's Mark spike

Bourbon & Blood Orange Punch
Recipe by Ali LaRaia, A Date With Flavor, adapted from Martha Stewart Living Magazine, Dec 1996/Jan 1997

Serves: 12

Ingredients:
20 blood oranges, yielding about 3-4 cups juice
9 cups water
1 medium-sized ginger root (about 4 oz.), peeled and roughly chopped
¾ cup honey
½ cup lemon juice
2-2 ½ cups Maker's Mark

Ice Block:
3 lemons, thinly sliced in rings
3 blood oranges, thinly sliced in rings
Bottled or Distilled water

Garnish:
1 lemon, thinly sliced in rings
1 blood orange, thinly sliced in rings

Preparation:
To make the punch:
1. In a large pot add water, ginger, lemon juice, and honey and bring to a boil. Let simmer for 30 minutes until you can really smell the ginger. Remove from heat and let cool, then refrigerate.
2. Juice the blood oranges, then refrigerate.
3. Strain both liquids before using.

To make the ice block:
1. Take a large, round Tupperware container and fill half full with water. Add lemons and oranges which should bring the container to about 3/4 full.
2. Put in freezer until frozen, about 5 hours.

To assemble:
1. Run ice block under hot water to loosen, and place at the bottom of the punch bowl.
2. Add the ginger-lemon mixture, orange juice, and Maker's Mark.
3. Garnish with sliced fruit.
4. Get punch-drunk happy!

January, 2002, Ohio

The editors at Bon Appetit should be finishing up their summer grilling issue right about now. It will come out in August. Buried among the advertisements for lunch meat and recipes for three-minute meals centered around canned goods, a massive photo spread depicting a plush suburban backyard will introduce the menu and the accompanying four inches of article. In the picture, beautiful plates of perfect steaks sliced to reveal pink and ruby interiors, salads, rolls, assorted colorful enticing sides will perch on a broad buffet table standing in an impossibly verdant carpet of grass. Slender, attractive people of all races will be draped over handsome lawn furniture, ladies wearing breezy summer skirts and sun hats, guys sporting casual collared shirts and sandals. Their adorable children will be sitting on their laps, rolling around with clean, well-groomed puppies at their feet, smiling as they pause to spoon up another chomp of mac-'n'-cheese. In the center of the frame, a monstrous grill will glaze the scene with warm wisps of cozy smoke. What I describe sounds more like a shoot Gourmet would have done, but I'm sure Bon Appetit will pull out all the stops it can. After all, the spread will be designed to get readers stoked on throwing their own summer grilling parties. Unfortunately, those, with their leathery chicken breasts, lumpy mashed potatoes, misshapen pies, normal-sized adults, bratty, sunburned kids, and greedy, flea-ridden mutts, won't measure up.

For me, however, summer isn't the time I really like to cook out. I don't buy into the convention that warm weather and clear skies should always encourage fire-building. It doesn't make tons of sense to create heat outdoors on a truly hot day unless you're abandoned in the wilds of rural Idaho without your trusty Vulcan range. Furthermore, I actually tend to crave the foods associated with cookouts during winter.

There's a reason for that. I went to college in northern Ohio, not far from Cleveland, just ten miles from the shores of Lake Erie. In case you don't know, the weather fluctuations in that part of the country are brutal. Every year, when I would arrive at school in late August, temperatures often approached 100 degrees, and the air was humid, thick, hanging around your neck like a rope. It was like Kentucky, except there were more trees to hid beneath there. When it's so hot, you sweat through your clothes within five minutes of leaving the house, cookouts lose their luster -- until the sun goes down.

The most memorable cookouts from that period of my life didn't happen at the end of summer, but instead months later, in the middle of winter. At Oberlin, we had something called Winter Term. It lasted the whole month of January. For three out of the four years, you used that time to fake an internship or cobble together a half-assed pet project. By the time senior year rolled around, I had done this three times. That January, I didn't do anything except freeze, sleep, read, watch mysteriously free cable on a crummy TV set, drink, and cook out. Winters in northern Ohio are forbidding. There would be a foot of snow on the ground and my friends and I would think nothing of putting on coats and firing up the bright orange smoker I'd salvaged from the basement of my parents' house. That year, I was still in the early stages of fighting off a long, persistent case of vegetarianism. I usually cooked a mako shark steak for myself. You could taste the mercury through whatever soy-garlic marinade I threw together. I might as well have barbecued a thermometer. When car-less, we often walked fifteen minutes to a lonely IGA for supplies. That month, I honed a cole slaw recipe that hinged heavily on lip-numbing quantities of Srirachi sauce. The dressing could never decide if it wanted the shredded cabbage, carrots, and peppers it adorned to skew towards the mayo or vinegar sides of the cole slaw spectrum. I always added both, along with olive oil, in loose measurements, and the final product invariably split the difference. My process was simple. I would pull all the condiments and potential flavoring agents out of the fridge and cupboard and start adding dabs of this and that: in addition to Srirachi, Dijon mustard, sprinkles of sugar, salt, pepper, celery seed, fistfuls of scallions, and herbs like dill and parsley. After the meal, we'd leave the dirty plates and scraps outside and head in to watch Iron Chef or something. We'd forget about the mess and, by the time we remembered, the leftover mashed potatoes would be frozen clods the color of dirty snow.

As much as I'd love to replicate those cookouts here, San Francisco winters are short on bluster. Besides, eating in the rain isn't as appealing as eating in the snow. Hard rains also pose challenges to outdoor cookery. Still, I think it could be done. It'd be nice to have a big back patio and a huge tent you could set up, or at least a deck with overhang permitting enough space beneath for a grill to stay dry. Cooking on the deck would work too. If you rigged a beach umbrella or even a large portable one so that it hung right above the grill, you could essentially cook out while remaining inside, just reaching out to flip a burger or toast a bun before ducking back in again. You would probably want a second umbrella just to keep above yourself, so that whatever you were ferrying back and forth didn't get soaked. Maybe you could tape one to the back of your head. I really just need to get a grill now -- and find a way of sneaking it past the nosy lady downstairs. Hiding the smoke and smells emanating from preparations more sophisticated than the shark of senior year will be another matter entirely. I need to hurry though. The days are warmer; the rains are less frequent. Grilling season's almost over.

For those unwilling to flaunt fire codes, San Francisco is home to a few good public grilling spots. Dolores Park is nice enough, and I've been told you can reserve barbecues and picnic areas for small, well-behaved parties. Golden Gate Park hosts plenty of epic cookouts -- notably local house label Dirty Bird's monthly Sunday carne asada parties in Jerry Garcia Meadow. Even if you -- like me -- side with Ali G. when it comes to actually listening to house music, these outdoor bashes are a lot of fun. The best place in town to cook out is also the diciest. When I first moved here, some friends and I relished Saturday night bonfires on Ocean Beach, roasting hot dogs on sticks to go with the twelve-packs we'd haul in. Sands and stifling winds stood in for Ohio's snow drifts, and while the food was fairly rudimentary, the misty primitive setting made up for any culinary shortcomings. Though we always cleaned up after ourselves, others weren't so considerate, and the authorities became increasingly peckish. One night a few years back, we were carrying on as usual and, just as I was applying a thin drizzle of mustard to a blistered dog, Officer No Fun walked up swiftly, abruptly heaved a few shovels of sand on the fire, and warned of $200 fines in the event of future infractions. That was that. Ever since, most my cookouts have been snow-, rain-, and sand-free. They've happened at Brothers Korean BBQ.

Many of you probably saw 7x7’s recent issue with 100 Things to Eat Before You Die. While I think some of their choices were a bit repetitive this year, it's a fun issue and always gives me a nudge towards spots I've been meaning to try and dishes I need to get my hands on. While studying their inclusions, I noticed a serious omission. For those of you who have had the pleasure of eating the homemade English muffin breakfast sandwich at Mission Beach Café, you know what I'm talking about. This may be up there with my top three favorite things to eat for breakfast in the city--with or without a glossy endorsement.

Warming up to the morning at Mission Beach Café

This place rocks on weekday mornings. It's relatively quiet, there are folks reading the paper, and neighborhood locals wander in to grab a cup of coffee and a pastry. They're pulling off quaint neighborhood eatery remarkably well. It's spacious. It's comfortable. The service is laid-back but attentive. And dear god, that sandwich. Essentially, it's a fried egg with melted cheddar, caramelized onions, and mushrooms wedged in between a satisfying homemade English muffin. The nooks and crannies catch the slightly runny egg perfectly, but there's also more of a delightful heft to the English muffins here than your typical store-bought variety.

The Breakfast Sandwich on a homemade English muffin at Mission Beach Café.

A few weeks ago, I brought two friends to Mission Beach Café. We were all catching up with each other until the waitress brought out our breakfast. I kept getting distracted and interrupting: you guys have got to try this; I wonder if you can make these English muffins at home?; do you think you have to use yeast to make English muffins? My friends loved their food, but could've used a little less talk of yeast and a little more talk of weekend plans. But the second I got home, I started researching recipes online and found one from a blog called Tracey's Culinary Adventures (a lot of food bloggers have played with this recipe by famed bread master Peter Reinhart so it must be the real deal). It seemed to be a relatively easy foray into the big, bad world of yeast (I'm a quick bread kinda' gal myself), so I set out to buy the ingredients and managed to have a whole lot of luck. I ended up adapting the recipe slightly myself, adding a little more sugar because I'd heard the sugar helps the yeast rise (and I didn’t have much luck with that the first go-around).

In under a minute you'll have a warm, fragrant ball of dough.

My mom claims this is the best thing I've ever made. I'm not so sure about that, but they were easy (albeit a little time consuming: my yeast took a bit longer than the recipe dictated, so allow a good few hours just in case) and have proven to be quite addicting. I quickly learned that there's a difference between instant yeast and active dry yeast. I'm not going to lie. I still don't completely know the territory I just entered, and I definitely had to toss my first ball of dough. But there's something thrilling about kneading buttermilk, flour, and yeast and watching it rise and form into magic breakfast (or lunch, or late night) treats.

Letting the dough rise, forming balls, quickly cooking each side, and popping them in the oven: done!

I didn't try to emulate the breakfast sandwich at Mission Beach Café (not yet, anyway), but I have been slicing halves, toasting them, and eating them with just about every jam in my kitchen. And a quick note: the only time-consuming part of this recipe is letting the dough rise. You won’t be slaving away in the kitchen. Pick up a good book or get caught up with old friends on the phone and they’ll be done before you know it.

I'll never buy Thomas' again!

English Muffins

Adapted from Tracey's Culinary Adventures -- original recipe from The Bread Baker's Apprentice by Peter Reinhart

Ingredients:
2 1/4 cups bread flour
2 tsp. sugar
3/4 tsp. salt
1 1/4 tsp. instant yeast
1 tbsp. shortening or unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4-1 cup milk or buttermilk, at room temperature
Cornmeal, for sprinkling

Makes: 6 English Muffins

Preparation:

1. In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the flour, sugar, salt and yeast. Mix in the butter (or shortening) and 3/4 cup of milk (or buttermilk). If the dry ingredients are not yet fully incorporated, add enough of the remaining milk so a dough forms. Stop mixing right when this occurs: don't over mix!

2. Sprinkle flour on a dry surface and turn the dough out of the mixer, and knead by hand for about 9-10 minutes. The dough should be tacky (but not sticky), and register 77 to 81 F. Transfer to a lightly oiled bowl and roll the ball of dough around the bowl to coat. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise for at least an hour, or until the dough doubles in size. It helps to keep the dough (in terms of rising) in a relatively warm place--away from cold, drafty windows or open doors.

3. Divide the dough into 6 equal pieces and shape into small balls. Lay parchment paper on a baking sheet and spray lightly with oil. Sprinkle with cornmeal.

4. Move the dough balls to the baking sheet, spacing them evenly with enough room to rise and double in size. Mist them lightly with oil and sprinkle with cornmeal then cover the pan loosely with plastic wrap and allow to rise another hour, or until the rolls are nearly double in size.

5. Preheat the oven to 350 F. Heat a flat griddle to medium (350 F) (you can also use a skillet on the stove top if you don't have a griddle). Brush the griddle lightly with oil and gently transfer the dough balls to the griddle. Allow them to cook for 5-8 minutes or until the bottoms are a rich golden brown color. Be careful not to burn. Carefully flip and cook the other side for the same amount of time. They should flatten as they cook.

6. Remove the muffins from the skillet and transfer them to a parchment- or silpat-lined baking sheet. Bake in the preheated oven for 6-8 minutes.

7. Transfer the baked muffins to a cooling rack and let cool at least 30 minutes before slicing or serving.

Happy Purim! Yes, today is the Jewish celebration of Purim, a happy little holiday where costumes and drunken revelry are mandated, and rolling from house to house bringing gifts of food and drink is exactly what you're supposed to do. The party is mostly a secular one, a celebration of the bravery and resourcefulness of Queen Esther, favorite of Persia's King Ahasuerus. When Haman, one of the king's advisors, plotted to rid the kingdom of Jews, Esther went to the king, revealed her previously hidden Jewish identity and pleaded for her people to be spared. As a result, Haman got it in the neck instead of the Jews, and persecution was set aside for another day.

So, a fine reason to celebrate. At the synagogue, the story is read from the Book of Esther, and every time Haman is mentioned, noisemakers are cranked to drown out his name. Sometimes the story is acted out, in a goofy pageant called the Purimspiel. Many synagogues or community centers hold a Purim Carnival for kids. Who could resist games like "Throw the Beanbag through Haman's Mouth"? Best of all, of course, are the hamantaschen, cookies made in the shape of Haman's (supposedly) three-cornered hat and filled with a thick, sweet paste of apricots, prunes, or poppy seeds.

Clearly, this is a cookie born in Central Europe, brought over by immigrants raised on the buttery cookies, the poppy seeds, honey, spices and dried fruits found in baking traditions from Vienna to Budapest. What sets hamantaschen apart from, say, thumbprint cookies are their fillings: dense and sticky, full flavored and rich. Called lekvar, these are pastes, not jams, made from dried fruits plumped in juice and water, flavored with citrus and spices. Where jam would boil and run, lekvar stays put.

It's not impossible to find hamantaschen at bakeries around the Bay Area, especially at this time of year. But they're never anywhere near as good as homemade. Too often, the dough is sugar-cookie bland, the filling a thin scrape of rubbery goo. What you want is a fat, buttery-lemony cookie folded around a plump spoonful of rich fruitiness, something almost more mince pie than mere cookie.

Now, it's easy to find canned lekvars in the kosher section of any supermarket. Like so many prepared foods, though, they're often filled with unnecessary junk: high-fructose corn syrup, weird preservatives. Happily, though, making your own is easy, and the taste is well worth the tiny bit of effort put in at the blender.

You will, however, need to make a special trip for the apricot paste. Any shop specializing in Middle Eastern groceries will carry this, essentially a flat brick of lightly sweetened fruit leather. I've only ever seen one brand, made in Syria and wrapped in golden cellophane, with a beautiful blue label painted with bright orange apricots.

While you're there, of course, you can browse for all kinds of other delicious things, like olives, thick yogurt, pink pickled turnips, mint tea, pomegranate molasses, rose-petal jam, baba ghanoush, chunks of halvah ribboned with chocolate, fresh pita bread, crunchy melon seeds, belly-dancing videos, copper pots for making Turkish coffee, sesame candy, and more. I found mine (and all of the above) at Samiramis Imports in the Mission.

Apricot paste in hand, you can divide up the process over a few hours. Make the cookie dough and stash it in the fridge. Make the fillings, apricot first so you can reuse the pot and the blender without needing to wash them, since the darkness of the prune will absorb any remaining apricot stickiness. Roll out the dough, cut the rounds, move them onto cookie sheets and let little hands plop on the filling and pinch the three-cornered triangles. Bake, make tea or pour milk, and celebrate. And then bring a plateful to your neighbors.

Hamantaschen
Both dough and fillings keep well in the refrigerator, so you can roll out and fill just a few cookies at a time. Then again, these are really delicious and fun to eat even for breakfast, since they're not overly rich or sweet. In my experience, even a whole batch doesn't last very long out of the oven.

Makes: about 20 cookies

Ingredients:
8 tbsp (1 stick, 4 oz) butter or margarine
1/2 cup + 2 tbsp sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
1 1/2 tbsp orange juice
1/2 tsp grated lemon rind
2 cups flour
1 1/4 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
Apricot and/or Prune Lekvar, recipe below

Preparation:
1. Cream butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in egg, orange juice, and vanilla. In a separate bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. Stir flour into butter mixture, mixing gently until just combined. Add lemon zest and stir until dough is smooth.

2. Form into a ball, wrap in plastic wrap or pop into a resealable plastic bag.
Chill in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours or overnight. (Otherwise dough will be too sticky to roll out.) While dough is chilling, making filling(s).

3. Preheat oven to 375 F. Lightly flour a large wooden cutting board or countertop. Because this dough tends to be sticky, it's easiest to roll it out with a sheet of waxed paper between the dough and the rolling pin. This will prevent the dough from sticking and tearing as you roll.

4. Roll out dough into a broad round, as if you're making a thickish sheet of pie dough. It's better to have it on the thicker side, maybe a quarter-inch or so, as the cookies are nicer when they're a little puffy, and also will be easier to fill and pinch if they're not super-skinny.

5. Using a cookie cutter or a drinking glass, stamp out circles of dough. Move the circles onto a cookie sheet, leaving an inch or so between each one. It's important to fill the rounds on the cookie sheet (rather than on the counter top) as they are hard to move without tearing once they're filled. The size is up to you; I usually use a cutter that's about 4 inches across, making a round the size of a smallish hamburger patty.

6. Place a generous tablespoon of filling in the center of each round. Fold the top sides of the circle into the middle and pinch the top into a point. Fold the bottom half up to meet the folded-in sides. Pinch each side to seal, forming a triangle with a patch of filling peeking out from the middle.

7. Bake for 20 minutes or so, until cookies are pale golden brown around the edges. Let cool on a rack. Note that the filling will be super-bubbling hot right out of the oven, so try to give them at least a few minutes' cooling time before you bite into your first one.

Apricot Lekvar

Ingredients:
7 oz apricot paste
1/2 cup water
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp orange juice
1 tablespoon grated orange zest
1/2 cup golden raisins
2 tbsp sugar or honey, or to taste

Preparation:
Tear apricot paste into bite-sized pieces. Place in a small, heavy saucepan with the rest of the ingredients. Warm over low heat, stirring frequently, until paste is soft and melting and raisins have plumped up, about 10-12 minutes. Let cool for a few minutes, then transfer to a food processor or blender. Puree until smooth. Taste and add more sugar or orange juice, as needed. Store in the refrigerator until needed. (If you have extra, it keeps for a very long time and is excellent on toast.)

Prune Lekvar

Ingredients:
1/2 cup water or orange juice
2 tbsp lemon juice
1 cup pitted prunes
1/2 cup raisins
2 tbsp sugar or honey
1/8 tsp cinnamon

Preparation:
Mix all ingredients together. Put them into the same pot you used for the apricot filling (no need to wash it out), and warm over low heat until prunes and raisins are soft and mushy, about 8-10 minutes. Let cool slightly, then puree. Store in the fridge until needed. Like the apricot filling, it keeps a very long time and tastes divine.

Samiramis Imports, 2990 Mission St at 26th St., San Francisco. (415) 824-6556.

Bay Area Bites bloggers, Thy Tran and Stephanie Im join Leslie Sbrocco, host of Check, Please! Bay Area in a new local food and wine segment on This Week in Northern California. This week, the conversation is about celebrating the food and traditions of the Chinese New Year.

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Posts related to this segment:

• Chinese New Year Feast
• Lunar New Year Sweet Rice Dumplings
• Pork and Shrimp Dumplings (Jiao Zi)

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• Leslie Sbrocco
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