I never thought I had an issue with cauliflower. In fact, I've always enjoyed it, whether puréed into a soup, roasted to a nutty brown, or dragged through a bit of ranch dressing that always seems to accompany store-bought party crudité platters. Any time it is put in front of me, there is a good chance I'll eat it.

And yet I've never in my life cooked it. At least, not that I can remember.

I'd see it in the market, buy a head of the stuff and bring it home where it would just rot in my refrigerator, not so much forgotten as avoided.

I've gotten as far as placing one on my cutting board, but when I took out my 10" chef's knife, I paused, changed my mind at the last moment, and put the thing back into cold storage. For some reason, I just didn't want to cut up a head of cauliflower. I never gave it much thought until a few months ago.

And then I remembered Ben.

On the very last day of elementary school, my friend Shannon and I began our final walk home with a boy named Benjamin Brenneman in tow. I can no longer remember what we all talked about or how the conversation turned ugly. All I can remember is the smell of the cut, dried grass and clover and wanting Benjamin to just go away.

Shannon and I, who were no strangers to teasing and bullying, found a release for our own frustrations upon this poor little blond boy with big eyes and the misfortune of having ears that stuck out. Whether he provoked our anger or not, I can't remember, but one thing seems clear to us-- or at least to me-- he was someone I could pick on, much in the way that other boys had always picked on me.

He was easy prey.

"You have cauliflower ears," I said. I'd heard the term somewhere, though I had no idea what it actually meant. I'd only meant to insult him. When he protested that he did not, in fact, have cauliflower ears, I persisted.

"Cauliflower ears!" Shannon joined in. It seemed all we could do was scream those words at him as if that sort of crazed chant would somehow make it true.

"Caulifower ears! Cauliflower ears! Cauliflower ears!" Shannon and I had whipped ourselves into a frenzy, and Ben, finally, ran away in tears.

I wasn't pleased with myself. I don't even know what I was thinking. Perhaps it was the illogical thought that, if I could give out the sort of abuse I was so used to getting, I'd feel better. But, of course, I only felt worse. I don't think I had ever made another boy cry before on purpose except in self-defense. I knew that I owed him an apology. My hope was that, since we were about to enter the more grown-up world of middle school, we'd all be given a free pass, a clean slate to start out fresh. I'd make it up to Ben when we started the seventh grade.

But I never got the chance.

Over the summer, on August 25th, 1981, to be exact, Ben was making his rounds as a paperboy, collecting subscription money on his route when he entered the apartment of a man named Robert Jackson Thompson by whom he was hogtied, sodomized, and strangled. Thompson, it was later learned, had been paroled from prison four months earlier where he had been serving time for molesting a 14 year-old boy at knifepoint.

Ben's murder was all anyone could talk about for the first couple of days at middle school. Nearly every conversation began with, "Did you hear about Ben?" The stories of his murder became distorted and even more horrifying. After two days, the rumor spread that he had been dismembered; that parts of his body were found all over the county and that police were racing about trying to find them as though Ben was the sole source some sort of macabre treasure hunt.

And then, suddenly, everyone stopped talking about him. By end of the week, it seemed as if Benjamin Brenneman had never existed at all. I did my best to forget him, too. With adolescent logic, I had blamed myself for contributing in some way to his death in much the same way that a child of divorced parents might blame himself for their separation. I couldn't bear the fact that I had caused him pain, that I had so easily victimized him. I imagined him trapped inside Thompson's apartment looking at his murderer with the same big eyes that I had so recently made cry.

It was too much to bear. I stuffed it away somewhere and did my best to forget all about it, just like everybody else.

Survival skills are fascinating things, aren't they? To think that something as traumatic as a child murder could be ever be forgotten. More interesting to me is that I was only reminded of it whenever I tried to take a knife to a simple head of cauliflower. Even then, the feeling was only a vague sort of dread. No vivid memory of Benjamin, just an avoidance. I never cried or felt any sort of terror.

When I finally made the connection, I was stunned. I hadn't thought about that poor boy in decades. And when I did, I felt ashamed that the only memories I now retain of him are of the last day I saw him. I can't remember playing with him at recess, the telling of jokes, or anything good-- it was all there, I just can't remember any of it.

I recently asked Shannon if she remembered that last day of school. She had only a hazy recollection and recalled nothing about the name we called him. That is, until a few minutes later, when things started to come back to her, albeit vaguely. I wanted to talk more about it with her, but we were distracted by her children. I took a look at her eldest child-- my 11 year-old goddaughter-- sitting there drawing Manga characters, wondering aloud when we were going to (finally) watch Funny Girl together, and complaining that her little sister was bothering her.

I couldn't help but think that she was the same age Ben was the last time I saw him. I didn't share my thoughts with her mother. I decided to just let the whole thing go.

Cauliflower with Orecchiette

When I told my friend Karen my plans of writing this essay about Ben, she took a sip of the Negroni I'd made her, relaxed her face a little, and said, "You know what you need to make, don't you?" It was obvious to her, but not to me-- Orecchiette with cauliflower. Cauliflower and little ears.

It isn't meant so much as a pun as it is a kind of memento mori-- a dish that I will add to my repertoire so that I might think of Ben from time to time, to remind myself just how short our stay in this world can be, and to make the most of what time I'm lucky enough to have left.

The following is a (very) freely adapted version of Donna Scala's (Bistro Don Giovanni in Napa, California). I've added breadcrumbs, changed the cheese and too many other things to accurately call it hers, but it is from her recipe that I have based mine.

Serves 4 to 6

Ingredients

1 head of cauliflower, broken into florets

1 pound orecchiette pasta

4 to 5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

4 cloves of garlic, minced

1/2 teaspoon crushed red chili flakes

1/4 cup toasted bread crumbs

A generous handful of arugula

3/4 cups Pecorino Romano cheese

Water and salt for boiling pasta and steaming cauliflower

1/4 cup of pasta water, reserved

Preparation:

1. Steam cauliflower florets over boiling, salted water until they are tender-- easily pierced with a fork (about 8 to 9 minutes). Set aside.

2. Bring a large pot of salted water (the water should taste briny, as Ms. Scala says) to a rolling boil. Cook until al dente (8 to 10 minutes). Reserve about 1/4 cup of the water, drain, and keep warm.

3. Heat olive oil in a large skillet. Add garlic and stir until lightly cooked. Add cauliflower and a pinch or two of salt. With the back of a heavy spoon or whatever cooking utensil you are using, lightly mash the florets.

4. Pour the reserved pasta water into skillet and stir in. Add chili flakes and pasta to the pan. Add in arugula and a small fistful of cheese. Toss some more.

5. Transfer to a serving bowl, sprinkle with bread crumbs and the rest of the grated cheese. Serve immediately.

About a million years ago, when I was waitressing my way through college, I worked at a prime rib house. The name of the restaurant sounded more like a strip club than a steak joint -- I kid you not, it was The Gentleman's Choice. We were known for our prime cuts of beef plus a very decent bar. Our signature dish was, obviously, prime rib. But those thick slabs of beef were always a bit of a turn off for me. I was happy to avoid the meat overload with au jus and a baked potato side dish in favor of the simpler steak sandwich. While the prime rib plates seemed excessive for my tastes, the sandwich offered great beef flavor but in a crusty bun (and I really love the crunch). Since that time, I've always had a soft spot in my heart for a good steak sandwich.

Now although the sandwich from The Gentleman's Choice is my Platonic ideal, I can very rarely even try to duplicate it as the main ingredient is thinly sliced prime rib -- something only occasionally available at my house the day after Christmas. I'm also not one to make roast beef very often (actually, never). So a couple of years ago, after watching a Barefoot Contessa episode where Ina Garten roasted an enormous (and very expensive) filet of beef (which is essentially one large filet mignon) for her steak sandwich lunch, I went to the butcher feeling completely depressed. I wanted my own hearty steak sandwich, but knew that tenderloin and prime rib decadence wasn't in the cards for me as I didn't have Ina's budget. After chatting with the butcher about my dilemma, he came up with a solution: cube steak.

Yes, this 1950s staple is my route to affordable steak sandwich success. Made from either the top or bottom round, cube steak undergoes a serious pounding that helps tenderize it into submission. So, although you start off with a chewier piece of meat than the upmarket prime rib roast or tenderloin, you end up with something that works beautifully when pressed into a bun. As a busy mom, I also love that this dish takes less than 10 minutes to make.

Since my discovery, I've made various iterations of the steak sandwich, topping it with everything from cheese and onions for a mock Philly cheese steak, to mushrooms, onions and gravy for unadulterated comfort food. Sure, I would still love a thinly-sliced prime rib sandwich every now and again, but between Christmases, I'm happy to stick with the more inexpensive variety.

Comforting Cube Steak Sandwich

Makes: 4 sandwiches

Ingredients:
8 slices of cube steak
1 large onion thinly sliced
1 cup brown or white mushrooms thinly sliced
1/4 cup flour
1/2 tsp kosher or sea salt
1/4 tsp black pepper
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 Tbsp Worcestershire sauce
1/2 cup beer, wine or broth
More salt and pepper to taste
4 crunchy rolls
Horseradish and mayonnaise (optional)

Preparation:
1. Sprinkle salt and pepper on the meat.
2. Place flour on a flat plate and then add the remaining seasonings to the flour.
3. Dredge the meat in the flour and then set aside.
4. Heat the 1 Tbsp butter and 1 Tbsp oil in a large pan (I like to use my cast iron). When it bubbles and the pan is not, lay half the meat into the pan. Cook on each side for 2-3 minutes, or until done.
5. Remove meat from the pan and then add the remaining butter and oil, repeat step #4 and then remove the meat from the pan.
6. Add the onions and Worcestershire sauce to the pan along with extra oil if needed and sauté until soft. Add the sliced mushrooms and continue to sauté until they are soft and integrated into the onions. Remove vegetables from the pan.
7. Lower the heat and then add the beer, wine or broth to the pan, scraping up everything on the bottom of the pan. Because the meat was dredged in flour you should be able to make a nice gravy from the pan drippings, but if the gravy is too thin, make a slurry with some flour and more wine or beer and add to sauce to thicken.
8. Slice rolls (you can preheat these if you like) and then place two cooked cube steaks on each, topping with onions, mushrooms and gravy. Serve with a slather of some mayonnaise mixed with horseradish if desired.

Mock Philly Cheese Steak

If you're interested in a sandwich that's more like a Philly cheese steak, just omit the mushrooms and add some sliced peppers to the pan instead. Also, instead of making gravy just top the sandwich with cheese sauce (recipe below).

Makes: 4 sandwiches

Ingredients:
8 slices of cube steak
1 large onion thinly sliced
1 large red pepper thinly sliced
1 Tbsp Worcestershire sauce
1 cup cheese sauce (see recipe below)
1/2 tsp kosher or sea salt
1/4 tsp black pepper
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp olive oil
More salt and pepper to taste
4 crunchy rolls

Preparation:
1. Sprinkle salt and pepper on the meat and then marinade in Worcestershire sauce for at least five minutes.
2. Heat the 1 Tbsp butter and 1 Tbsp oil in a large pan (I like to use my cast iron). When it bubbles and the pan is not, lay half the meat into the pan. Cook on each side for 2-3 minutes, or until done.
3. Remove meat from the pan and then add the remaining butter and oil, repeat step #2 and then remove the meat from the pan.
4. Add the onions to the pan along with Worcestershire sauce from the marinade. Add extra oil if needed and sauté until soft. Add the sliced peppers and continue to sauté until they are soft and integrated into the onions. Remove vegetables from the pan.
5. Meanwhile, make your cheese sauce (recipe below).
6. Slice rolls (you can preheat these if you like) and then place two cooked cube steaks on each, topping with onions and peppers. Slather on some cheese sauce and serve.

Cheese Sauce

Makes: a little over 1 1/2 cups

Ingredients:
3 Tbsp butter
1 Tbsp flour
1 cup whole or 2% warmed milk
1 cup grated cheese (mild cheddar, provolone, Swiss, Gruyere, American, a mix of each or whatever you like)
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:
1. Heat butter in a medium sauce pan.
2. When butter start to bubble, add in the flour and mix to create a roux.
3. Slowly add in the milk and whisk to incorporate.
4. Turn off the heat and mix in the cheese. It should melt in nicely.
5. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Homemade Irish Cream

When I first discovered this recipe for Homemade Irish Cream from The Hungry Mouse, I knew I had struck Leprechaun's gold. It was easy (with 8 ingredients, almost all of which I already had in my kitchen), it was straightforward (step 1: blend, step 2: imbibe), and it was flexible (Extra-boozy? Just a hint of boozy? Your choice!).

At a loss for what to do with all that creamy, frothy, goodness?

• Start your morning right with some Irish Coffee -- you'll be singing sunshine, lollipops and rainbows…guaranteed.
• Not sure how many boys this Milkshake will bring to the yard, but pretty sure it will satisfy plenty of females. Booze, chocolate, and ice cream? That kills almost every bird there is.
• Irish Car Bomb Cupcakes, as amazing as they sound, and hands down one of the best icings ever concocted.
• And of course, there is no shortage of sexually explicit cocktails out there made with this luxurious elixir.

Homemade Irish Cream Liqueur
Recipe from The Hungry Mouse.

Makes: Enough to fill one large (750 ml.) Perrier bottle, and then some.

Ingredients:
200 ml. Jameson's Irish whiskey
14 oz. sweetened condensed milk
1 cup heavy cream
4 eggs
2 tablespoons chocolate syrup
2 teaspoons instant coffee
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ teaspoon almond extract

Preparation:
1. Blend all the ingredients, except the whiskey, first. Then add the whiskey and blend again until thick and frothy.
2. Serve immediately or store in the refrigerator for up to a month. (Shake well before serving).
*Contains raw eggs.

******
Green is the Bay Area's favorite color -- to be sure, there is no shortage of revelry on this day o' luck, with multiple block parties, drink specials, and special menus:

San Francisco St. Patrick's Day Events - FuncheapSF
The 10 Best Irish Pubs in the City - 7x7
Bay Area Restaurants, St. Patrick's Day Specials - SFGate
John Campbell's Irish Bakery Opens in Pac Heights - SFoodie

Or, if you have an aversion to loud, beer-scented party people, excessive use of mardi gras beads, and/or waiting to pee…celebrate at home. Eat something hearty. Drink something frothy. Bake something buttery:

15 Recipes to Celebrate St. Patrick's Day - L.A. Times Test Kitchen
What to Eat and Drink on St. Patrick's Day - Serious Eats
The Great Irish Soda Bread Debate: 7 Soda Bread Recipes – Epicurious
The Irish Club's Irish Stew & Chocolate Guinness Cake – Nigella Lawson
Chocolate Irish Whiskey Cake – Bay Area Bites
Dark Chocolate Mint Brownies – Bakerella
Stout Float - Gourmet
No More Green Beer: 4 St. Patrick's Day Cocktails - Derek M. Brown at The Atlantic

Restaurants and bars with themes have always rubbed me the wrong way. I think of the first and only time I walked into Butter. It must have been 2003. While I was as well-versed in irony as any literary theory buff with a fresh diploma, the brown-bagged forties, snack stand carved out of the side of a trailer, and steaming tater tots seemed a bit much. I'm not a stickler for good taste, but I was instantly annoyed by a bar dedicated to aping the coarsest trappings of poor white culture for the amusement of privileged San Franciscans carousing through SoMa. I've seen it before around these parts: even politically radical non-profit workers who would rather poke out an eye than offend a person of color think nothing of throwing "white trash"-themed birthday parties for themselves. Plus, tater tots are actually really good -- without irony, just ketchup.

Still, I've splashed around the Tonga Room, stomped into the Bigfoot Lounge, and knocked back a whiskey at Bourbon and Branch, that classy throw-back to San Francisco's speakeasy-riddled past -- appealing themed joints, all of them. The other day, I was talking themed bars with some buddies, one of whom manages a newish decidedly un-themed establishment in Russian Hill, on Polk, just above the Tenderloin. The topic was Manhattan bars, where drink costs soar to airport prices -- $6 for a bottle of beer, $10 for a well drink. We joked that someone should start a really, really expensive bar in San Francisco called $$$. There would be a $50 cover charge, and no music, karaoke, free food, pool, or pub quiz to account for the steep entrance fee. The drinks would not be made with fancy infused potentially illegal spirits or feature small artisanal producers. They would be perfectly plain and perhaps a little weak. Still, if you could afford to buy your way in, you could hang out with others who could as well, which might be reward enough. It'd be pure elitism, distilled -- as appropriate a theme as any.

My trip to Japan late last March gave me a new perspective on themed drinking establishments. I wasn't there long enough to deliver an exhaustive report -- I'm sure some late-night Travel Channel special has already tried. There was so much I did not see, particularly in Tokyo, where I only spent a few jet-lagged days. My home-base for most of the visit was Kyoto, Japan's old Imperial capitol. Still, after a week of bouncing around that city's bars and informal late-night eateries, my head was throbbing -- and not from too much single malt. Along Kiyamachi St., very close to the Kamo River, tiny izakayas and watering holes burrow into unassuming commercial storefronts and stubby office buildings. You walk up a few flights of stairs -- as if going to see a disreputable dentist -- and knock on doors that open on to strange, insular, fastidiously detailed worlds. They reminded me of levels in Super Mario Brothers: through one portal, a swanky, pocket-sized cool jazz club draped in blue curtains appeared, through another, fittingly, a red-and-white toadstool-themed "mushroom" bar no bigger than an apartment kitchen -- both in the same building, occupying suites on the same floor.

One night, I visited two establishments thoroughly preoccupied with Jamaica's most prominent (and cliched) cultural and artistic exports -- Bob Marley, an easy way with marijuana, Rastafarianism, ripe for the watering down, and the flag's black, yellow, and green color scheme. Despite being a huge reggae fan, in the United States, I wouldn't have had the slightest interest. Nonetheless, Rasta and Rub-A-Dub were a lot of fun. The first is a dark cave on the 4th or 5th floor of an office building. Muzak renditions of Rockers classics seep from hidden speakers. A weed leaf mosaic rises up out of the tiled floor. A shrine to Mr. Marley occupies the middle of the back wall, bathed in chartreuse light, overlooking the scene. When I was there, the crowd was typically diverse: bartenders with desperate attempts at dreadlocks, a few business guys enjoying an extended happy hour, a party of ladies on the heels of a shopping trip, and a couple hanging out along the side wall, with the lanky American gentleman trying not to look as absurd as the retina-burning blue "island" cocktails in his glass. Significantly older, Rub-A-Dub is located in a frond-filled basement. According to legend, the owner, a Japanese man, married a Jamaican woman, and opened the bar to continuously remind her of her homeland. In truth, theme aside, Rasta would be considered a pretty good restaurant in San Francisco, offering roast fish heads and Japanese riffs on jerked chicken and seafood. I didn't eat at Rub-A-Dub (too many fish heads at Rasta), but I did have a few drinks under bunches of bananas hanging from the ceiling.

I returned from Japan in April -- just ten days after I'd arrived -- but I started thinking about themes all over again last week, when I read an S.F. Weekly blog post about Hogs & Rocks. Set to open in May or June, this joint endeavor of Maverick chef Scott Youkilis and Eric Rubin of Tres Agaves will serve 45 different kinds of ham, along with pickles, salads, and oysters (the rocks, of course). Unlike, say Rasta, Hogs & Rocks will do food and drink first, letting aesthetics follow suit. If the bar sprang up in Japan, the floor cushions would be swine-pink and sewn up to look like plump hind legs. There'd be small chairs shaped like oyster shells. Albums by Badfinger (lead singer, the late Peter Ham) would boom on the stereo. Images of piggy pop culture's most prominent representatives -- Wilbur, Porky, Pooh's nervous little friend, and a rogue's gallery of notorious male chauvinists -- would line the walls. The atmosphere would be unsubtly rendered, but genuine, irony-free -- seriously silly, with excellent food. That's one distinction I can draw between themed bars and restaurants here and there: seemingly goofy joints in Japan actually tend to have good food, whereas in the United States, even in San Francisco, corny trappings (from tiki bars to Chuck E. Cheese) all but guarantee an indifferent kitchen.

In Kyoto, the most unassuming bar I visited was in many ways the most revealing. To launch a long night of drinking, my girlfriend and I wandered into Color, an elegant, stylish lounge decked out in handsome modern furniture and classy vintage appliances. This was a nice place to drink. It reminded us of countless bars we'd patronized in the States. We discerned no theme, which, obviously, didn't surprise us. We'd seen plenty of regular bars around. This one just felt cozier than most. Then, we grabbed a card on the way out and read the finer print. The bar did in fact have a theme. It identified as "New York-style," which explained why it struck us as so familiar -- right down to the $10 cocktails.

George Howell's online hub for some of the best single-origin coffees around

Although it's not until July, the anxiety has begun. My mom has a little summer cabin in upstate New York; I’m not sure if you've been to upstate New York, but there’s not a lot of coffee going on. You can buy vacuum-sealed packs of Starbucks at the local Walmart, but it tastes like just that: vacuum-packed coffee that's been sitting on a shelf forever. My sisters and I visit over the July 4th weekend, and the caffeine situation always disappoints. Last year we made the mistake of having my Aunt Jill bring us beans in from the city. She brought Folgers. Jill will not be bringing coffee again this year. So I've decided to be proactive. I'll obviously bring some beans when I come up--probably Blue Bottle or Four Barrel (who both do shipping, by the way) but I've been doing a little research for my mom who will be there all summer and who has resorted to those little instant sleeves of coffee. So Mom, this post's for you or for anyone who could use some good beans arriving on their doorstep.

Let's face it: coffee's come a long way from the days when the gals from Friends had their foamy latte or when picking up a bag of Sumatra on the way home from work felt pretty exotic and edgy. In his recent piece for Time Magazine, Josh Ozersky details where we find ourselves today, the "Third wave" of coffee: buying prized lots of single-origin beans and roasting them less frequently, treating coffee as seasonal, and paying attention to slight nuances in bean selection and roasting technique. Essentially, the artisan roasters I'm about to discuss have left Starbucks in the dust.

And a quick side note: While I've tried some of the coffees below, I haven't sampled all of them. I've done some research and talked to coffee folks about the most highly respected roasters and what they're up to. So this post is really more about options and starting to think about coffee in a new way more than it is a "Best of" piece.

Intelligentsia

Chicago's favorite artisan roaster

This was my go-to spot when I was in Chicago for a wedding a few summers back. The space itself is stark and modern yet simultaneously warm and inviting. And the espresso is almost sweet on its own. I was hooked. They work closely with the actual coffee producers, not just the importers or exporters, so they control quality from the beginning. While many roasters claim to do this, Intelligentsia is there each month of the year--aiming to forge a true collaboration. Intelligentsia is also known for their adamancy that coffee is seasonal, and they try and educate their consumers daily. As a mass product, so many of us are in the mind-set that good coffee is a year-round crop, and it's just not. Depending on the origin, the coffee bean is just like any piece of produce at the store: it has its high season. Intelligentsia only wants you to try it then, so you choose your coffee depending on when it was harvested. For this reason, you won't see twenty different types of coffee on their website: you'll find a few blends, a few single-origin coffees and two or three reserve coffees.

Terroir

Terroir's impressive education page

George Howell's been on the fine coffee hunt since 1975--some people see him as the trailblazer for sourcing fine boutique lots around the world. The thing that makes Terroir stand out is their firm commitment not to use blends, and their belief that in the same way you wouldn't mix fine wines, you shouldn't mix fine quality coffee. Like some of the other roasters listed here, educating the consumer is part of their mission, so they've actually created an excellent link page with information on everything from How to Keep Roasted Coffee Fresh to Principles of Brewing Coffee. In their shop, you can search by Region, Top Selling Coffees, Category (Organic, Decaf), or even pick up brewing equipment. When you click on a specific region, Terroir provides an overview of the area, and in-depth information on the coffee beans for purchase. They go farther than typical information about taste and origin, listing considerations like the type of soil, altitude, and farm size. They want the consumer to feel a similar connection with the bean that they initially felt when purchasing it.

Counter Culture

Searching by region at Counter Culture

Out of Durham, North Carolina, Counter Culture is known for their "micro-lots" and fabulous single-estate coffees. They don't keep much roasted coffee on hand because they're adamant about roasting to order and bagging and shipping on the same day. If you happen to live in North Carolina, they extend their mission to create cutting-edge coffee people by offering a variety of coffee courses, from Beginning Espresso Lab to Milk Chemistry Lab. They also offer free weekly cuppings or tastings. For those of us who aren't so lucky to live close by, they make purchasing online a cinch with brief notes on each coffee, allowing you to search by region (Africa, The Americas...), microlot, or their custom blends (I've heard from an old college friend that the Crook's Corner blend is like nothing else--a little bit sweet and nutty at the same time). For the online or mail-order shopper, they also do Coffee subscriptions.

Ecco Caffè

Sonoma's favorite boutique roastery

Sonoma's artisan coffee roasting company has a thriving online and wholesale business and a cache of major industry awards. Andrew Barnett's signature organic coffee roaster, custom roasts each batch in the Northern Italian style--with enough time for the flavor profiles to surface but not long enough for bitterness to ensue. All coffees are shipped within 24 hours of roasting--not something that many roasters claim or guarantee these days. On his website, Barnett says, "I like to introduce to people flavors that open them to the world of exemplary coffee...premium coffees that are roasted properly taste great and leave a pleasant sweet aftertaste, similar to great wines and chocolates." And good news for us: Eater SF reported last month that Ecco is moving to an undisclosed location in Potrero Hill. It's slated to be a café and roastery, allowing Bay Area folks to taste the sweet, single-origin espresso whenever the urge should strike.

Barefoot Coffee

Checking out the Barefoot Coffee homepage

Barefoot is another artisan roaster that's adamant about seasonality and freshness of the bean. On the landing page of their website, they have a big space advertising a few coffees that are "Fresh Arrivals" and discuss treating coffee like any other high-quality, sought-after kitchen ingredient. Online, they explain the importance of "Realizing that each bean is affected by soil, varietal, processing, farm, elevation, micro-climate and every hand that crafts it, we are determined to let the coffee speak for itself." They don't describe their coffees as "dark" or "bold," but work to actually describe the flavor and essence of each roast. What I really love about Barefoot is their humble, straight-up way of explaining what they do and why they do it. They genuinely believe that good people who love what they do produce good coffee, so they travel to seek those folks out and work to maintain relationships with them. Their motto, "If you love the coffee, it will love you back" just makes sense and translates to whatever business or endeavor you find yourself in. They're also a recognized leader in sustainable and environmental stewardship, making great strides with green energy, composting, and using a small, local dairy source for their café.

Bringing Them Together

GoCoffeeGo

The relatively new online source gathering the best artisan roasters in one place

On some days, I find myself bombarded with irrelevant information and promotions from food PR people. But a few weeks ago, I got a note from GoCoffeeGo just to introduce themselves and tell me what they're up to. Since then, I've basically fallen in love with the site. If you're not familiar with them, they were founded by local coffee junkies, Scott Pritikin and Elise Papazian, with the goal of bringing together the country's top award-winning artisan roasters on one site with one stream-lined checkout. The coffee is roasted to order and shipped directly from the roaster to the customer (that being said, the shipping time can vary so if you need it pronto, do a little research on the ETA). It's kind of like the Amazon of artisan coffees: organized, streamlined, great customer service, and a really good product. The coffee selection is stellar. They carry most of the roasters I mentioned above, but they also carry one of my favorite local roasters, Equator Coffee and Tea out of San Rafael. Other great choices include Ritual, Verve, and Higher Ground.

Is your corned beef ready for simmering yet? Your potatoes set to be peeled and boiled, your cabbage simmered, your soda bread stirred up? It's too bad that no one thinks of smoked salmon and brown bread, thick bacon and Irish cheddar, champ and colcannon (to name but a few of the real delights of the Emerald Isle's table) when St. Patrick's Day comes around. Here in the States, it's corned beef and cabbage, corned beef and cabbage, to say nothing of the green beer and Irish coffees. (Alas, the Shamrock Shake, that minty McDonald's invention, is as rare as a four-leaf clover these days.)

As for the whiskey, well, an Irish blend would be only appropriate. You could follow the lead of the venerable Buena Vista, who serves 2000 Irish coffees a day, all spiked with Tullamore Dew. (After some 50 years using its own private label Irish whiskey, the bar switched to Tullamore in 2006.) Jameson's and Bushmills are the big boys, of course, and the players in a (somewhat spurious, given that both brands are now owned by enormous multinationals) Catholic vs. Protestant loyalty debate. Meanwhile, smaller brands like Red Breast, Power's, Midleton, Black Bush, Killbeggan, and The Tyrconnell all have their admirers. Care to compare? The Liberties in the Mission will be offering special tasting flights of some of the rarer Irish whiskeys all week long. There's also live music throughout the evening of the 17th, and a full menu with everything from smoked salmon on potato cakes to cross-cultural samosas stuffed with black pudding, bacon, and curried potatoes.

Now, I like my whiskey for sipping, for sure, but when you need to make a whole tableful of people happy with just one glass, nothing beats this Chocolate Whiskey Cake. Serving it at a recent birthday potluck, the question everyone asked after one bite was, "How much whiskey is in this??" Only a cup's worth for the entire generously-sized cake, but a liberal sprinkling after baking gives a potent warmth to every forkful.

The original inspiration came from food writer Melissa Clark's interpretation of a recipe in Maida Heatter's Book of Great Chocolate Desserts, first published in 1980. Clark's recipe ups the amount of whiskey (and salt) and boosts the chocolate quality. Remembering with longing the fantastic Chocolate Whiskey Cake served at Mrs. London's Bakeshop in Saratoga Springs, where my family would go every summer to follow the horseracing and bask in fine dining, I added in whiskey-soaked golden raisins, swapped out the espresso powder for straight-up strong coffee and cut back on both the salt and sugar, since I like my chocolate bittersweet.

Single-handedly, this cake could kick-start a Bundt-pan revival. Dense, rich, and moist, it's a cake for those who still like their cakes cake-like in texture, rather than in molten puddles or like wet bricks of fudge or cloying black holes of collapsed ganache. (If I want nothing but sheer chocolate and butterfat, I'll eat a truffle, thanks.) There's no need for fussy icings or fillings, and the sturdy shape makes transporting it a breeze, even on Muni. (Trust me, I've done it, even on the hill-twisting 67-Bernal Heights, not to mention the sardine-jammed 14-Mission.) If you'd really like to add a little gold to this pot, serve with with a cloud of whipped cream flavored with a wee bit of powdered sugar and another spoonful of whiskey.

Chocolate Whiskey Cake
Don't be tempted to use up that old yellow box of chalky supermarket baking chocolate on this cake. You're already making the investment in butter and whiskey; go all the way and buy a good-quality, name-brand chocolate. I used Ghirardelli, but local favorites Tcho and Guittard would work well, too. Same goes for the cocoa powder; skip the Hershey's and try the much more flavorful cocoas made by Ghirardelli, Scharffenberger, Valrhona, or Droste. And while Irish whiskey is the most appropriate for St. Patty's Day, all-American bourbon or rye is quite tasty, too.

Serves: 10 to 12

Ingredients:
1 cup Irish whiskey, plus more for sprinkling
1 cup golden raisins
5 ounces good-quality unsweetened chocolate
1 cup really strong coffee
2 1/2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks, 8 oz) unsalted butter, softened, more for greasing pan
1 3/4 cups granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups all-purpose flour, more for dusting pan

Confectioners’ sugar, for garnish

Preparation:
1. In a medium bowl, pour whiskey over raisins and set aside.

2. Grease and flour a 10-cup-capacity Bundt pan. Preheat oven to 325°F.

3. In a double boiler over simmering water, melt chocolate. Remove from heat and let cool.

4. In a measuring cup, dissolve cocoa powder and salt in hot coffee, then add to whiskey-raisin mixture. Let cool.

5. In a large bowl, cream 1 cup butter until fluffy. Add sugar and beat until well combined. Beat in the eggs one at a time, beating well between each addition. Beat in the vanilla extract, baking soda, and melted chocolate, scraping down sides of bowl with a rubber spatula.

6. Beat in a third of the whiskey mixture. When liquid is absorbed, fold in 1 cup flour. Repeat with a third of whiskey mixture, followed by remaining cup of flour. Add the last of the whiskey mixture, folding gently just until well mixed. Scrape batter into prepared pan. Bake until a cake tester inserted into center of cake comes out clean, about 1 hour 10 minutes.

7. Transfer cake to a rack. Unmold after 15 minutes. If you really want a potent whiskey flavor, sprinkle warm cake with about 2 tablespoons’ more whiskey. Let cool, then sift over confectioners’ sugar before serving.

A little while back, my friend Deborah asked me if I would be interested in learning how tofu was made.

I couldn't think of any good reason not to be interested, so I said, "Yes," and met up with her and a few other nice people at the Hodo Soy Beanery in Oakland.

I enjoyed the tour, alright. In fact, it got me thinking (for once) about soy.

The thought of soy beans has never taken up much space in my head, nor have I given much in the way of thinking about soy products save for three, sketchy opinions:

1. Soy milk is a a godsend to the multitudes of breakfast cereal-loving, lactose-intolerant people in the world.

2. Tofu is a much relied upon meat substitute for vegetarians and the poor of Eastern Asia.

3. Thanks to plant estrogens (phytoestrogens) found naturally in soy beans, if I suddenly took to eating nothing but soy products, I might grow female breasts.

Number three, by the way, is totally false, so far as I can tell. Consumption of plant estrogens have no effect upon testosterone levels in males, which makes me wonder if a high intake of fenugreek (which contains phytotestosterone) would actually make me bigger, hairier, and stronger.

And, though numbers one and two are essentially correct, I found that my opinions of soy were based solely upon the notion that it merely existed as a substitute for other things-- things that other people might neither be able to digest nor afford. I had never considered soy products like tofu as foods that deserved to stand on their own merits.

That is, until I met yuba.

For those of you unfamiliar with the stuff, yuba is the Japanese word for "skin", which is precisely what it is-- the skin that forms atop heated soy milk, much the way a skin forms atop heated cow's milk or even chocolate pudding (which is giving me ideas).

Yuba-making is one of those (blessedly) rare food stuffs that cannot be produced by machine without sacrificing the texture and quality that makes it attractive in the first place. It must be plucked by hand from a heated basin of soy milk, folded, left to hang and drip dry, and then folded again. The result is silky and a little creamy, with the texture of that thin layer of scrambled egg that might coat the bottom of a non-stick pan.

It is my new food crush. Yuba can be pressed into blocks, cut into noodles, fried, eaten like sashimi, and God knows what else. Loving the texture as much as I do, I was even tempted to paper my kitchen walls with it, which would have been lovely for about a day, until it started to decompose. I look forward to playing with it some more, perhaps even making my own.

And, of course, now I'm wondering if a chocolate pudding yuba would actually work.

Does the Yuba City Chamber of Commerce know about this stuff? I think they might be missing a wonderful marketing opportunity.

Fresh Yuba Salad

In the mean time, I'll just let the yuba tell me what it needs. Today, it told me it felt like being a salad, so I just cut it into noodle-like strips, threw in a couple of playmates, and tossed them all in a simple dressing.

And it's really, really good, too.

Serves 2.

Ingredients

2 sheets of fresh yuba

1/3 English cucumber, unpeeled and julienned

2 scallions, thinly sliced up to and including as much of the dark green part as you dare

2 tablespoons sesame oil

1 teaspoon fish sauce

1 teaspoon rice wine vinegar

1 teaspoon tamari or other Japanese soy sauce (soy, meet soy)

Black sesame seeds for garnish

Preparation:

1. In a small bowl, combine sesame oil, fish sauce, rice wine vinegar, and tamari. Set aside.

2. Unfold your sheets of yuba and slice into noodles-- the wideness of which is entirely up to you. In Italian-speak, mine are slightly wider than tagliatelle. Add julienned cucumbers and sliced scallion.

3. Whisk dressing and drizzle over yuba. Toss with hands (clean, please) and taste. Adjust seasonings, if desired. Transfer into serving dish, garnish with black sesame seeds, and consume-- fresh.

4. Repeat as often as necessary until you get over your newly-found yuba fetish.

I was raised on food that was cooked in cast iron pans. My mother's Sunday Gravy was always started in the 10-inch version and my morning eggs were cooked in the 6 1/2-inch. From chicken to steaks, zucchini to eggplant, and biscuits to corn bread, my mom's cast iron pans were in continual use. Yet when I grew up, moved out, and started my own kitchen, I somehow forgot about my cast-iron roots. After purchasing and then cooking with some thinly constructed aluminum pans, I felt the need to register for fancy pans when I got married. My sister generously gave us an enormous set of Calphalon, but after a year or two of fretting about cleaning them properly and making sure they never went in the dishwasher or got scratched, I finally remembered there was a much simpler alternative.

And now, almost 10 years and thousands of meals later, I'm just as happy with my decision to switch to cast iron as I was the day I purchased my pans from Ace Hardware. As far as I'm concerned, swanky brands that are expensive can't hold a candle to modest cast iron (well, except for an amazing large copper pan, which I doubt I'll ever be able to afford).

So Why is Cast Iron so Great?

In case you're unfamiliar with cast iron pans, they have a lot going for them. Here's a list of some reasons I love them so.

• They radiate heat beautifully, so your food doesn't cook unevenly.
• You can go from stovetop to the oven, so there' s never a need to transfer food to a baking dish after sautéing.
• Once your pans are seasoned, they have a natural non-stick surface so you don't have to breath in that awful chemical-smelling aroma that is emitted when you overheat a Teflon pan.
• They retain heat well, making them perfect for both frying and simmering.
• They may be the least expensive pans available, costing around $20 for a 10-inch version and around $30 for the extra large size.
• They last forever (my friend Pam uses her grandmother's pan, which was purchased at least 90 years ago).
• Your food picks up a little bit of iron when using a cast iron pan, so they're a great way to supplement your diet.

If you randomly look through my posts on Bay Area Bites, you'll see my cast iron pans used over and over. This is because I use them for almost everything. Certain dishes that I only make in my handy dandy cast iron pans are:

• Seared meat -- This includes meat for stews, steaks, and some fish. Cast iron's ability to evenly radiate and distribute heat makes it the perfect tool for searing.
• Casseroles -- Cast iron pans are great for mixing up casserole ingredients on the stove and then transferring the entire dish to the oven to bake further.
• Pancakes -- To make decent pancakes, you really need to start with a hot and evenly heated pan. Plus cast iron also gives you a perfectly flat surface for making those flapjacks.
• Eggs -- I bought a smaller cast iron pan specifically for breakfast. As anyone who has made eggs using an aluminum pan knows, they have a tendency to stick to the surface of the pan, which is messy and frustrating to clean. But the natural non-stick surface of a seasoned cast iron pan lets you avoid all that. From scrambled to sunny side up, cast iron cooks my eggs perfectly every time and requires very little clean up.
• Fried chicken or beer-battered fish -- Once again, even heat distribution combined with the ability to maintain a consistent temperature makes cast iron perfect for these dishes.
• Cornbread and biscuits -- My 10-inch cast iron pan has always cooked these items so they are slightly crisp on the outside and fluffy on the inside -- just the way I like them.
• Vegetables -- I cook most of my vegetables in a cast iron pan. From sautéing zucchini and broccoli on the stove top to roasting cauliflower, Brussells sprouts and root vegetables in the oven, my pans cook vegetables beautifully.
• Tart Tatin -- A cast iron pan is the perfect vehicle for caramelizing those apples in butter and sugar, adding the dish to the oven when it's ready to be baked, and then flipping onto a dish (using its ergonomic handle) when you're ready to serve.

Why do you need to season your cast iron pan?

One issue that seems to keep some people away from using cast iron pans is the fact that you have to season or cure them if they're new. Cast iron is naturally porous so if it isn't treated, moisture will settle into the metal and the pan will rust. Seasoning the pan seals the iron, creating a blackish patina that is perfect for heating and is also non-stick. The older the pan, the more seasoned it becomes.

But don't let the idea of curing a pan intimidate you. As you'll see, the only thing stopping you from using a new pan is a little vegetable oil and about 1 hour of baking time. Here are some very easy directions for seasoning your pan. Also, Lodge (the biggest, and, I think "only" U.S. maker of cast iron pans) also sells pre-seasoned pans if you want to avoid the seasoning process completely. Yet if you go this route, I still suggest making a dish that uses a lot of oil in it for the pan's maiden voyage (as detailed below) to make sure the oil really saturates into the pores.

How to season (or cure) a cast iron pan

1. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.
2. Clean your pan with mild soap and water and then dry thoroughly. Some cast iron pans come with a light coating that will need to be washed off.
3. Place a thin even coating of vegetable oil in the pan. Use something like corn or safflower oil. Traditionally, people used lard. But how many of us have lard sitting around the house these days?
4. Set the pan in your preheated oven and heat for one hour. Lodge recommends placing the pan upside down on a cookie sheet or foil, although I've never done this myself.
5. Turn off the oven and then either let the pan cool down inside or, with an oven mitt, remove the pan and set on the stovetop to cool.
6. Once the pan is cool, wipe it down with a paper towel. Set aside for later use.

Once a pan is initially seasoned, I like to cook something that requires a lot of oil to make sure it really gets thoroughly lubricated and heated. Fish and chips or fried chicken is a great choice as you need to heat your pan thoroughly with oil for an extended period of time. I also like to cook up a batch of bacon a day or two after curing.

Cleaning and caring for your cast iron pan

Lodge recommends avoiding soap when cleaning your pan and to use a "stiff nylon brush and hot water" instead. I have NEVER taken this advice. For ten years I have cleaned my cast iron pans with mild dishwashing detergent and then scrubbed lightly with a kitchen sponge. In all this time, I've never scoured off the seasoning; then again, I don't use a Brill-o pad, which should be avoided.

My tried and true method for cleaning my pans is to simply add some water to them after cooking my meals and then let them sit while we eat. By the time I'm ready to clean up, everything has loosened up and the pans are easy to clean. Just remember not to let the pans sit with water in them for more than a half hour or they may start to rust. If something really gets stuck in there, I set the pan on the stove, add a bit of water, and heat until the water starts to boil. I then gently scrape the bottom of the pan with a wooden spatula until the remnants release. That's it. And, if for some reason you do need to thoroughly scour your pan, you can always just re-season it again. Never, ever, put it in the dishwasher.

Once your pan is clean, towel it dry thoroughly. If you want to make sure it's completely dry, you can also heat it on the stove for a bit to help evaporate any leftover moisture. Do not let it air dry as it may rust. Store your pans in a cool dry place. I like to keep mine in the oven or even on top of the stove, but any place that avoids moisture is fine.

Where to buy a cast iron pan

So where can you get a cast iron pan? Almost anywhere. From Williams-Sonoma and Sur la Table to Target, Amazon, and your local hardware store, these pans are available pretty much any place selling kitchen equipment.

A few tips to using a cast iron pan

Remember these pans are quite heavy, so if you're unable to handle the heft, this may not be the pan for you. And, because the entire pan is made of cast iron, everything (including the handle) becomes quite hot when the pan is heated, so be careful not to burn yourself.

Ramekins Cooking School and Inn in Sonoma

We pulled up to the quaint Ramekins Cooking School and Inn in Sonoma, and knew I'd like this place as soon as I laid eyes on the spork and spoon handles on the front door.

I was invited by Ramekins to check out one of their many cooking classes and stay at their 6-room bed and breakfast. Cooking classes include both demonstration and hands-on classes, and are geared toward food enthusiasts and home cooks. Well, I'm always saying how I really need to make it up to wine country more often than I do, and this sounded like the perfect excuse!

Joyce Goldstein

Plus, I saw that the esteemed Joyce Goldstein would be teaching a Regional Tour of Italy: The Veneto with this mouth-watering menu:

• Warm Scallop and Mushroom Salad
• Crab and Fennel Risotto with Meyer Lemon Gremolata
• Pork with Chestnuts served with Pumpkin Polenta
• Blood Orange Marmalade Tart

Yeah, let's recap.

1) Weekend getaway in Sonoma. (Check)
2) Adorable B&B. (Check)
3) Cooking class with a culinary legend. (Check)

Right. Sign me up.

Cooking class at Ramekins with Joyce Goldstein

Since this was a demonstration class, there was no actual hands-on cooking by us students, however, there was plenty of Q&A, discussion, and of course, tasting.

Warm Scallop and Mushroom Salad

Joyce was full of knowledge about Italian cuisine, tips and tricks when preparing the dishes on our own, and stories. As we nibbled on succulent seared scallops and gorgeous chanterelle mushrooms, she lectured us on proper and humane tomato care ("once you refrigerate a tomato, you commit murder"), gave us tips on how to select a good salad dressing-quality balsamic vinegar ("if the first ingredient is 'caramel' or 'vinegar', put it down; look for 'grape must' as a primary ingredient"), and warned us against overcooking the scallops ("they should be quivering in the middle").

Crab and Fennel Risotto with Meyer Lemon Gremolata

As we tucked into the brightly flavored risotto made with sweet crab meat, fennel, and a gremolata of meyer lemon zest, parsley and garlic, we learned that the Venetians actually prefer their risotto on the soupy side.

Speaking of Venetians, I asked Joyce, why the Veneto? She replied that while this meal actually borrows from various regions of Italy, she originally wanted to highlight Venice because of its interesting culinary history born from its unique location. One of the first cities in the spice trade, the food of the Veneto was influenced by goods traded by merchants traveling in and out of the port (like Marco Polo, Venice's most famous traveler). The food and drink of the Veneto includes an abundance of seafood, game meat (an influence of Yugoslavia), artichokes, radicchio, rice (rather than pasta), lighter wines, and grappa.

Pork Stew with Chestnuts

All this edification got me hungry. Good thing the pork stew was ready.

Originally prepared with wild boar, Joyce first had this dish at a farro farm in Abruzzo. Farro was the earliest wheat that was cultivated in Europe. It tastes like barley, is sweet and hazelnutty, and puffs up when it is cooked.

With a few adaptations made, our stew featured pork shoulder rather than boar, and a delicious pumpkin polenta rather than farro. The pork stew was rich and hearty, slow simmered with red wine (Pinot Noir and Valpolicella), aromatics, sage, and warm spices (juniper berries, cloves, and cinnamon). It also contained chestnuts, which added a superb sweetness and richness to the stew. They were delicious, and I don't usually even like chestnuts!

We used vacuum-packed cooked chestnuts, but if you're shelling fresh ones, Joyce let us in on a little secret she discovered to save your hands, and time. Cut an "X" on the flat side of the chestnuts, cutting through to the brown skin, then microwave them for a bit. The hard outer shell and bitter inner skin should easily come off afterward.

Pork with Chestnuts served with Pumpkin Polenta

Oh, and let's not forget the polenta. The pumpkin polenta was heavenly. Granted, I may be biased, since as you may already know, I am a pumpkin/butternut squash/sweet potato freak.

But really, what is there not to love about this savory-sweet, rich combination of pumpkin, cornmeal, and parmesan cheese? Other than being utterly delicious, polenta is also pretty forgiving. Unlike risotto, which needs to hit the table as soon as it's ready, "Polenta, you can baby," as Joyce puts it. (Brands recommended for polenta: Giusto's and Gold Pheasant.)

Also, a great trick we learned to avoid lumps in it was to start with the polenta in cold water rather than streaming it into boiling water like most recipes call for. Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that before?

Joyce Goldstein, laying lattice

Now for my favorite part…the course that clinched it when I signed up for this class -- the Blood Orange Marmalade Tart, which needless to say, did not disappoint. It was fragrant, perfumed by the gorgeous blood oranges and Grand Marnier (two of my favorite ingredients of all time), and had a perfectly buttery, flaky crust.

As Joyce so aptly describes, a blood orange tastes different from other oranges, it is really floral, “like an orange mixed with a rose.”

This tart is adapted from a recipe served at the Vineria Cozzi in Bergamo Alta. It is called Crostata di Marmellata delle Suore Trappiste, a tart filled with jam made by the Trappist nuns. The recipe takes a homemade orange marmalade and binds it with eggs and cornstarch. Fitting. It tastes divine.

Blood Orange Marmalade Tart

A few tricks of the trade when making this:
• Use a sharp vegetable peeler to remove all the zest from the oranges. It is the quickest way I've ever seen zest removed. After you have all the peel, chop it finely.
• Remember to discard the bitter pith.
• Blood oranges are small so you don't need to really segment them, especially since it is all being cooked down anyway for the marmalade. Just chop them up into 1 inch pieces.

Other than this tart -- which I've been thinking about ever since -- what struck me was a comment that someone made towards the end of the class. She was a woman who was an old fan of Joyce's restaurant, Square One, before it closed in 1996. She was not alone, as it seemed that the class was filled with devout fans. The woman used to come in from Central Valley for a night out at Square One, and wrote in once after being particularly taken by a certain apple tart. Joyce wrote her back (she answered every letter that came in), and said they make it en masse, so the translation may not be perfect, but nonetheless, here was the recipe. It worked beautifully, and this was the first chance the woman had to thank Joyce personally. The room burst into applause.

Ramekins Inn, apple art

This story got me thinking about food and how our best memories of particular dishes or meals are inextricably tied to the people who made them special. It is not only about the food, but about the stories and the shared experience. Maybe that is why places like Ramekins make me so happy. Places that get it. They get the love of food (it's written on the apple-adorned walls and asparagus-lined railing), and they get that people are looking to share that experience.

Ramekins Inn, asparagus railing

Blood Orange Marmalade Tart (Crostata di marmellata all’arancia)

Recipe and notes courtesy of Joyce Goldstein, from Perfect Pairings.

"Jam filled lattice-topped tarts are popular all over Italy. In Rome they prefer cherry jam. Some tarts are prepared with apricot or berry preserves. At the Vineria Cozzi in Bergamo Alta they serve a crostata di marmellata delle Suore Trappiste, filled with jam made by the Trappist nuns. This recipe takes a home made orange marmalade and binds it with eggs and cornstarch. Blood oranges, now available at our markets, would add their special perfume and color, to the tart."

Serves: 8

INGREDIENTS:

Pasta Frolla for two crusts:
2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
pinch salt
4 to 6 tablespoons sugar
12 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter
3 to 5 tablespoons ice water, as needed

Filling:
3 large navel oranges or 5 to 6 blood oranges
1 1/3 cups sugar
juice of 1 lemon
1/2 cup water
3 tablespoons cornstarch
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
3 eggs
3 tablespoons Grand Marnier or other orange liqueur

PREPARATION:

For the Crust:
1. Put the flour and salt and sugar in the container of a food processor or mixing bowl. Cut in the butter and pulse until the mixture resembles cornmeal. Gradually beat in the ice water. Turn dough out onto work surface and form into 2 flattened discs, one slightly larger than the other. Wrap in plastic and chill for at least an hour.
2. Roll out the large disc between very lightly floured sheets of baker’s parchment until you have a circle that is 13 inches in diameter. Carefully ease it into a 9 inch pie plate or 10 inch tart tin with a removable bottom. Chill the crust.

For the Filling:
1. Wash and dry the oranges. With a sharp peeler carefully remove all of the zest from all 3 oranges and chop finely. Separate the oranges into segments and put them in a medium saucepan along with the chopped zest, 1/3 cup sugar, the lemon juice and the water. Bring to a boil and simmer for about 20 minutes, stirring form time to time. Let the mixture cool to room temperature. The filling can be made a day ahead of time and left at room temperature.
2. Preheat oven to 450 degrees F.
3. Place remaining sugar in a mixing bowl with the cornstarch and mix with a fork. Add the butter and beat until smooth and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time. Fold in the cooled marmalade and the Grand Marnier.
4. Pour the filling into the pie crust. Roll out the remaining pastry between lightly floured sheets of baker's parchment into a rectangle about 9 by 12 inches. Remove the top piece of parchment and cut into strips with a pastry wheel. Moisten the edge of the crust with a bit of water and then arrange the strips like a lattice on top of the filling.
5. Bake 10 minutes then reduce the oven temperature to 350 degrees F and continue to bake the tart for 30 to 40 minutes or until filling is set and crust is slightly colored.
6. Cool and serve with whipped cream.

More Recipes Courtesy of Joyce Goldstein:
Warm Scallop and Mushroom Salad, from Antipasti: Fabulous Appetizers and Small Plates
Crab and Fennel Risotto with Meyer Lemon Gremolata, adapted from Back to Square One
Pork with Chestnuts served with Pumpkin Polenta, from Italian Slow and Savory

Upcoming classes at Ramekins that caught my eye:

03/25/10, An Evening of Food and Wine Pairing (Demo, $85) with Joyce and her son, Evan Goldstein, a James Beard Award-winning master sommelier and career wine educator. Way to keep it in the family.

04/03/10, Top Five Desserts (Hands-on, $85) with Joy Wilson, author of Joy the Baker. Small world, I ran into Joy as we were leaving Ramekins…thought I had smelled something good baking downstairs! She's returning to teach another class in April.

04/29/10, Perbacco Restaurant (Demo, $75) with Staffan Terje, chef/owner of Perbacco. Chef Terje will be showcasing fresh seasonal ingredients and cooking techniques that are the basis of haute cuisine. Which means, you can expect a haute Italian dinner from one of SF’s finest.

Ramekins
450 West Spain Street
Sonoma, CA 95476
Map
(707) 933-0452

Disclosure: Cooking class and accommodations provided by Ramekins.

For more Joyce, check out Check, Please! Bay Area: Season 3: Joyce Goldstein Special, where she profiles three Bay Area restaurants: Medjool, B44, and Da Flora.

"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.