The other day, I received an email from my friend Ron, who had recently returned from a long weekend in Paris, which is something people who live in New York can do without killing themselves, time-wise:

"I had such a good time in Paris, and am so inspired to cook! I was thinking about you when I was there, and I almost bought a tarte tatin pan, but they were so expensive, and I realized I probably didn't need to get it there.

So, I thought i'd ask for your opinion on a good pan. Do you have a recommendation? I'd also LOVE to get your recipe as well. You were always going to teach me how to make one and we never got around to it. So, perhaps, i could at least get your recipe."

I thought for a moment. There he was in Paris, inspired to cook, looking at expensive tarte Tatin pans. He must have been to E. Dehillerin's, a mind-blowing, intoxicating cookware store that only those with a severe allergy to copper or eating could leave without the purchase of something shiny or, at the very least, without inspiration.

I am delighted and somehow unsurprised that Ron managed to leave the store without the pan. Delighted because I would become extremely jealous of any friend outside of easy borrowing distance who owned one, unsurprised because he's one of the best bargain hunters ever. He also has one of the tiniest apartments in the universe, which I think has been officially documented. He would hang that document on his wall, but he would most likely think it would take up too much wall space.

It is precisely due to this lack of space that I would suggest to Ron that he not invest in a one-use pan. Some folks swear by non-stick sauté pans, others by cast iron skillets for making this upside down apple tart. I happen to lean towards cast iron, because I'm just plain folksy. Either will do, so take your pick.

A Promise is a Promise

I had forgotten my promise of teaching him how to make Tarte Tatin, since it was about two lifetimes ago. I do, however, like to think of myself as a man of my word. So, Ron, though it's about six or seven years after the fact, and you now live on the other side of the continent, I will do my best to answer your questions. By opening this up from a simple email into a blog post, I encourage others with more Tarte Tatin expertise to weigh in, if you like.

I initially hesitated when offering up my recipe, because I thought it produced inconsistent results. It seemed a bit odd that something static-- printed and frozen on glossy paper-- could be inconsistent. It was I who was inconsistent. And the ingredients. Would I be vigilant and make a perfect caramel, with apples well-cooked and brown, but holding together? That is sometimes me. Or would I wind up with what my goddaughter Zelly referred to as "apple mush tart" when I decided to make one for her while trying to keep her 4 year-old little sister away from the knives and hot caramel? That is, unfortunately me, too. I'm glad it was the tart that wound up overcooked and not the child.

And what about the ingredients? I've made this dish at least two dozen times during my adulthood, but never with any sort of frequency. Somewhere along the way, I got it into my head that Granny Smith apples were the best, owing to their tartness and name-sharing with Dame Maggie. I had forgotten the better results I'd had with Golden Delicious a few years back and jumped back to the Smiths. which also happens to be the name of one of my favorite bands in high school. Unfortunately, while yielding great flavor, the Smiths yield an attractive-but-depressing mush, not unlike the music of the aforementioned band. I vote Jonagold which has inherited the firm flesh of its Golden Delicious mother, but taken on a little of it's father's (Jonathan) tartness.

I hope Ron has fun experimenting with this dessert. Especially in New York where the Autumn apples are better than anywhere I've had.

If he messes one up, it will still more than likely taste good, because how badly can you screw up apples, butter, and sugar? Well, I might suggest he watch Julia Child making one of the biggest goofs of her television career.

Suddenly, mine doesn't look so bad.

Tarte Tatin
Serves 6 to 10, depending on how you slice it.

When I first had this dessert presented to me, I can't remember where I was. Was it at some high school French Club get together? A special occasion restaurant venture with my family? The quaint little Loire Valley farm house where I learned a lot of dirty words from the sons of the proprietress who were trying to describe what that wanted to do with one of my female friends? I don't remember, since I've had it in all of those situations. I just remember the shock I felt at my love for the dish, since I had always been indifferent to apple pie. And I remembered the name thanks to the way I remember most everything-- through word association. "A good Tarte Tatin," I thought, "should be tart and tan."

The back story on this dessert is nearly as quaint as the tart itself. If it is to be believed, in 1888, Mlle. Stéphanie Tatin, owner of L'Hôtel Tatin in Lamotte-Beuvron with her sister either a) was not a very bright woman and accidentally baked her famous apple tart upside down in one of her frequent moments of confusion; b) became distracted during the making of said tart, let the cooking go a little too far, but managed to save the day by throwing a crust over the apples and baking them upside down; or c) was threatened with a smoldering cigarette to the face by a jealous Brett Somers, who suspected the Mlle. Tatin of having an unsavory dalliance with her then-husband, Jack Klugman, and therefore unable to reach the caramelizing apples in time to make a proper, right side up tart until La Somers was finished with her smoke.

I prefer to believe version "c", because it is the better story, though choice "b" is much more likely.

Ingredients:

For the pastry:

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon sugar

A pinch of salt

1/2 cup chilled, unsalted butter, cut into pieces

1/4 cup ice water

For the filling:

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

3/4 cup sugar

6 apples, peeled, quartered, and cored. Jonagolds will do nicely. So will Golden Delicious. Go ahead and experiment with different varieties.

A pinch of salt

A dash of vanilla extract

Preparation:

1. To make the pastry, combine flour, sugar, and salt into the bowl of a food processor. Pulse briefly to mix. Add the chopped, chilled butter to the flour mixture and pulse until the the butter has been coated and broken into a million, pea-sized pellets. Sprinkle dough with enough cold water to make the dough barely come together. Turn the dough out onto a lightly-floured work surface and roll out into an 11" round about 1/4 of an inch thick. Transfer dough to a baking sheet, cover with wax paper or plastic wrap and refrigerate.

2. Preheat your oven to 400 F. In an 10" cast iron skillet or non-stick frying pan, melt butter over medium heat. Stir in sugar until nearly dissolved (about 2 minutes or so). If it's lumpy, that's fine. Add the apple quarters, rounded side down into the bubbling proto-caramel using enough apples to fit snuggly. Reduce the heat to low and cook until the caramel is dark brown and the apples are just tender (about 15 minutes).

3. Place pan in the oven to cook the apples a bit more (5 minutes). Remove pan from oven and raise the heat to 450 F. Gently place the pastry circle over the top of the apples, tucking the excess pastry inside the rim of the pan. Return pan to the oven and bake until the pastry is all brown and flaky-like (about 20 minutes).

4. Remove from the oven. Run a knife around the inside edge of the pan, invert a serving plate over the pan and then flip over and pray that the tarte unmolds easily. Lift off the pan. And please, Ron, do wear oven mitts and sensible shoes. I'd hate to hear you spent the evening in a Manhattan emergency room being treated for caramel burns.

5. Serve warm with sweetened whipped cream or with vanilla ice cream.

Once the weather starts to cool down a little, and the leaves begin to turn various shades of gold and red, I reconcile myself to the fact that the time for peaches and watermelons is over. Yet as much as I love summer fruits, I shed no tears at their passing season. By this time I've eaten my fill of all those lovely stone fruits and melons bursting with juices and flavors. I've eaten plenty of peach tarts, cherry pies, and apricots fresh and delicious. Sure, I'll miss them at times during the year (and I even have a stash of frozen cherries in the freezer for a holiday trifle I’ll make in about a month), but it is now time to move on. So instead of mourning the summer crops I have thoroughly enjoyed for months, I am embracing the amazing fall harvest. At the top of this list is the Fuyu persimmon -- hands down my absolute favorite fall fruit.

As I mentioned in my Fuyu persimmon post last year, Fuyus should not be confused with Hachiya persimmons. Unlike the naturally astringent Hachiya, which needs to be so ripe it should look like a bag full of goop by the time you can eat it, Fuyus are sweet and firm when they're ready. With Fuyus, you can just peel and eat. They're amazing served fresh in salads or cooked in couscous and tarts. My favorite new fall dessert, however, is a Fuyu and Date Upside-Down Cake.

I came up with the idea for this cake after eyeing a pineapple upside down cake recently. I loved how pretty the pineapples looked on the cake and then began to imagine how slices of Fuyu persimmons, with their natural star inlay, would look. As I had some fresh dates on hand, I decided to throw those in as well, along with some cinnamon and nutmeg to give the cake some spice.

After setting the lovely sliced Fuyus -- which look like orange sand dollars -- in butter and sugar, I added some chopped Fuyus and dates to the cake batter. And of course I used my trusty cast-iron pan so I could cook the persimmons in the butter and sugar first on the stove top and then just add the batter and place the whole thing in the oven. The result was truly something you could only get in the fall months: the chopped persimmons and dates inside the cake gave the dessert a wonderful sweetness while the whole persimmon slices looked quite pretty on top.

Raw or cooked, Fuyu persimmons are a special fall treat that will only be available for a short while. So take advantage of them up while you can.

Fuyu and Date Upside-Down Cake

Makes: one 8-inch round cake

Ingredients:

1 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup butter (1/2 of one stick) softened
1 egg
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/2 cup milk (preferably whole milk)
1 1/4 cup flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp each cinnamon and nutmeg
3 persimmons (2 sliced into 1/4-inch slices and one chopped into cubes
1 cup fresh dates pitted and chopped
1/2 cup chopped walnut or almonds (optional)
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp sugar or brown sugar

Preparation:

1. In a medium sauce pan (an 8-inch round cast-iron pan if you have one), heat the 2 Tbsp butter until melted and bubbling. Add the sugar and caramelize until a light golden brown if using regular sugar or until melted if using brown sugar.
2. Lay the persimmon slices in the pan. Turn off the heat and set aside. If using a separate pan for baking the cake, pour the caramelized sugar and butter into the baking pan first and then lay the persimmon slices on top.
3. Beat sugar into butter using a stand mixer or by hand until fluffy.
4. Whisk in the egg and vanilla until fully incorporated.
5. Add the milk, mixing it in thoroughly.
6. Combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon and nutmeg in a separate bowl.
7. Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and mix until just barely incorporated.
8. Mix in the chopped dates and Fuyu persimmons (and nuts if using) until the batter is combined, but do not over mix.
9. Gently lay the batter on top of the persimmon slices in your baking pan, being sure not to disturb the pattern you made earlier.
10. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 20-25 minutes or until it is baked through.
11. With a thin sharp knife, separate the cake from the edge of the inside of the pan. Lay a flat plate over the pan and then, using an oven mitt, flip the plate over so the cake falls onto the plate.
12. Let cool and then top with powdered sugar.

Making amazing snails in District 1, Oc Huong Pho Mai

I've been eating myself silly the past 15 days -- I know, what's new. But no, this has been a really special kind of silly. The eating-my-way-through Vietnam kind of silly!

Well, to be more specific, not quite all of Vietnam, since an unexpected detour to Hong Kong for a roundtrip price of $150 proved too tempting to pass up, but for sure, through a majority of Ho Chi Minh City (a.k.a. Saigon).

There is a good reason why even hardened eaters like Anthony Bourdain have fallen so in love with the cuisine of Vietnam. It's fresh, vibrant, varied, and satisfying without feeling gluttonously heavy.

And, most often, it is cooked on the spot, right before your eyes, on the street, by someone who has been making that one particular dish over and over, for years, decades, quite possibly, generations.

Since Hua's father and uncles are locals, we had the benefit of zipping about on the back of their motorbikes (amongst the unimaginable number of other motorbikes on the road), being led by the nose to some of the most delicious food I have ever tasted.

That's a big statement, I know, but I stand by it. These local favorites are something special. Purveyors of food so good, so exciting, so complex in flavor yet simple in execution, I ate like I was starved (which is absurd because I don’t think I once felt the sensation of "hunger" the entire trip). I now pass this joy to you. Go seek these places/dishes out:

Cha Gue, Nen Nha Dat

Place: Nen Nha Dat
While I don't think this is the real "name" of this vendor, this is what the sign says above the storefront where this little set-up is situated.
Dish: Cha Gue (pronounced "chow gway")
Translation: Pan-fried Rice Flour Cake with Egg
Address: 91 Ha Ton Quyen (cross street: Tan Thanh) - P.15, Q.5

Awaiting Cha Gue

Located in District 5, sort of like the Chinatown of HCMC, Hua's dad took us here for a snack on Day 1. The bar was set high early.

The dish consisted of thick, rectangular pieces of pan-fried rice flour cake. The perfect golden crisp on the outside is beautifully offset by the smooth, supple texture on the inside.

When the rice cakes are nearing the end of their browning, an egg is cracked over them and the rich orange-hued yolk is broken. Throw a handful of minced green onion on the pan to warm through, and add bits of fried onion, fried pork skin (like little precious bits of chicharrones), and garlic. The dish is then served with a side of homemade pickled daikon and carrot slaw, and a savory dipping sauce of sweet soy sauce and a dollop of chili sauce.

Cha Gue, Nen Nha Dat

The Cha Gue, hot off the pan, had this corner bumpin', and even in the rain people were pulling up on their motorbikes and shouting their orders to-go from the street.

Apparently, business is so good that the owner doesn't want to grow his operations because he's afraid he wouldn't be able to handle the volume. Interesting how this kind of success would inspire a very different response back home, as I envisioned a fleet of Kogi taco trucks multiplying like rabbits in the streets of LA.

Wok-fried Snails, Oc Huong Pho Mai

Place: Oc Huong Pho Mai
Dish: Wok-fried Snails in a heavenly sauce
Translation: Bliss
Address: 37/3 Nguyen Cauh Chan - Q.1

After day of shopping in Saigon Square we were carted off to rejuvenate ourselves with a little pre-dinner feast of the most amazing snails I've ever had.
I was skeptical as we turned onto a tiny, dimly-lit, nondescript, side-street. It would have been a little sketchy if it wasn't for the insanely cute kindergarten class that was being held a few doors down.

Cute kids near snails

The set up of the shop was typical -- a kitchen (comprised of a few burners and a grill) that spilled out from the ground floor of someone's home onto the street, a few small tables and chairs along the street, and an extra bonus here, a lady squeezing fresh sugarcane juice right across the street! It couldn't have been better.

Making fresh sugarcane juice

We over-ordered of course, and out came dishes of small snails, large snails, clams, crab, even balut!

For those unfamiliar, balut is a fertilized duck egg with a nearly-developed embryo inside that is boiled and then eaten out of the shell with a spoon. You heard right, a partial chick (please don't hate me). Since it was my first time trying this delicacy, I was advised not to look directly at it (kind of like that adage of not staring into the sun). The texture can be challenging if you're squeamish, and you can't help but look too closely, but the flavor was good. As expected, a combo of an egg and chicken, but all in one bite. A little dish of salt and pepper mixed with lemon juice added a nice kick of flavor, and of course, some herbage, coriander leaves.

That was probably the most exotic thing I tried on this trip, but the snails! Those may have been the best. Boiled first to cook through, then finished off in a wok, seared until some magical sauce evaporated and coated the shells.

Bliss

The snails themselves were meaty and succulent, but the sauce, now that was truly extraordinary: a little creamy and cheesy, with a touch of sweetness, and a tinge of heat that played on our lips. It was caramelized into almost a crust on the shells. We unabashedly licked our fingers clean while still reaching for more. The flavor teased us as we chased after it, wanting to savor it, have more of it, freakin' bathe in it.

Hu Tiu Nam Vang, Tin Phuc

Place: Tin Phuc
Dish: Hu Tiu Nam Vang (pronounced "hoo tee-yoo nam vang")
Translation: Pork and Crab Noodle Soup
Address: 16 Duong Dinh Nghe (cross street: Cu Xa Binh Thoi) - P.8, Q.11

Tin Phuc

Tin Phuc is more of restaurant than actual street food, although, with its breezy architecture, you could technically drive right in if you really wanted to.

Regardless, it is delicious. Only one dish is served so you can't mess up the order: Hu Tiu Nam Vang. (In Cantonese we call it "gum been fun.") You can order it "dry" but the soup is so good that you probably won't want to.

Basically, hu tiu is a noodle soup similar to pho, but more seafood-based and with a light broth. Prior to this meal, I had never tasted it before, so I did some research on its origins. Vietnamese culinary expert Andrea Nguyen had much light to shed regarding this addictive dish. According to Andrea, "At its core, hu tieu signals a Chinese-Southeast Asian style noodle soup made with a pork bone broth and no fish sauce." But, there are many riffs on it, one of which is the Nam Vang style, "Nam Vang" being the Vietnamese word for Phnom Penh (the capital of Cambodia). Thus, Vietnam's proximity to Cambodia resulted in this Cambodian-Chinese concoction.

Herbage

Tin Phuc's rendition of Hu Tiu Nam Vang is divine. The soup is phenomenal, sweet and rich, made from the stock of pork bones and crab shells. The angel-hair-thin opaque rice noodles have just the right amount of springy chew to them. And the toppings are generous portions of pork meat, tendon and heart, crab meat, and shrimp. Tear up handfuls of leafy Romaine, Chinese celery and flat Chinese chives, add some crunchy bean sprouts, a touch of chili pepper, and you good to go.

The result is soul-satisfying. Warm, comforting, full of umami, fresh and healthy feeling. I bet a bowl of this could cure a cold like nobody's business.

The best part? Lunch for 5 people here rolled up to a mere $9.75 USD.

Street Scene

Back in September, Thy Tran wrote a great article on Street Food Beyond Festivals in which she compares the young street food culture in the U.S. to other places where it has been "long embedded into their daily rhythms." Witnessing the street food culture of Saigon brought that alive for me. Daily rhythm is right, it seemed like everyone eats out all the time whether it’s having your morning coffee delivered to your front door from the coffee lady down the street, getting some fruit to-go from the number of fruit vendors rolling around, or popping a squat on a little plastic chair at a tea-party-sized table for dinner. Sure, the convenience, affordability, and quality of product are all great. But it is the daily human interaction, the chit chat, the sense of community that comes with it, that makes this daily rhythm so soothing.

Nen Nha Dat (for Cha Gue)
91 Ha Ton Quyen (cross street: Tan Thanh) - P.15, Q.5
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
Phone: 0903380574

Oc Huong Pho Mai (for Snails)
37/3 Nguyen Cauh Chan - Q.1
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Tin Phuc (for Hu Tiu Nam Vang)
16 Duong Dinh Nghe (cross street: Cu Xa Binh Thoi) - P.8, Q.11
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
Phone: 3.9627977

Valencia is a humming thoroughfare teeming with restaurants, bars, vintage stores, galleries, furniture vendors, shops hawking expensive curiosities, construction projects, pigeons, and one small, loud street performer with a bright blue guitar. I don't know what the street was like in the 90s, but it's changed remarkably since I arrived just seven years ago. The blocks have built up, becoming denser. Spaces have changed hands, but fewer proprietors without public relations teams still hold court over the bike lanes, shimmering cars, and busy pedestrian paths. Notably, many restaurants have closed, and many new ones have taken their place. The climate brims with potential, yet it's simultaneously harsh: with so many eating options tangling in such close proximity, survivors must stake out unique corners of the market -- or place a premium on a convenience they provide. Ironically, every Indian restaurant on Valencia -- unless I'm forgetting one down by the 16th Street corridor I tend to avoid -- sits clustered around the street's intersection with 21st. When I first came to town and lived up on Mission, near 26th, a New Orleans-esque restaurant called Le Krewe was installed in the space Dosa currently inhabits. Once I walked by on a toasty September afternoon. The sweaty host was planted on the sidewalk, handing out piping-hot gumbo samples, visibly happy to be removed from the maelstrom of silly fake trees and dangling beads inside his restaurant. While I knew nothing of the space's history -- the fact that many significantly better restaurants had failed there in spite of the desirable location -- I nibbled a particularly tasteless morsel, paused to peer briefly at the menu pasted on the door, and realized immediately the place had no chance of success.

After Le Krewe, a wretched Italian joint called Spiazzino moved in, followed closely by Dosa, which seems to have handily broken whatever dark spell had caused the carousel of doomed ventures to spin for so long. I'm not merely invoking Halloween's sallow after-glow. The notion of a real curse was half-jokingly bandied about a Chowhound board seven years ago. If some great chef's ghost, vengeful in the wake of his ancient restaurant's untimely demise, meddled with the revolving residents of 995 Valencia, the curse was piddling compared to the dastardly pox enveloping the 1100 block of Valencia, further up, on the Noe Valley side, between 22nd and 23rd.

That strip has been gutted like a fish. More crowbars swing behind the block's entrances than whisks and knives. Until 2006, Saigon Saigon occupied the large space adjacent to Lucca's parking lot. The food -- decent Vietnamese -- perked up a part of town lacking in lemongrass, but until very recently, through haphazard strips of lumber across the front facade, a squatter's paradise was visible within. Currently, its "For Rent" sign matches the one on the door of the old Watergate space. In 2003, when I moved into a building on the block, my apartment -- a massive converted one bedroom with a slanted floor and dirty beige carpets -- was positioned directly above the kitchen of that good French-Asian fusion restaurant. Almost immediately, Watergate moved to Nob Hill, where it later expired. The very solid Watercress took over the space yet closed three years later. I'm not sure what came next -- the much-maligned Senses or the endearingly clueless Janitzi with its convoluted "cuisine of the Americas" -- but currently the space is for rent. With walls that felt no further apart than my outstretched arms, Caffe Ponte Vecchio was a doll-sized trattoria. The food, especially the S.F. Weekly-approved lasagne, was tasty enough, but the charming atmosphere (lots of candles, silent soccer on the television) kept the tables tight with customers -- until the Tuscan proprietor closed up shop and moved to Florida, purportedly to spend more time with his mother. Bistro Annex came next and collapsed after a few years.

Aside from Lucca, the esteemed Italian grocery on the corner, the Columbian restaurant El Majahual has been the block's only survivor -- though I've never seen more than a few people in there at a time.

I left my apartment on the 1100 block in 2004, due in some small part to an increasingly fragile neighborly relationship with the social worker who lived upstairs. He'd blast James Taylor at high volume yet charge down the stairs screaming and purple-faced if my roommate and I had a few friends over for dinner. Even watching television was risky. The landlord was a character but not any slimier than most I've met. Something would break -- the sink disposal, a faucet -- and he'd figure out a temporarily satisfactory method of repairing it swiftly and inexpensively. It would break again and the process would start over. I see parallels in the state of the block's restaurants. If restaurants unworthy of the prime location routinely open and sputter, diners expect less. Each weak new attempt feels like a band-aid on a deep wound.

Maybe that's why the owners of Zaytoon have taken two years to renovate the Cafe Ponte Vecchio space; they're waiting to open once people have had time to clear their heads of negative associations with the block's run of failures. According to its website, Zaytoon will sell falafel sandwiches and shawerma wraps. For now, the interior -- an expanse of shiny pea-green tile -- is visible, nearly ready for action. As much as I like falafel and shawerma, and feel that, with Ali Baba's teetering towards major mediocrity for the past five years, and Old Jerusalem being more conducive to dining in, room exists for a newcomer to the genre to make a mark on the neighborhood, I fear Zaytoon won't succeed -- if only because of its strange and sickly color scheme. I hope I'm proven wrong.

My knowledge of the 1100 block is, of course, quite limited. I've only lived in San Francisco for seven years. My brief history is but one possible narrative of a discrete period of time situated around a small stretch of sidewalk many others know better. My difficult upstairs neighbor had rented his apartment for eleven years by the time I showed up. He's probably still there, and has seen many more restaurants come and go.

The cycle of trumpeted launches, seasonal specials, and eventual shutters spur your memory. The people I saw a lot of back when the Ponte Vecchio space belonged to Pont Vecchio aren't, in large part, the same people I see now. I recall the only truly good dinner I had there, before I practically lived next door. My first San Francisco roommate, a college friend, and I were celebrating his birthday. He'd been through a break-up; we were new arrivals, without a lot of friends, eating ravioli and swilling Chianti. There was something funny and a little lonely about a platonic, dude-ly supper for two at Ponte Vecchio, a place with a serious romantic pretense. The moment crystallized the start of a new era. College was over; there were fewer people around to help us celebrate the landmarks in our lives; going out for dinner was a good time, and while we were earning enough money to do so comfortably, there was still a whiff of irony about it, like we were play-acting. While I went there once or twice during the year I lived next door, by the time it closed just three years after that inaugural meal, I'd almost forgotten it ever existed. I was comfortable in the City. My first roommate had moved to New York. I was a few years into a serious relationship. I was leaving my second post-college job and searching aimlessly for the third, and I'd lived at other apartments and houses scattered across various parts of the neighborhood -- on short blocks with their own long stories.

This is a family of winter squash, including jack be little pumpkins, delicata and sweet dumplings, carnival, kuri, baby bear pumpkins, butternut, spaghetti squash and a cinderella pumpkin.
Photo by Julia Wiley of Mariquita Farm

Just in case you're wondering: no, you can't recycle last night's only-slightly-scorched jack o' lantern into this morning's pumpkin muffins. Sorry, greenies, into the compost bin it goes.

Why? Well, for starters, it wouldn't taste very good. Pumpkins bred to be big, beautiful, and able to sit on the porch without rotting for weeks on end are not going to be yummy, too. There are only so many characteristics that you can highlight on a gene string, and as far as it goes with pumpkins, you can find a fabulously chunky orange canvas, or you can have one that's dainty and edible. But not both. If it's big enough to carve a vampire face on, it's probably also going to be bland, stringy, and watery. Roast the seeds, yes, but put the rest to rest in your big green bin.

The baker's secret, however, is that even those cute little pumpkins, often sold under the names Sugar Pie or Sugar Pumpkin, are just not all that delicious. Compared to that supermarket workhorse, the beige-skinned butternut, even the cutest pumpkin is all bark, no bite. The butternut is dense and rich-fleshed, wonderful roasted and pureed into soups with apple and sage or a little curry powder and coconut milk. Mashed butternut is what I use for homemade pumpkin pies, pumpkin bread, and pumpkin cookies, and the only difference is how much better it tastes than actual pumpkin.

All these hard-shelled winter squashes are in the same family of cucurbits, anyway, under the same umbrella that shelters melons, cucumbers, summer squash and zucchini. Winter squash get their name not from their growing season (they need 100+ days of warm weather, ripening just at the tail end of summer and then curing on the vines for a few more weeks into early fall) but from their usefulness as a winter staple. Once cured--that is, left in the field or in a cool, airy place for a few weeks--their skin hardens, their curvy stem (a peduncle, for those botantically inclined) dries to almost wood-like firmness, and they can be stored in a cool, dry place with little loss of flavor or texture for months on end. Their only real enemies are warmth and moisture.

But good as butternuts are, there's no reason to stop there. Right now the markets are lavishly stocked with every size and crazy streaked-and-spotted shape of winter squash. There's the delicate delicata, ivory-skinned with green stripes and orange flecks over a pale yellow-peach flesh. You can slice it into narrow half-moons, massage lightly with olive oil and bake until tender. The thin skin is edible to all but the most fastidious. For those folks, cut the squash in half lengthwise, scrape out the seeds and strings, and fill with an autumnal bread or wild-rice stuffing. Bake until squash is fork-tender and filling has browned and crisped.

There are other variations on the delicata, like the dumpling squash, shaped like an oversized popover and perfect for stuffing.

The squarish, dark green buttercup squash is for those who like their squash dry and nutty, tasting like a cross between roasted chestnuts and baked sweet potato. In their Ladybug newsletters, Andy and Julia of Mariquita Farm have sung the praises of two big beige squash, the plump, round-cheeked Long Island cheese pumpkin and the deeply grooved, deep-orange fleshed Musquee de Provence squash, also called the Fairytale pumpkin for its Cinderella-coach shape.

Although, if I were a mouse looking for glamor, I'd hitch myself to a Rouge Vif d'Etampes pumpkin and wait for the fairy godmother to descend. This is the most glamorous squash of all, vivid orange-red, huge and elegantly grooved. If you've ever wanted to make a pumpkin soup and serve it in a pumpkin, this is the one you want. Not surprisingly, given its shape and its tongue-twisting French name, it's often called the Cinderella pumpkin. Carved out, it also makes a striking ice bucket for an autumn brunch.

But my favorite remains a tricky-to-find recent hybrid, the Sunshine kabocha. Bright orange skinned, it's easy to confuse with the Red Kuri, but once tasted, it can't be mistaken for anything but its amazingly delectable self. Oh, all right, I'll admit it: roasted, it tastes like chicken. Or, even better, like the incredibly savory drippings left at the bottom of the pan after you roast a chicken. Trust me: if you think you don't like squash because you've only ever eaten those bland and pasty little baked acorn squash, you owe it your tastebuds to seek out--or grow--a Sunshine kabocha. A plain old kabocha is pretty good, too, sweet and nutty, but the Sunshine variety is just nubbly orange heaven.

Once you've done something virtuously savory with your roasted squash--soup, a suave puree--then it's time for a few treats. Squash, like applesauce, adds moisture without fat to baked goods, and it seems everyone turns out a loaf or two of low-fat pumpkin bread this time of year.

Then again, we are moving into hibernation weather and a holiday mood. At least once this month, follow the lead of Alameda home baker Steven Mounce and get every Peter Pumpkin Eater at your table moaning with pleasure over this lush pumpkin bread pudding. Trust Mounce: a man with the word "homemade" tattooed on his knuckles knows what you want.

Pumpkin Bread Pudding
Serves 6-8
Did you know that canned pumpkin is rarely actual pumpkin, but rather butternut or other winter squash? Whatever you call it, plain canned pumpkin is always a handy staple, since it can be used in both sweet and savory dishes. Of course, you can also roast and mash your own for this gorgeously warming centerpiece for brunch or dessert.

Ingredients:
4 eggs
2 cups half and half
15 oz can pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling) , or 1 3/4 cups roasted, mashed butternut or kabocha squash
¾ cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons dark molasses
¼ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
¼ teaspoon ground ginger
1 large loaf of French bread, cut into 2" cubes
½ cup walnuts, roughly chopped
¼ cup raisins or dried cranberries
3 tablespoons butter, softened
3 tablespoons brown sugar

Preparation:
1. In a large bowl, whisk eggs, half and half, pumpkin, brown sugar, molasses, salt, and spices together. Add bread cubes to bowl in batches, stirring well between each batch. Add only enough bread to soak up liquid mixture; you may not need all the bread. Let mixture rest for 15 minutes.

2. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Fill a kettle or pitcher with hot water, and set aside. Lightly grease an 8"x8" glass baking dish. Stir nuts and raisins into bread mixture. Spoon mixtures loosely into baking dish. Do not pack bread mixture into dish. Mound lightly above edge of the dish if necessary.

3. Place glass baking dish into a 13"x9" baking pan. Place both dishes on the center rack of the oven. Pour hot water into larger baking pan to come up halfway on the glass pan. Bake for 30 minutes, until top is golden brown and center is set. While bread pudding is baking, stir together butter and 3 tablespoons brown sugar, and set aside.

4. When pudding is baked, remove glass pan from oven and set on a rack. (Wait to remove water-filled pan until oven has cooled.) Dot with brown sugar mixture, which will melt into a gooey caramel sauce, mmm. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Got a fabulous pumpkin recipe to share? Enter Omnivore Books' pumpkin cooking contest. Everything from soup to muffins considered, as long as the main ingredient is pumpkin. Sat. Nov. 21, 4-5pm.

Commonwealth Club's The Street Food Movement: SF Hearts the Cart panel

At the Commonwealth Club's Thursday night event, "The Street Food Movement: SF Hearts the Cart," a visibly upset Steven Gbdula (Gobba Gobba Hey) explained that Murat Celebi-Ariner of popular cart Amuse Bouche is being deported even though he's married to a U.S. citizen. ICE's holding him and he's not getting an appeal. At the post-event food tasting at 111 Minna St., Steven and Natalie (Bike Basket Pies) sported t-shirts that read "Free Murat" and other vendors had small signs expressing frustration with the situation.

Natalie of @bikebasketpies

The reaction to Murat's looming deportation highlights one of the major themes of the panel discussion: the importance of community and supporting one another. Murat actually encouraged Steven to start, tweeted about his delicious gobs (an East Coast treat reminiscent of the whoopie pie), and supported other vendors whole-heartedly. The affable Frenchman was a big presence at the 24th St. BART station and will be missed greatly by his customers, but also by the other vendors who have come to see him not just as a fellow business or even a competitor, but as a friend.

The panel discussion was moderated by Tamara Palmer, editor of Pavement Cuisine for SF Weekly and included Anthony Myint of Mission Street Food, Brian (aka the Magic Curry Cart), Steven Gbdula of Gobba Gobba Hey and Charles Phan from The Slanted Door (and Out The Door, Heaven's Dog, Academy Cafe). Questions were largely split into three categories: inspiration for starting the cart, challenges the vendors have faced, and what the future looks like for them.

Regarding getting started, Anthony Myint responded first (Tamara calling him the godfather of the street scene as he started in a taco truck and has since "graduated" to cooking meals twice a week in an actual kitchen). Anthony mentioned he was simply looking for something to do in his free time, and eventually he grew out of the taco truck. It was more about logistics than anything. Brian, the Magic Curry Man, originally opened to make a little extra cash and do something besides his day job as a psychotherapist. He'd traveled a great deal in Asia and noticed San Francisco was really missing street food, so he modeled his cart after one he'd seen in Bangkok. He practiced cooking for friends and scored an old cart from Burning Man. Once people started tweeting about it, the business grew exponentially.

Brian of @Magiccurrycart and Steven Gbdula of @GobbaGobbaHey

Steven moved to San Francisco exactly one year ago Friday and like Brian, noticed a lack of street food in the city, but more specifically, a lack of the beloved gob. He figured, "I can make these, but it's the Bay Area so I'm going to have to raise my game a little." And that he did, with gobs selling out frequently and admirers obsessively following his tweets. On the flip side, Charles Phan discussed how he originally wanted to open a street cart, but was so overwhelmed by the permit requirements and code restrictions that he was driven to open a "brick and mortar."

Charles Phan

Most vendors seemed to have a good sense of humor about the permit requirements and legal restrictions. Steven mentioned that he started with more of a tray than a cart and just walked around the Mission selling his gobs. When he'd see a police presence, he'd duck into doorways whistling inconspicuously. Since then, he's gone "more legitimate," baking in a commercial kitchen and wrapping and sealing his products before they hit the street. Brian mentioned that generally the cops are more concerned with noise or folks lined up blocking the streets.

Neither noise nor street obstructions were a factor at the post-panel street food gathering. The vendors set up in the modern art gallery with people packed in, trying to get their favorite street morsel before the next guy in line.

Post-event food tasting at 111 Minna

The vendors were borrowing kitchen tools and towels from one another and cracking jokes across the room. They all know one another and genuinely seem to care about their mutual success. One of Smitten Ice Cream's recent tweets reads: @@BikeBasketPies and @SmittenIceCream are teaming up today -- treat yourself to "a-la-mode" at Secret Alley (Capp btw 17th & 18th) 2 - 5 PM.. Robyn Sue, of newly formed Smitten Ice Cream explains how important collaboration is and how supportive and helpful the community has been in showing her the ropes.

Robyn Sue and "Kelvin" of @SmittenIceCream

My favorite sample was Robyn's ice cream. The salted caramel was churned out by her trusty (self-designed) machine, "Kelvin." Robyn spent a year constructing Kelvin, who debuted on the streets of San Francisco about a month ago. The bacon potato chips always make me happy, and the pumpkin pie with chocolate chips at Bike Basket Pies made me ponder switching up our family's Thanksgiving pie this year. The ginger cookies from Sweet Constructions were crispy and delightful--and of course, that crème brulee.

@BaconPotatoChip

@cremebruleecart

@sfcookies

So while the presence of carts may wane a bit in the coming rainy months, and while some vendors may eventually tweak their business model to become more "legit," one thing will remain the same: these folks are taking something they genuinely love doing and trying to make a go of it--together. But everything good must evolve, and when asked about their future plans, it was clear this would certainly be the case.

Brian mentioned that Friday is the last day at his "real job" as he's getting laid off. He said he'll definitely be focusing on the cart more and has some ideas for expansion. While making the curry to order in front of folks is undeniably part of the charm, he is thinking about how to be more legitimate (with permits and the like). He's also interested in focusing on nutrition for lower income families. Anthony wants to open a charitable business or a chain based on the Mission Street Food model. Steven has some plans regarding new products, selling gobs on the popular website Foodzie and possibly moving into a retail space. And Charles Phan smiled, stating "I still want to build a cart. I salvaged a 60 foot trailer home and it's sitting in my yard...waiting."

Find contributing Food Vendors via Twitter:
@Magiccurrycart
@GobbaGobbaHey
@SmittenIceCream
@bikebasketpies
@BaconPotatoChip
@soulcocina
@sfcookies
@cremebruleecart
@Missionstfood

A few days ago, I got an email from our editor here at Bay Area Bites asking me if I would incorporate "in my own very special way" a Halloween theme into this week's post. Rather than over think it I decided to do the first thing that popped into my head:

A Jackie O. Lantern.

As far as I'm concerned, creating this lantern satisfies three important Halloween criteria: 1.) It allows me to dress inanimate fruit in drag, 2.) It caters to the modern obsession with celebrity (the fact that said celebrity is dead and was a Roman Catholic is pure holiday gravy), and 3.) It gives an appropriate nod to the centuries-old tradition of warding off evil spirits. Of course, the only spirit a Jackie O. Lantern might ward off is that of Maria Callas. Or Christina Onassis.

I Googled images of Jackie O. Lanterns and was shocked-- there weren't any. Yes, there were a few that called themselves Jackie O. Lanterns, but they were either just female jack-o-lanterns or, more dishearteningly, Jackie-o-lanterns wearing pink pillbox hats.

And that's wrong, I tell you, just wrong. That pillbox hat-- that's not Jackie O., that's Jackie Kennedy at the moment of her first husband's death. I wanted to convey a more cynical Jackie (or practical, depending upon your point of view)-- I wanted the Jackie who cashed in her status as American royalty to marry an aging stallion/obscenely wealthy Greek shipping magnate in order to protect what was left of her family and garner unheard of shopping privileges.

So I borrowed a wig, big sunglasses, and a scarf from my friend Natalie, who likes to play dress up more than any other adult I know, and tarted up a little sugar pumpkin.

To make your very own Jackie O. Lantern, you will need:

Big sunglasses. It's all about the sunglasses.

A long brown wig

A sugar pumpkin. (Note: take the sunglasses with you while pumpkin shopping. If the glasses fit around the pumpkin's girth, you've got your pumpkin.

Some sort of carving instrument, like a small, sharp knife.

A spoon

A votive candle

A vintage scarf. (Purely optional, but it does complete the look. Pucci's nice.)

Preparation:

1. Cut out a lid on the top of the pumpkin at a 45 degree angle so that the lid will remain in place when pumpkin is hollowed. This opening should be just large enough to allow access to your clenched fist. The smaller the hands, the better.

2. Scoop out seeds and stringy bits of pulp from the inside of your pumpkin with a spoon, preferably made of sterling silver. It's even better if you are using a dessert spoon that has been stolen from the Plaza Hotel in New York. Since I have no such spoon, I had to settle for one I stole from the Algonquin Hotel instead. I am not advocating stealing-- I was just pretending I was Robert Benchley and was therefore necessarily pickled. Reserve the pumpkin seeds for later roasting, since the seeds of the sugar pumpkin are the best for toasting, which is something I learned from Elise Bauer's always helpful Simply Recipes.

3. Situate sunglasses onto the face of the pumpkin to determine the best placement for the eye holes. Cut out small holes with the tip of a sharp knife, then enlarge the holes with the same, stolen silver spoon you used to scrape out the pumpkin's insides. (Note: Holes should not be larger than the sunglasses.)

4. Put your now-naked Jackie O. Lantern upon some sort of pedestal (I used one originally intended for cakes) which, now that I think of it, seems entirely appropriate. Dress up your pumpkin doll with wig, sunglasses, and a purely optional scarf-around-the-neck. Presto! You've got an international woman of glamour sitting on a cake stand in your kitchen.

Lighting Jackie's Fire

To add an inner glow to your Jackie O. Lantern, remove the wig and lid from the pumpkin, place a votive candle inside her, and light. Replace lid and wig. Adjust hairstyle, if the need or desire arises.

For a delicious bit of added fun, summon the spirit of Aristotle Onassis with the help of your Ouija board. Once you have his full attention, blast a Maria Callas aria from your surround sound speakers, then sit back and feel the tension. Voi lo Sapete from Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana would do very nicely. I recommend hiding all valuable, breakable objects.

I do not recommend leaving your Jackie O. Lantern burning with fire from the inside unattended, unless you wish to melt your wig or set your house ablaze, but lighting it does make her eyes shine bright and wide, which makes sense, if you think about it:

That woman saw things that no woman should ever have to see.

With Halloween around the corner, it’s time to talk about something that really gives kids the creeps. Forget about vampires (those hunky blood suckers) or zombies (they have feelings too). What terrifies many children are cruciferous vegetables. Even the name sounds scary -- sort of like crucify or crucio (for all you Harry Potter fans).

Cruciferous vegetables, also known as brassicaceae, are the ones that hit the market in fall, just in time for Halloween. Cabbage, kale, broccoli, cauliflower, and Brussels sprouts are just a few of the commonly unloved veggies that make up this plant variety. Yet although the cruciferae are often sneered at, and even loathed by some, they are hardly villains. Dubbed super vegetables, they are full of antioxidants and vitamins, are thought to have cancer-preventing and fighting agents, and also protect against cardiovascular disease. So, contrary to popular belief, these under appreciated vegetables are actually the heroes of the food world.

Yet as much as I put myself in the role of PR rep for these amazing plants, multitudes of kids (and even some adults) meet a plateful of cauliflower, kale or Brussels sprouts with scrunched up faces and pursed lips. Of course there are many people (adults and children alike) who love all things cruciferous, but I don't think it's farfetched to say these vegetables have a bad rap.

But don't lose heart. If your child has decided she hates all things cruciferous, you can trick her into getting excited about eating them. Don't worry. I'm not suggesting you hide the vegetables (as I am strongly against deceiving kids about food -- Santa Claus, however, is a different matter). Rather, I support getting your children interested in eating these amazing vegetables with their eyes wide open, and some of the little darlings will even come to love them. The younger your kids are, the easier your job. So if your kids are a little older, your task will be more difficult, but with a little effort -- along with a fair amount of Parmesan cheese and bacon -- it's possible to convince your kids that cruciferous vegetables are not only edible, but quite tasty.

Here are a few ways to get your kids to eat all things cruciferous. A few of the items on this list repeat some tips I provided last year, but as they really do work, it's worth mentioning them here again.

• Try roasting your vegetables instead of steaming or boiling them. Roasting allows the natural sugars in the vegetables to caramelize, which makes them more flavorful. It is also a great way to make sure the veggies turn out al dente instead of mushy. And, if you need another incentive, boiling and steaming emit the vegetables natural gassy odors while roasting helps contain the smells.

• Try fun colored vegetables. Right now you can find purple or yellow cauliflower, or those lovely Tuscan ones with spiky cones all over them. Even the most cauliflower-hating kid will be interested in nibbling something purple.

• Buy an entire stalk of Brussels sprouts. It's fun to take the sprouts off the stalk, and you are then left with a long green baton your kids can play with.

• Don't overcook your cruciferous veggies as they are high in gas and cooking them for too long makes them stinky. See if you can get your kids to eat the broccoli or cauliflower raw (with salad dressing or melted cheese if necessary) and then cook the rest al dente.

• Make a creamy soup. When blended with milk or cream and butter, vegetables become much more manageable for kids who reject foods out of hand because of weird textures. So if your child thinks Brussels sprout leaves are slimy, puree them.

• Add bacon and cheese (if you eat these things). Let's face it, everything really does taste better with bacon and cheese. Kale sautéed with bacon or pancetta is truly amazing. And cauliflower baked au gratin with cheese and butter is beyond decadent. Toss in your children's favorite pasta to make the dish even more appealing.

• Take your kids to a garden or farm at picking time. Picking vegetables is fun and kids are far more likely to eat something they got to commune with in the garden. Many local farms have family days where you and your brood can pick to your hearts' content.

• Let your kids pick out your weekly vegetables in the market. Go to a farmer's market if you can as they offer inviting opportunities for your little ones to touch, smell, and even talk with a farmer.

And now for that irresistible purple soup.

Roasted Purple Cauliflower Soup

Serves: 4 people

Ingredients:
1 medium head of purple cauliflower chopped into small florets
1 medium potato chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
1 small onion chopped
3 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1 cup milk (preferably whole milk)
4 Tbsp butter
Salt and pepper to taste
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Preparation:
1. Lay the cut up cauliflower and potato in a pan. Drizzle on some olive oil, black pepper, and salt (kosher or sea salt preferably). Roast in a 400 degree oven for 20 minutes or until you can easily pierce the cauliflower and potato pieces with a fork.
2. In a medium pot, sauté the onion in 2 Tbsp butter until soft. Add in the roasted cauliflower and potato along with the chicken or vegetable stock. Cook until the broth is heated through.
3. Using a hand or stand blender, blend the cauliflower mixture until all chunks are gone and the soup is smooth.
4. Add the mixture back to the pot and mix in the milk. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Bring the soup to a low simmer.
5. Mix in the Parmesan cheese and the remaining 2 Tbsp butter. Serve.

Two Halloweens ago, I bashed baby costumes, and heaped quite specific vitriol on the infamous Martha Stewart lobster baby costume.

Little did I know that a year later, I'd be knocked up (the planned kind of knocked up), and that two years later (meaning now), I'd lie awake at night lactating and plotting my baby's first truly public embarrassment: his 2009 Halloween costume.

I've actually hated Halloween for years -- to me, it's no more than excuse for otherwise pleasant adults to turn into masked assholes. The few times in the past 20 years that I've deigned to go out in costume on Halloween, I've resorted to my cactus get-up, which consists of green clothes + clothespins. The cactus get-up is perfect for those, like me, who are: 1) lazy, 2) cheap, and 3) open to the possibility of foreplay à la clothespin.

With the arrival of Henry, the erotic possibilities of clothespins have dramatically receded, and even I'm not mean enough to dress my child up as a cactus (imagine the "Oh, he's a prick!" jokes). I am, however, still lazy and cheap. And I love to kill two birds with one stone.

So, here was the suite of conditions for Henry's costume since he's more fun to dress up than I am:

1) Food-related so it could be BAB'd

2) Super easy because I'm exhausted

3) Cheap because we're in a recession

4) Handmade because I'm a snob

5) Green because it's his color and my color, and because these days you just can't go wrong with green

6) Wearable as a winter-layer long after Oct. 31 because I can't find a winter jacket for a 12-month-old that I don't think is horrid, and I’m sure as hell not going to sew TWO different things this fall when I could just sew ONE.

So, taking all of those factors into account, the only real solution was a poncho that could be interpreted as a costume. A fleece poncho. A green fleece poncho.

With this vague green fuzzy vision, Henry and I headed off to Stonemountain and Daughter Fabrics to cruise. And little by little, notion by notion, we assembled the materials that would prevent the erroneous perception of Henry as a Bolivian Kermit or a marijuana leaf fit for the Jolly Green Giant.

Photo and Photoshop by Wendy Goodfriend

Presto: A salad costume! Throw him around and he's a tossed salad. If he's tired, he's a wilted salad. Put him on a horse and he's a Cobb salad. Not only will this costume get a kid through the cold months, but it can also double as a Christmas tree blanket.

Ingredients: Fleece, buttons, rickrack, thread, brazen enthusiasm for humiliating your child.

Green Papaya Deli's namesake. Photo by Rudy R.

In July, I was working on a feature article about Lao food in East Oakland for the food section of a major Bay Area daily newspaper. In very early August, a few weeks after I'd finished the first round of interviews, I found out that newspaper's food section was merging entirely with that of another large newspaper operated by the same company, gutting staff (and its already flimsy freelance budget) in a frantic cost-shearing maneuver. Since my piece addressed a unique ethnic community largely confined to a single neighborhood in one distinct part of Oakland--San Antonio--it wouldn't jive with the company's broad new regional focus. At least, that's what my freshly-canned editor told me when she delivered the bad news.

I was deeply bummed--not just because I'd already logged a bunch of hours researching the article, but because the food--as well as the people I'd met, their stories, and the traditions they associated with what they enjoyed eating--seemed so deserving of attention.

I first became really curious about Lao food nearly two years ago, after a tasty meal at Champa Garden, the somewhat venerable Lao restaurant on 8th Avenue east of Lake Merritt in San Antonio--one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the Bay Area, home to close-knit populations of African-Americans, Latinos, and Asians in almost equal proportions. I tried to draw distinctions between its dominant flavors and those most prevalent in the more familiar cuisines of its Southeast Asian neighbors. Like Thai, Lao thrives on interplay between sour and spicy, crunchy and soft, and both cooked and raw ingredients. The effect however is different. Extreme tastes and textures--intense, bold, lush--somehow find lovely balance in the most homespun preparations, and the combinations feel wilder, more jarring. Truly bitter greens are tossed in barely sweet lightly-dressed salads with herbs and raw marinated fish. Crispy fried rice comes wrapped in sheets of iceberg lettuce with preserved pork bits, lime, and scallions peppered throughout.

With Champa Garden as my starting point, I began a gradual tour of Lao flavors in East Oakland. First, I visited Vientian Cafe, a rough-hewn eatery situated a few blocks outside the San Antonio neighborhood, on a barren block of Allendale. The food was uniformly spectacular and stunningly inexpensive. Baked sausage with lemongrass, onion, and chiles--a thin, churro-like cylinder, dark-brown, crusty, and cracked on a bed of raw shredded cabbage--and kao piak, a noodle soup with chicken, nutty fried garlic, and pork blood, particularly stood out.

On several occasions, I lunched at Green Papaya Deli, a tiny storefront on International Boulevard at 2nd Ave. Cynthia Senephansiri is the owner; her mother Lily cooks. For 15 years, the family owned a video store renting and selling tapes and, later, dvds of Lao and Thai films. Its market was niche to begin with, and as people bought and rented movies less and less anyway, the store's business dwindled to a dangerously frail level. About a year-and-a-half ago, Cynthia had the idea to open a restaurant. In the dearth of Lao restaurants around town she saw an opportunity to bring authentic versions of the traditional Lao dishes her family loved to people who had never before encountered them. In the beginning she had no formal restaurant experience, but now Lily spends 7 days and nights a week behind the stove in the kitchen barely visible through the window behind the counter. From time to time, she pads into the tiny dining room to make sure customers are eating the food she sends out with satisfyingly palpable enthusiasm. Lily is small, and her voice is quiet, but her smile sparkles like few I have ever seen, dwarfing everything else in the room, engulfing diners in a luminous maternal aura as she murmurs fretfully about the cleanliness of their plates. I have already written about Green Papaya's otherworldy Lao-style chicken soup, but Lily's papaya salad--vivid, shockingly hot, and pungent with a tamarind-laced dressing made-from-scratch--deserves a very special mention.

The first time I visited, I ate the salad with seven chiles and gently steamed at my corner table. The second time I came through, I tried it with twelve and felt, as I desperately seized fistfuls of heat-dampening sticky rice, as if my chest might explode if I dared to down another slippery forkful. According to Lily's nephew Ken, the restaurant's waiter, his aunt will add up to twenty for the most masochistic (and showy) of chile-fiends. Of course, he had to immediately assure me that I, being white and American, could always expect to receive considerably fewer chiles than I'd request. He meant that kindly, I think, but I did feel a twinge of disappointment. I had been proud to hang, at least for half a plate, with twelve, but my "twelve," as it turned out, was actually more like "six," my "seven" just a few. Ken showed me a massive bag of the mean-looking chiles, and I felt better. They were gnarled blue spikes, each only a third the size of my pinkie--sort of like wicked appendages to a knight's armor. I was even happier to learn my personal expectations for success exceeded Ken's. He chided me for trying to eat an entire order by myself, explaining that papaya salad, especially such a molten rendering, is meant to be shared amongst three or four hungry people, as one sweet, searing passage in a harmonious array of tastes, not a meal in and of itself, or even a snack through which a solitary and stubborn ignoramus should struggle.

After my second meal at Green Papaya, I met the family. Lily came to Oakland in 1981. She told me the exact date of her arrival without a moment's pause to recollect. She likes Oakland, especially the weather. The restaurant is practically in her backyard; its kitchen, she says, is hers. Assertive and business-oriented, Cynthia drew firm distinctions between Lao and Thai, the cuisine to which it's frequently compared, suggesting that Thai food in the United States tends to be marketed to American tastes, whereas Lao restaurants, far fewer in number, are usually direct extensions of home-cooking traditions. According to Cynthia, restaurants identifying as Lao tend to rep their homeland's cuisine more faithfully precisely because the cuisine has no successful Americanized tradition. Thai restaurants are immensely popular, with instantly recognizable dishes -- like tom yum and pad thai. For this reason, many Lao elect to operate Thai restaurants -- to attract customers.

I also met with April Kim, the program director of the Oakland Asian Cultural Center, and Sokham Senthavilay, a Lao woman who has taught cooking classes at the OACC on a few occasions. Sokham showed up with an adorable child in her arms -- perhaps a niece or a grandaughter. As the little girl sat perched on the table, staring me down calmly, her frilly dress cascading over the edge like a curtain, Sokham told her story. She left Laos in 1978. After a few months in jail and a stint at a camp in Thailand, she headed to the United States in 1980, first to Seattle, then to Texas, and finally to Oakland, along with many of her 15 siblings. She used to cook at a Thai restaurant in Oakland but couldn't stand the hours. I told her about the papaya salad mishap, and she laughed, saying that she understood. Even when you're sweating and crying, she said, you always want to eat more than you should -- because the heat makes you feel so good.

Sokham believes home kitchens produce the best Lao food, and with obvious glee, described her weekend ritual in detail. Most Saturday mornings, she wakes up early and heads to the market. With her twelve brothers, sisters, and cousins helping, their own ever-expanding families milling around the house, she starts cooking at 10 a.m. and finishes by mid-afternoon: a full-blown banquet of larb, bamboo soup, papaya salad, grilled fish, and sticky rice accompanied by beer, Johnny Walker Black, and a kind of rice-derived moonshine called Lao Lao. Sokham lives around the corner from Green Papaya, but she's never been there. She rarely socializes or eats outside of her house. She agreed with Cynthia Senephansiri's claim about the scarcity of Lao restaurants. Though it's rarely advertised on menu, she added that some Thai restaurants staffed by Lao cooks can cook some dishes Lao-style if you order them that way -- like papaya salad, which she noted often tastes too sweet for her liking at Thai restaurants. She speculated Thai food might be more familiar to Americans because more Americans have been to Thailand and many more Thai immigrants have comfortably settled in this country.

Laos, Sokham explained, sits in the shadow of Thailand. With the end of the Second Indochina War in 1975, many Lao fled their country for fear of communist reprisals and, like Sokham, ended up in Thailand before finding their way here. Ken's grandfather was one of them too. In Laos, he had owned farms and houses, but after the war, the communist government redistributed all of his properties. Ken described his disappointment as vast and crushing. He went to Thailand and then to Cleveland, where he died after a year. From 1975 to 1996, the U.S. government resettled more than 250,000 Lao refugees in communities around the country, including an estimated 30,000 living in the Bay Area, many in East Oakland--where three modest restaurants stand as clear local evidence of Laos's gastronomic legacy.

A month or so ago, I covered the Center for Lao Studies' First Annual Banquet for the S.F. Weekly's online presence. In an email exchange following the event, the Center's executive director Dr. Vinya Sysamouth mentioned community members had petitioned Yelp to add a category for Lao food, and that Yelp had adamantly refused. Maybe, I wondered, because none of the three Lao-identified restaurants in the Bay Area limit themselves to serving Lao food alone. Vientian Cafe and Champa Garden offer some Vietnamese and Thai dishes. On Yelp, they're respectively identified as "Thai" and "Vietnamese," and "Thai" and, curiously, "Asian Fusion." Green Papaya Deli has a small Thai menu because, as Lily told me, she's concerned many Americans might not eat there unless they see at least a few dishes with which they're already familiar.

You can find the restaurant listed under "Thai" and "Deli" on Yelp.