Hey y'all -- there is a story on wine in Napa on QUEST tonight that you won't want to miss. QUEST is KQED's new TV, radio, web, and education project about science and environment in Northern California, and their latest science story has taken them to Napa Valley. The story is titled "Napa Wineries Face Global Warming" and explores the potential effects of climate change on the unique ecology and climate of Napa Valley.

The Napa and Sonoma microclimates produce world famous wines, but what happens if the climate changes? Scientists are predicting that global warming could increase the number of super-hot days in the California wine region, interfering with the way grapes ripen. Local scientists and wineries are beginning to look at how to prepare.

Post by Craig Rosa, Interactive Producer, QUEST

Spend a couple of minutes poking around Google for "the $3 peach" and you will find multiple, tired complaints of the cost of produce at the Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market. At some point, instead of finding new reasons to complain about this nationally renowned farmers' market, a lot of writers began to refer to the cost of some of the peaches at the market.

Echoing my own thoughts, a commenter last year on Michael Bauer's blog wrote, "If I hear one more reference to the $3 peach I will scream."

My issue is not that people are complaining about the market. It's that the complainers don't manage to come up with anything more exciting than an old reference to the cost of a very small percentage of the peaches at the market. I have never spent $3 per peach at the market and I shop there (and buy peaches) as often as I can.

Because this complaint is often a thorn in my side, my ears perked up when I heard that Russ Parsons, writer for the Los Angeles Times and author of How to Read a French Fry, had written a new book, How to Pick a Peach: The Search for Flavor from Farm to Table. Parsons is known for his meticulous examination of a topic once he decides to study it, and in this book he has taken on fruits and vegetables.

Parsons' book gave me answers about why some peaches are more expensive than others, what makes some peaches so satisfying, and taught me about the economics of small farming and the realities of the true cost of a peach.

The book is reference-style and is broken down by section for selected fruits and vegetables. In each section he outlines where the fruit or vegetable is grown, how to choose it, how to store it, how to prepare it, and includes recipes. While he uses peaches as a vehicle for some of the discussion of commercial agriculture, he covers fruits and vegetables from apples to winter squash. The rest of How to Pick a Peach is peppered with discussions of the food industry, the selection of new fruit varietals, and big farming vs. small farming.

Which brings us back to the peach.

Commercial agriculture is most often all about bringing the consumer a good-looking product to the supermarket and small farming is usually about bringing intense flavor from lesser-known varietals to the consumer.

Parsons introduces us to Fitz Kelly and Art Lange, stone fruit growers in the Central Valley who take their fruit to Southern California farmers' markets (Until 2006, Kelly also brought his fruit to the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market). Whereas most commercial farmers harvest their fruit as soon as it is minimally acceptable to take to market, small farmers push their fruit to stay on the tree until the last possible minute, often gambling entire crops in order to push the flavor a little bit more for the consumers. They pick only the perfect fruit and leave a lot on the tree or on the ground because it's not just right for market.

"The cost of perfection is enormous," writes Parsons. "Whereas the average stone fruit farmer in California harvest about ten tons per acre, Lange and Kelly only pick two or three. This difference in sales volume could never be recouped through normal commercial channels; it is only by direct marketing that growers can get a premium for a great product. Peaches and nectarines at many supermarkets can go for less than $1 a pound, and even good farmers' market fruit might sell for $2 a pound, but stone fruit grown by these two men fetches far higher prices. And people stand in line to buy it. Even at those elevated prices, however, the economics are tough. Multiply an average of $4 a pound by two tons per acre, and you're still barely in the black -- especially when the profit is spread over so few acres."

Reading about the hard work, thought, and even the chance that goes into getting our peaches to market made me want to go and hug my favorite stone fruit farmers: the farmers from Tory Farms, Woodleaf Farm, and Blossom Bluff Orchards.

Most peaches at the Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market do not cost $3 each. But even if they cost $3 or $4 or $5, after reading this book I would bet that you'd find room in your budget for one or two.

Canning for me conjures up childhood memories of being in the kitchen with my mom and her friends, usually on a hot steamy Texas summer day, and "putting up" bread and butter pickles, fresh raspberry jam (with seeds!), and ripe whole tomatoes. Even with the sweat pouring down your face, there's no better time to can than in the middle of the summer, at the height of the season, when everything is bursting with flavor: crisp cucumbers, ripe red tomatoes, juicy stone fruits, plump berries. Better still when you can pick that fruit out of your own garden.

We are lucky enough to have a big shady plum tree, right smack in the middle of our little garden, right smack in the heart of the Mission in San Francisco. If you think that isn't fair, then start making friends with people who have fruit trees and vegetable gardens; we always seem to have more than we can eat or harvest and are looking for others who will enjoy it.

Tales of plum wine gone awry (think essence of gasoline) from years past still haunt my flat and the flats above me. And last year we missed the boat and the plums ripened before we could harvest them. Which meant tracking slimy fruit globs into the house, sticky matted fur on the cat, and drunken birds and rats feasting on the fermenting fruit. In an effort to avoid that joyous occurrence (have I not painted a lovely picture?), my roommate Gary (staunch believer in preparing for the revolution) made a concerted effort to rally the troops and plan for the big harvest.

So a few weeks ago, when the tree was bursting with perfectly ripe, big juicy green plums, we set aside our sunny Sunday and three of us--armed with our giant canning pot, a ladder, and numerous plastic grocery bags--plucked all of the plums we could reach.

After throwing around elaborate ideas of jams and jellies and syrups and pickles and more, including drawing up a chart of flavors that go well with plum (including but not limited to cardamom, ginger, and whisky) as well as different preparations (including roasting the plums) we arrived at a consensus: to prepare a simple plum jam that would let the tart yet subtle plum flavor shine, and a more interesting plum and apple chutney.

It took all day, but after a while, the cold beers came out, the sweat started pouring down our faces, and it was all worth it.

G-Street Plum Chutney
Makes about 14 8-oz jars

2 cups sugar (or a bit less if the plums are very sweet)
1 1/2 cups white vinegar
1 cup water
1 teaspoon salt
2 sticks cinnamon, broken into 1-inch pieces
1 2-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and thickly sliced
1 teaspoon whole allspice
Cheesecloth
About 6 1/2 lbs plums, pitted and quartered
2 large apples, such as Granny Smith, peeled, cored, and diced
1/2 large yellow onion, peeled and finely diced

In a large, heavy pot, combine the sugar, vinegar, water, and salt. In a 6-inch square of cheesecloth, tie the cinnamon sticks, ginger, and allspice into a pouch and add it to the pot. Heat the mixture over medium-high heat until boiling, stirring occasionally. Reduce the heat to medium and simmer for about 5 minutes until the mixture becomes syrupy.

Add the plums, apples, and onions. Cook, stirring often, over low heat, until the mixture is thickened, about 40-60 minutes. Remove the spice bag. Seal in hot sterilized jars.

For proper canning instructions, check out:

A very serious and official guide

A good online step-by-step guide

Paul and Bernice, who are awesome!

special thanks to Gary and Keith for the lovely plummy pix

Before getting to the meat of today's subject matter, I'd like to explain something-- the evolution of today's post.

I'm off to my 20th high school reunion this weekend so, naturally, the song "Reunited" by Peaches and Herb has been crowding my brain. The initial idea was to exorcise this R & B demon from my head by making a salad containing, naturally again, peaches and herbs. I thought that by taking matters into my own hands, uniting these two ingredients and then consuming them might give me some sort of edge. However, I became frustratingly uncertain as to which herb was the right Herb. Peaches might react unpleasantly to, say, marjoram or, even worse, dill. Rosemary sounded nice, but my hunch told me that herbs with feminine names wouldn't appeal to her either. The goal here was a reunion that feels so good.

I abandoned Herb, but I kept Peaches with me. I thought about explaining where she came from (China, not Persia as her botanical name Prunus persica suggests) and how she came to whet our appetites with just a little shake of her sequined groove thing. I was surprised by both her strength and her depth-- much more depth than I think your Friday morning attention span can handle.

So I decided to make Peach Melba instead.

That's Nelly Melba in the clip above. Sadly, she's not making her peach dish. Instead, she's making a cake for the Duke and Duchess of York, later to be known as King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. I couldn't find any other footage of her, so this will have to do.

Born in what is now a suburb of Melbourne, Australia in 1861, Helen Porter Mitchell grew up to ditch her son-of-a-baronet husband and infant son, change her name to Nellie Melba (in honor of her hometown) and become one of the greatest-- or at least most famous-- sopranos in opera history. She has inspired not only the above mentioned dessert concoction, but toast, thereby making her the most eponymed woman in modern food history. Why such honors?

It wasn't her sweet disposition. Apart from abandoning her family, she was also known as a fickle, upstaging attention-grabber. The consummate diva, when asked to answer for her own bad behavior, the words "I am Melba" always passed from her lips. That, she believed, was enough explaination. She was also given to physically shoving other performers downstage if they got in her way. She was, not surprisingly, detested by her peers.

She was, however, loved by her public. One man in particular-- Auguste Escoffier-- adored her.

While appearing at Covent Garden-- her operatic home for more than twenty years-- and residing at the Savoy Hotel where Escoffier was master chef, she sent him (possibly as a thank you for previously naming the toast in her honor) a pair of tickets to see her in Richard Wagner's Lohengrin. Escoffier was so taken with her performance that he created another dish (if toast can indeed be called a dish) for her-- Peche au Cygne (Peach with Swan)-- peaches and vanilla ice cream served alongside a dramatic swan ice sculpture which mimicked the swan-shaped boat featured in the opera. It was not, however, called Peach Melba. He renamed the dessert a few years later, after his move to the Ritz Carlton, adding both raspberry sauce and the Melba name.

Legend has it that Melba was concerned that eating ice cream might constrict her gorgeous vocal chords, which is why I have chosen to serve the peaches below slightly warm. I know what it's like to piss off a diva, believe me.

Peach Melba:

Ingredients:

3 yellow peaches. Not too ripe. Freestones make life easier.
4 cups water. You may also poach the peaches in white wine. Frankly, I'd rather drink the wine
than poach with it.
2 cups sugar
2 cups raspberries (fresh or frozen). Fresh raspberries are ideal for garnishing.
1 tablespoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons of sugar (taste the raspberries before adding sugar. I prefer the sauce to be tart,
like la Melba herself)
Vanilla ice cream. (I'm using vanilla sorbet because I have to lose 10 pounds by tomorrow for
my reunion.)

Some sort of wafer cookies for garnish and a little crunch.

Preparation:

1. Slice a shallow "x" on the bottom of each peach to facilitate peeling. Blanch the peaches in the four cups of simmering water for about one minute. Or two. Is the skin starting to peel away along the edges of the little "x"? If so, take them out and place fruit in an ice bath to cool them. Let sit until well cooled, then excoriate. Set aside.

Add sugar to the simmering water, stirring lightly to dissolve. Return the denuded peaches to the simmering syrup. Turn off the heat and walk away for a while. Some swear by slicing the peaches before poaching them. I'm not a fan-- the edges of the peaches become too soft and feathery. Do so at your own risk. I like the center of the peach to have a little bit of give to it. Probably because I have teeth.

While the peaches are doing their thing, make the raspberry sauce. Place berries, 1/4 cup of sugar and 1 tablespoon of lemon juice into your cuisenart or what-have-you and pulse. I had some berries in the freezer and did not bother to wait until they thawed before I pureed them. I ended up making a sort of soft-serve sorbet as a result, which I let melt to become spoonable and saucy. Set aside and wash your blending apparatus immediately, if only to save yourself from flicking bits of seed stuck to the plastic with your fingernail later.

When the syrup has cooled to slightly warm, remove the peaches and slice in half, removing the stones.

To Assemble:

In parfait glasses or whatever you have handy-- vessels with pestles, flagons with dragons-- spoon a little raspberry sauce on the bottom. Of the glass, please. Place one half of a peach, which should be slightly warm on top. Spoon vanilla ice cream over that, drizzle with a little more raspberry sauce. Garnish with whole raspberries and cookie. Serve immediately.

*Fun Fact* Nellie Melba died on 23 February, 1931 as a result of complications from a botched plastic surgery.

I have a love/hate relationship with wine bars.

On the one hand, I love a good one. Give me a glass of something silky and bold, a plate of nibbles, and a comfy seat where I don't have to read lips to hold a conversation, and I'm as happy as a paparazzo outside the LA courthouse.

But these days, the term "wine bar" is bandied about so frequently, it's lost its meaning. Too often it's just a marketing ploy to encourage folks to frequent the bar of a restaurant that doesn't have a liquor license.

So when Nua opened as a restaurant and wine bar, I was suspicious. And rightfully so: though the wine list is long and esoteric, it's more restaurant than wine bar (and they've since dropped the term from their website). But I've forgiven them for hopping on the bandwagon because the food is utterly superb.

Chef Anna Bautista takes her cues from the Mediterranean, hopscotching from Provence to Andalucia to Italy, and the laidback charm those places are famous for has rubbed off on the four-month-old restaurant. On two of our visits, we made a reservation at the last minute -- I'm talking 4:30 pm on Saturday for a 7:30 table that night -- and on the third we changed the time. (Twice. What can I say? I'm indecisive.) Every time they were accommodating, and even sat us early.

Nua is clearly cultivating a neighborhood vibe, and when the weather permits, they fling open the front windows accordion-style to better channel the energy of their North Beach surroundings. The comfortable interior is what I'd call retro-modern, with color-blocked orange and cream leather banquettes, and shades of cool blue, orange, and honey-brown throughout. The staff is friendly, they split plates and glasses of wine without being asked if they know you plan to share, and they're knowledgeable about the wine list. On each visit, we enjoyed unfamiliar wines, like a Spanish Crianza from Bierzo to a white wine from Greece. My only quibble with the wine service is that the pours were on the small side our first two visits, but by the third they'd normalized.

The food, however, is outstanding, and it's why Nua has become my new favorite restaurant. Each meal began with a small plate of foccacia bread and a pool of golden-green olive oil. The menu is loosely divided into small and large plates so you can go the appetizer-entree route, or graze on a series of small plates (though the waitstaff doesn't explicitly advertise that option).

We ordered the sardines escabeche ($10) twice. Two meaty slabs of fish were arranged on a landscape of crisp Blue Lake green beans, miniature cauliflower florets, sweet pickled shallots, and currants. The sardines tasted light and fresh, and the dish teetered pleasantly between crisp and soft, tart and sweet, surf and earth.

We also ordered the side of roasted cauliflower with capers, pine nuts, and parsley ($5) each time. If you aren't a cauliflower fan, a bowl of this will change your mind. Roasting caramelizes and crisps up the tiny white florets, and the zesty dressing of olive oil, capers, and parsley makes them positively addictive.

Initially I balked at ordering the endive salad with white peaches, blue cheese, and hazelnuts ($9); it just sounded humdrum. But one bite changed my mind. The peaches were Platonic examples of their species -- sweet, juicy, floral, and full-flavored. There was just enough champagne-tarragon vinaigrette to match the bracing blue cheese and bitter endive.

The piquillo peppers ($9) we ordered on visit two were stuffed with a whipped salt cod and potato brandade, flash-fried, and served with a sauce of garlic, shallots, and parsley as well as some frilly frisee fronds. They were good, but they didn't get my tail wagging as much as other things did.

The Parisian herbed gnocchi ($14) melted in my mouth, and the baby artichokes and mushrooms created an earthy stew around them. The best part about the gambas al ajillo ($11) weren't the plump shrimp, but the fiery broth they were bathed in. When the prawns were gone, I used the foccacia fingers to soak up the robust juices.

Housemade merquez sausage offset with a cucumber, fennel, and tomato salad ($13) tempted us on the first visit, and I loved the contrast of hot and cold layered within the dish. But the veal and pork albondigas ($8) may have edged it out as my favorite meat dish. The meatballs were soft but held their shape, and the flavor was so clean and subtle that I could almost taste the milk fed to the little calf. The almond bread sauce was a revelation -- no tomato to strongarm the delicate morsels.

Like the small plates, entrees are lighter than they are heavy, and bursting with flavor. A recent seafood risotto with corn ($20) tasted of summer, while the quail
was accented with a plucky plum sauce and crisp green beans. Though portions were generous, neither left us feeling like we'd overeaten.

The blueberry fromage blanc tart ($7.50) was a light, fresh way to end the meal, but it was the butterscotch pot de creme ($7.50) we found ourselves oohing and aahing over time after time. Unlike its beloved Zuni cousin, this is a plain pot de creme, flecked with vanilla and covered in a layer of rich, supple butterscotch sauce. The creaminess of the custard is the perfect canvas for sweet butterscotch, though they ought to think carefully about the cookies served alongside. The almond cookie complimented the butterscotch beautifully, but the rich chocolate brownie battled the sweeter pot de creme all the way.

At Nua, the food isn't flagrantly experimental, but it is flawless. The wine list is full of surprises, the staff is easy-going, and the atmosphere is pleasant. No matter what you call it, that's my favorite kind of place.

Note: This review was based on 3 anonymous visits.

Nua
550 Green Street at Columbus
San Francisco
(415) 433-4000
Open 7 nights a week

I met Ruta Kahate at an Asia Society's Off the Menu dinner a few months back. I had just received a review copy of her book, 5 Spices, 50 Dishes and was eager to try some recipes. Even better, that night I got to try a dish from the book, prepared by the author herself. The theme of the evening was Asian food myth-busting and there wasn't a better candidate for the job that Kahate.

"Indian food is hard to prepare and time consuming"
"Indian food uses tons of spices and everything is hot!"
"Indians don't eat meat, especially not beef"

Busted, busted, busted. In one dish, she showed how false each of those assertions are. The dish was a curry called Indian Brown Beef Stew and it has only three spices in it, along with fresh garlic and ginger. "Curry" just means a dish with sauce, though some curries can be on the drier side too. The dish is oniony and satisfying. It takes a little over an hour to make, but most of that is unattended. Special skills required to make it? None.

Last night I made yet another recipe from the book, Spicy Eggplant with Tomatoes and I was struck by how forgiving Kahate is, she inspires her readers to take on her recipes and at the same time grants them wide berth to alter her recipes to their taste. I admit I skimped on the cayenne, but otherwise wouldn't suggest changing a thing. A perfect Summer dish when your kitchen is overflowing with tomatoes and eggplants, it makes for a great vegetarian or a light-on-meat meal. In fact, many of the dishes in her book are stir fry and "one pot" meals. There are also salads, rice dishes, and even a couple of desserts.

Kahate's recipes are not necessarily the kinds of things you'll find in restaurants and that's a good thing. Cook the way Indians cook at home and you'll discover how easy it is to integrate Indian flavors into your own kitchen. The book is filled with tips and tricks for getting the most out of your efforts.

An important lesson I learned from the book is that turmeric is not just for color. Fresh turmeric really does add an earthy flavor that is key to a myriad of dishes. Replace your turmeric with some fresh stuff and you'll see what I mean. After stocking up on the 5 spices--coriander seeds, cumin seeds, mustard seeds, ground cayenne and ground turmeric, you'll find the rest of the ingredients at any supermarket. Indian food doesn't mean a trip to an exotic market. Poof! Another myth busted.

Indian Brown Beef Stew

This is what you would call an "everyday" meat curry in India. It's simple to put together but you'll need to simmer the beef for about an hour until tender. Indians accomplish this in approximately one-third that time with a pressure cooker--an indispensable tool in every Indian kitchen. If you have a pressure cooker you inherited from Grandma, dust it off and put it to work; this curry would be ready in a mere twenty minutes. If you favor carrots over potatoes, feel free to substitute them.

3 tablespoons canola oil
1 large yellow onion, finely chopped (about 2 cups)
2 tablespoons coriander seeds, finely ground
2 teaspoons finely grated garlic (about 4 large cloves)
1 teaspoon finely grated fresh ginger (about 2-inch piece)
1 teaspoon cayenne
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
1 pound beef sirloin, cut into 1-inch square pieces
2 cups water
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
2 large russet potatoes (about 1 pound), cut into 2-inch cubes
1 medium green serrano chile, cut lengthwise in quarters
1 tablespoon rice vinegar or apple cider vinegar

Heat the oil in a large stockpot and saute the onion until golden. Add the coriander, garlic, ginger, cayenne, and turmeric and stir over medium heat until browned, about 4 minutes. Deglaze the pan by adding a few tablespoons of water and using a spatula to loosen the browned bits, if the mixture starts sticking to the bottom.

Add the beef and saute over medium heat until well browned, 5 to 10 minutes. Add the 2 cups water and salt and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook, covered, for 1 hour. Add the potatoes and chile and continue cooking until the beef and potatoes are tender, another 15 to 20 minutes.

Add the vinegar, simmer for an additional 2 minutes, and remove from the heat. Serve hot with crusty bread or steamed white rice.

Serves 4

Recipe from 5 Spices, 50 Dishes, Simple Indian Recipes Using Five Common Spices by Ruta Kahate Photographs by Susie Cushner, Chronicle Books, 2007

Several varietals of Far West Fungi mushrooms

On Sunday, I participated in the CUESA Coastal Harvest Farm Tour -- a tour of Far West Fungi Farm and Yerena Farms in Moss Landing.

Walking on to the Far West Fungi farm was like no other farm I'd other seen. It can as aptly be described as a laboratory as a farm. Forget all images of fields of mushrooms growing as far as the eye can see: these mushrooms are grown in low warehouses and all production takes place inside buildings.

John and Toby Garrone, the farmers at Far West Fungi, grow hardwood mushrooms on their farm. These are mushrooms that naturally grow on trees or stumps: shiitake, several types of oyster, king trumpet, maitake and lion's head.

Toby Garrone shows the inoculation process

To grow a hardwood mushroom, the farmer must create a food source. Unlike fruits and vegetables, fungi do not use photosynthesis to grow. So, instead of getting their food source from the sun, the mushrooms take nutrients from the tree stump on which they are growing.

Much of the initial inoculation and start-up process of the mushroom cycle involves re-creating a tree stump-like environment for the mushroom. At Far West Fungi, this is done with a combination of sawdust, rice bran hulls, oyster shells, and water. John Garrone told us that commercial mushroom growing often takes part around an area that produces by-products like wood chips because so much of the mushroom process can use these waste products.

The mixture is put into special plastic bag ("One of the most expensive parts of the process," says Toby Garrone), is sterilized, inoculated with mushroom spores in a clean room, and is watched for proper mycelium growth before being taken to incubation rooms.

Incubation room, John Garrone, and clean room

As I mentioned at the outset of this post, a lot of this process reminds me of a laboratory. Temperatures and air flow are constantly being monitored. Strains of mushrooms are cultivated in petri dishes. And the initial growing process takes place in a clean room where workers must strip down and don sterile suits in order to keep unwanted bacteria spores from entering the process.

Once the mushrooms enter the incubation stage, they are separated into their different varietals. Shiitake have the longest incubation period on the farm at 90 days.

Growing rooms

After incubating, the mushrooms enter the growing stage. At this point, the shiitake mushrooms are taken out of the bag altogether, while the maitake and oyster mushroom bags are fashioned with a collar which will direct the growth into a cluster, keep moisture in and allow in oxygen.

Unlike button mushrooms which grow in complete darkness, the hardwood mushrooms that we saw incubate and grow in dimly lighted rooms. Water sprays go off at regular intervals to keep the room humid and moist.

From start to finish, the entire process of bringing a mushroom to table takes anywhere from three to five months, dependent on the type of mushroom and the growing conditions. A fascinating process that I would encourage you to see if you ever have the opportunity.

In addition to the Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market, Far West Fungi also sells at the Palo Alto, Alemany, Civic Center, and Mountain View farmers' markets.

Yerena Farms

After a great, mushroom laden lunch at the Far West Fungi farm, we set out for Yerena Farms, a farm that you may know from the Ferry Plaza Farmers' market as one of the outstanding organic berry vendors. We were taken on a tour of the 19-acre farm by Polli Yerena, a quick-to-laugh and hard-working farmer. Yerena has been farming for over 30 years. He employs four full-time workers to farm the land, and much of the rest of the work is done by family members. We walked through the fields and greedily tasted many different types of berries.

Visiting the farms through CUESA gives me such a greater understanding of where my food is coming from. And visitng with a large group is very efficient for the busy farmers -- instead of giving us all individual farm tours, they can spend a dedicated amount of time educating many visitors instead of a few at a time. I am constantly amazed during farm tours like this about how willing the farmers are to disclose many different parts of their business in the name of education. It's a great way to get to know our Bay Area farming community.

This summer, CUESA is conducting two additional farm tours:

Valley Orchard Farm Tour
Sunday, August 26
Tour Lagier Ranches, our local almond producer, and Hidden Star Orchard in Linden.

Milk and Honey Farm Tour (SOLD OUT)
Sunday, September 16
A tour of Spring Hill Cheese in Petaluma and Marshall's Farm Honey

Both tours are $25 each and include lunch made with farmers' market ingredients.

Disclaimer: this is not an "Official Restaurant Review," it is merely a mention of a place to eat I loved when I was in Portland last. Clyde Common is the name. Ace Hotel is its location. I ate there once for each lunch and dinner a few days apart. And I would go there tomorrow if it were not an eleven hour drive away.

I have a favorite restaurant in NYC. It doesn't seem possible to single one place out on a flat, tiny island teeming with enough restaurants to fit on a small continent. But I do. And I send anyone there who asks me for NYC eating recommendations. My favorite place to eat in my old home town is Prune, a slip of an eatery on first street crammed tight with tables and exceptionally happy waiters. Gabrielle Hamilton is one of the most down-to-earth chefs I have the pleasure of knowing. Her food is not exceptionally innovative. She doesn't wow with new spices or chemical induced textures. There's little on the menu you've never heard of or eaten before, albeit in some other form.

Cauliflower soup.

But Prune's food is brilliant. It's simultaneously inspired and soulful, flavorful and simple, honest and satisfying. There are traditional pairings, and seasonal ideas. But somehow, when Gabrielle puts these proteins and vegs together, something like earthy faerie dust gets thrown in, a dash of whimsy, a pinch of what-the-hell and voila, a Vogue-ing, lip syncing, twink of a beautiful creature is born. Always delicious, often exclamatorily so.

But why on earth am I waxing poetic about Prune when I began by talking about a new restaurant in Portland, Oregon?

Ace, A Friendly Hotel.

Because the food at Clyde Common is also inspired, whimsical, down-to-earth, laid back, seasonal, exceptionally delicious at times, and it could turn into my favorite restaurant in Portland if I'm not careful. I don't think the chef behind its menu is as brilliant as Gabrielle, but at least he's reaching, standing on the diving board' edge, toes dangling. Most of the cooks in the kitchen understand how to cook, and many know finesse and flourish are important parts of making a dish day after night after day still taste good. I'm as big a fan of consistency as the next diner, but eating in a plated-food factory is not my idea of a great meal.

When I go out to eat I want to be tempted, turned-on, pushed, inspired, and given too many options to choose from. I want to see items that sound intriguing but not too wacky, ones I never would have thought to do myself. Appetizers like, "asparagus with caul fat wrapped egg," "beef tongue, seared scallop, beets and tomato jam," "chicken-fried chicken liver, cucumber salad and citrus mayonaise," "fennel sausage, octopus, fried potatoes and ink."

Words. On a page looking torn from a child's 1950's blue-lined notebook. Typewriter written letters, in all their skewed arty loveliness.

For design is our first visual. Our first amuse bouche. The way she styles her hair, and the strands which refuse to be bound, falling lightly at her collarbone. The way he suavely matches green pinstripes with a shiny blue tie. The way the light in the room greets you, soft from a few dozen candles, and a menu with the restaurant's name in red rubber stamp ink and today's date in black, upper left hand column, in a hurried angle. You're going to get a special meal no one else will get. Unique. Just like you.

Chicken-Fried Chicken Livers.

But there's always the moment. The dish that makes the rest of the menu fall away, West Side Story style. You take a bite and you wish you didn't have to share.

chicken-fried chicken liver, cucumber salad and citrus mayonaise 9.

You moan audibly. You say, "[expletive deleted] yeah!" And then you consider ordering one for dessert. If Clyde Common pleases you in no other way but the way you feel when this exquisitely delicious combination of inspiration, technique, texture and flavor reach your mouth and then your taste buds, so be it. Leave happy.

Or go on to order the "fishboard" of the day, a generous side dish of "roast cauliflower," "seared chicken thighs/pork shank, refried peanuts, frisee salad and pork jus," or "risotto: fennel, finicchiona, walnuts and grano padano."

French Fried Potatoes with Harissa and Creme Fraiche.

Clyde Common is not for the vegetarian in you. It's for the adventurous, slightly silly, open- minded diner. People are pretty but casual. If you sit near the kitchen be prepared for a conversation with the person plating your salads and desserts. Cooks are white-jacketless, heavily tattooed and young enough to look like college drop-outs. Think Zuni Cafe meets Blue Plate.

Unfortunately the desserts are too sweet, boring and sloppily plated. Someone had a good idea but not the skill or follow-through to make it taste good enough to order again. Dessert as afterthought: not my favorite way to end a blush producing meal.

Believe me when I tell you to walk a few blocks into the Pearl District and go to Blue Hour for dessert. Or drive 15 minutes across one of Portland's beautiful bridges to SE for desserts at ClarkLewis. Or plan ahead and stop into Sahagun for sumptuous chocolates... Any of these three options will satisfy any sweet, seasonal craving you might have.

Clyde Common, Domestic & Foreign Cooking
SW 10th and Stark in the Ace Hotel
503.228.3333
Monday - Thursday open 5 until late
Friday - Saturday open 5 until later
Open Sundays starting June 17th
{More photographs here.}

During a discussion this past week about authenticity, someone asked me what I thought about Japanese restaurants run by Koreans, while another person asked my opinion about the Japanese government's desperate fight around the globe to save sushi.

There are lots of glib answers, but they all skip over some important issues about food and culture. I need to take another week to mull this over.

In the meantime...please enjoy...

In case the YouTube logo gets in the way of the subtitles, here's a link to the video.

From the world of food writing, only a scant cup's worth of articles slip into my unconscious and remain there year after year. Sometimes they're so indelibly imprinted that I need no reminding they are there; it still smarts to think about Daniel Patterson's declaration in the New York Times that culinary creativity was all but dead in Northern California, and I have Bill Buford and the New Yorker to thank every time I look mournfully at my pot of pasta water knowing that, unless I boil batch after successive batch of noodles in it and accumulate all that lovely starch, I will never produce anything as good as they do at Babbo.

Other times, the things I read become stowaways in the deserted cargo hold of my mind. Just like I didn't know I remembered all the lyrics to Xanadu until my sister bought me the DVD last year, I hadn't the foggiest notion just how much my gray matter had absorbed of Calvin Trillin's ode to pimientos de Padron until I spotted a bag of the knobby green peppers at the farmers' market a few weeks ago.

In an instant, Trillin's words were dislodged much in the way that Anton Ego's first bite of ratatouille transported him years into the past. I felt some unknown force take over my arms and command them to reach forward, tossing bag after bag of bite-sized peppers into my carryall. Despite never once having enjoyed them late at night in a tapas bar in Spain, I sensed the sky darken to the purple of nighttime, and a warm summer breeze rustled past, carrying with it the faint music of espanol. I looked down, surprised not to see a glass of sherry in my hand.

What makes these humble peppers so magical? Well, biting into one is always a surprise; it could be sweet and nutty, or fiery hot. Only one in a dozen packs a punch, but you never know which one you've got until it's too late. They're also hard to find. In 1997, when Happy Quail Farms started selling them, they were the only grower in the country. They're still the only farm in the Bay Area that cultivates them.

When I got home, I fried the pimientos de Padron up in olive oil, tossed on a few generous pinches of salt, and bit in to one, still hot from the pan. A tingling heat flashed across my tongue -- the kind that comes from the power of capsaicin, not flame. I went in for another. The next few were mild, but it was the elusive spicy ones that kept me coming back, bite after bite.

Fried Pimientos de Padron

Ingredients:

olive oil
1 bag pimientos de Padron
coarse salt

Preparation:

1. Cover the bottom of a skillet with olive oil and heat over medium-high until very hot.

2. Toss the peppers in whole. Shake the pan occasionally. Once small black and gray blisters appear (about 2-4 minutes in) they are done.

3. Pour them onto a plate, sprinkle with plenty of coarse salt to taste, and serve hot.

Serves 2-4 as a starter