My Midwestern parents live at the epicenter of the soybean industry, but tracking down whole beans still requires a 45-minute drive to the nearest Asian market. We all consume soybean in some form every day, yet few know what the bean even looks like. Tofu has come a long way in the US from its commune days. Yet, it's not that bland, white cube that is behind soy's success. Worth ten times more than a bushel of unprocessed beans, derivatives drive the soy market: soy's emulsifiers, proteins and oils appearing in everything from paint to paint stripper, polyester to protein shakes.

My mother and father's kitchen is decidedly low-tech, but during my recent visit home, they were proudly showing off to me -- with wide-eyed amazement as much as parental pride -- their soymilk machine. What I thought was a much-needed, new coffeemaker turned out be an all-in-one soybean grinder, strainer and cooker.

Like any proper immigrant's appliance, it still sported all its labels and the manual was nowhere to be found. But my parents were happy to provide a demonstration: load soaked beans here, pour water in there, push the button, and wait…ten minutes. The next thing I know, I can smell that same warm, beany smell that once permeated our house on Sunday mornings. Back then, though, there were big pots to stir, endless batches of blender mush to empty and acres upon acres of cheesecloth to wash. Now, all I had to do was pour out the hot milk and pop a couple of plastic parts into the dishwasher. Welcome to the 21st century!

For those of us who grew up with still-warm soymilk, the walls of colorful, aseptic boxes in grocery stores can be somewhat bewildering. I still prefer the unsweetened jugs that are delivered daily to Asian markets, and fortunately for me, I live in a city where I can find it easily. Its flavor is not for everyone, especially those accustomed to ChocoSoy or Soy Frappucino, as no attempt is made to mask its humble leguminous origin.

If your family uses soymilk or tofu regularly, consider investing in a soymilk machine. Or, if you're one of those curious cooks who like to try everything once, making soymilk the old-fashioned way will help you appreciate, deeply, the convenience of supermarkets. Stop by your friendly neighborhood Asian market for a bag of whole, dried soybeans, or order organic soybeans online from Purcell Mountain Farms. While you're at it, purchase some nigiri coagulate in order to have a taste of super-fresh tofu, whose silken texture and delicate flavor have moved devotees to heights of poetry.

TAIWANESE BREAKFAST

Fresh, hot soymilk, sprinkled with a little salt or sweetened massively with spoonfuls of sugar, is a typical breakfast in Northern China and Taiwan. Accompanied with crisp-fried crullers (look for places that fry these fresh right up front in the store-window), it’s the perfect combination of comforting protein and filling starch that fuels the first few hours of the day. Try it, along with some dumplings and Southern-style jook, at any of these Bay Area restaurants that specialize in Taiwanese-style breakfast.

Chef Woo Chinese Restaurant
6154 Bollinger Road
San Jose, CA 95129
(408) 255-7520
Google Map

Taiwan Restaurant
445 Clement Street
San Francisco, CA 94118
(415) 387-1789
Google Map

Shanghai Dumpling Shop
455 Broadway
Millbrae, CA 94030
(650) 697-0682
Google Map

I've always loved road trips. When I was a kid, my sister and I would lounge in the back of our parents' blue Caddy: heads on the leather seat; feet propped up on the door near the open windows. We would nap, read, play the license plate game (where you got to punch your sister if you spotted an out-of-state license plate first), sing American Pie at the top of our lungs, and argue. Between bickering and giggling, we would also enjoy quite a few scrumptious meals.

I realize that many people think "scrumptious" and "road trip" are two terms that should never go in the same sentence, but my parents were smart enough to avoid the trail of McDonalds and Jack In the Boxes that seemed to attract all the other families roaring down the highway at about 70 cents a gallon. My parents overlooked these "restaurants" as others ignore bugs smashed on a windshield. They knew they were there. They were just unappealing and so took no notice of their existence.

Instead of fast food, my mom would make fabulous road trip meals. One of my favorites was the Neopolitan equivalent of the Spanish tortilla (i.e., eggs and potatoes) set inside crunchy Italian bread. After sitting for a few hours in its foil wrapping, the eggs and potatoes would adhere to the squishy inside of the bread and the flavors would meld into one of the best sandwiches around. My mom would also sometimes get leftover meatballs from her Italian gravy and make meatball sandwiches in the same Italian bread she used for the eggs. These, combined with a nice piece of fruit and an orange soda were a full meal.

Years later, my husband, kids and I now take our own road trips, although our excursions are a little different than the ones I took as a kid. First of all, my children are securely strapped (sitting up) in booster seats. We're also paying far more for gas than my parents ever dreamed was possible way back when. But some things never change. Although the license plate game hasn't made its way to our kids' repertoire yet, they love to play Punch Buggy (where you get to punch your sister if you see a VW bug), with no punch-backs (meaning she can't turn around, see the same VW bug, and punch you back -- that would be unfair!). They also giggle and argue, read books, and sing random songs for hours on end.

Our excursions usually take us down I-5 to San Diego and LA (where our families live). Anyone who has ever driven down this populated, but seemingly desolate, asphalt line knows there are few non-fast food choices to be had, other than a Split Pea Andersen's and the Harris Ranch Restaurant, which I have never been able to set foot in after seeing those sad cows wallowing in manure for miles upon miles. So, just like my mom, I’m making our own road trip feasts.

I have kept the tradition of making car picnics for each journey and have been known to bring along my mother's menu of freshly made potato and egg sandwiches and fruit. I additionally like to stash some homemade banana nut muffins, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, dried apricots, and popcorn. Hidden away in my purse are chocolate treats, ginger chews in case anyone feels nauseous, and licorice.

Now that the price of gas is almost $5 a gallon, I wonder if the tradition of the summer road trip is going the way of the dinosaur. Should you take one, however, I'd love to hear what meals, if any, you're carrying along. Finally, if you're looking for a good sandwich recipe, feel free to make my mom's potato and egg on Italian bread.

Mama Mella's Egg and Potato Sandwiches

Serves: 4

Ingredients:
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 large potato chopped into small cubes
6 eggs
Salt and pepper to taste
1 large loaf of Italian bread

Preparation:
1. Heat olive oil in a large pan
2. When the pan is hot, add the potatoes and heat until they're cooked through and golden brown on the outside.
3. Season potatoes with salt and paper to taste
4. Scramble the eggs in a bowl.
5. Lower the heat on the stove to low and then add the eggs.
6. Stir as if making scrambled eggs and cook until done (I like to take mine off the stove when they're still soft)
7. Insert into cut bread to make individual sandwiches.

Note: I sometimes add parsley and pancetta to this recipe, which is something my mom never did, but I think tastes great. To do this, just add the pancetta to the pan with the potatoes and then add the parsley while scrambling the eggs.

Summer is a tricky thing in San Francisco. A morning in July here often feels like a morning in February, much to the consternation of shivering tourist. We grab what sun we can two days here, three days there, until the fog rolls in and we're grabbing our sweaters and pashminas instead, shrugging our pasty shoulders all the while. If one never leaves the City, one has but few clues as to what life is like on the hot, sticky Outside. And I like that just fine.

I always know it's summer when I see berries flooding the markets. I grab baskets of them-- strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, snozberries-- and challenge myself to eat them all before they rot in my fridge, which happened last year, much to my shame. I decorate my cereal with them, never quite looking as well-placed as on the cereal boxes I never buy. I pretend I'm putting them in the wood chipper as I drop them into my blender to make smoothies. I sprinkle them over ice cream. I eat them out of hand.

If I want to put a little effort (and I do mean little) into doing something with berries, this year, I'm making berry pudding, one of the easiest and reasonably healthiest desserts around. If I were forced to give this dish human form, I would vote for Betty White. Rose Nyland-sweet, Sue Ann Nivens-tart, and just about as quick and clever as all Miss White's snappy answers on The Match Game. Put a little whipped cream on her and she's good to go. She's always good to go.

This is a recipe that is wonderfully simple in both preparation and outlook. Berries in, berries out. I was going to say it was easy- breezy but, unless eating raw fruits has a certain effect on your G.I. tract, it is merely easy. The only real time involved is the time the berries and bread must spend in the refrigerator, getting to know each other.

Berry Pudding

Many of the recipes I've read for Berry Pudding call for the berries to be cooked with sugar. I strongly object. Not to the sugar, mind you, but to cooking the berries. One might as well be using frozen fruit, and that, my friends, is a capital "C" crime in my book-- at least in high season.

I might suggest letting your berries ripen a bit before making them into pudding. They will thank you for it.

Serves: 4

Ingredients:

1/2 cup strawberries, chopped
1/2 cup blueberries, whole
1/2 cup raspberries, whole
1/2 cup blackberries, whole
2 tablespoons sugar, taste the berries to determine their sweetness before adding sugar. Adjust accordingly.
8 one half-inch slices of white bread, brioche, or other neutral starchy vehicle, cut to the shape of whatever molds one is using.
A splash of complementary booze (blackberry brandy, Cointreau, etc.) Complementary as in "will complement the flavor of the berries", not complimentary, as in "free". Of course, if your alcohol is both complementary and complimentary, I say bravo to you.
A pinch of salt

Preparation:

1. Wash berries well, but gently. Chop strawberries to the approximate size of the other berries. Place all berries into large bowl and sprinkle with sugar, salt, and booze. Let sit for five or so minutes.

2. After the berries have macerated a bit, lightly crush them. I feel I was a bit too excited when it came time to inflict harm upon mine. Stir.

3. Cover the bottoms of your molds with your most attractive bits of berry, since this will be the top of the dessert when it is unmolded. Place one piece of bread on top. Add more berries, a second layer of bread, then more berries.

4. Cover tightly with plastic wrap, pressing gently down upon the filled molds to remove any major air gaps.

5. Refrigerate for at least four hours or overnight.

6. To unmold, gently run the tip of a sharp knife between the outer edge of the filling and the inner edge of the mold. Hopefully, you have been clever enough to have removed the plastic wrap before doing so. Place serving plate over the top of the mold, invert, and gently giggle the pudding free of its form. Repeat with the remaining puddings, if you are serving them all at once.

7. Top with whipped cream, ice cream, or bacon. Whatever makes you happy.

Sigh. Mammoth. I've been hearing about the wonders of this little tucked away part of California for probably 10 years. And for the past 6 years I've had an annual invitation to join a group of friends on their yearly trek to The Cabins. But for this reason or that, I've never managed to make it out there. Well this year, I was told. I must go. Seriously, Kim, you just have to make the time. So I did.

The Cabins, which are cozy and rustic, have no electricity or running water, but they do have two ovens with stoves run off propane. The night we arrived my friend Andrew excitedly described the delicious veggie lasagne he was preparing, and as the time drew near for the lasagne to bake, we found out the hard way that both ovens were, indeed, out of order. Always determined, especially when it comes to eating, we had a brilliant brainstorm and decided to transform the bbq firepit into a makeshift oven.

The firepit is built in a sort of U-shape out of cinder blocks and even has a stovepipe. It has multiple levels for a variety of grills and grates (lest you think this is fancy, one of the "grills" is a former metal refrigerator shelf), and there happened to be two large heavy pieces of metal nearby that fit perfectly over the top and in the front. So into the oven the lasagne went, and after a bit of trial and error, and at least 1 or 2 hours and many bottles of wine later, we had a gorgeous and delicious lasagne.

This got us to thinking. What else could we bake in our little wood-fire oven? We'd all been gorging on fruit, and all it took was the mention of cobbler, and I was on it. Our next to last night in Mammoth we managed to find a bag full of local, organic apricots, and, after scavenging through everyone's coolers, I came up with about 8 cups of mixed fruit. The recipe for the cobbler biscuits was another story. I had no internet access or cookbooks available, so I went on instinct and tried to vaguely remember a biscuit recipe and the ratios of flour to butter to baking soda/powder to buttermilk.

What I came up with was the recipe below. And it was delicious. The fruit was bubbling hot and caramelized on the bottom and edges from the heat of the fire, the cobbler biscuit was fluffy and tender.

There are certainly other campfire cobbler recipes out there, and most of them have you put it over coals or a campfire and place some of the coals on the top of the Dutch oven. Whatever you do, just be sure you you use a heavy cast-iron Dutch oven, which is what I call for in the recipe.

Campfire Cobbler

Ingredients:

About 6 to 8 cups mixed fruit (we used sliced apricots, sliced white nectarines, and blueberries)
About 1/4 to 1/2 cup sugar, depending upon the sweetness of the fruit

For the cobbler biscuits:
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 Tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
12 Tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
2 cups buttermilk

Preparation:
1. Have ready a heavy, cast-iron 5-quart Dutch oven. Cut up the fruit into chunks and add it to the Dutch oven along with the sugar. Toss well.

2. Get your fire ready. You want to have some nice steady coals and be pretty hot but not blazing. Set up a grill about 4 inches above the fire.

3. In a large bowl, stir together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, and salt. Sprinkle the butter pieces over the flour, and using 2 table knives, cut the butter into the flour mixture until the butter is the size of small peas.

4. Stir the buttermilk into the flour mixture just until it comes together. Don't overmix!

5. Cover the top of the fruit with an even layer of the cobbler dough.

6. Cover the Dutch oven and put the cobbler on the grill. Cook until the cobbler biscuits are cooked all the way through, about 30 to 45 minutes. We uncovered the cobbler for the last 5 minutes or so of cooking to see if we could brown the top a bit.

7. Serve the cobbler on its own or with cream or yogurt or whatever you might have in your cooler.

Do you know umami? It's considered the 5th taste, the others being sweet, bitter, sour and salty. Umami is best described as savory. It's that kind of meaty flavor you find in even non-meat foods like parmesan cheese, tomatoes, mushrooms and soy sauce.

A hundred years ago Japanese scientist Dr. Kikunae Ikeda first discovered that glutamic acid, an amino acid, was responsible for the umami taste of konbu, a type of kelp used in Japanese cooking. Today there is an Umami Information Center dedicated to all things umami and to helping scientists, chefs and consumers learn about it.

Next month the Umami Information Center will be sponsoring an Umami Symposium in San Francisco. Culinary experts and scientists will discuss the impact of the fifth taste in a casual panel conversation. The panelists include: Gary Beauchamp, Ph.D. Director, Monell Chemical Senses Center, Harold McGee, Ph.D. food writer and molecular gastronomist, Kunio Tokuoka Executive Chef, Kyoto Kitcho & Tim Hanni Master of wine and wine educator. The Master of Ceremony, Kathy Sykes, Professor of Sciences and Society, University of Bristol, will mediate by engaging the panel of experts and the audience in a discussion about the importance of umami and its influence on the culinary industry.

Following the discussion, world-accredited chefs will serve a multi-course umami-inspired lunch. Highlights of the menu include Seared Japanese Spiny Lobster, Ginger-Poached Georgia Shrimp and Watermelon Salad, and lamb dish Salle d’Agneau Cuite sous Vide. Tim Hanni will introduce a number of wines at the luncheon to explain and show how they can successfully be paired with umami-rich foods.

What: New Frontiers of Taste Umami Symposium
Where: Hyatt Regency San Francisco, 5 Embarcadero Center, San Francisco
When: 11:30 - 4:30 pm, Monday, July 21, 2008
How: Tickets are $100 or $50 for students. Register and buy tickets Registration closes July 7th and there is no onsite registration.
Why: Hear experts discuss and debate the science of food and the sense of taste. Explore cutting-edge food, wine and umami pairing ideas and enjoy a sit-down luncheon featuring a variety of umami-rich dishes from some of the world's leading culinary chefs including Thomas Keller, Hiro Sone and Kunio Tokuoka from Japan.

Can't make the symposium? You can try chef Hiro Sone's Umami Celebration Tasting Menu at Ame between July 14th and August 3rd, 2008. Contact Ame for restaurant information and reservations.

AME Umami Celebration Tasting Menu

Ame Raw Three ways;
Ceviche with Garum Lime Sauce
Sea bass sashimi with Ume Plum Vinaigrette
Kampachi Carpaccio with Nuka Pickles and ponzu

Corn Bisque with Lobster Tortelloni and Pesto sauce

Broiled Sake Marinated Black Cod in Shiso Broth

Grilled Berkshire Pork on Carolina Gold rice and Tomato “Risotto”
with Vadouvan Sauce

Nectarine "Panzanella" with Caramel Ice Cream and Dried Shoyu

Or try this recipe at home:
Ginger Shrimp and Water Melon Salad with Lemongrass Vinaigrette
Serves 4

For the Vinaigrette:
4 Tbsp. Freshly squeezed Lime Juice (about two limes)
1 tsp. minced Lemongrass
1 tsp. smashed and minced dry shrimp
2 tsp. fish sauce
½ tsp. minced Ginger
Pinch minced Thai chili
½ tsp. sugar

In a small mixing bowl, whisk all ingredients together. Set aside.

For the Salad:
1 Tbsp.thinly sliced Red onion
1 Japanese Cucumber, thinly sliced
½ small Seedless water melon, skinned and cut into 1 ½" x 1 ½" x 1½" cubes
2 small Heirloom Tomatoes, slice to ½" thick
12 ea. ginger Shrimp, recipe follow
4 cilantro sprigs
2 tsp. chopped toasted peanuts

In a small mixing bowl, season the onions and cucumber with little salt, set aside for five minutes. Pat dry. In a medium size mixing bowl, combine the watermelon, tomatoes, onions, cucumber, shrimp and the vinaigrette together. Divide onto 4chilled serving dishes. Arrange the cilantro sprig on the top and sprinkle the peanuts. Serve.

For the Ginger Shrimp:
8 cups water
1 small onions (about 6oz.), thinly sliced
1/3 cup thinly sliced ginger (about 1 ¼ oz.)
1 clove garlic, smashed
3 Tbsp. rice vinegar
5 Tbsp. kosher salt
12 fresh shrimp tails in their shell, about 1oz./ea., veins are removed

Combine everything except the shrimp in a stainless sauce pot and simmer for about 10 minutes, add the shrimp tails and bring back to a boil over high heat and simmer 10 seconds, then drain. Transfer the shrimp to a sheet pan and let them cool. After the shrimp are completely cooled, carefully peel the shell. Discard the shell. Cover the shrimp with plastic wrap until use.

COPYRIGHT © Hiro Sone 2002

In a world of small plates and share plates, it's typical that meals are ordered in a way that is atypical of traditional dining. I frankly can't remember the last time that I was with a group who each ordered a salad, an entree and a dessert without sharing or splitting plates. More typical these days is a meal that I had Monday night at A16: two of us shared an appetizer, a pizza, a small pasta and three sides.

"How would you like that to come out?" most servers ask me. My typical answer? "However you'd like, just not all at once." I say this last point with emphasis and look them straight in the eye. A quick way to get me in a bad mood is to deliver so many plates to my table that we are juggling plates and stressed to get plates off the table to make room.

I find that most places I go to are very good at asking the question about coursing. But whether it's followed is a gamble. The successfully coursed meal at A16 came out in three rounds -- the appetizer and a side, the pizza, and then the pasta and two sides.

One night at a Valencia street restaurant known for great cocktails and excellent food, we ordered a similarly random meal. That night, I was looking forward to a leisurely paced meal and we had some ideas of how the meal should come out due to wine pairings with different dishes. We talked to the server about it and he even went so far as to tell us when he would have the kitchen "fire" certain courses, and spent a couple of minutes confirming the order with us.

The meal started to come out immediately and too quickly. The courses were completely confused, and the server was notably absent. The food was delicious. The meal pacing left us agitated and annoyed. What could have been a really stellar experience was made only above average due to the way that our food was presented to us.

The worst example of coursing recently was at a newly three-star restaurant in SOMA where the plates were too large for a two-top and came out all at once. We had to move some plates to an adjacent table just to make room to eat. It would have been comical if I wasn't so annoyed. When we mentioned the problem to the server, she just said "Oh, that's the way the kitchen does it sometimes."

It's time for San Franciscans to stop letting this sloppy coursing slide. Gone are the days of an entree with a choice of soup or salad, baked potato or fries. At least in San Francisco, we've been seeing nontraditional menus for several years now. And managers need to be training servers and kitchens on how to handle orders in order to make the experience comfortable for the diner. Restaurants must evaluate every order and consider it on its own for the best pacing and coursing. This may sound like nitpicking, but we are lucky to live in a city where we have numerous choices for excellent food -- it affords us the leisure of making coursing and pacing a deciding factor when choosing a restaurant.

(Photo by trp0.)

There’s been a lot of buzz lately in San Francisco about planting gardens at Civic Center and bringing in a special farmers market for Slow Food Nation's big Labor Day blowout. No surprise that the farmers market just across the street, the one that’s been a neighborhood fixture for the past 26 years, isn’t good, clean or fair enough to take part.

Truth be told, some of us were happy that the Heart of the City wasn’t getting an all-star makeover. It’s fine the way it is, humming along in its quiet, humble way as a workaday market. The Tenderloin shoppers don't need to worry about mobs of tourists elbowing their way in for bits of free fruit, Whole Foodies complaining about the smell of live chickens or lines of groggy hipsters waiting for their espresso drinks.

Residents have been actively fighting gentrification, the inevitable physical and cultural displacement that accompanies economic development, and the neighborhood farmers market is their newest battleground. On Thursday, at a special meeting of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, one seemingly innocuous agenda item -- "Revocation of Permit for U.N. Plaza Farmer’s Market" -- had to be tabled after public outcry, including a flood of calls from local residents and market vendors.

Mayor Gavin Newsom's quickly reversed his proposal for City Hall's Real Estate Division to assume control of the Heart of the City Farmers Market. No residents, vendors or shoppers were consulted. Market manager, Christine Adams, who has been heading the market since it first opened, learned about the City's idea when it sent her a job application.

Change is always difficult. As the oldest continuously running farmers market in the city, there's certainly room for improvement. An overworked and underfunded nonprofit currently manages the Heart of the City Farmers' Market. The key, though, in any type of development, is respecting all stakeholders while weighing the benefits of short-term gain against long-term goals.

Schoolkids learning about strawberries from Yerena Farms.

From the City's point of view, the permits are stale. It would like to increase the nominal $1 lease to $5,000 to help cover the cost of cleaning the plaza, double the stall fee from $25 a day to $50 a day, and -- most contentious of all -- take 2% of profits. Farmers currently sit on the nonprofit management company's board of directors, so the City has offered to include farmers on an advisory committee. By combining operations with the Alemany Farmers Market, also run by the Real Estate Division, it expects to increase efficiency and economies of scale.

Opponents counter with the age-old question: Why fix something that's not broke? The market only makes $13,000 a year, which it currently spends on outreach and compostable bags. It seems a rather cheap blow to try filling city coffers from the pockets of small farmers and from low-income residents who are just trying to find some fresh produce in the middle of one of the city's most arid, asphalt-ridden food deserts. With the rising cost of gas, the smallest farmers will be the most vulnerable when faced with increased fees. On the other side of the market transactions, shoppers are pinching pennies more and more as the dollar becomes ever weaker.

Talks continue. There's a good chance the Real Estate Division will back off, and there's hope that the City will arrive at a compromise with the market management on fees.

Raj Patel, policy analyst for the think tank, Food First, and author of Stuffed and Starved: The Hidden Battle for the World Food System, says that despite the neighborhood's ability to push back the City, it’s hard to know just how big a victory this is. “There’s no guarantee that this farmers market will be around five years from now. What’s actually needed is a comprehensive city plan for sustainability, to keep the market at UN Plaza and to encourage the formation of small farmers’ markets in other neighborhoods.”

Toronto has a Food Policy Council and Oakland has its Food System Assessment.
Isn't it time that San Francisco stop playing around with pretty exhibition gardens and boutique markets? Let's lead the way with bringing fresh food to as many of its citizens as possible.

We have plenty of good and clean. It's time for fair.

*Update (6/23/08): See comments to read a statement emailed from Slow Food Nation.

I'm a wino.

I'm a wino, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I don't consider my evening meal complete unless I have something red, white, or pink thumped in my glass. For me, leaving off the wine is like leaving off the salt.

Having firmly established myself to you as a overly particular diner who goes around most nights with a purple mouth, I never thought I would find a non-alcoholic drink that would ever satisfy me. NON-ALCOHOLIC! Can you imagine?

Oh, I've had my flings with various juices, soft ciders, and spritzes, but none of them really seemed to go with the food. Enter Golden Star Tea. Yes, tea. Now, pairing food with tea is certainly not an original thought these days, but did I mention the bubbles? For Golden Star White Jasmine Tea is sparkling tea.

Let me tell you, I have never met such a beverage. Sparkling ciders -- both grape and apple -- have never been dry enough for me. They're tasty and juicy but that's what they really are: juice. The sweetness that overwhelms these teetotalling options is not found in the limpid depths of a perfectly chilled flute of Golden Star.

The uniquely refined sour flavor in Golden Star comes from the fermentation process, and though you might think the heady florals of jasmine might turn your tipple into Grandmother's eau de cologne, but it really doesn't. It's simply a remarkably balanced glass. It's simply a remarkable drink.

Golden Star CEO and Creative Director Edward Carden explained to me that the company was formed with the idea of finally charting the fairly unexplored territory in the beverage universe: non-alcoholic luxury.

Pair Golden Star with whatever you'd pair with champagne. Specifically, try it out on appetizers, leafy green salads, and seafood. Carden particularly recommends paring the tea with raw fish or any sort of seafood that carries with it that briny breath of the sea. You can even drink this glass of tea with desserts. Not as cloyingly sweet as a Sauternes or a port, Golden Star is a remarkably refreshing accompaniment to fruit desserts and cheeses.

I'm champing at the bit to get my hot little hands on these bottles but as yet, Golden Star is only available at EOS wine bar in Cole Valley. Come September -- when we're still bound to be good and hot in the Bay Area -- Golden Star will make its way into stores. The 750 mL will sell for $12.95 and close on its heels, the 375 mL can be got for $6.95. Seeing that Golden Star took home two awards from the World Tea Championship I'm not clearly not alone in my adoration.

When you do frost your fridge with a few of these gilded bottles, serve in champagne flutes at 40° for optimum ecstasy.

Go ahead, get bottle-greedy, for there will be no need for aspirin in the morning.

Today's post is directed at my waiter brethren, should there be any reading. The rest of you, of course, are most welcome to read.

The other night, I waited on a rather handsome European couple. Spanish. First time in San Francisco. They were youngish, well-dressed, and very polite. They ordered wine, three courses of food, and bottled water. So far, so good. When I checked in with them at each course, they seemed happy. The temperature of their wine? Excellent-- they even thanked me for asking. My dessert suggestions? They took them and loved them. These were not menu-pointers, miming their way through a meal because they lacked the local language skills.

When I brought them their check, they examined the bill, slipped in some cash and said, "Thank you, that's fine," indicating that they would not need change.

I examined the cash inside the bill folder. $130. Their meal was $126.25. I rushed to the bar and rather hurriedly asked one of our bartenders to make me some change, and quickly, because "I'm about to get "f---ed by table 10," I said. In front of my boss.

I received the change and gently placed the remaining $3.75 back in the bill folder with the three little bills neatly peaking out of the corner back on their table. Perhaps, I thought, there had been a mistake in their calculation. They might examine the contents and increase the 2.97% tip they were unwittingly leaving me. During the next half hour, during which I refilled their waters, folded their napkins, and asked if they had suitable transportation home, they never re-examined the contents of the folder. As they stood up to leave, I felt the anger swelling up behind my eyes. But I smiled, tilted my head and knitted my brow in such a way that would indicate that I was slightly perplexed to the marginally perceptive, and said, "Good night," with such a subtle questioning at the end of it I am uncertain as to whether typing a question mark is deserved.

They didn't so much ignore me as act oblivious to my words. I thought the best thing for me to do was walk away before I did something foolish, like stick my foot out as they approached the steps to the exit.

I stood by the hostess stand at the front door as they approached, giving them one more chance. I tried to obtain eye contact with the man, but he would not meet my eye. Instead, he held out his coat check. Fortunately, the hostess on duty took it before I had the opportunity to ignore his gesture or reply to it with one of my own. I followed her to the coat closet.

"Spit in it," I said. "I think you should spit in his coat." I'm sure she thought I was joking. "Or, at least, drop-kick it when you hand it to him." The sad thing is, I wasn't joking.

Well, that moment at the coat check served as a little reality check for me.

At our shift meeting earlier in the evening, my boss had warned us that summer was approaching. Our regular customers would be crowded out by out-of-towners, both of the American and foreign variety. Cranky travelers and people for whom American-style tipping was, well, a foreign concept. The announcement brought down the mood of the staff, but he was speaking the truth, and the point of his little speech was that we needed to basically suck it up and treat these new guests with the same warmth we treat our regulars. We needed to kill them with kindness, regardless of what kind of tips a Spaniard, German, or Canadian might leave. I briefly wondered which type of insecticide added to coffee would be considered kind.

He was right, of course. So what was I angry about?:

1. The money. My service merited at least another $20 in gratuity.

2. I let these two people get under my skin on the very night my boss had warned us, as though he had somehow jinxed me.

3. The fact that I let any guest get under my skin.

I consider myself fortunate in terms of my experience as a professional waiter. I work at a wonderful restaurant. It's upscale without being over-the-top, has a fun vibe, and is always packed with people-- it's not easy to get a last minute reservation, though we will bend over backwards to try to accommodate. The guests, by and large, are either affluent and willing to spend money or, at the very least, enthusiastic about dining with us. I almost never just wait on people, but act more like the host of a dinner party at every table in my station-- offering my suggestions, painting verbal pictures yet-to-be-seen food items, getting people to relax and open up. I work in a place where a handshake normally accompanies the "good nights", and a hug or even a kiss from the women is not at all uncommon. "Goodbye" is almost never said, but rather "see you again, soon."

And, normally, my tips reflect my service. Twenty percent is the norm, but twenty-five or thirty is not unusual, either. Am I spoiled? I don't think so. I work hard at what I do, and I am frankly very good at it.

But I allowed the two idiots who gave me a 2.97% tip to get to me. I had tied my own sense of worth to money. $3.75, to be exact. It colored my outlook for the rest of the evening. Fortunately, they were my last table, so I brought no thundercloud to my other guests.

I sometimes find working exclusively for tips a bit harrowing. There is a vagueness of income that is frustrating-- never knowing exactly how much one is going to earn in a month makes budgeting difficult. Waiters have nights when they're on fire and making money hand-over-fist, others when their sections are populated by women who bring photo albums with them and haven't seen each other in years-- splitting salads and making two hundred substitutions.

The fact that my income is wholly dependent upon how much a stranger feels I am worth is rather frightening if I stop to think about it for long. So I don't.

The fact that I sometimes allow my own sense of worth to be determined by strangers is even worse. I feel validated when a group of business guys leaves an extra hundred dollars on top of an automatic 20% tip. I feel utterly deflated when Spaniards screw me.

It's crazy-making. I do the same thing every night with mostly rave reviews. Sometimes, I get the shaft. And in my calmer moments, I can shake it off easily.

But the summer season is upon us, complete with the usual unprepared tourist who freeze their asses of in their shorts and hastily- Wharf-bought San Francisco sweatshirts in the middle of July. As a member of the hospitality industry, I need to remind myself that I cannot give lessons in tipping etiquette to the ignorant, but merely accept them as they are. I'm not a bad waiter if I receive a 2.97% tip, I'm a bad waiter if I am, well, inhospitable. In the meantime, I'll have to accept the occasional bad tip along with all the good ones and dream of the day after Labor Day, when our summer really begins and the tourists go back to the non-tipping lands from which they came.

My gardening skills are mediocre, at best. Sometimes my plantings are successful, but more often than not, I get aphids or white flies, the cats pee on the lettuce, or I neglect to water something and rediscover its dried twig skeleton after it's too late to revive. Between taking care of my kids, walking the dog, and, oh yeah, working, tending the garden is an afterthought. This is why I like independent plants. I love growing tomatoes and roses because they can persevere for a few days, even when I forget to water them. I also like old fruit trees that seem happy without any care other than the occasional winter pruning. My new favorite plants, however, are my raspberry vines. They are able to thrive with little tending and I get the payoff of lovely little sweet berries.

My love for growing berries started about ten years ago when my husband and I bought our house and discovered a rambling blackberry patch just beyond the cement of our driveway. Each summer we were given the gift of hoards of dark juicy blackberries. I say gift because we did little to deserve them. We would only minimally cut back the bushes in the winter; just enough to be able to walk past them without getting caught and trapped in a thorny mess. I never tied them up and, I'm embarrassed to say, I didn't even water them. Every July we would then have enough berries to can several jars of homemade jam on top of the numerous berry crisps and pies I would bake. But then a sad thing happened: we remodeled our house and the city forced us to shore up our driveway with a cement curb. This made our backyard look less decrepit, but it covered our lovely prolific blackberry patch.

Now, my backyard is not huge. It's not even medium-sized. By most standards, it's on the smallish side, and much of it is cast in shade by the surrounding detached garages (my own and my neighbors') and some towering wild plum trees by the back fence. The driveway was pretty much the perfect spot to grow berries, but that spot has been overtaken by the aforementioned city-mandated cement block. About two years ago, in a moment of berry desperation, I convinced myself that the opposite corner of the yard, which gets only filtered sun, might grow fruit. It was this turn of events that led me to our local nursery in search of berry vines. As the blackberries sat in a bunch with the raspberry vines, I decided to purchase both varieties. It took only a moment to discover, however, that you can actually get thornless raspberry vines. Although I love blackberries, I adore raspberries just as much and the idea of not getting thwacked in the face and arms by jagged thorns was pretty enticing. The planting directions advised setting plants a couple of feet apart. As I had only a small planting area, I decided to purchase only one thornless raspberry vine to see if it would grow in the new location. After planting it, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. Little did I know that a couple of years later, I would have a ten-foot spread of healthy vines, laden with ripe raspberries.

Right now, our raspberries are ripening on a protracted schedule, which is just fine with me. Each day we have about ten mature berries. My daughters love going outside, standing in the raspberry patch, and talking about their day while they gobble up the day's ripened crop. Although we don’t have enough raspberries to make jam, we have enough for a snack each afternoon while we hang out and chat. I also have hopes that in a few years, as the vines age, we'll have enough berries to make pies and jam. Raspberries grow on the previous year's canes, so each year you get more "old" vines for the next year's crop. This is why I don't care that the patch is growing beyond its designated area. It's starting to overtake the camellias, but as far as I'm concerned, those camellias only give flowers, and I'll take berries any day instead.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the yard, our blackberry vine has popped up about twelve feet from its previous location in a small open area near our back porch. It's the beast that won't die, and that's just fine by me.

Following are some links to find more information on growing raspberry or blackberry patches. I think they suggest a bit more work than is necessary, but then again, I'm a minimalist when it comes to gardening effort.

• Backyard Gardener
• Beginner Gardening

Note: Thornless blackberries are also available for purchase. They didn't have them at my local nursery when I bought my raspberry vine, but I've seen them since then.