The National Association for the Specialty Food Trade put on their 34th Winter Fancy Food Show this week, allowing for exhibitors from around the world to do precisely that-- exhibit themselves. Thousands of vendors and merchants descended upon the Moscone Center in San Francisco from January 18 to January 20th for a fancy food frenzy.

I'm not sure I would agree with the term "fancy"-- it's always been a troubling word. As a noun, the word "fancy" connotes a liking formed by caprice rather than reason. As a transitive verb, it is an action of mistaken belief, of pure imagination. As an adjective, which is how, in this case, it is applied, the word suggests that the food exhibited at the show is "of particular excellent or highest grade."

Fancy is, naturally, open to interpretation. Much of the food-- the hundreds of olive oils, cheeses, and cured meats, for example, are just that-- excellent and of the highest grade. But does this term also apply to the likes of, say, Fartless Chili and frozen pizza? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is simply a matter of prejudice. Yet products were snatched up by buyers from France to Fresno.

Since this was my second food show, I was able to learn from my previous mistakes, which included: feeling obligated to try everything, trying to see everything, and making actual eye contact with vendors while wearing a press badge. Armed with experience, I was able to roam the floors with a vague, pleasant eye that managed to avoid the dull and zero in on what was, to me, at least, of interest.

The following are a few of the more interesting items found at the Fancy Food Show. They are selected according to my own delights and prejudices. Since this was an international event, I gave no preference to the local, which is my normal custom. Some of the products are odd, others unfortunate, while others are just plain good. Enjoy.

When I first arrived at the show on Sunday, a woman in the press room gave me a few suggestions for booths to visit. One of those was Brent's of Napa Valley, where I got my morning off to a good start with their Firey (sic) Beer Brittle, made with Red Tail Ale, Spanish peanuts, and chile de arbol as the key ingredients. It was, to put it mildy, fantastic.

I was determined not to spend my day candy-sampling as I had done before with unfortunate results. I stuck to my vow of avoiding the hundreds of cracker and olive oil offerings and stick with what was new and interesting, faltering only occasionally at a cheese counter that gave up samples of Wensleydale. Three times.

I did, however, feel bound to visit the Vosges Chocolate booth to sample the suggested Enchanted Mushroom bar, made with Reishi mushrooms. While the chocolate was excellent, I had forgotten that I had been granted permission to photograph the product the previous day by a kind woman, but neglected to remind the staff of this matter. My fault. But the Harpy that descended upon me at my re-appearance turned the pleasant chocolate-umami taste in my mouth bitter. So no photo. What I never have understood about this convention is that these vendors are here to exhibit their goods. There's no hiding at an exhibition, no magic Keebler Elf-like factory, so why was she so guarded about her product? There was too much else to see and do to worry about it too much. I mentally flipped that gorgon the bird, but reminded myself to be more careful about taking photographs in the future.

On with the show...

A very enjoyable booth-- perhaps, one of the highlights of the show for me-- was the one belonging to Bacon Salt, home of Baconnaise and, incredibly, Baconnaise Lite. The pleasant irony of all their bacon-related offerings is that there is no bacon involved in the making of any of their products. And that they are, in fact, vegetarian. This is typically not my style of food. Fake anything has no general appeal, but oh, their give-away bacon-flavored lip balm. They gave me two. I think what I was so taken with was the good-guy frat boy feel I got from the creators. And I mean that in the best sense. The Fancy Food Show is, in its own way, a fraternity of food vendors. Nowhere was the party atmosphere thicker than at their booth. They even asked me if I wanted one of them to put on the bacon suit hiding under the front table so that I might have a photo taken with it. The hospitality industry, in my opinion, at its best.

My next notable stop was at the Tur-Duc-Hen booth. I'd never had the much-blogged-and-Twittered-about holiday fad food, nor had I ever had any real desire to. Not being much of a coprophage, I find it difficult to imagine that any food beginning with the letters t-u-r-d could be much good. Sean Timberlake of Hedonia remarked, upon my mentioning the product, something akin to "Great, they've managed to take three birds and turn them into one, flavorless dish." I could not have agreed more.

With all the sugar, processed food, and unnaturally-formed proteins already ingested, I needed a bit of gustatory help. Fortunately, I found myself in front of the Seis Natural booth, with their bee bread, royal jelly, and Aguijon-- a libido-increasing, honey-fueled sex potion. Intrigued by the bee bread, but not wanting to increase my sex drive at a gigantic food show, I sampled the Vitalmiel, which promised to "power up my globules." It tasted of honey, of course, but contained a difficult-to-describe acidity which balanced the sweetness. Perhaps it was the mere power of suggestion, but I found that my globules-- especially the ones I never knew I had-- were indeed powered.

Close by, I was offered a daily dose of Yakult from Japan. I had accepted the sample expecting some drinkable yogurt made from yak's milk, but what I got was a jolt of about 8 billion probiotic bacteria swimming around in a surprisingly delicious, tangy, citrus yogurt drink. I mentally set them to work on the tur-duc-hen.

One more reason to love Japan was the discovery of Hello Kitty pancake (pictured in the top photo), brownie, and cupcake mixes. All in Spanish. Much to my disappointment, the vendors explained that their current licensing extends to Mexico, but not, as yet, to the United States. So for those of us looking to add a little extra kawaii to our mornings, we'll just have to wait a little longer.

Among the more personally irritating offerings at the food show was the Iron Chef wine collection. The wines are produced in Italy, a country with a reputation for creating some of the most sought-after wines in the world. And some of the worst plonk. Though Iron Chef wine, at least the Sangiovese I tasted, would not fit neatly into either category, I would place it closer to the latter than the former. To me, it is marketing at it's worst. And don't get me started on the packaging.

After two days of wandering, talking, and tasting, my feet ached and my globules were fading. Fast. I had seen enough good, bad, and, for the most part, boring food products to last me the rest of the year. I would have given anything for a smart, new cocktail on offer, but I couldn't find one, though I know they must have been around somewhere. I was just too brain dead to put the effort into navigating a map.

As I began to make my way out of the North Hall of Moscone Center, I spied a little stand-- nothing of special interest at first glance. Natural Directions Organic. The banner suspended above the booth promised, "All Natural, All Organic, All The Time." They sold sparking, organic juice. What caught my attention was the woman standing beneath the sign. She was, to put it bluntly, anything but natural. If she was the representative of natural direction, I felt the company had taken some unfortunate turn off the highway several miles back and had gotten hopelessly lost. From a distance, I could just make out the swollen shape of her collagened lips saying a little something to a prospective customer. As she smiled, her forehead remained motionless-- as stiff as the naval captain's cap she wore at a cocky angle over her bleached-blonde hair. She was, at the very least, fancy.

I moved closer to her, wanting to make certain she was, in fact, a real woman. As tired as I was, I felt the need to find out if she was a drag queen, which would have been a stroke of ironic marketing brilliance, in my opinion. I chatted her up a bit, asking about the products she was selling because I wanted to hear her speak. As I did, I looked into her eyes. Or, rather, just above them, to the false eyelashes that had been put on at an angle almost as jaunty as her hat. She suggested I try the pomegranate soda."That's the best one, if you ask me," she confided. "It tastes even better with a little vodka in it."

"Well, what doesn't?" was the best I could reply.

And then it hit me-- this woman, who a mere five seconds prior I had viewed as oddly unreal, was, in fact, the most honest person I had encountered at the show. Not that the others were especially dishonest. It was simply that all I had heard from people for two exhausting days were talking points about the greatness of their products, which was understandable, given the venue. But here was this wonderful woman-- suddenly lovely in my eyes-- who decided to tell it like it was.

It was just the refreshment I needed.

Pity there was no vodka.

Today, I will be ushering in the inauguration at the Civic Center with throngs of San Franciscans who want to watch history together, in a collective group.

The sustainable food community has high hopes for an Obama administration. Food security, organic farming, dialing back of subsidies, and support of small farmers are all on the collective wish list for discussion. In October, Michael Pollan wrote an 8000-word letter to the incoming President-Elect outlining the policies that he hoped the new President would take into consideration.

One of the ideas put forward in this article, and bandied about by others in the food community, is to dedicate part of the White House lawn for a victory garden. As you probably know, during World War II, victory gardens were grown all over the country. Twenty million families grew edible gardens and provided 40% of the domestic food supply. At the time, Eleanor Roosevelt planted a garden at the White House. It not only provided food for the White House, but symbolically supported the idea that food is a critical part of this nation's agenda.

Many don't know that the White House already has a rooftop garden. According to Walter Schieb, executive chef under Presidents Clinton and George W. Bush, there is a small vegetable garden which is used for White House cooking. That's a great start, but food activists are hoping for a symbolic, and larger garden which would be visible by the millions of visitors to the White House.

There are large, over-arching issues in today's food system. And asking the Obamas to consider a 5-acre organic fruit and vegetable garden seems almost petty in comparison to hunger, obesity, and poor diets. But the message that planting a garden would send is important, and should be considered.

Will today's inauguration speech have a sentence added in for this promise? I can only hope.

For more information about the push for a White House garden, check out the following resources:

Farmer in Chief, Michael Pollan, New York Times
Eat the View
Veggie Gardens and Other Ideas for the Obamas, Anne Marie Chaker, Wall Street Journal

Along with 4 million other people in Washington, I'm trying to figure out how to keep warm and dry while waiting (and waiting…) to witness history in the making. Fuzzy boots and mittens with hand warmers and puffy rain pants are my own fashion statement for this inaugural ceremony. And while the 44th POTUS settles into his luncheon, enjoying "A Brace of American Birds" beneath a painting of Yosemite Valley, I'll be making my way very very very slowly back up to Tenleytown...to a crock pot full of warming chili.

No, I'm not following Obama's recipe. Our very own North Coast Journal up in Humboldt County got a hold of that one back while he was still campaigning. Truth be told, it's a bit bland for me (thank goodness kitchen skills have nothing to do with diplomacy and fiscal policy), but since his presidency promises change and diversity, it seems fitting that his chili recipe calls for beans and tomatoes and green pepper, an unholy trinity for any Texan devotee of chile con carne. The 44th POTUS even serves it on a bed of rice. If you've spent any time in the Lone Star State, then you know that all of those are verboten.

His predecessor's recipe is still secret, though like other Red-State, Tex-Mex lovers, Dubya swears by Gebhardt's chile powder, conveniently available in 3-ounce or 5-gallon containers. Serious chili cooks will, of course, make their own from dried chiles, toasted cumin seeds, Mexican oregano and garlic powder.

Here in California, at the more lucrative end of the wagon train routes, we became known for carne con chile, not chile con carne. Ana Begue de Packman, a descendant of the state's first colonists and author of Early California Hospitality: The Cookery Customs of Spanish California (Arthur Clark Company, 1938) included a recipe for carne con chile with the note that "it is insisted by the Californians that the meat be given the place of honor." Her version, while avoiding tomatoes and beans, included breadcrumbs for thickening and a handful of the local black olives.

Modern experts, such as Hal John Wimberly, the editor of the Goat Gap Gazette, a monthly that covers all things BBQ and chile, is astounded by West Coast cooks. "Californians put funny things into their chili. Green peppers. Celery. All kinds of garbage." Don't even get him started on the tofu or dried mushrooms.

The Mexicans have disowned the dish entirely. The 1959 edition of the Diccionario de Mejicanismos defines chili con carne as "detestable food passing itself off as Mexican, sold in the United States from Texas to New York." Since cows arrived in Mexico with the conquistadors, we can safely assume that beef was not in the original recipe south of the border. Cornmeal and beans, however, are components of nourishing stews prepared by the original Americans. That some chili recipes include these ingredients, along with the ever-present chiles, seems only natural in a place where borders were frequently shifting.

Chili stand in Haymarket Plaza, San Antonio, c. 1902. (From the Institute of Texan Cultures, UTSA)

Fortunately for my taste buds, purism has no place in my kitchen. I'm not averse to using ground meat instead of cubed, or -- double sin! -- shredding tofu skins to mimic ground meat. I've also been known to tilt a can or two of tomatoes and beans into my pot. And despite admonitions against overpowering the meat, I love doubling garlic and chiles, if not cumin and oregano. One of these days, I'll brave a plate of five-way Cincinnati chili, with its layering of spaghetti noodles and oyster crackers. I'm one of those well meaning, curious cooks despised by Texans. If expanding flavor beyond the confines of a county jail counts as sacrilege, then, well, I always was comfortable with being a heathen.

Since the twisting paths of history are more interesting to me than any straight-laced doctrine, I'd like to point you to two recipes from the past. One comes from San Antonio, which has a good claim as the place of birth of chile con carne. The second recipe emerged from the kitchen of an early Californian.

In the 1800s, Mexican women set up chili stands at night in the main plazas of San Antonio, Texas. They become known and loved as the Chili Queens. The city's commissioner, Frank Bushick, wrote in 1927 that the" chili stand and chili queens are peculiarities, or unique institutions, of the Alamo City. They started away back there when the Spanish army camped on the plaza. They were started to feed the soldiers. Every class of people in every station of life patronized them in the old days. Some were attracted by the novelty of it, some by the cheapness. A big plate of chili and beans, with a tortilla on the side, cost a dime. A Mexican bootblack and a silk-hatted tourist would line up and eat side by side, [each] unconscious or oblivious of the other."

Mrs. Luce M. Trevino, 89, holds a 125-year old pot that she donated to the scrap metal pile during World War II. The pot was used by her mother for simmering chili in the first Mexican restaurant in San Antonio. (From the Institute of Texan Cultures, UTSA)

Original San Antonio Chili

This recipe comes from the Institute of Texan Cultures at the University of Texas San Antonio, where beans are barred from the chili pot.

2 pounds beef shoulder, cut into ½-inch cubes
1 pound pork shoulder, cut into ½-inch cubes
¼ cup suet
¼ cup pork fat
3 medium-sized onions, chopped
6 garlic cloves, minced
1 quart water
4 ancho chiles
1 serrano chile
6 dried red chiles
1 tablespoon cumin seeds, freshly ground
2 tablespoons Mexican oregano
Salt to taste

Place lightly floured beef and pork cubes in with suet and pork fat in heavy chili pot and cook quickly, stirring often. Add onions and garlic and cook until they are tender and limp. Add water to mixture and simmer slowly while preparing chiles. Remove stems and seeds from chiles and chop very finely. Grind chiles in molcajete and add oregano with salt to mixture. Simmer another 2 hours. Remove suet casing and skim off some fat. Never cook frijoles with chiles and meat. Serve as separate dish.

Carne con Chile Sepulveda

This recipe comes from Ana Begue de Packman's historic cookbook, Early California Hospitality: The Cookery Customs of Spanish California. She offers a good tip for cooking with beef fat, essential for achieving the unctuous texture and rich flavor of the old versions of chili. As the name of the dish says, it's about the meat. There's no distraction of cumin or oregano even. If you side with Obama on the olive oil question, then be prepared for a thinner texture or else add a more breadcrumbs or dredge your meat in flour. And if you side with me on the point of tenderness, keep simmering the meat gently for a couple of hours. (Adapted by Mark Preston in California Mission Cookery.)

2 pounds beef chuck
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
2 tablespoons fat from the chuck

Sauce:
4 ounces dry red chiles
2 tablespoons fat from the chuck
2 tablespoons breadcrumbs, toasted
1 clove garlic, mashed in salt
1 tablespoon vinegar
1 cup black olives

Cut the meat in chunks, removing as much fat and gristle as possible. Brown a little of the fat to render it, to grease the skillet. Use no fat if the meat is fatty already. Add the chunks of beef and season with the salt and pepper. Brown it well and set aside.

Stem and seed the chilies. Wipe them clean. Put them in a stew kettle and pour boiling water over them. Cook until the skin easily separates from the chile meat. Rub the chile-meat through a sieve. This should make about 1 1/2 pints of red chile puree.

Heat enough of the fat to render 2 tablespoons in an iron skillet. Add the toasted breadcrumbs and the garlic, mashed in salt. Stir constantly until a light golden color. Pour in the chile puree, garlic and vinegar. Simmer 15 minutes. Add the meat. Cook 10 minutes longer. Serve, garnishing with ripe olives.

Okay, are you ready for this, world? Because this idea is the CHEESIEST!

Fellow Bay Area Bites blogger Jen Maiser sent me this receipt from the recently-opened Venissimo Cheese with the note, "Thought you'd be interested in seeing this receipt from a new store in Long Beach."

(First of all, can we have a little side conversation of how flippin' awesome it is to receive receipts in the mail that might be "of interest"? It's like our food geekery knows no bounds!)

Now take a look at that receipt and see just how much bang you get for your buck. You get:

1. The name of the cheese you bought: very key if you lose the little papers the cheese was wrapped in, or if you didn't lose them but were unfortunate enough to have a cheesemonger like me whose bad handwriting rendered the little cheese papers illegible.

2. The pronunciation of said cheese: in order not to embarrass yourself when you go back and reorder that "grow-YER" you enjoyed so much in your fondue.

3. The place of origin: because you might go there to get the cheese some day, and also because geography is fun.

4. The milk and treatment: because cow or sheep, raw or not-so-raw, it can matter for health reasons or just for general personal edification reasons.

5. Tasting notes: so you can impress your friends at the dinner table with just how sensitive and refined your palate is compared to theirs.

6. Wine pairing: because "What wine should I have with this?" was the question we got as often as "Where's the Slanted Door?" at Ye Olde Stanke Cheeseshoppe. Also, check it out -- they give you no less than four recommendations for each cheese!

The green side of me whispers that this is probably a waste of paper -- can you imagine how long your receipt would be if you bought 4-6 cheeses? -- but the cheesemonger in me drowns that side out, because this a genius idea that serves both retailers and customers well.

Belissimo, Venissimo!

Brava.

There has always been a special place in my heart for the Negroni. Not always. I stayed away from them in elementary school, naturally. I don't think I even tried my first until well into my twenties. And I'm not quite certain I liked it then.

But I liked the idea of the Negroni. It was and is a sophisticated, world-weary drink-- one with Italian origins and bitter complexity, yet remarkably, charmingly straight forward. It is not a drink that should be knocked back like whiskey, nor can it be co-opted or diluted with other ingredients and still be called by its proper name. It is the sum of its equal, co-dependent parts: gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari. It must be savored and considered.

If a person could model one's self after a cocktail, I knew that the Negroni was exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up, so I kept trying. So far, so good, and with minimal damage to my liver.

The Negroni doesn't have the wide appeal of the Martini or even the Manhattan, which is, in my case, precisely the point. It isn't necessarily an exclusive drink, but it does attract discriminating drinkers. They know who they are.

Or, at least, quickly find out who they are not.

For example, several years ago, some co-workers and I took a new server out one afternoon for a drink at a place around the corner from our restaurant. It was a warm day, so we decided to sit outside at some little tables on the sidewalk, have a smoke, and get to know our new little friend over a drink or two.

My friend Greg was managing that day, so he came around to have a chat and took our drink order while he was at it. We, all of us, called for Negronis. When he asked the new girl if she would like one as well, she spoke these precious words:

"Um, sure. I'll have a nigg--oni, too."

Then came the long, extremely uncomfortable silence made all the worse by the fact that she said this to a black man. If looks were hunting knives, she would have been flayed alive by everyone present. What made it all the more surprising was that she hadn't the slightest idea what she had just said. Greg generously attributed her utterance to poor Italian pronunciation, which is more than the rest of us allowed her.

And, after all that discomfort, she told us she didn't like her Negroni and sent it back to be replaced by a sweet, vodka-based drink. When she got up to use the restroom, one of our party re-christened her "Chili's" because he felt she might be much more at home working there than with us. The name stuck around for about as long as she did. That drink we bought her as a welcome ended up being her departing gift, too, since that's precisely what she did shortly after.

Apart from its cachet of clique, what I love most about the Negroni is that it is deliciously louche. It hints at danger and moral decay more precisely than any other drink, save Absinthe. Just ask Tennessee Williams. Or don't, since he's dead. Rather, watch Lotte Lenya*, Warren Beatty, and Vivien Leigh drink them in The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone and enjoy the ensuing destruction. They weren't exactly good for Mrs. Stone, nor were they especially good for Mr. Beatty's awful Italian accent, but they certainly helped to lubricate the plot. (*After searching for a video clip from the film, I stumbled upon an article by Toby Cecchini in the New York Times referring to Lotte Lenya as, well, louche. It must be true. For a wonderful description of the drink and its components, read the article Shaken And Stirred; Dressing Italian.)

There is a time and a place for the Negroni. Swank apartments at midnight, dimly lit trysting places at any time of day, on the sly in a toney sanitarium-- appropriate situations, all of them. Never, under any circumstances are they to be drunk over a quick lunch with your parents or-- and I speak from personal experience-- are they to be ordered in the jungle borderlands between Brazil and Argentina. Especially if there is a strong language barrier between you and the bartender who only knows caipirinhas. I don't care if there is a casino on the premises, it is to be avoided.

The Classic Negroni

The cocktail owes its name and its existence to one Count Camillo Negroni of Florence, Italy. According to Eric Felten's enjoyable read, How's Your Drink?, Negroni's preferred drink at the Caffé Casoni was the Americano, an admixture of Campari, Cinzano, and club soda. One day, he asked the bartender, Fosco Scarselli, to fortify his drink with gin. The cocktail was an unqualified success and its intake spread first around the city, then the world.

Ingredients:

Makes one Negroni

1 ounce good gin. Please do not stint.

1 ounce Cinzano Rosso vermouth

1 ounce Campari.

Ice cubes, preferably made from Italian spring water. Or tap, depending.

Orange peel or slice for garnish

Preparation:

Into a cocktail shaker, add all ingredients except the orange. Shake or stir, according to your own preference. Strain into chilled cocktail class. Garnish with orange.

Sit back, and enjoy the ensuing existential train wreck.

As an added bonus, while I'm on the topic of train wrecks, enjoy a clip from a famous television personality I would never in a million years expect to see drinking a Negroni. In my opinion, she doesn't get it quite right, just pouring everything over the rocks without proper mixing as she does. Then again, she does only have 30 minutes to make an entire meal.

Enjoy.

I love cherries and I'm also quite keen on beer, so you would think that I would have jumped at the chance to try a Belgian cherry beer on tap when offered one; yet I at first refused. Although I adore cherries -- they may just be my favorite fruit -- I abhor fake cherry flavoring. This is why I am unable to take cough medicine or drink cherry soda. It just tastes fake and wrong to me. So last year, while visiting the lovely city of Haarlem in the Netherlands, I had to be convinced to try the cherry beer that is a staple at most pubs in the fall. I am so glad I relented.

Kriek (pronounced like “creek”) is a fruit beer made from lambic, a sour and dry Belgian beer, which has been infused with sour cherries and their pits. According to the bartender I chatted with in Haarlem, the pits are where the real cherry flavor lies. Lambic is only brewed in Belgium. It is unique in that brewers don’t add any yeast as an ingredient. Fermentation instead occurs through exposure to yeast strains and bacteria native to the area of Pajottenland (is it me, or does that sound like a name thought up by Dr. Seuss?). The marriage of lambic with sour cherries is really a regional match made in heaven.

After sipping my friend Corbin’s kriek, I was hooked. My first response was literally “Wow!” The cherry flavor was tart and sweet, but understated and not syrupy, and the texture of the brew was perfect. Although we had just had a big meal, I drank two and a half pints. I realized this was my one and only chance to have this stuff on tap (well, until my next visit to Northern Europe, whenever that may be) and I wanted to make the most of it.

The next morning, before I flew to London, I dashed to the local liquor store and bought a few bottles of kriek to share with my husband, who was stuck at home with the kids while I gallivanted throughout Europe with my oldest friend. It was the least I could do -- really. I knew he would love it, and wasn’t sure I could find the stuff at home.

But a few months after returning home, I saw it on the menu at Luka’s Taproom in Oakland. And, although it wasn’t as fresh and earthy as the lovely brew on tap in Haarlem, it was close enough to make me quite happy. Our waitress told us she had seen it at Whole Foods, so I journeyed over there a few days later and bought some, along with a bottle or two of framboise, kriek’s raspberry cousin which is equally intriguing.

The most common brand sold in the United States is Lindeman’s, which comes in both 750 ml and 8 oz bottles, and is sold at both Luka’s Taproom and Whole Foods. But if you’re interested in trying a few other varieties, The Trappist in Oakland has a number of different brands by the bottle and actually sometimes even has kriek on tap (at least their web site says they do). I tried a bottle there recently. Unfortunately I can’t remember the brand, but it was less sweet than the Lindeman’s and quite good.

Although Luka’s refers to kriek as a dessert beer, I think the designation is too limiting. Since finding that I can get it here, I’ve tried it with numerous dishes. Kriek is a fantastic accompaniment to roasted pork, spinach salad, and baked chicken. It’s also nice with a plate of cheese -- the stinkier the better.

So if you come across some kriek, I highly recommend it. Better yet, if you find yourself in Belgium or The Netherlands in the fall, try a pint on tap. You won’t regret it.

All Summer long chocolatiers suffer as warm weather makes working, not to mention shipping their delicate product a challenge. But Winter comes along and everyone I know craves chocolate. Hot chocolate, chocolate confections, chocolate cake, it's all good.

This coming Saturday you can indulge your desire for chocolate and find out what to drink with your favorite bon bon. CocoaBella Chocolates will be hosting a Top Chocolatier Pairing Event, featuring Christopher Elbow of Christopher Elbow Artisanal Chocolates, Fritz Knipschildt of Knipschildt Chocolatier, and Jeff Shepherd of Lillie Belle Farms.

For the first time ever, these three of the world's top artisan chocolatiers will be together presenting their favorite chocolate and spirit pairings at CocoaBella's flagship old-world European style store in San Francisco.

What: Top Chocolatier Pairing Event

Where: CocoaBella Chocolates, 2102 Union St, San Francisco

When: Saturday January 17th from 8:00-9:00 pm

How: Tickets are $20 per person, including drinks and chocolate, and are available at CocoaBella stores or by phone at (415) 931-6213

To this day one of my favorite hot chocolate drinks is this one:

Nutella Hot Chocolate

Makes: 1 serving

Ingredients:
3/4 cup milk, whole or low fat
2 Tablespoons Nutella

Preparation:
Gently heat the milk over medium low heat, in a heavy saucepan. Stir in the Nutella and whisk until smooth. Serve in a mug with or without whipped cream.

So, I'm not a Washingtonian. I was born there and lived there for three short years before we took off for points middle-west, but I'm clearly no Beltway insider. Naturally, I didn't know what a "half-smoke" was until I saw the discussion surrounding it and Obama's trip to Ben's Chili Bowl on Meet the Press with video reposted at Serious Eats.

Wasn't I just talking about how obsessed we all are with every little move Obama makes, including where and what he eats?

After David Gregory played the clip of Obama in Ben's asking, "What's a half-smoke?" Cosby reacted to this question with a humorously exaggerated eye-roll, just as though Theo had asked if he could borrow the family car to take Charmaine on a date while wearing a crazy yellow shirt that Denise made for him just before Rudy ran down the stairs and lip-synced to a comically low-pitched song.

This is the thing -- I like that Obama asked that question. I like that he's come to D.C. and, with that question, pretty much said, "Hey, I know I'm not from around here. I'm from the lands of Portuguese sausage and of Polish sausage. I'm not going to jam a Yankees cap on my head and pretend as if I've always lived among you, I'm asking you to teach me your ways and your customs."

It's humble, it's curious. It's Obama.

So, what IS a half-smoke? As I understand it from Wikipedia, a half-smoke is "similar to a regular hot dog, but slightly larger, spicier and with more coarsely ground meat; it is usually grilled but can be found steamed." It's usually made from a combo of beef and pork and there's some question about what "half" or "smoke" even means in the name. Quite frankly, it sounds like pot jargon to me.

There's a repulsive little photo accompanying the entry, but from the sound of it's I'm guessing it has to taste way better than it photographs.

The half-smoke revelation sort of begs the question: does every metropolis have their own hot dog? Here's a very loose analysis of my answer to that question: D.C. has the half-smoke, Chicago has Polish sausage, Hawaii has Portuguese sausage, Boston has hot dogs in those split rolls that do double-duty for lobster rolls, Philly has...cheese steaks (it's not a dog, per se, but it's still meat in a long bun), New York has Nathan's Famous Franks at Coney Island and maybe Grey's Papaya, and New Jersey has whatever New York has.

So, what sort of dog does San Francisco have? The easy and dated joke would zing "tofu dog," but really, we can do better than that, can't we? We've definitely got Rosamunde's, but maybe the quintessential San Francisco hot dog would be made from half Marin Sun Farms beef and half Fatted Calf pork on a sourdough and black olive bun, topped with diced Happy Girl Dilly Beans and Spicy Carrots.

Yeah, um, I'd really appreciate it if someone would go invent that right now.

On a cold day, a cup of hot chocolate is about as good as it gets -- well, as far as food and beverages go. More often than not, people get their hot chocolate fix from Starbucks or another coffee shop, spending about $3.00 a cup. For a family of four, this can add up -- especially if your kids are prone to dropping their to-go cups inches from the front door of the cafe, as mine are. The other problem with buying cups of hot chocolate is that the paper cups and plastic lids sabotage any attempt to really enjoy the full flavor and aroma of the drink. Worst of all, you either need to drink your tasty beverage on the go, or get it back home in the cold, only to find it’s lukewarm when you finally sit down to drink it. No. I have a primal need to warm up on a cold day with a steaming cup of hot chocolate -- in a real cup, in my favorite chair -- and so I need to make it at home.

When I was in college, I was misinformed and poor, so we used Swiss Miss packets of cocoa. After dumping each pack in a cup of microwave warmed water, we would all settle down for what we hoped would be a delicious treat (which often included Peppermint Schnapps). I didn’t realize at the time that I was a foodie, but I did know one thing: those cups of cocoa were awful. If it weren’t for the Schnapps, I would have passed on the whole affair.

It was only when I was an adult that I started to make real hot chocolate. I learned that there is a difference between hot cocoa and hot chocolate, and experimented with different cocoa powders and bittersweet bars, enjoying the results from both, but preferring hot chocolate. In case you’re curious, hot cocoa is made using cocoa powder, sugar, and milk, while hot chocolate is made with melted chocolate, sugar, and milk. For me, there’s just something about drizzling hot bittersweet chocolate into warmed milk that really satisfies both my hot beverage and chocolate cravings.

For years I topped my hot chocolate with either warm milk foam or whipped cream, which at the time seemed perfect. But, a few weeks ago, my mother created the ultimate topping for our steaming chocolate beverages: homemade marshmallow whip. She initially made a batch of All-Around Frosting from Cooks.com to frost my daughters' gingerbread house, but we soon realized that this lovely confection had a far greater purpose in our lives.

Although the recipe is supposedly for frosting, the ingredients are everything you would need to make marshmallows, minus the gelatin, and the result is the lightest marshmallow whip you could ever hope for. My only recommendation is to half the recipe if you don't want a ton of it.

One of the things I love about using the homemade marshmallow whip is that it has a luscious creamy texture that melts beautifully into your hot chocolate. It is also rich and full enough to add body to your drink if you want to use low-fat or nonfat milk. And, you can always frost a cake or stick a gingerbread house together with it if afterward.

So the next time you crave a cup of hot chocolate, go for a version that doesn’t come in a paper cup and isn't made from a packet. Adding Schnapps, however, is completely up to you.

Hot Chocolate

Makes: 2 servings

Ingredients:
• 2 1/2 cups whole or low-fat milk
• 4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped
• 2 tablespoons sugar
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preparation:
1. Chop chocolate into small pieces.

2. Heat milk in a sauce pan on medium-low heat, being sure not to let it boil over.

3. There are two ways to melt the chocolate:

A. Place the chocolate pieces in a metal bowl that will fit securely over your sauce pan. Reduce the heat for the milk to a low simmer and then place the bowl on top of the pan. Stir until the chocolate is melted.

B. Place chocolate pieces in a microwavable bowl and microwave for 30 seconds. Stir chocolate to help distribute the heat. If chocolate has not thoroughly melted, heat for another 20 seconds and repeat until chocolate is melted through.

4. Add chocolate to the heated milk along with the sugar and vanilla extract and stir thoroughly to incorporate everything together. I like to use a whisk, which creates some froth.

5. Serve.

I'd never heard of Monkey Bread until a few weeks ago. The name immediately caught my attention. The image of monkeys picking at a loaf of bread as they would nits off each other's backs came to mind. Charming, I thought. I wanted to know more about it.

Not that there's much to know.

The etymology is vague. The term "Monkey Bread" has several possible origins: some people believe that the bread resembles the shape of a monkey puzzle tree, but I feel that these people are out of their heads, perhaps having fallen from the top of one the trees themselves. Other people believe that the name derives from the act of pulling the pastry apart with the fingers, much like monkeys might do, if they were presented with such a treat. I have ruled out the theory that this was a bread frequently baked and fan-mailed to the likes of Mickey Dolenz or Davy Jones by swooning teen-aged girls in the 1960's because the spelling is all wrong. The timing, however, is only a decade away from being correct.

Also known as Hungarian Coffee Cake, Bubble Loaf, and, my favorite, Pinch Me Cake, the term Monkey Bread didn't start popping up until the 1950's in various women's magazines. The dessert itself-- basic yeast rolls coated in cinnamon and buttery caramel-- is close kin to both the Sticky Buns of the Pennsylvania Dutch and the more savory Parker House Rolls of, oh, I don't know, Parker Posey.

Whatever the origin, it's a wonderful treat that lends itself to lazy weekend mornings. Pinch off a loaf for loved ones to wake up to. Or, if you have no loved ones, bake one for yourself and then neglect to shower, change clothes, or leave your house all day, revelling in your own, sweet, cinnamon smell.

It's a very easy treat to make. If you're paying attention, that is. I had gotten up early to make a simple yeast dough, because I prefer making my own dough to buying pre-packed goods, as most food snobs who rebel against their ready-made childhoods do. I flipped on the oven, set the timer, and then sat down at my computer and started over-sharing on my Facebook page. I knew something was wrong when I smelled something burning after only 18 minutes of baking time.

Readers: I would suggest not cranking your oven up to "Broil" if you want to have any sort of successful baking venture. Not for monkey bread, anyway.

A quick clean up and several salty phrases later, I decided that ready-made biscuits didn't seem like such a bad idea, after all. This is Pinch Me Loaf and I certainly was in a pinch. So I trundled off to the store and bought a couple of packages of Pillsbury Buttermilk Grands.

I am now grateful for my initial stupidity. It caused me to re-examine the dessert and the recipe. Rather than blindly follow a recipe-- cooking temperature not withstanding, I now thought to make the Monkey Bread differently. The way I wanted it to taste. Perhaps, I thought, to compensate for cheating with store-bought dough. I added a pinch of clove to the cinnamon sugar, some orange zest, and a fine sprinkling of Amaretto. It made me rather happy. I hope it does the same for you.

Monkey Bread verions 2.0

Home made yeast dough makes for a wonderful, from-scratch dessert but, since this is really a treat for lazy weekend mornings, I am going to place the emphasis on the word lazy and go for the store-bought variety. Scream and howl all you want, but this monkey hears no evil. Besides, slamming those biscuit packages on the side of your kitchen counter is oddly satisfying.

Serves 8 to 10 people, number of monkeys uncertain.

Ingredients:

2 cans of refrigerated biscuits, like Pillsbury Grands

1/2 cup sugar

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/8 teaspoon ground clove

1/2 cup whole pecans

1 tablespoon of orange zest

1 cup firmly packed brown sugar

3/4 cup butter, melted

about 2 to 3 tablespoons Amaretto. I don't know, really, since I've never been good at measuring alcohol.

Preparation:

1. Heat oven to 350 F. Lightly grease a bundt pan or other sort of tube pan with butter.

2. Combine sugar, cinnamon, and clove in a bowl (or a big Ziploc baggie if you're feeling wasteful). Stir to combine.

3. Check oven temperature.

4. Cut the sixteen biscuits into quarters and roll them into 64 little balls. Count them, if you like. Roll balls in the cinnamon sugar. Arrange in pan, adding bits of pecan and orange zest as you layer.

5. Check oven temperature.

6. Combine brown sugar and melted butter. Pour over biscuits.

7. Bake for about 30-35 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove from oven, letting the Monkey Bread rest in the pan for about 10 minutes to let the caramel cool a bit. Invert onto serving plate. Serve warm and do not cut. To serve, pull off bits and pieces comme des singes. Perhaps one might smear a bit onto whomever one is sharing it with for added effect.