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

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

Natalie of @bikebasketpies

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

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

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

Brian of @Magiccurrycart and Steven Gbdula of @GobbaGobbaHey

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

Charles Phan

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

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

Post-event food tasting at 111 Minna

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

Robyn Sue and "Kelvin" of @SmittenIceCream

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

@BaconPotatoChip

@cremebruleecart

@sfcookies

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

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

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

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

A Jackie O. Lantern.

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

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

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

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

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

Big sunglasses. It's all about the sunglasses.

A long brown wig

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

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

A spoon

A votive candle

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

Preparation:

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

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

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

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

Lighting Jackie's Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now for that irresistible purple soup.

Roasted Purple Cauliflower Soup

Serves: 4 people

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2) Super easy because I'm exhausted

3) Cheap because we're in a recession

4) Handmade because I'm a snob

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

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

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

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

Photo and Photoshop by Wendy Goodfriend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

San Francisco is a brunch town through and through. And I'm always down for a nice eggs benedict or a stack of blueberry pancakes. But everyday can't be Sunday. Most of us have day jobs and can't lounge around cafes late into the afternoon hours. So here are a few of my favorite spots for quick, creative, inspiring breakfasts around the city. One is a bit gluttonous, the other earnestly healthy, and the last sloppy but satisfying. So while dining trends will always come and go, breakfast is staying put. Sometimes mom knew what she was talking about: it is the most important meal of the day.

The Good: Fraîche
I first stumbled across Fraîche while wandering around downtown Palo Alto. This was around the same time when frozen yogurt shops were opening on (seemingly) every street corner in San Francisco, and I’ll admit, I was one of the people in those long lines. But if you're like me, you're a little burned out on the tart treat and the neon décor. Fraîche is different. Trust me. The frozen yogurt has more of a creamy, subtly tart flavor than other competitors, they use organic Clover milk, and owner Patama Gur spent a long time perfecting her special blend of probiotic cultures--and it shows.

In addition to frozen yogurt, Fraîche also does a thick, housemade unfrozen 2% yogurt. When I first visited the shop on Fillmore recently, I ordered the frozen yogurt with pureed apricots and my friend opted for the unfrozen version with raspberries and peaches. I have to say, I had entrée envy. While mine was delicious, the unfrozen yogurt is unlike anything I've ever had. Think Greek yogurt on steroids. As we were leaving, I noticed the breakfast menu and their early morning hours, and vowed to come back for a quick and healthy breakfast before work.

You can get breakfast to eat-in or take-out. The menu is simple and centered around the unfrozen yogurt, fresh fruits, housemade granola, and steel-cut oats. I tried the Toasted Nut and Berry Sundae: yogurt with fresh berries, housemade granola, toasted almonds, and local wildflower honey ($5.50). The nice guy constructing my lovely "sundae" mentioned that the SF Chronicle Special has been the most popular, with steel-cut oatmeal and a choice of fresh yogurt and fruit and nut toppings ($5.95). And these aren't your average toppings. From bright pureed fruits and local honeys to shaved Callebaut chocolate to-order, the toppings are as conscious as the yogurt itself.

So after finishing the Nike Marathon recently and being told by many friends that I’d have to try and taper my ravenous appetite to account for the decrease in physical activity, I've tried to opt for breakfasts that don't include numerous pieces of toast or stacks of pancakes. And for that, Fraîche is here for me. With a cup of Blue Bottle coffee (they start serving the premium coffee next week) and a seat at one of the sleek wooden tables, experience morning the way it should be experienced: simple and thoughtful.

Fraîche
1910 Fillmore Street
San Francisco, CA 94115
(415) 674-6876
Hours: Mon.-Thurs. 7am-11 pm; Fri. 7am-12am;
Sat. 8:30am-12am; Sun. 8:30am-11pm

The "Bad": Dynamo Donuts
Nestled amongst the Mexican grocery stores and panaderia's on 24th St., sits Sara Spearin’s sweet little donut shop. It’s "bad" in the best possible way. There are a few critics who scoff at charging $3 for one donut. But the truth is, I'd pay $3 over and over for what Spearin and crew are doing in the Dynamo kitchen. It’s something that San Francisco has yet to see--an artisan, organic, awesome donut.

Before getting to the donuts, a quick aside: I was a vegetarian for almost fifteen years. About a year ago now, I started eating meat again. Once I decided to go for the gusto, something strange happened: I couldn't get enough bacon. And this was certainly fine timing, as bacon has become rather trendy in the last year or so. From bacon potato chips to bacon chocolate confections, it seems like the much-loved pork product is everywhere these days. So while I understand many folks are over the bacon-in-everything trend, I'm still on a bacon high.

I had my first bacon maple donut at Voodoo Doughnut in Portland, Or. I thought they were pretty good: the donut was light and airy (albeit quite large), the maple glaze rocked, and they put strips of real bacon on top. The bacon itself was a little weird and greasy, but I figured all bacon donuts were that way. Then, a few weeks ago, I went to Dynamo for the first time. Now I know: all bacon maple donuts are not created equal.

While it looks like a simple donut window from the street, there is an entrance leading to a huge open kitchen and a quaint seating area where couples sit with steaming cups of Four Barrel coffee and a donut or two. The buzz from the open kitchen is infectious: five women with cute vintage aprons are busily pumping out donuts while laughing and telling stories. They seem genuinely psyched to be there--and it shows in the product. The donuts themselves are special. For the most part, they’re cakey and have a bit of heft (think old-fashioned donuts of your childhood). I tried the chocolate saffron, which has a very light hint of citrus and a subtle warmth from the saffron. Next I moved on to the caramel del sel, flavored with nutmeg and topped with a caramel glaze and fleur de sel. Then I picked up a few of the apple bacon maple donuts to bring in to work. Unlike the one at Voodoo, the bacon was in small bits sprinkled on top of the donut and wasn’t at all greasy. And the little bits of apple are actually sautéed in bacon fat, resulting in a fabulous salty and sweet flavor. It really is the perfect donut. So with a motto of "EVERYDAY is bacon donut day!" there's not a place I'd rather frequent more at the moment. And even if you’re not a recovering vegetarian with a constant hankering for salty meats, there are many other well-crafted donuts to choose from.

Dynamo Donut
Twitter: @dynamodonut
2760 24th Street
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 920-1978
Hours: Tues.-Sat. 7am-5pm; Sun. 9am-4pm; closed Mon.

The Ugly: Hazel's Kitchen
Hazel's Kitchen is very Potrero Hill. For those of you familiar with the neighborhood, I know you feel me. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, they do a lot of things right, but one of them isn’t necessarily speedy or efficient customer service. It's laid back, it’s independent, and they scoff a little if you try to pay with a credit card. Much like Farley's Coffee next door, I often get blank stares or confused looks when I ask a simple question.

But Hazel's is much loved as a little neighborhood lunch counter with great sandwiches and soups. And that they are. While they’re generally booming at lunch, not as many folks know that they do a really great breakfast burrito. Now I know some of you may be ready to stop reading right about now. I know--I get it. I have a strained relationship with the breakfast burrito as well. Sometimes they're not hot all the way through; sometimes they're soggy. There's nothing like cold, watery eggs to get you going in the morning. But Hazel's burritos are none of those things.

What Hazel's burritos are--the thing that places them in the ugly category--is deliciously messy. It's not a good choice for eating while walking to work or chowing down in the car. You must sit down with a stack of napkins (and a fork would be preferable) to enjoy a Hazels' breakfast burrito. Messiness aside, the nice thing about Hazel’s is the simplicity. The breakfast burrito has eggs, cheese, avocado, salsa and a choice of chorizo, ham, bacon or tofu ($6.95). The ratio of ingredients is perfect: not too much cheese or salsa--where many breakfast burritos fail. And I'm not sure how they get the burrito so delightfully hot without losing the integrity of the avocado, but after seventeen years in business, they obviously know what they’re doing.

Can you find a cheaper breakfast burrito over in the Mission? Sure. Can you find a more authentic, Mexican breakfast burrito? Absolutely. But I can't guarantee that it won’t be soggy, hot all the way through, or busting with fresh ingredients. You just can't help but fall a little bit in love with Hazel's pastel, vintage kitsch and the messy morning madness of the breakfast burrito. Dig in.

Hazel's Kitchen
1319 18th Street
San Francisco, CA 94107
(415) 647-7941
Hours: Mon.-Sat. 8 am-4 pm; Sun. 8:30 am-4 pm

Featured Recipe: Fraîche's Spiced Yogurt Muffin
Owner Patama Gur says they bake these muffins each morning as they really typify what Fraîche does: provide customers healthy, delicious that don't sacrifice on taste. These muffins were developed for Fraîche by Batter Bakery, and use Fraîche's low-fat unfrozen yogurt and applesauce instead of a lot of butter and oils to create an amazing treat that is less than 100 calories.

Ingredients:
2 cups flour
1 cup brown sugar
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. allspice
1 tsp. nutmeg
1 tsp. cloves
2 large eggs, at room temperature
1 ½ cups. yogurt, room temperature
4 Tbsp. melted butter
1/4 cups unsweetened applesauce
1 tsp. vanilla
(For the topping: 2 Tbsp. sugar + ¼ tsp. nutmeg)

Preparation:
1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
2. Line 8 large or 14 to 16 standard muffin pans with paper muffin cups.
3. Whisk together dry ingredients in a large bowl until well combined.
4. In another small bowl, whisk eggs, yogurt, butter, applesauce, and vanilla. Add to flour mixture and mix together until just combined.
5. Scoop evenly into muffin cups and sprinkle with sugar nutmeg mixture.
6. Bake 18-20 minutes or until tester comes out clean.
Serve warm.

Makes: 8 large or 14 standard-sized muffins

Mediterranean Crepe (Feta Cheese, Olives, Avocado, Spinach, Green Onions)

For all its charms, San Francisco falls sadly short when it comes to late-night dining. Ten o'clock may be normal in New York City and a little on the early side in Barcelona, but here, you'll be lucky to find a burrito, much less a plate of pasta and an arugula salad.

OK, maybe we're exaggerating a little, but it's definitely true that noshing options drop dramatically after midnight, unless you're looking for a Mission Street bacon dog or fried eggs and French fries at Sparky's or the Bagdad Cafe. And if you're out clubbing, bar-hopping or catching a show South of Market, the chowing opportunities on those wide windswept streets are few and far between.

Nutella, Strawberries, Bananas with Whipped Cream Crepe

Enter Creperie Saint Germain. From this cute, custom-built wagon parked at the sidewalk edge of a private parking lot on Howard Street come sweet and savory crepes made to order. The daytime business is good, filling up the bellies of nearby office workers and loft dwellers with chicken-feta crepes at lunchtime or chocolate-banana ones later in the afternoon. But the real scene at Saint Germain comes late at night, when the brightly lit little stand beckons hungry clubbers from blocks away. Open from 7am-7pm Monday to Wednesday, the cart often serves until 3am on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.

A little nightlife buzz is already building up around the place, since there's nothing like topping off a happy buzz with a warm crepe dripping with Nutella--or laying down some beer ballast with smoked salmon and cream cheese, ratatouille and spinach, or ham and pineapple all stuffed into a buckwheat wrapper. Along with the printed menu, there are usually a couple of daily specials, like a recent sweet crepe layering fig jam, almond butter, and sliced banana into deluxe spin on the PB&J.

Fresh Apple, Cinnamon, Brown Sugar with Vanilla Ice Cream Crepe

Why crepes? Although crepe stands are ubiquitous in Paris, San Francisco's burgeoning street-food scene was surprisingly bereft, given how many local chalkboard cafes treat them as a staple. Owners Ahmet Cagin and Zeynep Aynaci, friends from Istabul who jettisoned careers in finance to become micro-restauranteurs, felt that crepes would be easy to make on the spot, reasonably healthy and endlessly flexible.

Meet Lover's Maya Crepe

Unlike other Tweeting food carts, Creperie Saint Germain doesn't roam around. By parking in a parking lot, rather than on a street corner, the owners avoided the high sidewalk-permit fees charged by the city for legal food carts. Instead, they negotiate a monthly rent with the owners of the parking lot, pretty much as if their tidy blue-and-white wagon was a stretch Hummer in need of a double-wide space with a view. The only drawback right now is a complete lack of seating, making eating a crepe here strictly a stand-up affair. But isn't clutching a crepe in one hand and a napkin in the other a small price to pay for curbside Nutella at 3am?

Creperie Saint Germain
546 Howard St at 2nd Street
San Francisco, CA 94105
Map
(415) 706-9733
Twitter: @creperieSG

If you're reading David Sax's recent book, Save the Deli, or follow his blog or moan, as many do, about the general state of the Jewish delicatessen, then you know that it's a pivotal time in this most hallowed bastion of comfort food.

For years, locavores and vegetarians, calorie-counting suburbanites and couscous-loving Sephardim and even heeb-hopping hipsters have been bringing their own favorite dishes to the Jewish table. You might not know this upon stepping into a deli, where piles of salty, fatty meat and schmaltz in the chopped liver and never-ending free pickles every day of the year define good eating. It's supposed to be a carefree zone where all the generations and sects can enjoy some chicken soup in relative peace.

Leave it to Karen Adelman and Peter Levitt in Berkeley to begin shaking up this world a bit. As the owners and hands-on managers of Saul's, these two widely read, passionately opinionated individuals are working hard to keep Jewish delis vibrant, relevant and delicious far into the 21st century. From adding Mediterranean mezzes to offering locally grown, locally made pickles, they're crafting a new sensibility for an old institution.

A multicultural, sustainable deli might seem like a quixotic pursuit, as many would argue that we should leave well enough alone. Any real and authentic Jewish deli doesn't need to concern itself with all this modern fancifying. But if you're a deli owner and you see your customers coming into your dining room less and less often -– how many pastrami sandwiches does one person eat these days? -- you realize that things need to change to keep going.

Of course, ideals do have a way of bumping up against reality. Let's take the last thing on the menu, that list of drinks at the end of the page. Such a minor thing, no?

Well, as it turns out, simple it most definitely is not.

For diners, drinks are usually just an afterthought. For green-minded business owners, though, the environmental costs of transporting flavored water, the impact of corn syrup and artificial sweeteners in our communities, and the waste of thousands upon thousands of empty cans and glass cannot be ignored. If you're somewhat concerned, you might just put out a recycling bin and offer a few cents off on coffee poured into insulated mugs. If you're a little more committed, you might try sourcing local sodas.

But if you're Karen and Peter, you have a much, much longer road to travel. You begin by studying the history of sodas and the science of bubbles. Along the way, you learn about the monopolistic technologies of multinational food corporations. You connect the dots between individual soda jerks, creative spirit and community values. You daydream down a short detour, one that takes you past designs for a working seltzer tap at each and every booth. You decide to compromise, backtracking to install a central seltzer dispenser. You call up a beer tap specialist to design a brand-new beverage system for you. You track down stronger fittings that can hold up to the pressure of C02. You convince colleagues that going back in time 60 years to revive obsolete tastes and technology will be a good thing for the business. You train special "seltzer baristas" to use the finicky machine with its nonstandard formulations. You develop recipe after recipe from scratch. (Cream Soda #8, you think, seems especially promising.) Then, years later, you launch your own house-made seltzers and, in a moment of unrestrained ambition, you decide to stop selling bottled, commercial sodas entirely. Even Dr. Brown's. Yes, even the Black Cherry and Cel-Ray.

And it's still not done. Now, you smile politely at your customers' dismay when they can no longer grab a can of soda with their take-out lunch and nod synpathetically at those most earnest of drinkers, the Diet Coke loyalists. You accept losing thousands of dollars in beverage sales. At the same time, you account for higher food costs because your drink bases, made from real fruit, are good for only four hours. You create and hope that your customers will enjoy the special syrups that taste slightly different day to day in flavors that come and go with the seasons.

You stand back and imagine a dining room full of people sipping sodas made by friends and neighbors from fresh fruit and whole spices.

You win some -- these sodas are phenomenal and you're proud and ecstatic, if a bit exhausted. They more than make up for past battles lost. There's still that ongoing campaign to source enough briskets from grass-fed cattle to feed your hungry customers. And let's not forget the recent Pickle Squirmish, when you tried charging for kosher dills -- in a deli! -- and took a fatal stab at explaining the seasonality of cucumbers.

Yes, one step at a time, one step at a time.

For now, you're happy to offer a taste of history: the sweet satisfaction and elusive effervescence of real seltzer flavored with homemade syrups.

Save the Deli: In Search of Perfect Pastrami, Crusty Rye and the Heart of the Jewish Delicatessen
By David Sax (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2009)
Sax's campaign to save the deli, as one mom-and-pop sandwich shop after another closes, brings him to the Bay Area this week. Stop by and meet him at Saul's this Saturday afternoon or at Book Passage on Monday at the Ferry Building. Listen to him read from his new book and then ask him for yourself: which city makes the best pastrami and why do we have to drink egg creams so fast and, yes, that most important question, what is the future of the Jewish delicatessen?

Saturday, October 24, 2009
4:00 pm
Saul's Restaurant and Deli
1475 Shattuck Ave Berkeley, CA 94709
(510) 848-3354
Map

Monday, October 26, 2009
6:00 pm
Book Passage
1 Ferry Building, #42
San Francisco, CA 94111
(415) 835-1020
Map

When I was twelve, my father took me to see a little film called Evil Under the Sun-- the last in a trio of tony Agatha Christie whodunit films that somewhat shaped the person I am today. The first, Murder on the Orient Express, cemented my passion for train travel and smart suits; the second, Death on the Nile, ignited a fondness for women in floppy sun hats and beautiful, wee handguns. It was Evil Under the Sun, however, that really stayed with me. Some would understandably think the reason was Diana Rigg having a field day being a classic, haughty, soon-to-be-murdered bitch, or getting to see Roddy McDowall in a never-ending series of sailor suits, but they would be wrong. Not too far off, but wrong, all the same.

It was Maggie Smith. Maggie Smith and her cocktail parties. I don't think my father had any idea what he was getting me into when he took me to see that picture.

It was a simple scene, really-- almost a throw-away, apart from firming up the tension between Diana Rigg's Arlena Marshall and just about everyone else residing at an exclusive, Mediterranean island resort. While passing around a tray of hors d'oeuvres to her guests, Smith asks the world-famous detective Hercule Poirot (Peter Ustinov) if he would care for a cocktail. "Care for a cocktail, Monsieur Poirot? A White Lady, Sidecar, Mainbrace, or Between the Sheets?" Poirot rejects them all and asks instead for either crème de cassis or sirop de banane. With a bit of a sigh, she acquiesces, only to move on to offering Diana Rigg a sausage-- the one thing of which one would think she had had enough, given her proclivities.

And that was it. I followed the murder well enough, and the inevitable, intricate unveiling of who-done-what. But I kept thinking about those cocktails. As I sat in that theater, I decided that I was going to be the sort of chap who drank Sidecars and Between the Sheets while Cole Porter tunes were played somewhere out of sight on a piano. I filed their names away in my memory and bided my time.

When the appropriately legal time finally came nine years later, I unleashed my inner Maggie Smith, marched into a very (to me) upper, upper lounge in Los Angeles, and ordered a Between the Sheets from the bartender.

"I'm sorry," he said, "You're going to have to tell me what's in it." When I recovered sufficiently from the shock, I next asked for a Sidecar. "Can you tell me what's in a Sidecar? Maybe if you knew what you were asking for, I could help you." Devastated, I settled for a martini to drown my nine years-worth of disappointment. How on earth could a bartender at the Atlas Bar & Grille-- a place decorated in the luxe fashion of a 1930's Supper Club, a venue that showed old films from that era on a giant screen, no less-- not know how to make a Between the Sheets? Given its Hollywood location, I should have realized that everything, maybe even my beloved fantasy cocktail, was an illusion.

Perhaps he was right-- I should have done a little research. I bought a book of classic cocktail recipes, just to make sure the screenwriters hadn't made up the names.

They did not.

Very much relieved and filled with renewed hope, I made my way back to the bar the following week-- this time armed with the recipe. I called out the ingredients in a voice that was only vaguely Smith-like, and finally got what I'd been waiting for. I got my Between the Sheets.

Between the Sheets

Like most cocktails, the origin of the Between the Sheets is murky. Some people believe it was created at Harry's New York Bar in Paris (the place, incidentally, where George Gershwin partly composed An American in Paris) in the 1930's. Others hold fast to the notion that it was the brainchild of a bartender at the Berkeley Hotel in London in 1921. It doesn't matter much to me. I'm just grateful that someone created it.

The Between the Sheets is a very close cousin to the Sidecar-- a drink most bartenders now know, thanks to the surge of interest in classic cocktails. Made of white rum, brandy, and Cointreau, it even comes with a sugared rim. It is a tart, refreshing member of the sour family of alcoholic beverages.

The following recipe is not the classic one. While white rum is well and good in its place, I think it has a bit of trouble competing with the brandy and other flavorings. I have substituted my favorite dark rum instead, which makes its own, indelible impression without overpowering the other players.

Not unlike Dame Maggie Smith herself, if you ask me. I know you didn't ask me, but if you did, that is what I would tell you.

Ingredients

1 ounce dark rum. My personal preference is Zaya (thank you, Shannon).

1 ounce brandy

1/2 ounce Cointreau

1/2 ounce lemon juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup

Ice

A twist of lemon or orange peel for garnish, which is purely optional. Or sausage, if you are feeling saucy enough and think you can pull it off.

Preparation:

In a cocktail shaker, insert ice. Pour all liquid ingredient over ice. Close lid of shaker. Shake vigorously and pour into an awaiting martini glass. Garnish, if that pleases you.

I've been wondering lately about pancakes.

Why, for instance, do the majority of Americans use box mixes when homemade pancakes are almost as fast and easy to make?
Why do most people think the first pancake is inedible and should be thrown out?
And why do people press on their pancakes when they're making them?

An inquiring mind wants to know.

I should clarify that when I say pancakes, I mean the traditional American variety that is usually served with maple syrup. Baked apple pancakes and lacy Swedish pancakes are noteworthy, but are not on today's agenda. No, when I crave pancakes, I want good old American flapjacks.

Why you should ditch the box mix
Pancakes-- also known as flapjacks, hot cakes and griddle cakes -- are part of the quintessential American morning meal. They're made in diners, fire houses, home kitchens, school cafeterias, and most other places serving breakfast throughout the country. But if they're so beloved, why do most people resort to using box mixes? I realize these mixes are supposed to be faster and easier than cooking up a batch of homemade pancakes, but honestly, from-scratch pancakes just taste much better than anything you can make from a box mix. They are also easy to whip up and take only about a minute longer to prepare than "quick" mix pancakes.

Yes. One minute more. That's it. I’m not lying. Although you can make super fancy pancakes -- the kind where you need to separate eggs and then fold beaten egg whites into a luscious thick batter -- these extra steps are in no way necessary for mouth-wateringly good pancakes. You also don't necessarily need buttermilk to make your pancakes. Sure, buttermilk gives the pancakes a tangy flavor that is worth the effort of buying a carton of the stuff, but if you're deciding to use a box mix simply because you don't have buttermilk on hand, then just use regular milk. Another option is to let a teaspoon of lemon juice sit in your milk for a few minutes to mimic the buttermilk flavor. It's surely better then the water most mixes require as a wet ingredient.

In addition to the usual preservatives and hydrogenated fats you find in most boxed mixes, what you're paying for is really just flour, baking powder, and a little salt. You can easily toss these together in that minute I was talking about earlier (or less time). After that you just mix in eggs and milk or buttermilk and your batter is ready to go. That's it. Easy peasy. Oh, and far cheaper than buying anything premade.

And, if you feel you really need something premade for hectic mornings, just mix up and a big batch of the dry ingredients in a Ziplock bag so you only have to add egg and milk when preparing later.

Why the first pancake can be delicious
Now for the idea that you need to toss out the first pancake: ridiculous. For some reason people assume the first pancake will not live up to your pancake expectations and so should be thrown away. In Pieces of April -- that 2003 film starring a young Katie Holmes looking pretty edgy for the future Mrs. Cruise -- Katie (a.k.a. April) refers to herself as the first pancake, which alludes to her feelings that she doesn't think her mother loves her as much as her younger siblings.

Poor sad sack Katie, I mean April, is so so wrong about first pancakes. Maybe her mother (the amazing Patricia Clarkson) made a soggy first pancake, but that's probably because she didn't preheat or own a seasoned cast iron pan. If you use one of these (or a cast-iron griddle) and simply heat the thing to make sure it's nice and hot before you pour in your batter, you should have a wonderful first pancake.

Preheating is really the key here, although using cast iron also helps. Most other types of pans don't regulate heat as well as cast iron and also aren't as flat on the bottom. Cast iron, however, radiates heat beautifully and so creates the perfect atmosphere for batter to crisp up and cook perfectly. If you don't have a cast iron pan, you can purchase one almost anywhere (from Williams-Sonoma to Target or Ace Hardware) for around $30 and you can use it to cook pretty much everything from pancakes to stews and even cakes.

Tips and Tricks to Making Pancakes
The first general rule is please, oh please, don't press on your pancakes after flipping. I am always amazed when people do this. Why press on something when you want it to be fluffy? It also doesn't make it cook any faster. Leave the spatula alone and just hold on for a minute or two while the pancakes cook. You'll have fluffier and airier pancakes with a little patience.

Don't over mix your batter. Although leaving small lumps may make you a bit uncomfortable at first, stirring or whisking too much will make your pancakes rubbery. Stir just until ingredients are incorporated and then stop. Smooth batter equals bad pancakes.

Grease your pan with butter, which gives the pancakes a crisp buttery finish. Be sure not to add more than a thin coating of butter to the pan, however, as you simply want to prevent sticking. Too much butter or oil can make the pancakes soggy.

Wait until the air bubbles are mostly popped before you flip your flapjacks. Once you pour the batter into your hot and greased pan, the pancakes will start to cook from the underside up, causing air bubbles to form in the cakes. You can tell when to flip by just watching the air bubbles. If they are evenly popping all over the pancake, you can flip. If not, then you may end up with a bit of a batter disaster in your pan.

For consistently-sized pancakes, use a ladle to scoop the batter out. If you don’t care if some flapjacks are larger than others, you can use an acrylic bowl with a pouring spout (which is what I use).

Cast iron pans can get pretty hot over time, so be sure to lower the heat if your pancakes seem to be getting darker than golden brown.

Try not to use overly thick batter, which usually results in a slightly burnt outside and underdone inside. If your batter seems too thick, just thin with a little milk until your batter pours easily from the ladle or bowl.

Playing with your pancakes
As great as pancakes are, it's fun and yummy to spice things up a bit. Here are some alternate serving and cooking ideas for making pancakes that you might like:

The most obvious here are blueberries. Mix them in and cook. Yum.

Cut bananas or apples into 1/4-inch pieces and mix into the batter.

Add chocolate chips to each pancake. I like to add these once the batter is in the pan as they can sometimes clump up in the batter. Plus you can make happy faces with them this way.

Add a bit more milk to the batter than normal so you can make crepe-like pancakes. Spread jam inside and roll up. Top with powdered sugar.

Cook berries in a pot with some sugar and spoon onto pancakes instead of syrup.

Cook bananas or apples in a pan with butter, sugar, and cinnamon and serve on top of the pancakes.

Add a tablespoon or two of pureed pumpkin plus a little extra sugar to the batter for pumpkin pancakes.

If you're in the mood for something savory, add some crumbled bacon to the batter and then top with maple syrup when they're done. Bacon with syrup is a great combination.

However you make them, resist the box.

Pancake Recipes

Whole Wheat Buttermilk Pancakes

Makes: Enough for four people

Ingredients:

Note: If you don't have white whole wheat flour, just use 1 cup white unbleached flour

1/2 cup white whole wheat flour (I like the King Arthur brand)
1/2 cup white unbleached flour
1 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup buttermilk (or one cup regular milk with a teaspoon of lemon juice if you don't have buttermilk)
1/2 cup whole milk (omit if using regular milk instead of buttermilk)
1 egg

Preparation:
1. Mix your dry ingredients in a bowl.
2. Whisk your egg into your buttermilk and/or milk and then mix into the dry ingredients being sure not to overmix (leave it a bit lumpy).
3. Heat a cast iron pan or griddle on medium heat and wait until the pan is nice and hot.
4. Add enough butter to the pan to lightly grease the surface (don't add too much. You can always add more butter to your pancakes later).
5. Pour in enough pancake batter to make3-inch round.
6. Wait until the bubbles in the batter are popping throughout the pancake.
7. Flip the pancake and cook for another minute.
8. Gently set pancake on plate and serve with whatever you want.

Other Recipes
Easy Buttermilk Pancakes -- I've used this recipe numerous times. You can easily make only 1/3 of the recipe (i.e., 1 cup flour, 1 Tbsp sugar, etc.) for a small week-day morning breakfast).

Fancy Weekend Pancake recipe -- This recipe takes more time as you need to separate the eggs and then fold the egg whites into the batter. The process makes the pancakes incredibly fluffy with a nice crispy exterior, so it's worth the trouble if you have a leisurely weekend morning.