Perhaps you’re a dim sum disciple of the venerable Yank Sing located in downtown San Francisco, but there’s plenty of other places in the Bay Area to snack on this delightful Chinese fare.
I am terribly fond of martinis, Edward Gorey, and sleeping with many pillows.
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There are so many melons one could possibly squeeze for juice, but I am currently loving Piel de Sapo. We sometimes eat it like candy at the end of our work shift when it’s in season. It’s flavor is sweet and subtle and vaguely cantaloupe-like. Apparently, it is also referred to as Santa Claus melon, because it can be stored for so long that it can sometimes keep until Christmas.
There’s an unassuming little dish we serve at our restaurant. The Greeks ask for it by its name: horta. Non-Greeks ask for “a side of braised greens” because they either don’t know the proper term for it or do know but are afraid to sound out the first, faintly phlegmy syllable in public.
I popped into my corner store around noon to pick up some hot sauce in order to add a little zing to my falafel wrap, but as I stood in the back aisle trying to decide between the Sriracha and Tabasco and Cholula, the desire for an altogether different kind of heat began to overtake me.
By “eat light,” I mean feed myself with as many (good) mood-enhancing ingredients as I can get my hands on. This Holiday Season, while I still plan on consuming my fair share of spiked eggnog and Christmas cookies, I’ll be self-medicating with more fruits and vegetables and less bourbon.
When my friend Roy alerted me to this new piece of technology, my first reaction as both a career server at a fine dining establishment and someone resistant to new technology was to view the E La Carte tablet as vilely impersonal and a threat to my profession. Over the last 24 hours, however, I have calmed myself as I weigh what I imagine the cons– and the pros– are of this particular piece of equipment.
I thought long and hard about which singer to single out and pay tribute to. Judy Garland? Too obvious. And the only thing I could think of doing for her was making a meal comprised entirely of pills, which is beyond my scope as a home cook. Bing Crosby? I suppose I could have taken some young, tender chicken, beaten it mercilessly, and marinated it in Minute Maid orange juice, but I didn’t have the stomach for it.
The way I felt about my Ovaltine ice cream was precisely the way I feel about Christmas– what was initially a simple, delightful, and comforting idea had transformed into something complicated, annoying, and stress-inducing. This little exercise in making a malted ice cream became, in it’s own way, an unexpected gift– I realized that it wasn’t Christmas (or my ice cream, for that matter) that I had grown to loathe, it was all the the other stuff– the irritating marshmallowy fluff– that gets in the way.
Thanks to Rosetta Constantino’s My Calabria (written with Janet Fletcher) and the interest it has sparked in me, I feel as though the old toe is finally beginning to heal. The book is a long-overdue source of pride and celebration for those of us whose families emigrated from there. For those who are not of Calabrese heritage, it brings this remote area of Southern Italy closer; it sheds light upon the cuisine of a region that has been largely ignored by the rest of the world.