My favorite restaurant in New York City is Prune. It’s on first street between first and second avenue, and it’s so small that a lazy blink will guarantee completely missing it. Prune is Paris small, and if you need a lot of personal space, it’s not the place for you.

Gabrielle Hamilton is Prune’s chef-owner. The first time I met her it struck me that she was unafraid of voicing strong opinions, but didn’t take herself too seriously. Her food is soulful, clean, clear, straightforward, homey, and humorous. While many chefs speak a rhetoric the media adores, Ms. Hamilton’s restaurant walks a talk unspoken, but felt down to your very toes, should you have all your senses open when you dine there.

Prune’s tiny space presses disparate people against one another and the conviviality is sweaty and infectious. That close, familial feeling starts with the staff first, and many people who work at Prune were only going to stay there for a few weeks but are there year after year, still, when I make my pilgrimages.

Luckily for us, two Prune chef alums, Ginevra Iverson and Eric Korsh have recently migrated West to Sebastopol and opened Eloise, in fact. After getting ahold of the news on EaterSF some time ago, I knew I would make the drive, and who I would take. My friend DB said, after looking at the menu for the first time, “Yeah, but the problem is we’re going to need to order everything on there. I will not be able to choose.”

Luckily, DB and I are both famous eaters, and we didn’t have to do much choosing last night, because we ordered all the appetizers except one and for that we substituted a Hudson Valley free-range foie gras torchon with Eloise garden grown peaches and pears.

What we ate, in order from extra ordinary to just great:

Chilled Tomato Soup, Heirloom Tomatoes, Mint & Chives; Mushroom Toast, Poached Egg, Black Truffle, Bordelaise; Roasted Bone Marrow, Parsley & Shallot Salad; The Foie Gras Special; Bibb Lettuce, Warm Feta, Scallion, Red Wine Vinaigrette; Puntarelle, Chopped Egg Vinaigrette, Candied Bacon; Octopus and White Anchovy Salad, String Beans, Fingerling Potatoes; Crispy Sweetbreads, Pickled Vegetables, Raisin-Mustard Vinaigrette.

Next time we’ll focus on entrees.

If we could have ordered one it would have been Ricotta and Chard Gnocchi, Brown Butter, Sage. But after eight dishes, in three courses, we were happy to get the dessert menus and call it a night well spent.

Eloise is aesthetically stunning. Seeing its understated sign on Gravenstein Highway South won’t prepare you for a restaurant both elegant and comfy, country and city, understated and decorated, whimsical and clean, open and intimate. Upon entering you’re greeted with small bar and a fabulous floor of Moroccan tiles. A number of vegetable gardens, currently in seasonal transition, flank the kitchen; and a wall blocking the old highway from the dining room’s view is terraced with herbs and wildflowers.

If you can get to Eloise before night, it’s one of the best restaurants to watch day turn to dusk and then thick inky blue sky. Sebastopol remains a mostly agricultural town and the air, especially as we Northern Californians gently enter autumn, is redolent of apples, grapes turning into wine, and cow pastures; sometimes all at once. Night skies are dense with stars when clear.

Eloise’s dessert menu is tiny compared to it’s salty side. Three items were offered and Ginevra’s special of rhubarb crepes and vanilla ice cream was offered verbally by our gracious waiter. Off the menu we ordered Sugared Doughnuts with Raspberry Jam, and the special. While I can appreciate offering simple, straightforward plates in the last course category, I found desserts lacking. I’m a tough customer, though, and I was glad not to see San Francisco’s ubiquitous lowest-common-denominator pannacottas and molten chocolate cakes.

Cooking in and for New York City is a very different experience than that of Northern California. Chefs Iverson & Korsh have given birth to a bi-coastal restaurant, both in technique and inspiration, and my hope is their success makes way for other chefs inspired by farm-kitchens to journey West or East, depending, expanding our ideas about what ingredient-driven cuisine can be.

Eloise, at its nascent six weeks old, is doing a great job. And my belief is that it will only get better. As leaves turn, and fall arrives, Sebastopol explodes with the fruit it’s famous for: apples. And perhaps these chefs, inspired by Gabrielle Hamilton’s unique humor, carry with them a mischievous secret: they’ve moved from the Big Apple to seduce California’s apple county.

Restaurant Eloise
2295 Gravenstein Highway South
Sebastopol, California 95472
707. 823. 6387

View Larger Map

Through veils of secrecy and language written to intimidate even the most scholarly, Pie Off was turning out to be something to be reckoned with. People who came just to watch and snack and spy were turned away. Gorgeous, fruit-laden pretties were disqualified for blatant disregard for the rules, and stories were told about past year rule breakers, who were, conspicuously, missing from the day’s event.

Pie Off was going to be a serious affair.

Weeks before the date, emails came from an undisclosed location. There was an argument about whether I would be allowed to make a pie. Ransom notes for the precious Pie Off Trophy were hung in Oakland’s Temescal neighborhood. Christo* was hired to wrap the secret location. More emails came.

I was asked to be a Pielebrity. Star-struck like a fan in line all night I said yes, having absolutely no idea what I just said yes to.

Pie Off Rules were challenged. An interloper threatened meat pie and the Committee issued a warning.

“Dear Bakers,

As you have no doubt heard, the Pie Off Steering Committee and International Sisterhood/ Brotherhood/ Sockpuppethood of Pie Bakers, Iron Ship Builders and Boilermakers, PIE-TCB have been embroiled in a summer-long dispute over banned substances appearing in award-winning filling throughout the ten-year lifespan of Pie Off, Pie Off East, and all related Pie Off events.

I am happy to report that these disputes and allegations have been resolved in their entirety, and thankfully without much media fanfare. And while I am not at liberty to discuss any settlement terms or amounts, suffice it to say that you will most likely see the value of gourds, tomatoes, and lamb suffer a rather steep decline in the coming months.”

A baker’s dozen of questions about filling categories were raised and answered,

“the combo rule is one of preponderance. bakers/teams are allowed to enter combo pies. the choice of category should be based on whichever fruit is the preponderant ingredient in the filling. if different fruits share equal representation in the filling, then bakers/teams are allowed to make a game-time decision, submitting their pie into one of the appropriate categories.”

The date approached. An invite arrived on Facebook. The location stayed covered. I asked the Committee if I could talk about Pie Off on Eggbeater. A firewall protected email exchange took place. I could tell about the event but give no details about where exactly pies would be dropped off and judged.

The exact response to my question was this:
“In general, the committee does not mind, and perhaps even supports, online discussion of Pie Off, Pie Off International and Pie Off, The Movie. We would only ask that any blog mention of this Sunday’s event does not amount to an open invitation. This “eggbeater” village intimidates us more than a little, quite frankly; and our humble gathering wishes only to craft pie with the tools and notions that our mamas gave us.

In short, the answer is yes.
you dig?”

The clincher? No spectators. You had to bring a pie to get in the door. But you could bake a pie with one other person.

One would think with so many rules, regulations and verbiage, one might feel constrained. But many pies came, were eaten, judged and enjoyed. In fact, before pies were eaten, someone set up a serious pot of oil in a back yard and made whole fried pie snackettes.

In total 38 pies were made in 5 categories.
1. stone fruit (peach, nectarine, cherry, plum, apricot)
2. Tree fruit (apple, pear)
3. berry (strawberry, blueberry, cranberry)
4. Caneberry (raspberry, blackberry, boysenberry, marionberry)
5. citrus/tropical (lemon, key lime, banana, mango, etc.)

My Pielebrity status translated into being the overall judge and I, along with another pie discerning individual, chose 1st, 2nd & 3rd place after judges picked a #1 pie in each of their categories. Pie bakers could also cast a Baker’s Choice ballot and a fellow who had never, in all of his life, made a pie before, won with basil-blackberry.

At the end of the day, after tasting 38 pies, I had a better understanding of just how awful bad pie could be and how inventive one could become with a pie plate, something called homemade pie dough and “filling” could be interpreted.

I also saw the power of Pie. Pie binds us. Pie tells a story. Pie is simple, and very very hard. Pie explains hospitality in edible form. Pie is summer. Pie is conviviality. And Pie competitions are fierce.

And, as said best by the Aligator,
Revenge is a dish best served Pie.

About 16 years ago, right before I began cooking professionally, I met with a chef who gave me some advice about the path I was about to take. She said I had two choices: culinary school or just get into kitchens and learn from the bottom up. Behind curtain number two was a short list of all the magazines I should subscribe to, to amend my on-the-job learning in lieu of paying an establishment to teach me everything I needed to know.

Gourmet magazine was number one on that list. I promptly subscribed and read every issue cover to cover until I could no longer. I let my subscription run out in the late 90′s. Gourmet stood still, was getting dusty and needed a breath of modern air.

In stepped Ruth Reichl, in the spring of 1999. Some say she ruined the magazine and the letters section for a number of months stated this angrily from innumerable longtime readers, many of whom stopped buying and reading Gourmet then and there.

But I happily picked it in the summer of ’99 and haven’t looked back since. I consider Gourmet magazine required reading for myself and anyone who works for me. Whether it be for thoughtful articles, controversial viewpoints, industry insider dish, lively photography, food travel-logs, or Ms. Reichl’s editor page, I love Gourmet like never before.

And so when I learned that Gourmet.com was launching this week, I could barely wait! I’m sure I speak for many when I say that keeping up with media is overwhelming. Hearing about a new online community or an easier way to read a newspaper can feel like bad news because it means I might not have time for something else I barely have time to do.

But this is really good news. Because it means if you don’t have access to Gourmet’s printed pages, you can now see and read all there is if you have access to the Internet. Plus, for those of us without unlimited TV channels, there’s Gourmet’s Diary of a Foodie. From Gourmet.com:

“With the breadth of international travel combined with a passion for food, Gourmet’s Diary of a Foodie delivers a unique cultural look at the world, food first. Each episode dives into the diverse realm of the world’s greatest cuisine, from New Zealand’s purest honey to Italy’s famous Parmigiano-Reggiano. Infused with ‘green’ elements, the delicious series reveals examples of sustainable farming and fishing, as well as new efforts to cultivate organic dairy, meat, and plant products.”

With just a few minutes to spare this evening I caught the ineffable Marco Pierre White cooking Dorade (fish), “Jamaican-style,” an Italian chef named Fabio Trabocchi reminded me how Nepotella could be used in the savory kitchen, (my favorite way to use Nepotella is to make “mint” chocolate chip ice cream), and I watched Sam Mason make desserts with beets and mustard.

Having Gourmet magazine online means I can now link to articles I loved reading, food reporting that makes me think, not just salivate. It means I can recycle piling magazines sooner.

Welcome Gourmet.com! Here here for dynamic reporting, envelope-pushing, well-researched, pavement-pounding food journalism!

Have you been yet? Thoughts?

A number of years ago I was met with the challenge of cooking for someone undergoing intensive rounds of chemotherapy and radiation. Chemotherapy is an umbrella name for hundreds, if not thousands, of combinations of specific cell-killing drugs used to attack various cancers. Every regimen, every specific “cocktail” of chemo, produces a whole slew of side-effects which affect people differently. Depending on any number of factors concerning the disease and its host, the specified chemotherapy treatment varies.

I did not consult books when I began cooking for my friend. I consulted her because I knew what she had liked before and we worked together to make food she could eat, had an appetite for, and could keep down. Because chemotherapy is poisonous and can kill the person before eradicating the disease, it is given in rounds with various lengths of time between them. It has a cumulative effect and one can only continue the regimen if one recovers enough in that time to do it again. Because the person undergoing treatment gets weaker as time goes on, and has no idea how the side-effects will progress, it’s important to go with the flow and try a number of different foods prepared all sorts of ways to see what hits the mark.

There were a few guidelines I was following. Strong flavors such as garlic and onions, and all spicy additions were nixed, although onions cooked down very slowly until dark and caramelized became sweet enough to eat. Salt and pepper were omitted completely over time. Acidity in all forms was also left out. That meant no fruit, vinegar, black tea or coffee. Although sometimes very ripe fruit could be handled in small doses. Sugary sweetness went out the door although not-so-sweet baked goods could be enjoyed if their textures were easy to chew and swallow. Ginger was helpful in all forms because it is has anti-nausea properties, as does watermelon, which was news to me. Also watermelon is mostly water so it helped with hydration.

If the person you are caring for is open to using marijuana to stimulate hunger or as an antiemetic (a drug that prevents or reduces nausea and vomiting), there are a number of ways a person can ingest it. Doctor prescribed, or otherwise. Locally there a few people licensed to use marijuana in foods they make for people with cancer. For obvious legal reasons I cannot link to them but I found one such person and he made baked goods and confections easily ingestible by my friend.

My friend and I joked that it was with very bland foods she took most pleasure. A number of times internal mouth sores flared up and were so painful they made it impossible for her to want to eat anything, although cool, bland, soft foods helped soothe her. I cooked rice, vegetables, chicken, tofu in almost no oils or seasonings. Soup was always around. I made custards and brought fruit still warm from the farmers’ markets. Plain yogurt garnished a lot of plates.

Cooking and baking for someone with a life-threatening illness changed my perspective about food and my profession forever. Until daily sustenance is unattainable or the enemy, it’s impossible to understand what powers a simple meal holds. It is an honor to care for someone dying in this way because food is life and to give a person in constant pain one small sensual pleasure is an immeasurable gift and grace.

More information can be found here at The Cancer Project.

Whew! All the head-spinning can blur what’s right in front of us: a neighborhood joint, a down-to-earth 50 seat house, or the corner place you pass by every day on your way to work. In these Off-Broadway or Off-Off Broadway stages there are great plates going out every day, every night, year after year. The food is good or great, or it’s consistent. The chef is famous or not, and the cooks on the line want to be chefs one day or they continue to collect the paycheck that keeps their family fed.

As a professional cook it’s important for me to read and eat and meet new restaurants. But the dishes I crave, the dining rooms I want to have a good conversation in, are rarely those I’ve eaten at once. Anything can be amazing once. But how does that dish taste month after month, year after year?

Samovar Tea Lounge was going strong at 18th and Sanchez at the edge of The Castro District when I “discovered it” a few years ago. It didn’t need me to talk about it’s specialness. It’s busy morning, noon and evening. People inside are studying, knitting, reading, sipping, recovering, dating, scoping, listening and imbibing. Samovar’s food menu is straightforward and small, changing slightly with the seasons. There are breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner and high tea offerings. Tea service menus include food and tea in a theme and they are always gracious about letting you order one of the components from these packages with another dish.

My absolute favorite dish is what Samovar calls their egg bowl. Two delicately poached eggs lay next to mounds of flavorful rice and are garnished with the protein of your choice; smoked duck, salmon and tofu are often in rotation, and there’s a little ramekin of fresh ginger grated in soy sauce. I’m also a big fan of their house-made scones (some of the best in the Bay Area as far as I’m concerned!), not just because the little bowl of clotted cream for spreading is the real deal.

Of course tea is Samovar’s main attraction. From their website,

“Our goal is to create a company that is good for this world. We partner with tea experts and suppliers from small family farms and estates, and local businesses and organizations. Through our service and environment we aim to embody the tea lifestyle and provide a place for our customers to escape, relax, and be healthy.”

I know little about tea intellectually. But on a recent visit I drank a Keemun that silenced me. Not being a tea sophisticate I like my black tea with milk. Samovar’s staff are well trained, thoroughly knowledgeable and never judgmental. The woman who brought me this tea for which I am not worthy poured hot water into a tiny clear glass dollhouse teapot filled with twiggy leaves and immediately upon filling it poured the barely steeped liquid into a small, handle-less tea cup. She explained that this Keemun was so strong, even a 5 second steep would render the flavor too strong!

I sit here before you to report that this Keemun was not made better by milk. Brew of the gods. Hot liquid like no other. I didn’t want to tell you because then there would be less for me. But then I thought you might not believe that Samovar, the place you barely see, the place producing no beeps on your radar screen, was as special as I said, if I did not tell you about this hot elixir, this liquid manna.

At Samovar I have been introduced to two other favorite teas I drink weekly. I go for flavor profiles which list pine, dark, rich, earth, chocolaty, peat, smoky and velvet as possible evocations. If you and I have anything in common, I suggest Pu-erh or Black Velvet.

There’s now a second location of Samovar Tea Lounge in the Yerba Buena Gardens. It’s located on top of the Martin Luther King Jr. fountain and although encased in glass, this location is as warm an environment as their original. You can buy some of the teas they offer, although when I made an inquiry about the Keemun they said it was too new to the menu to have packaged it yet, and there was no promise that it would be. Samovar’s commitment to freshness is amazing and some of the more rare teas will only ever be available if you are drinking them there.

Sometimes I want to go where it’s quiet. I enjoy the trust I feel in these places and feel grateful that they continue to survive in San Francisco– a city not known for it’s ease when it comes to owning and operating food businesses. I desire familiar food that’s consistently good and sometimes blows my mind. I have a hankering for a little sameness and a dash of surprise.

And when it’s time to take a break of trying the latest thing, I hope you’ll take cover from the hustle and bustle, or just the fog, and give Samovar a try, even if it’s a pot of tea. I can {almost} guarantee your pleasure at doing so.

As we inch towards the ledge that is 2008 I am taking a lot of time for reflection. I’m thinking about transition and change and how we never know exactly where we’ll land and how we’ll feel about arriving there, even though we think, with all our planning and list-making and contriving, we can control everything.

This last year brought me back into the fold of an industry I wasn’t sure I’d ever fully join again. Almost five years ago someone very close to me was given less than three years to live and I exited Restaurant Kitchens to take care of her, help her die, and then grieve fully. In this grieving period it’s been impossible to tell whether I was done with my industry out of default, choice or exhaustion. And I had no idea if I’d ever go back, or if I wanted to.

Restaurant work is not part time work. It takes all of you and then some. It’s intimate and physical the way sex and relationships are. It engulfs, and tars and feathers you. It’s like your family of origin, cults, gangs and religion. We say you’re either on the train or not and after working the line for a period of time it’s easy to see why the military and kitchen work are so often compared.

For years I worked morning, noon and night and missed anything and everything important in anyone’s life I knew or the world at large. To walk away from My Industry when my friend became terminally ill was no small feat. But I knew. I knew that I could only do this immense piece of life’s work once. And then, without any warning, it changed me forever. It changed the cook I was to return to being, if I was to return.

In March my blog Eggbeater will be three years old, and I will be 40. I name the numbers because, in the time-line of this story it means that I began writing in a public forum while my friend was dying. I began writing about myself, being a pastry chef, fruit, teaching and local agriculture when I was not in A Kitchen per se. I was away for a long time, and yet I stayed close by keeping up with professional friendships and writing about the branches of my work. I worked hard to reconcile calling myself a chef and not having anyone’s name on my jacket but my own.

In professional cook-speak, if you are not {actively} in a kitchen you are not a cook, or a chef. If there are stoves without your name and sweat on them, you have no business wearing whites or calling yourself a cook. And in turn you have no right writing like you’re on the inside if you aren’t. We’re like punk rockers or OG’s— if you’re not in the game, you’re posing, full stop. It makes feelings more black & white than grey, and opinions about who deserves what title when are not hidden from audible view.

Those who write about my industry, and are not in it, are barely taken seriously. Sure there’s hand shaking and schmoozing and photo shoots in cushy houses, but those people are considered Outsiders and are treated thusly. (We need them to “Become Known,” they know it, and so the snake swallows its tail.)

But what does it mean to both hold the title of chef and writer? What does it mean to be both critic and critiqued? What does it mean to be the underdog cook and the despised? Who is allowed to write about the inside? And who can do it justice?

My industry has enjoyed it’s day in the sun concerning major media outlets in recent years. We have dozens of cooking slots, reality chef shows, superstar chef darlings, and certain restaurants getting press week after week, month after month, in every magazine– because they are so well known on TV.

But that’s not my reality. And TV, no matter how “real,” is edited beyond recognition: airbrushed, liposucked, botoxed, and teeth-whitened to a point of Hollywood psychosis, cannibalistically feeding on itself to survive.

The truth is that the truth still isn’t out there. And my industry, like the insider’s trade that they are, doesn’t mind keeping it that way.

Don’t pay attention to the man behind the curtain.

We will happily feed you lies if it sells dinners, or we have no say in the matter because TV has historically been entertainment and we suppose you’ll be smart enough to figure that out. Or we will happily let Them feed you lies because the dirty truth of the matter is that the restaurant industry is plagued by contradictions so entrenched, class and gender and racial disparities so vast, environmental crimes so grossly overlooked and gaping holes so wide, we look like a corrupt government with erased histories and disappearing leaders.

Am I allowed to report on the good, the bad and the ugly or should I keep our dirty laundry close? Should I stand back and smile cynically when person after person signs their life away to culinary schools and shiny happy media “chefs” tell them to follow the bouncing red ball as they join in one big sing-along to the tune of the Big Lie about how wonderful and easy being a chef is? Or maybe I should just stand by, keep my head down and shut up when a female cook gets passed by for a promotion or salary raise because of her sex?

Can I make a difference as a chef-writer? When my voice is so small compared to the big stars? What does it mean to straddle a fence separating two historically enemied roles? Can I stay true to both crafts?

I don’t have answers to my questions. I can blame the new media-ness of it all. For we are all a part of the Internet’s Great Experiment. “Every one’s” on the w.w.w. looking, eating, slurping, voraciously consuming, arguing, posing, learning, dishing, mud-slinging, opining, mis-informing and dawdling. The concept is that everyone can have a voice in a forum, and now those historically critiqued can talk back.

I might be naive to think that hearing from real chefs in real kitchens matters but I do. It’s a very different experience now working in a restaurant, and then writing about it. Blogging buoys me– writing down my life is my way of telling you, the you who read and listen and converse, what one real life in a kitchen among kitchens, a cook among cooks, is like. Writing from my heart, and being part of a small community of other chef and cook bloggers, is important because we can be a small movement educating those who want to know the true life of professional cooking, not the made-for-TV version.

You? Do you care where you get your truth from? Does it matter to you if said source has fact-checked, painted a pretty and easy-to-digest picture or done their time on the front lines? Do you think chef-writers are a good or dreadful thing? Do you appreciate a transparent restaurant industry or do you wish it would all stay behind closed doors like it always has?

You have until tomorrow, Friday December 21st, to donate to Menu for Hope, and bid on any number of priceless prizes donated by food bloggers all over the world. As you already know, Ms. Pim of Chez Pim has organized this impressive fund raising event for the past four years. This year she’s picked The United Nations’ World Food Programme, as she did last year, but for 2007 she’s made a special request,

“With a special permission from the WFP, the funds raised by Menu for Hope 4 will be earmarked for the school lunch program in Lesotho, Africa. We chose to support the school lunch program because providing food for the children not only keeps them alive, but keeps them in school so that they learn the skills to feed themselves in the future. We chose to support the program in Lesotho because it is a model program in local procurement – buying food locally to support local farmers and the local economy. Instead of shipping surplus corn across the ocean, the WFP is buying directly from local subsistent farmers who practice conservation farming methods in Lesotho to feed the children there.”

In the spirit of supporting local food economy, one of the USA West Coast prizes has been amended as of the afternoon of Wednesday December 19.

(UW17) Dinner for 8 prepared by Brett Emerson
Brett Emerson, owner of the soon to be opened Contigo, is offering dinner made for 8 people in his new Noe Valley home. Wines to be paired and picked by none other than our very own wine blogging superstar, Alder Yarrow of Vinography. And desserts will be made by yours truly, Shuna fish Lydon of Eggbeater. Triple threat, no doubt.

This all-star dinner could be yours for a mere $10!

More USA West Coast prizes can be found here at Rasa Malaysia. But if you’re a jet-setting world traveler you may want to bid on a personal tour of the El Bulli kitchen {EU31}, or have lunch with your not-so-secret lover at Alain Passard’s 3 Michelin star L’Arpege in Paris one lovely afternoon {EU40}, to name just 2 insanely amazing possibilities!

The prizes are varied and beyond your wildest imagination. Delicious in every regard. Please take a few minutes to head over to First Giving and help us raise a record amount this year. (Last year we raised $60,925.12)

How To?

- To donate, go to First Giving. To specify a specific prize, follow the instructions on the Chez Pim website (scroll down to the instructions and screenshots).

And until I moved to North Berkeley myself, I was a tried and true Berkeley Bowl Trooper, from the old school– back when it started in the old bowling alley. I still love to get there when I have my list in Excel spreadsheet form and the time is early enough before rush hour clogs the insane parking lot and creates lines worse than LA traffic.

But now I have been seduced by Monterey Market. I used to laugh at its size, comparable to Rainbow Grocery but tiny compared to Berkeley Bowl. But then. But then I found its buried treasure. One day two summers ago I stopped by for a few things and bought an entire flat of the best boysenberries I have ever seen, smelled or tasted! I went home and ate about four baskets, made pie with a few more and froze the rest. Returning just a day or two later I found that I had bought something which would not be back again until the following year… Sad…but also something to look forward to.

You can go to the same place day after day, year after year, and find everything ok, get what you need for the price you like and shrug shoulders at the prospect of change.

Until. Until one day you pick the best looking toad you can find for toad soup and when you get through checkout you realize your bag is exploding with a Prince and your car has been moved closer to the horizon, where a pretty sunset awaits you.

A few days ago is a perfect example. I needed some citrus and butter and cranberries. I like to stock up on cranberries before they disappear so I can whip up a batch of my favorite walnut-cranberry-orange bread, which I love to toast and smother with butter. (It really can be whipped up– it’s a one bowl and wooden spoon recipe!)

I’m in love with citrus and I always look at what’s going on. Scratch and sniff is the best way to learn about new citrus. Both blossom and skin will tell you what unique flavor and perfume are awaiting you. While scanning high bins of yellow and green and orange globes my eyes did a double-take on a gnarly looking fruit.

YUZU! Fresh, California grown Yuzu were staring at me. Like a collector at a yard sale discovering a priceless chair, I monitored my breathing and tried not to look around frantically. I bit my tongue when I wanted to jump up and down and yell, “Hey?! Do you see what I see?! Look! It’s fresh Yuzu, here, in Berkeley, California, yours for the having!! Can you believe such a thing? It’s so wonderful!!!!!”

But instead I kept walking and went back nonchalantly, looking puzzled on the outside and then hunkered in and bought at least 5 pounds.

Yuzu is a fruit I only saw one of once, while living in Napa. A famous chef I knew had smuggled one in from a recent trip to Japan. Like Bergamot, it’s an ugly mottled fruit, but it’s exquisite perfume and flavor lives in every molecule of its being.

Monterey Market is a cold market, mostly outside and seemingly unkempt. But it’s a facade, truly, because you never know what you will find there. Bill Fujimoto buys small and large shipments directly from farmers single and corporate. The back room, unseen by the average consumer, is a carefully organized chaos of fruit and vegetable back-stock/ cases, available to restaurants, chefs and caterers who want to buy direct and avoid (or amend as the case may be) produce companies or farmers’ markets.

And if I haven’t sold you yet, I beg of you to rent or buy Eat At Bill’s, a lovingly made documentary about Monterey Market and its beloved workers. Watch it just to see the massive pumpkins, which get brought in on elephant transport trucks and the joy so many people share about cherry season, and one particular cherry in particular.

When we talk about shopping and eating local we often overlook our markets with rooftops. But Monterey Market, Berkeley Bowl, The Food Mill, Rainbow Grocery, Bi Rite market, Farmer Joe’s and so many more in the Bay Area are all about shopping locally. These businesses are still independent, many of them family and/or co-operatively owned. If you can’t get to the farmers’ market, find your CSA box lacking this week or next month, or just want to see that there are a dozen kinds of sweet potatoes, countless citrus varietals, far out and funky shaped mushrooms, head over to a new market for countless fruit and veggie adventures. They await you in one corner of the bay or the other…

Being in the restaurant business means every one I know wants to tell me their latest eating-out stories. They want my ear, they want to run something by me. They whisper me close and want to find out the dirt I might know about so and so. “So,” they start by leaning in and looking furtively around, “What was it like working for X?!”

But mostly, people want to tell me about how much the service sucked at their latest eating-out experience. Customers pull me aside, friends and strangers alike, and tell me about a faux pas they witnessed, or experienced.

Because I wear a double-breasted button up white coat for most of the hours during a given day or week, I am now The Expert On All Aspects Of The Restaurant Industry. I’m supposed to offer advice, help, insight, compassion, dishing fuel and maybe I’m even supposed to solve the state of the service industry in North America restaurants.

But what I’ve come to is something I’ve felt and known for some time now: being a waiter is one of the hardest positions in a restaurant. It’s neck-in-neck with washing dishes. Before my fellow whites clad brethren walk away and label me a traitor, pick up and deftly pocket stones a la Shirley Jackson-style, let me clarify.

A waiter is the liaison between kitchen and diner. She/ he must intuit the tone of a kitchen, its cooks and what moods Chef is in. He/ she answers to a myriad of managers (hopefully, although I’ve worked in some restaurants that have no one in charge on the floor), needs to be on the good side of who’s hosting (oftentimes this can be an alliance worth more money than either one would care to admit or have anyone know) hungry and impatient diners, and on top of it all, waiters must have multi-tasking skills far outweighing those of a juggling, elephant- training, acrobat.

At the end of their shift, if they’re not shifty, waitstaff “tip out” bussers, bartenders, hosts, and (sometimes) dishwashers. And still, to this day, some diners don’t have enough math skills to figure out percentages translating into the only language which waiters speak fluently: money.

A few years ago, well-spoken NY Times restaurant critic Frank Bruni went under-ground and became a waiter just to see how hard it was. “… I traded places and swapped perspectives, a critic joining the criticized, to get a taste of what servers go through and what we put them through, of how they see and survive us.”

“How they survive us.”

An apt line. Which brings me to my radical idea.

Many say that the only way to end America’s wars in the Middle East would be to have a mandatory draft. If everyone could feel how war presses down on us all, then maybe we would be a little less clueless and apathetic.
My radical idea is this: I say we should have a mandatory service industry draft. I am the first to admit what a terrible waiter I make. I worked for over a decade behind a counter, tried on being a waiter once or twice, and now, although my position is called Chef, I cater to the needs of people I may never meet face to face. I am their servant, so to speak.

I’m in the pleasure business. In the business of pleasuring people.

And when you’ve catered to stranger’s needs, not because it was fun, but because it was paying your way in the world, your compassion gear shifts and fires on a denser oil, through a different, more varied, set of pistons. Your ability to assess the whole situation, not merely your own, changes. When you wait on people all day who treat you like a servant, like you’re stupid for the mere fact of creating their double-decaf-single-shot-soy-mocha latte with extra foam or bagging your croissant or pointing you in the direction of the clear, waterproof band-aids, you tend to become a different customer when it’s you looking for the newest gadget at Sur La Table or bagging onions at the farmers’ market or ordering your sweater over the phone.

In the United States we don’t treat front of house staff like professionals. We assume they’re writers and musicians and actors or students saving money for the other thing they’d rather be doing. Diners and restaurant management staff treat them like this, so it would make sense that most waiters do not treat themselves like professionals. If the circle turned in a different direction, imagine what kind of service you’d have!

My inner cook folds her arms angrily and pouts. “Why are you standing up for them? Look how much money they make!” Yes, you’d think a person who takes home 15-30%, working in a business that makes, overall, at the end of all that’s said and done, about 3-5%, selling a product made by persons earning one third to one tenth (yes, this is not an exaggeration) what said staff will take home in a year, might want to work a little harder, for you, the diner, and me, the kitchen manager and food creator, but…

maybe we will all remain complacent, lazy and apathetic until our name is called in the:

Mandatory Service Industry Draft.

People often ask me what the difference between hot cocoa and hot chocolate is. I like to think the answer is something akin to the difference between Soul Food and Southern Cookery/ Cuisine. Both are from the American South, but Soul Food is a little more specific.

Hot cocoa and hot chocolate are basically the same animal, but hot chocolate is a mink and the former is more like a very soft cat. Hot chocolate is made with bar chocolate and hot cocoa, with, yes obvious – cocoa. Both can be made with milk, cream or a mixture of both.

Depending on your age, and the particular geography you were standing in when you had your first sip of hot cocoa, means the cocoa your body registered as the correct hot cocoa taste will differ from someone else of another age and of another place.

For the sake of this discussion we will say there are two kinds of cocoa. Natural and European or Dutch Process. Natural cocoa is light in color and DP is dark. For baking, knowing the difference is of utmost importance. But in the case of a drinkable, it more has to do with your taste memory and preference. If you were me, or from New York City, you might have had your hot cocoa epiphany at the now, sadly, closed Rumplemeyer’s. Hot cocoa at this venerable restaurant was served in silver teapots. It was rich and aromatic and very hot. You sat in plush pink banquets surrounded by other reverent small people and their adult companions. It was benchmark hot cocoa. I have a feeling it was made with natural cocoa because when I make hot cocoa now it is the cocoa I have the strongest emotional memory reaction to.

Hot chocolate is a rich enterprise. Although you can use milk, bitter/semi-sweet chocolate begs {heavy} cream, and then what you have on your hand is the opinionated view of your expensive chocolate versus how you’re going to explain to anyone else why it’s ok to drink ganache. We’re talking seriously supple, silky and smooth, but at the cost of your arteries, and for me I would rather slather a wide mug of hot cocoa with whipped cream to amend the whole milk.

The most famous hot chocolate of my generation is created by the slightly wicked, darkly humoured Maury Rubin, pastry chef/ baker/ owner of City Bakery in NYC and Los Angeles. He is smart enough to serve it in a thimble-sized portion for reasonable, informed persons, and has a larger portion for those unawares of what lies within. Not only are there no words to describe what Maury’s hot chocolate is like, even if I had any, they would disappear under the weight of this brutally rich concoction. Yes, I like it, but I have been known to share the shot size with more than one other person. No joke, yo.

I have a few tricks should you like to take hot cocoa on as a end of year meal amending or replacing project. Years of making beverages, ice cream, cakes, frostings, ganache, truffles and more with cocoa and chocolate have given me insight to a number of cocoa and chocolate personality quirks.

Chocolate and cocoa have little to no flavor when they are cold or frozen. Cocoa’s chocolatey-ness can only be achieved if added to warm or hot liquid. If cocoa is added to cold or cool liquid and then heated up, the cocoa will float to the bottom of the pot and burn on the bottom. This scorching will destroy the flavor of the dairy.

Every cocoa is not only different in terms of its manufacturing process, but not one of them is ground to the same particle size. You may think you don’t care about such minute details, but 4 teaspoons of one cocoa is not 4 teaspoons of another. If you are making a large batch of hot cocoa, as I have begun to at work in preparation of all the ice skaters in Justin Herman Plaza, measure cocoa by weight. If you have a scale that can be adjusted to grams, do so. Good quality cocoa is strong and a smidge goes a long way.

If you are making hot chocolate, it is best to chop chocolate fine and place in a large, wide mouthed bowl. Heat cream/milk until just boiling and pour over chocolate. Let sit a few minutes and then whisk in tight concentric circles, from the interior, out. Although you can make hot chocolate with milk, you will find that cream or half & half will emulsify with the solid chocolate better. It’s never a good idea to cook chocolate right in a saucepan because it burns so easily, but if you want to heat up your mixture again or more, place bowl over a pot of boiling water and whisk until desired consistency. Or a microwave can be you fast friend.

I’m one of those odd ducks who likes a big mug of hot cocoa to be unsweetened or barely sweet. But if you like yours a little sweeter try using brown or raw sugar. The caramel-ly flavor of these sugars backs up the chocolate taste nicely. And lastly, a tiny pinch of kosher salt is a nice finesse.

Because hot cocoa and hot chocolate are made up of just two or three ingredients, making sure your dairy is the best quality is a good idea. Ultra-pasteurized milk and cream can sometimes have stabilizers that read on the tongue as bitter and can interfere with your hot cocoa purr.

This is how I make hot cocoa:
I pour about 2 cups of whole milk into a non-reactive saucepan, sprinkle about a teaspoon of sugar in, and then turn flame to low or medium. When milk is hot to the touch I sprinkle in cocoa one teaspoon at a time, whisking constantly, until it tastes right. I continue to whisk for about 5 minutes, but I try not to let it boil.

I don’t know about you, but I’m glad it’s cold again. I love summer, but as an East Coaster originally, I like autumn to give way to winter, without a 90-degree October in between. Because without a bunch of cold and dreary months I would have a hard time explaining away my hot cocoa for breakfast, lunch and dinner habit.