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.

Let's face it. Leaving one's comfort zone is intimidating at best and often downright scary. It doesn't matter what you're doing -- traveling to a new place, trying a different career, or cooking food from a different culture -- entering into the realm of the unknown can sometimes seem like more trouble than it's worth.

This is why I avoided cooking any type of Asian food for years. My childhood training in my mother's Italian kitchen made dishes like prosciutto pie, homemade ricotta cheese, and handmade pasta seem easy compared to delving into the unknowns of curries and fish sauce. I preferred sticking with olive oil instead of trying peanut oil. It didn't help that I never even tried real Chinese food until I was in college. When I was a kid, Chinese food equaled Chow Mein Night, where the chow mein came out of a can and was served with Uncle Ben's minute rice -- mom kept the arborio for risotto and rice balls. I loved Chow Mein Night mostly because we were allowed to eat our dinner on trays in the living room while watching TV, but was always left feeling slightly queasy at the mass of baby shrimp and stringy vegetables on my plate. (My friend Shirley, on the other hand, grew up in an alternate Korean universe, where they would occasionally have Italian night. This meant her mother would cover the kitchen table with a red-checked tablecloth and serve spaghetti with jarred marinara sauce on top. We were destined to be friends.)

Yet once I was introduced to Asian cuisines, they topped my list of favorite foods. I distinctly remember eagerly trying hot and sour soup for the first time. I was in a little strip mall restaurant in Goleta, a town just outside Santa Barbara where I went to school. I was fascinated with the lovely shapes of the tree ear mushrooms and couldn't get enough of the mixture of vinegar and black pepper. And then there was the Kung Pao, General Tso and so much else, the flavors waking up taste buds I never knew I had. It was all very tame stuff as far as Chinese food goes, but the experience was enchanting and completely eye opening to me. I didn’t explore Thai, Korean, Japanese or Vietnamese foods until after college when I lived in L.A. Again I started with docile dishes, but soon graduated to sucking shrimp heads that had been cooked in spicy sauces. Yum.

But as much as I came to love eating all types of dumplings, savory noodles, and curries, I never really tried my hand at cooking anything more basic than stir-fry until after I had my kids nine years ago. By this time I realized that making dumplings was a lot like making raviolis, and simmering Asian sauces was no more difficult than the multitude of Italian dishes I had made over and over. So I was excited to receive a copy of Food Made Fast Asian when I was working on some Williams-Sonoma books. Inside were easy instructions for making everything from dry-fried string beans with pork to Thai green curry shrimp and lemongrass pork. After trying a few dishes out on my family, I began to feel more confident using fish sauce, hoisin, coconut milk, and peanut oil. I then branched out and tried Asian recipes from other sources, and finally started to experiment on my own. It took a while, but I finally gained enough confidence to vary ingredients and spices to suit my family's tastes instead of blindly trusting unknown and untried recipes each time.

Following is a dish I created one day when I had fresh Pacific Halibut and a hankering for something made with fish sauce and lime juice. I wanted some crunch so coated my marinated fish in corn starch and then fried until crispy. To add extra flavor, I combined soy sauce, fish sauce and lime with a dash of sugar and then simmered the already-cooked fish in it. If your family can handle some heat, I recommend adding some chile paste to the mix. The dish is simple and uncomplicated to make and an easy way to work in some fish sauce if you've never tried it before. I call the dish "Vietnamese-style" simply because fish sauce and lime are often used in that country's recipes. But let's be serious, as you've probably guessed by now, I am in no way an expert on Vietnamese cooking -- or any Asian cuisine for that matter. But we all have to start somewhere. I am unabashedly in love with Asian foods and eager to make them at home, much as my friend Shirley, who was raised on kimchi, now makes some fantastic pasta dishes.

How about you? Still stuck in your cooking comfort zone or have you stretched your repertoire and tried dishes that were once foreign? I'd love to hear some stories.

Vietnamese-style Crispy Halibut

Serves: 4 people

Although Pacific Halibut works great in this recipe, feel free to substitute another type of fish fillet. Almost anything should work, including shrimp or scallops.

Marinade
Ingredients:

1/4 onion
2 Tbsp ginger
2 cloves garlic
1 tsp soy sauce
1/2 tsp fish sauce
1 tsp water

Crispy Fish
Ingredients:

2 lbs Pacific halibut cut into fillets
1/2 cup corn starch
2 Tbsp vegetable oil
1 tsp sesame oil (optional)

Finishing Sauce
Ingredients:
1 Tbsp soy sauce
1 tsp fish sauce
1 tsp fresh lime juice
1 tsp water
1/2 tsp sugar
chile paste to taste (optional)

Preparation:
1. Puree the onion, ginger and garlic cloves for the marinade and then mix in the soy sauce, fish sauce and water.

2. Cover halibut with the marinade and refrigerate for at least one hour. When ready to cook, scrape the marinade from the fish.

3. Heat a large pan until it's hot and then add 2 Tbsp vegetable oil plus 1 tsp sesame oil.

4. Gently coat each halibut fillet with corn starch and then lay in the hot oil. Fry for 2-4 minutes on each side (depending on the thickness of your fillets) and then turn. Cook the other side.

5. In a separate pan, heat the finishing sauce ingredients until everything is combined and the sugar has disolved. Turn off heat.

6. When all fillets have been cooked through, lay the fish in the pan with the finishing sauce mixture, turning the burner onto medium heat. Gently sauté the fish in the sauce for about 30 seconds on each side and then serve.

7. Serve with steamed or fried rice.

Roasted Beet Inspiration from Pasta Sfoglia

When I saw this gorgeous dish of Farro Spaghetti, Beets, Brown Butter, and Poppy Seeds featured on Grub Street New York a few weeks ago, it was so beautiful it hurt my heart a little.

A recipe from Pasta Sfoglia, a new cookbook by Ron Suhanosky and Colleen Marnell-Suhanosky (owners of the acclaimed Italian restaurant Sfoglia, with locations in NY and Nantucket), this dish is striking with its ruby red stain and specks of poppy seeds.

The book explains that beets, together with poppy seeds, are typical in dishes of the northern Italian regions of Friuli and Alto Adige. While the combination sounds wonderful -- really, I can't wait to try the recipe word for word -- I didn't have poppy seeds on hand and I wasn't ready to commit to all that butter for a simple weeknight meal. Oh yes, and then there was that pesky aversion to goat cheese I have. (I know, first the butter, now this? Please hold the hate mail, I do love flavor, I promise you.)

And so, the bastardization of Pasta Sfoglia's recipe began.

Instead of covering the beets in olive oil and water to roast in a baking dish like they suggest, I went with my tried and true, easy method of wrapping the beets in foil and roasting them on a baking sheet. A little less mess and 1/4 cup less olive oil.

I couldn't find farro spaghetti, but I did have some whole wheat spaghetti in the pantry. A tip for anyone who has ever tried whole wheat spaghetti and hated it, try Barilla's Plus Multigrain Pasta. Unlike many other brands of whole grain pasta, it doesn't taste like cardboard. The texture and flavor are surprisingly similar to regular pasta. Especially in this dish where the color and accompanying ingredients are so spectacular, you won’t even notice the difference.

Barilla Plus Multigrain Spaghetti

For the brown butter sauce, I cut down the 6 tablespoons of unsalted butter to only 3 tablespoons, and made up for the missing half by adding 3 tablespoons of olive oil.

Instead of poppy seeds, I used walnuts chopped finely.

Instead of goat cheese, I used Boursin. Its creamy texture was a good match, as was its tangy, rich flavor. The perfect substitute I thought, with an extra boost of garlic and herb flavoring, and not a trace of the gaminess I find so deterring in goat's milk products.

In the end, despite my changes and substitutions, I think the essence of the dish remained intact to Sfoglia's original recipe. The flavor of the roasted beets is front and center. And what an elusive flavor to describe that is. What does a beet taste like? (Besides red).

It is clean and earthy. Mellow. Wholesome. Paired with the herby tang of the cheese, the toasted walnuts, and brown butter, the dish exudes a woodsy warmth to it. Strong oak trees, sun speckled leaves, and rich dirt crumbling through my fingertips.

Whole Wheat Spaghetti with Beets, Brown Butter, Walnuts

Adapted from Ron Suhanosky and Colleen Marnell-Suhanosky's recipe for "Farro Spaghetti, Beets, Brown Butter, Poppy Seeds" (Pasta Sfoglia).

Serves: 4-6

Ingredients:
1 pound red beets, cleaned with leaves and stalks removed
1 package Barilla Plus Multigrain Spaghetti (14.5 oz)
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 tablespoons olive oil
¼ cup walnuts, finely chopped
1 teaspoon kosher salt
½ cup pasta water
4 tablespoons Boursin cheese

Preparation:
1. Preheat the oven to 450°F. Wrap the beets in foil and place on a baking sheet. Roast for an hour until the beets are tender through. Let cool until you can handle them.

2. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil.

3. Peel the beets and cut into chunks. Tip: wear gloves or place a plastic baggie over your hand to protect your fingers from getting stained. Using a paring knife, peel the skin off the beets. It should come off easily.

4. Add the beets to the bowl of a food processor fitted with a metal blade and process to a rough puree. Add the spaghetti to the boiling water and cook according to the package directions.

5. Add the butter to a 10-inch skillet. Turn on the heat to high. Brown the butter, about 2 minutes. Add the olive oil. Add the chopped walnuts and toast for 1-2 minutes (be careful not to burn). Add the pureed beets, salt, and the ½ cup pasta water to the skillet. Stir to fully incorporate.

6. Use tongs to remove the spaghetti from the pot and place them directly into the skillet with the sauce. Stir to combine.

7. Divide the spaghetti into equal portions and place on warm plates. Use two large soup spoons to form little oval mounds (called quenelles in culinary speak) of the Boursin. Place a quenelle of Boursin on top of each serving.

8. Serve immediately.

Men's Journal recently dubbed it one of America's best neighborhoods. The San Francisco Chapter of the Hells Angels is still there, and it may not be in your tourist guidebook. Nonetheless, the Dogpatch neighborhood is getting a lot of buzz lately. Where the heavy industry used to be, a burgeoning arts district and dining scene has popped up--particularly around the intersection of 22nd and 3rd. In 2003, the neighborhood was voted an official historic district of San Francisco--helped by the fact that it was relatively untouched by the 1906 earthquake and fire.

The Dogpatch is a nine square-block area below and to the East of Potrero Hill. More specifically, it's bounded by Mariposa Street to the North, Tubbs Street (23rd) to the South, Highway 280 to the West, and Illinois Street to the East. Part of its growth and popularity can certainly be attributed to its proximity to Potrero Hill, SOMA and downtown--and to the lightrail constructed a few years ago. Currently there is a lively debate regarding land-use issues, and worker's cottages and historic homes are being overshadowed by loft-style condos and the looming biotech industry. But never fear: its gritty, urban veneer is alive and well. So before you try to predict what will become of one of the last authentic neighborhoods in San Francisco, cruise around the Dogpatch for a handcrafted latte, a quaint Sunday brunch, or a sandwich at a pop-up lunch venue.

Piccino Coffee Bar: My favorite city is Paris. And on the rare San Francisco afternoon, strolling along a quiet side street, discovering a sweet little bakery or street-side flower shop, I’ll have a "Paris" moment. I had such a moment recently while aimlessly walking around the Dogpatch listening to the new "Where the Wild Things Are" soundtrack (amazing) and marveling at the unusually hot temperature (like close neighbor Potrero Hill, the Dogpatch is often the sunniest, warmest spot in the city). The first thing to notice about Piccino Coffee Bar is its minimalism: it's essentially a coffee counter with a small but lovely selection of crumbly scones, biscotti, muffins, housemade yogurt, hardboiled farm-fresh eggs, and grab-and-go sandwiches. And of course, coffee--and Blue Bottle coffee, at that. There isn't any seating and they have a big front window that opens in the afternoons, releasing wafts of richly roasted coffee.

It's always really nice when you fall in love with a spot only to learn later that they're committed to using sustainable products and sourcing from local artisans whenever possible--and that they deeply care about their impact on the community. Such is the case with Piccino Coffee Bar. A few of the local vendors they use include Fatted Calf, Andante Diary, Prather Ranch, and Star Route Farms. The standout beverage? The mocha. And let me just say I'm really not a mocha kind of girl. As I enter my (gasp) 30's, I need the strong punch of black coffee in the morning--or sometimes I'll opt for the occasional Americano or latte. But a mocha always seems more like dessert, more frivolous than utilitarian. However, Piccino's isn't cloyingly sweet and still tastes of strong, bold espresso. So many other coffeehouses rely on chocolate made with added sugars and thickeners, but Piccino Coffee Bar uses a special Recchiuti chocolate blend specially designed for them. They actually hand melt it in your cup. Last time I checked, Starbucks wasn't providing that service. And I love that they're not messing around with the caffeine: a small 8 oz. latte automatically comes with two shots. That's what I’m talking about first thing Monday morning.

To remember what a neighborhood coffee shop is really like, stroll into Piccino Coffee Bar. It's not fast, the whole ordering process is a little disorganized, you may wonder why they don’t have more than one person making drinks. But quaint, legitimate neighborhood coffee shops that focus on the quality and the craft of the drink are a dying breed. Do yourself a favor: remind yourself what they're like.

Piccino Coffee Bar
801 22nd St., SF
(415) 824-4224
Hours: Mon.-Fri. 7am-5pm; Sat.-Sun. 8am-5pm

Kitchenette SF
Lunch is having its day in the sun right now. Whether you prefer the carts, counters, bike delivery salumi dudes--it's all out there. But you also get the sense that, while unique and undeniably cool, many of these trends are fleeting. However, Douglas Monsalud and crew at Kitchenette SF serve beautifully constructed sandwiches, a few side salads, a "cookie of the moment," and a housemade beverage from a menu that changes daily--and I can guarantee you, they're here to stay. While the location is unassuming (a loading dock in an industrial strip in the Dogpatch), the food is anything but.

I invited my dad to come along and get a bite to eat recently. He appreciates new neighborhoods, thoughtful food, and innovative design--and I'd heard that Kitchenette SF had all three. Now, first things first: it's tucked away and not easy to find. But sometimes the things you have to really search for taste all the sweeter. We ended up parking before we spotted it, opting to find it on foot rather than driving around the block...again. You'll know you're getting warmer when you see a chalkboard sign out on the sidewalk. Cruise into the loading dock where smells of warm cookies commingle with the noises of businesses unloading goods and trucks backing in to make a delivery. There are some stairs leading into Kitchenette SF's loading dock and a little counter displaying the daily specials. After you order, linger and wait for your name to be called or head down the steps to snag a coveted bench, scattered haphazardly amongst the concrete below. It's all very urban. It's a little hipster. If the food weren’t good, I might think it was a little too cool for school.

I ordered the Marin Sun Farms' pork schnitzel sandwich with braised cabbage and pink lady apples, a peanut butter/butterscotch cookie, and organic strawberry soda with local seltzer. We shared a bag of 4505 chicharrones (ah, after being a vegetarian for twelve years, nothing makes up for lost time like a bag of salty pig skin). The sandwich had a perfect balance of flavors: a crunch and sweetness from the apple, a little kick from the braised cabbage, a light and chewy Acme roll. Although I write about food often, I can't say that sandwiches often bowl me over. That being said, I talked about this sandwich for days afterwards.

More recently, I snuck away from work and ordered the "Warehouse Picnic," consisting of fried Rocky Jr. chicken, a deviled egg, potato salad, corn-jalapeno salad, pasta salad with tomato vinaigrette, farmstead cheese, and Acme bread. Summer perfectly encapsulated in a box. Kitchenette SF has seriously redefined fast food. It's all organic, and most of the ingredients are sourced from local farms--Monsalud says he actually hits up the farms on his days off and, in addition to knowing where the food comes from, he often even knows which row! There's a very deep connection to the origin and meaning of the food they serve--and it shows. Check their website or twitter feed to get information on the daily menu.

Kitchenette SF
958 Illinois, SF.
Twitter: @kitchenettesf
Hours: Mon.-Fri., 11:30am-1:30pm

Serpentine
My friend Anthony was visiting from New York about a month ago, and I was trying to show him a very authentic San Francisco beyond the obvious tourist attractions. Anthony's a little hipster. You know the type: tight jeans, spectacles, deliberately messy hair, and a faux-leather satchel bag. So I was trying to introduce him to spots that were a little edgy, a little grungy, a little off the radar. Enter: the Dogpatch and Serpentine.

Owned by Erin Rooney (of Slow Club fame), Serpentine is located in the former warehouse of a tin-can factory boiler's room. Because of its high ceilings, large windows, and sea glass fixtures, it almost feels more like a large artist's loft rather than a bustling place of business. Adding to that whimsical feeling: much of the normal din of a restaurant is missing. Mid-day on a sunny Sunday and it was crowded but strangely quiet. It's got to have something to do with the acoustics of the building--regardless, I have to say, with constant refills of coffee and good conversation, we could've sat there all day enjoying the peaceful morning.

Now, for the food. I am often prone to hyperbole. I'm not sure where I got this trait, but for those that know me, it's a very real fact. But believe me when I tell you that the dish I had at Serpentine was the most perfect brunch dish I've ever had. Although their menu is seasonal, the "Red Flannel Hash" seems to be a staple. It consists of chunks of beautifully roasted beets, potatoes, Prather Ranch beef brisket, two poached eggs, and spinach. It's filling but not in a 'stack of pancakes' kind of way. More in a fresh, balanced, satiated kind of way.

We also tried the Alaskan sockeye salmon benedict with fried green tomatoes, pickled red onion, and lemon cucumber. We were definitely bummed that the fried green tomatoes were noticeably absent, but the salmon was cooked perfectly and the hollandaise sauce was surprisingly light and creamy. We also tried the buckwheat strawberry pancakes. Now I'm one of those people that doesn't like to order something at a restaurants that I can make well at home. Pancakes fall into that category. But something is different about Serpentine's flapjacks: they actually have large pieces of strawberry cooked into them, and are served with lots of butter and incredibly rich syrup.

All in all, the food was seasonal, conscious, and well executed. This may be my new favorite brunch spot as it seems the usual see-and-be-seen weekend crowd hasn't yet descended, so there isn't an obscenely long wait and you don't feel guilty lingering over numerous cups of coffee. Which is exactly what we did. Anthony went back to Brooklyn satiated--and hungry to return.

Serpentine
2495 3rd St., SF.
(415) 252-2000
Hours:
Brunch: Sat and Sun: 10:00am-2:30pm
Lunch: Mon - Fri: 11:30am-2:30pm
Dinner: Tues - Sat: 6:00pm-10:00pm

Just For You Cafe
I've been on a bit of a beignet binge lately. Blame it on the cooler mornings and evenings, the fact I'm training for a marathon and feel entitled to eat whatever (and whenever I'd like), or the depressing economy--whatever the reason, I've been turning to little fried pillows of dough for comfort.

And Just For You Cafe is coming through for me. This neighborhood spot used to be located on 18th St. in Potrero Hill, but in 2002 they moved to their current location in the Dogpatch. Their tagline: "We served slow food before it was popular." And they're not kidding: they use local charcuterie and Zoe's all natural meats, eggs from Petaluma farms, the bread they don't make on-site they buy from Acme, and the seafood and produce is mostly all local. Their emphasis is on Southern and American style cooking, with specialties like Hatch green chili huevos rancheros, creamy grits, and Creole crab cakes.

A few weeks ago, I was over that way visiting a friend and we decided to pop in after seeing the prominent "Beignets" sign in the window. It was pretty darn crowded--people bring their dogs, toddlers, the Sunday paper, out-of-town parents...and all gather waiting for a table indoors. Thankfully they provide a free coffee cart outside so you can fill up a cup and hang out on the curb. Life could be much worse.

We waited about a half hour, and were eventually seated at this little booth table all the way to the back of the restaurant. Right by the kitchen--on an unusually hot day. Nothing like a little sweat on the brow to inspire heavy beignet consumption. But we managed. Just For You Cafe serves a plate of three beignets, self-proclaimed "fresh, fluffy pillows of perfection." I would have to agree. While their beignets definitely have a little more heft than others served throughout the city, they are worth the trip. After years and years in business, they've perfected the perfect dusting of powdered sugar and the light brown, buttery exterior. Eat them right when they arrive warm: our table noticed once they cooled down, they became a bit chewy (not really what you want in your "fluffy pillow of perfection").

In addition to our little pockets of fried dough, we tried the "Crabby Bennie," Louisiana sausage, and biscuits. The Creole crabcake atop the traditional eggs benedict rocked. I love a good crabcake--and they're surprisingly tough to find. But here it's all about the crab (versus all about the breadcrumbs, leaving you wondering if there's even any crab present). And the biscuits, while we both felt they could've been lighter and flakier, had a nice crumb and traditional baking soda flavor. So while it looks like a typical greasy spoon from the outside (and inside, really), this little diner's got class. Owner Arienne Landry's proving that, with quality ingredients and local products, Southern comfort food can be mastered right here in the Bay Area.

Just For You Cafe
732 22nd, SF.
(415) 647-3033
Hours: Mon.-Tue. 7:30 a.m.-3:00 p.m.
Wed.-Fri. 7:30 a.m.-9:00 p.m. (now serving dinner)
Sat.-Sun. 8:00 a.m.-3:00 p.m.
Cash only

Featured Recipe:

Peanut Butter Oatmeal Cookies w/Butterscotch Chips
From Kitchenette SF
Ingredients:
7.5 oz butter
6 7/8 oz organic sugar
6 7/8 oz brown sugar
6 2/3 oz. peanut butter
2/3 oz. vanilla extract
2 large eggs
4 2/3 oz. oats
10 oz. organic flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp salt
10 oz butterscotch chips

Directions
Cream together the butter, sugars, peanut butter, and vanilla extract. Beat in eggs one at a time. Stir in the remaining ingredients, mixing completely. Use an ice cream scoop to make portion cookies onto a lined cookie sheet.

Small Cookies: Bake in a still oven (375 degrees) for 6-8 minutes, rotating the pan for even cooking.
Larger Cookies: bake at 350 degrees for 9-12 minutes.

Other Spots to Pop Into:
Hard Knox Cafe: 2526 3rd St., SF. (415) 648-3770
Sundance Coffee: 2293 3rd St., SF. (415) 503-1446
The New Spot: 632 20th St., SF. (415) 558-0556
Yield Wine Bar: 2490 3rd St., SF. (415) 401-8984

View SF: Dogpatch Restaurants & Bars in a larger map

While chatting with a friend the other day over lunch, the conversation turned to travel-- where we've been, where we'd like to go, etc.

"Have you ever been abroad?" I asked my friend in a tone not unlike a half-soused society matron at a garden party. He nodded. I was expecting him to mention one of the usual places one goes to expand one's global horizons, like France, or Italy, or Japan.

"Well, I lived in Luxembourg for three years."

This wasn't the answer I had expected, which both threw me and delighted me at the same time.

"Luxembourg? Seriously?" I had to admit that, over the past forty years, I had never given that country the time of day, except perhaps in thinking that it's name gave the Benelux countries a decidedly luxurious ring.

And all of a sudden, I needed to know more about the last remaining Grand Duchy in existence. "Do they have their own language or do they speak French or German? Are they called Luxembourgeois? Do they look like regular Europeans with ten fingers and ten toes and whatnot?" And, lastly, since this was lunch and I was very hungry, "What do people in Luxembourg eat?

My questions were patiently answered. They do speak French and German, but they have their own, distinct language-- Luxembourgish. By the sound of things, however, the Luxembourgeoisie weren't above borrowing the occasional cup of nouns from their neighbors.

The people, who look rather normal by European standards so I am told, are called Luxembourgers, and they eat very well, thank you very much.

"Is there a national dish?" I asked, which is a foolish question, given the fact that even the French or the Greeks or the Japanese would have trouble coming up with their own.

"Well, there's Bounen," he said. The sound that came out of his mouth was neither "boon-in" nor "bone-in", but somewhere in between. "Basically, it's beans and ham." When I asked him how to spell it, he told me he was uncertain, since no Luxembourger he knew could spell it either.

And so, there we were, waiting at the bar for a table on a busy Saturday afternoon, talking about Luxembourg. A glass of wine at my elbow, and interesting fellow to talk to, and a Cole Porter tune running through my head.

"Well, I guess I know what I'm writing about this week," I said.

So here I am, writing about Bounen.

The dish itself is not called Bounen, but Bouneschlupp-- Bounen is simply the Luxembourgish (Luxembourgers, please correct me if I am wrong on this and I will gladly update) word for beans. In this case, green beans. Bouneschlupp-- green bean soup. With potatoes, bacon, and onions. To put it into terms that I could easily understand, from a cooking standpoint, at least, it's a chowder-- green bean chowder.

It might not be as elegant or interesting as other Luxembourger fare like Quetscheflued (plum tart) or Haam am Hée (Ham in hay-- I really wanted to try this one, but hay is hard to come by on short notice). It's hearty and, in the wrong hands, downright homely, but it is immensely satisfying.

To mangle that Cole Porter tune that was invading my head over lunch, it's delightful, it's delicious, and it's, well, de-Luxembourg.

Bouneshlupp

Serves 4 to 6 Luxembourgers

There does not seem to be one go-to recipe for this chowdery soup, which isn't surprising, given the fact that there isn't one go-to spelling for the dish itself. Does one spell it Bouneschlupp, or Bou'neschlupp? It doesn't matter too much, given the fact that there are two generations of Luxembourgers who can't manage to spell their own language, thanks to a government decision to teach only German and French in school and leave the native language for home use. Thanks to a healthy increase in good sense and national pride, that seems to have changed.

This is essentially a culling of various recipes. Some looked very bland-- calling for little more than the beans, bacon, potatoes, and water; others entirely too complicated, with far too many ingredients for a soup as simple and humble as this is and, as far as I can tell, should be. Some folks thicken theirs with flour, some with fresh cream, others with sour cream.

After making the Bouneschlupp, I offered to drop some off to my friend who lead me to the discovery of Luxembourger cuisine in the first place. He reminded me that he has never actually tasted it. I must have missed that part. So there went my expert Bouneschlupp opinion.

It doesn't matter, really. Make up your own Bouneschlupp. Given the fact that there are fewer Luxembourgers than there are San Franciscans and nearly 6.8 billion people in the world, you've got a .0073% chance of knowing someone who is going to tell you you've made it wrong.

Ingredients:

4 cups fresh green beans, cut into bite-sized pieces, with the ends trimmed (about a pound)

2 cups waxy potatoes, cleaned and medium diced (about two, medium-sized ones)

4 pieces of thickly sliced bacon, diced

6 cups of cold water

1 medium-sized carrot, finely diced

1 large shallot, finely diced

2 cloves garlic, minced

Salt and pepper

2 to 3 tablespoons sour cream

Chives, minced

Sausage (optional). Non-spicy, humble, German-style sausage.

Preparation:

1. In a heavy-bottomed Dutch or Luxembourgish oven, cook bacon bits over medium heat until browned and crispy. If using sausage, throw that in, too, and brown. Drain meat, reserving the fat. Set bacon and sausage aside.

2. Return meat fat to the pot, add carrots and shallot (which, incidentally, I just learned is correctly pronounced sha-LOT, and not the other way around [thank you Renée]), and cook gently until translucent-- about 3 minutes. You're not looking to give them color, you're just mellowing them. Add garlic at the end, stir a moment or two, then add beans.

3. Cover vegetables with cold water. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer, covered with a snug lid. Many recipes will call for heavily salted water at this point. I prefer doing my serious seasoning at the end. The meat fat will be salty, remember. Add about half the bacon now, for flavoring purposes, reserving the other half for future, crunchy garnishing purposes. Cook for about 30 minutes.

4. Add potatoes to the pot and stir them in. Simmer for another 40 minutes, covered, or until potatoes are very tender. Salt and pepper to your heart's desire.

5. Turn off heat. If using sausage, bury it within the Bouneschlupp, to warm. Before serving add sour cream, stirring it in gently in order to not totally destroy the now-delicate potatoes. Though some people prefer to thicken their soup with flour, I find that the starch from the potatoes, plus a little help from sour cream, gives the soup all the body it needs.

6. Remove sausage from pot and slice. Ladle soup into bowls, top with sliced sausage, and sprinkle with chives. Serve with crusty bread and presto! You'll feel like you're back in Luxembourg City with the old gang, talking of the good old days of Grand Duchess Charlotte and not caring that there isn't a single university in the land wherein one might earn a degree in Luxembourgish linguistics.

Gudden appetit! Or however one chooses to spell it.

Now that the weather is cooling off, I'm in the mood for slowly simmered stews. After a summer of grilling outside, it's nice to stay indoors and hunker down with a meal that bubbles for hours and makes the house smell warm and inviting. Add in some bacon and wine and the dish becomes even more alluring. Sunny days that meander into cool crisp nights are a perfect time to slow cook meals.

Braising is also the most economical way to serve meats. Unlike grilling, where the most tender cuts of meat do best, stews and braises need cheaper cuts of meat to really shine. After starting the cooking process by quickly searing your beef, pork or poultry, the meat spends most of its time stewing in a liquid (usually broth, juice or wine) where the tough connective tissues break down and become so tender they fall apart. This is why you can't rush a stew.

Braises can be cooked on top of the stove or in the oven, usually in a big pot (I think a cast iron one works best, particularly one covered in enamel as the heat distributes evenly). Slow cookers (or crock pots) are also perfect if you have one.

Normally I stew beef, pork or chicken when braising, but last week I was in the mood for something a little different and ended up buying some turkey thighs instead along with pancetta, brown mushrooms and a bottle of red wine. I envisioned something between a coq au vin and beef bourguignon, but with turkey.

I started by simmering the pancetta in some olive oil and onions. After removing these from my pot, I seared the turkey thighs and then simmered them with the pancetta and onions in red wine and chicken broth, along with some of the early girl tomatoes I roasted and froze the week before. After an hour and a half in the oven, the turkey meat was literally falling off the bone (I could barely lift the meat out of the pot without it falling off the fork). After separating the meat from the bones, I placed the turkey back into the pot where it continued to simmer on top of the stove while I browned some sliced mushrooms and thyme in butter. Feeling like more gravy was in order, I sprinkled in some corn starch and then added more wine and broth to the mushrooms along with salt and pepper. I then added all this into the turkey stew and simmered for another hour.

The result was an aromatic ragu full of nuanced flavor. I was wishing I had some homemade pasta to go with it. Or any pasta for that matter. But as my Mother Hubbard's cupboard was bare, I instead slapped some frozen puff pastry on top and baked for 20 minutes. The puff pastry rose beautifully and added a lovely buttery finish to the dish. If you're not interested in dealing with pastry dough, however, pasta would be a perfect compliment, particularly pappardelle.

With puff pastry or pasta, I really love how the ragu turned out. The turkey was incredibly tender, while the gravy was rich and complex. Served with a green salad, it was the perfect way to end a fall evening with friends.

Wine Braised Turkey Ragu with Puff Pastry

Serves: 4 - 6

Ingredients:
2 large turkey thighs skinned and seasoned with salt and pepper
1/2 cup chopped pancetta or thick-cut bacon
1 large onion chopped
1 Tbsp fresh thyme
2 cups red wine
2 cups chicken broth
2 cups roasted tomatoes or 2 Tbsp tomato paste or 1 can chopped tomatoes
1 cup sliced brown mushrooms
1 tsp corn starch
2 Tbsp butter
Salt and pepper to taste
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 sheet frozen puff pastry (store bought or homemade if you're an overachiever)

Preparation:

1. Heat your pan or pot on medium high. If you are using your oven to make this dish, make sure to use a large ovenproof pot. If using a slow cooker, you can use a regular large frying pan.

2. Sauté your chopped pancetta or bacon in 1 Tbsp olive oil. Add in the onions after a couple of minutes and cook for about five minutes on medium heat or until the onions are glossy.

3. Remove onions and pancetta/bacon from the pan, turn heat up to high, and add the second tablespoon of olive oil to the pan. When the oil is nice and hot, sear the turkey thighs on both sides, letting each side cook for at least 3-4 minutes so you get a crispy exterior.

4. If using tomato paste, then remove the turkey thighs from the pan now so you can brown the paste for a couple of minutes. If using roasted or canned tomatoes, don't add them yet.

5. Add the onions and pancetta/bacon back to the pan with the turkey thighs and then add in 1 1/2 cups of both red wine and chicken stock. Scrape the bottom of the pan so you pick up all the caramelized goodness down there. If using roasted or canned tomatoes, add these now and stir in. Season with salt, pepper, and half of your fresh or dried thyme.

6. You now have three choices:

• If using a slow cooker, you should now transfer everything to your crock pot and cook according to your slow cooker's directions.
• If baking (which is what I do), then stick your ovenproof pot with its lid on top into a 400 degree oven to bake for an hour and a half.
• If cooking on top of the stove, reduce heat to between low and simmer, cover the pot and cook for an hour and a half.

7. After the stew cooks, remove the meat from the turkey bones, set the bones aside to throw out, and return all the meat to the pot to simmer.

8. In a separate medium-sized pan, heat your butter and then sauté the sliced mushrooms with the remainder of the thyme along with some salt and pepper.

9. After sautéing for a few minutes, mix in the corn starch and then add the remaining 1/2 cup each of wine and chicken stock. Mix to create a rich gravy and then add all this to the turkey mixture.

10. Season with more salt and pepper and then simmer for hour.

11. 20 minutes before you're ready to serve the dish, pour everything into an oven-proof dish and top with puff pastry. Bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes or until the pastry is browned.

12. Serve with a green salad and crusty bread.

This is a tale of three girls: an early girl, a dirty girl and a lazy girl. The early girl definitely did not get the worm. She is a luscious ripe tomato with the perfect balance of sweetness and acidity. The dirty girl is often hot and has her own natural beauty...she's Dirty Girl Produce, an organic farm located near Santa Cruz and the grower of those beautiful tomatoes. And the lazy girl? Well, that would be me, but that's a longer story...

Now I'm a girl who loves home-canned foods. Bell jars that have been meticulously sterilized and then lovingly filled with someone's recipe for apricot jam, apple butter, and raspberry jelly make my heart go pitter pat. When someone shows up at my house with a gift of handmade preserves, my esteem for them grows and like the Grinch, my heart grows 10 sizes, bursting with appreciation for their efforts.

I have also been known to do some canning of my own. For years, an old and decrepit apricot tree sat in my backyard, looking scragglier by the year, but producing the sweetest apricots with just a hint of tartness. By far the best apricots I've ever eaten that produced the best jam I've ever made. Thick and sweet, it lay perfectly on freshly toasted challah or in a tart pan. We had so many apricots I made two to three dozen jars of jam each year in addition to making numerous tarts and simply eating tons fresh. We gave away apricot jam at Christmas to family members and neighbors and then had more to keep for ourselves. But then about three years ago, spring arrived and hardly any buds bloomed and the branches lay half naked in summer. We got 5 apricots that year. The next year, the craggy limbs lay bare -- our apricot tree was dead. I've since searched for apricots worthy of canning, but haven't yet found them.

But our apple tree survives, albeit in an even craggier state than the apricot tree seemed to have ever been. Poor tree has fire blight and although I keep saying I need to cut it down, I can't bring myself to actually do it (or, rather, ask my husband to do it). So this year, I am grateful to still have my usual bags of apples ready to be turned into apple butter, waiting in the basement.

What does any of this have to do with the lazy girl? Everything. After years of canning apricots and apples, I'm tired: tired of peeling, tired of sticking produce in a food mill, tired of hot water baths, and tired of sterilizing jars. I love the results, but not the work. So when I bought a 20 lb box of Early Girl tomatoes from Dirty Girl Produce this last weekend, I knew I couldn't bear to can them when I would just have to break out the canning equipment next weekend all over again to turn those apples into apple butter.

So what do you do with 20 lbs of tomatoes and a can-not attitude? What do you do when you have no desire to stand over a boiling pot of tomatoes in 90 degree weather? You roast and freeze. That's right. I let my oven do most of the work and then after that, I'm letting my freezer do the rest.

The roasting idea came from an amazing plate of roasted tomato risotto Kim Laidlaw recently made for me (from her own box of Dirty Girl Produce Early Girl tomatoes). Roasting had given the tomatoes a caramelized intense sweetness that I wanted to replicate. So, after seeding and then roasting most of my tomato haul with some olive oil and freshly minced oregano, the tomatoes were concentrated down into their essence. Each tomato was bursting with a deep summer tomato flavor and the kitchen was filled with a sweet heady aroma. I added in the cooked juices from the seeds and stirred to create a deep red sauce. After it cooled, I ladled equal amounts into Ziplock bags and then set the lot in the freezer. The perfume of summer and sunshine now stored and ready to be used in sauces and stews this winter, accomplished without me burning myself on a hot jar or pressing even one tin lid.

Next week, I'll can; but this week, I'm happy to be lazy.

How to make frozen roasted tomato preserves
1. Wash and dry your tomatoes.
2. Preheat your oven to 375 degrees if using a convection oven and 400 degrees if not.
3. Set up a work area with the following:

• Your washed and cleaned tomatoes
• Pans lined with aluminum foil that have been greased on the top side with olive oil
• A fine-mesh colander set atop a large bowl
• A cutting board
• A knife

4. Remove any blemishes or bruises from the tomatoes and then cut each one in half.

5. Gently squeeze the tomato halves into the colander so the seeds fall inside.
6. Set the tomato halves on the lined baking sheets, cut side up.
7. Sprinkle extra virgin olive oil, kosher or sea salt, freshly ground black pepper, and freshly minced or dried oregano or basil onto your tomatoes.
8. Bake for 50 minutes if using a convection oven or 1 hour if not (or until the tomatoes are cooked through, being careful not to burn them).
9. When the tomatoes have only ten minutes to go, place the juice from the bowl into a pot and slowly boil with some salt and pepper for about five minutes.
10. Remove the pans from the oven and scrape the tomatoes into a small pile using a wooden spatula and then spoon them into a large bowl.

11. Add in the cooked tomato juices and stir.
12. Let cool until room temperature and then ladle into quart-sized freezer bags that have been labeled with the date and contents.

13. Set bags in the freezer until ready to use.

Skordalia. Skor-dahl-YA. Please say it with me, because it is a word one should know, use, and use often. It is from the Greek skordalia, in case you were wondering.

Made from potatoes, olive oil, garlic, and more garlic, skordalia is a purée that may be served as a dip for bread or, even better, as an accompaniment to fried fish or roasted beets. To me, it pretty much sums up the Greeks' love of soft food, which may or may not have derived from earlier times of poverty, when, as a subject nation to the Ottomans, good dental care was difficult to come by.

That is just a theory, however, and completely my own.

Okay, I Make You Some!

A couple of years ago, while sailing through the Cyclades, seven friends, our game-for-anything Kiwi sea captain, and I dropped anchor in a little port town on the island of Iraklia. After a full, hard day of sailing and gin-and-tonic drinking, we found ourselves extremely hungry, but without many dining options, thanks to our arriving very late in the season. By late September, a lot of Greek islanders tend to pack up their things and head for Athens to ride out the boredom of Winter.

Near the top of a little hill above the harbor, we found a pleasant, brightly lit taverna, half-filled with what was left of the tourist trade and what was left of the locals. Perfect, we thought, and enough room to pull together a table for nine. As we looked over the menu posted in front of the entrance, my friend Gary noticed something in the distance.

He pointed to a bit of curling smoke that was coming from behind the scrubby, parched bushes several yards up the hill. I was intrigued, too. In my hunger-fueled imagination, those curls of smoke reached out to us with long, wispy cartoon fingers and pulled three of us by the nostrils further up the hill.

What we found was another taverna-- dimly lit and much less crowded, unless one counts the two dozen or so cats roaming about, aggressively begging for food. We were greeted both by the smell of a whole lamb roasting-- unmanned-- over an open fire, and the shrill yell of a very tan, very blonde Greek woman. Her ire was cast in the direction of a very tan, very not-blond Greek boy. She pointed to the lamb as she yelled. He withered, made his way over to the rotisserie, and started to slowly turn the crank; sulking and looking at the lamb as though he felt it had fully deserved its death, but angered by the fact that he was the one chosen to carry out the disposal of its remains.

"Oh, God. We have to eat here," was what one of us said. It doesn't matter which of us, because it's what we were all thinking.

Slow-roasted lamb and drama. It had all the delicious possibility of a dinner theatre specializing in Greek tragedy. We headed back to the other taverna to share our discovery. The rest of our crew were already seated and drinking, therefore unmoveable. They saw no reason on earth that they should pull themselves away from their beers and their sunset view, even if the sun might have been setting over the other side of the island. Their loss, I thought, as Gary, Bill, and I walked back to the cat-infested place.

Apart from having to throw the occasional cat off the table, our dinner was marvelous. We dined off of the slow, grudgingly-roasted fruits of Greek child labor served over roasted potatoes with lemon and lamb drippings, grilled local octopus, and platter of little fried fish called athirina, which nearly infested the harbor's waters.

It was the fried fish that caught my attention. Where I work, we do the same thing with smelt-- dredging them in chickpea flour and frying them until crisp. Tossed with fresh lemon juice, salt, and parsley, we place a big pile of them on a blue plate (shaped like a fish, appropriately enough) and serve them with a big dollop of skordalia through which one might drag their little fried heads. When the blonde, big-lunged proprietress brought the fish to our table, they were accompanied solely by two wedges of lemon. leading to a profound sense of disappointment on my end. I had just assumed that they would come with that sharply garlicky dip.

"No skordalia?" I asked. I wanted to sound disappointed-- as though I had traveled 7,000 miles to come to this particular island, to sit among these particular semi-feral cats, to eat of this particular woman's famous garlic dip.

"No, no skordalia," she said. "The people," she gesticulated with a sweep of her bronzed arms as though to suggest the other diners, both real and imagined, "they do not like so much the garlic." I wondered if she was specifically referring to the older German couple we had earlier mistaken for an ancient sea captain and his long-suffering wife. I inwardly cast them as garlic-haters.

"Well, I do. I love skordalia," I said.

"You do?" Her eyes widened, she hunched over a bit in my direction, and with a big smile on her face said, "Okay, I make you some!" She punched an index finger upwards as she said it, which added a nice visual exclamation mark to the end of that particular sentence.

From our table, she dashed off into the kitchen, yelling something again to her child as she went. A couple minutes later, we could hear the whirring of a blender. We occupied ourselves in the meantime by elbowing cats from the table and off our laps. Shortly thereafter, the woman reappeared at our table with a bowl of fresh skordalia. "Kalisas orexi!" she said rather formally, wishing us good eating. And on that note, she turned on her heel and headed back inside with a noticeably lighter step and an audibly more gentle calling out to her child/slave. Or so it seemed to me.

We were left with enough skordalia to drag a whole harbor's worth of fried fish through. I was worried that, if we didn't finish the whole thing, we might offend our hostess. No matter, really. I was delighted, she was delighted and, most of all, I think, those cats were delighted when we coated what was left of that pile of fish in gobs of skordalia and threw bits into the shrubbery for them to fight over when no one was looking. Everybody was happy.

And now, I make you some.

Skordalia with Roasted Beets

Serves 2 to 4 people, 20 to 40 cats.

Since I was too lazy to trawl San Francisco Bay for small, edible fish, I did the next best thing, which was trawl the Tuesday farmer's market for small, edible beets, which are conveniently in season and-- even more conveniently-- traditionally served with skordalia.

For the skordalia:

About 1 pound of Russet potatoes, well scrubbed

1 tablespoon kosher or sea salt, plus a scant handful for the potato water

8 to 10 cloves of garlic, minced

1 cup blanched almonds, whole or slivers

1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil. Use Greek to keep in theme. Other nations' oils will do just fine, too, but the Greeks, you know, invented olive oil, just like they invented everything.

1/2 cup water (I use the water from the potato boiling pot.)

The juice of one lemon

4 to 5 tablespoons white wine vinegar

Freshly ground pepper, to taste

For the beets:

1 pound of beets, scrubbed clean and the ends trimmed. I have used chioggia and golden beets in this particular case, because they are delightful-- namely for their reluctance to stain my hands red.

About 2 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil.

A good pinch of kosher salt

A slightly less-good pinch of cinnamon

Preparation:

1. On a foil-lined baking sheet, toss beets in oil, salt, and cinnamon, making sure they are all well-coated. Place beets on the middle rack of an oven that has been pre-heated to 350 F. Roast until tender, which will depend upon the size of your beets. These took about 35 minutes.

2. While beets are roasting, place potatoes is a large pot of generously salted water and bring to a boil. Cook until tender (when a knife blade slips easily into the center of one).

3. While the beets are roasting and the potatoes boiling, combine garlic and almonds in a food processor, slowly adding 1/2 cup of olive oil as you go. Since one is not making an emulsion, one need not worry about pouring to quickly or too slowly. Just blend until a smooth consistency is achieved. Set aside.

4. Reserving 1/2 cup of the potato water, drain the potatoes. Let cool for a few moments, then rubs them free of their jackets in a clean towel. Roughly chop the potatoes and press them through a potato ricer or mash them manually. Do not, however, try to blend them in your food processor or they will get all gummy. Rice them into a large, clean bowl.

5. Add the garlic/almond mixture to the potatoes while the potatoes are still warm and combine; adding the lemon juice, potato water, salt, and vinegar as you go. Add pepper and more salt, if necessary, to taste.

Congratulations-- you now have your very own skordalia.

7. Remove beets from the oven when tender. Let stand a few minutes to cool slightly, then peel and cut to whatever size you desire them to be. Return the beets to the olive oil/salt/cinnamon-dirtied sheet pan and coat them once again in that particular goop. Add a touch more salt and cinnamon, if desired.

8. To serve, spoon a heaping tablespoon or so of skordalia onto a small plate or other serving dish, using to back of the spoon to then "frost" the plate with a layer of the stuff. Place beets (best if slightly warm, but just swell in a cooler state) over the top. Garnish if you wish, yell at a small child if one is in the vicinity, and serve.

For years I searched for the ideal fish and chips. Journeying 45 minutes away to a restaurant a friend of a friend swore by, or hanging out in a shop decorated with sticky vinyl chairs and soggy fries, I was on a mission. My hunt for the ideal fish and chips -- crispy on the outside, steaming hot and tender inside -- became increasingly elusive. Sure, I would occasionally stumble upon a place with decent and sometimes quite good platters of fish, but these were far and few between and hardly ever in the Bay Area. The sad truth is that there is more awful fish and chips out there than not.

Now I suppose I should explain that when I want fried fish I'm looking for the beer-battered variety. The type you would find in a first-rate British pub (although I've eaten bad fish and chips in the UK as well, so the problem isn't just here). I want my teeth to bite into a perfectly crunchy coating that gives way to a delicate flaky center. I want to taste the beer in the batter and I don't want my mouth to feel like an oil slick. Bread crumbs are not an option and curses on whoever tries to pawn off breaded fish with potatoes as fish and chips. Here is an example of the horrors that lie in wait.

So a few years ago -- after being served the soggiest bread-crumby fish I had ever encountered (and paying close to $15 for it) -- I decided to make my own fish and chips. I was happily surprised to find that making truly decent battered fish is both incredibly easy and straightforward. And, as is the case with all home cooking, you can control the results: want it really crispy, fry a little longer; interested in smaller pieces, cut them up; in the mood for a hearty batter, use dark beer.

Another benefit to making your own fish and chips is that you can easily batter and fry up some lemon slices to go with it. These are a heavenly way to garnish the dish and after trying them at your own fish fry, you'll never want to eat fish and chips without them again.

If you are lucky enough to live near a restaurant with wonderful fish and chips, I am happy for you. But if you're like me and you don't, I am here to tell you that you can make homemade fish and chips that will taste better than almost anything you can buy in a restaurant or pub, and cost a fraction of the price.

The recipe I use is tried and true. I've made it more times than I can count, and it has never failed me. Before you start, however, there are a few basic tenets to consider concerning frying the fish and also making and eating it.

Basic frying rules to get under your belt:

1. If you don't have a fryer (which includes most of us), use a non-reactive deep pan that can hold enough oil to submerge at least half the fish. I use my trusty large cast iron pan and it works great.
2. Use an oil with a high burn rate. I like to use canola oil. Don't use olive oil as it will scorch and flavor the fish.
3. Do not overheat your oil or it will burn the batter. I usually start the pan on medium high and slowly work my way down to medium and then medium low as the pan continues to heat the longer you fry.
4. Do not underheat your oil. Frying your fish in underheated oil leads to the batter sliding off the fish. Not a pretty sight. I'm not sure what the actual temperature of the oil should be, as I don't have a thermometer, but you can test the oil by placing a small teaspoon of batter in the oil. If it doesn't sink to the bottom of the pan and sizzles nicely, you should be good to go.
5. Use a fry screen if you have one as it will help reduce splatter and keep your stove from becoming a complete mess.
6. Be sure to gently lay the fish into the oil so you don't spatter it onto your hand (which really hurts!).
If you follow these rules, you should be in good frying shape.

General rules for making and eating fish and chips:

1. Dark beer gives the dish a more complex flavor while lighter beers are more subtle. Choose whichever you prefer.
2. Look for meaty white fish. Please don’'t use Atlantic cod as it's endangered and, according to the Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch list, we're "fishing the last 10% of this population." Other great choices are Alaskan Pacific Cod and Pacific Halibut. I've also made it with catfish, which worked well.
3. Try to use fresh fish instead of thawed frozen, which tends to taste dry.
4. Pat the fish dry with a paper towel before seasoning and dipping in the batter.
5. Serve with malt vinegar, which perfectly accents the beer batter. If you don't have any, try fresh lemon juice.
6. Consider making your own tartar sauce by mixing good mayonnaise, chopped up sweet pickles, and a little horseradish.

As for the chips, I bake them. Yes... you heard me. I bake them. They come out crispy and seasoned perfectly. Best of all, my potatoes are not reduced to the sad fate of sogginess which often happens with home fried fries. Here's my recipe.

Homemade Beer Battered Fish

Serves: 4 people

Ingredients:

6 - 8 medium-sized pieces of white fish
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup beer
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp black pepper
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
Enough oil to fill half a large non-reactive pan (about 1 cup)

Preparation:

1. Pat fish dry and lay on a plate. Season with salt and pepper.
2. Heat oil in pan.
3. While oil is heating, mix flour, beer, salt, pepper and thyme in a large bowl. Whisk until everything is fully incorporated. The mixture should reach the consistency of pancake batter. Add more beer if necessary.
4. When oil is hot (test using method #4 in the frying rules section above), coat two pieces of fish in batter and then gently lie them in the oil. Be sure to fully coat the fish and be careful not to splash oil on yourself.
5. Cook fish until it is crispy and a rich brown color. Pick up each piece of fish with a fork and gently turn them over. Cook on the other side until done.
6. Drain fish on a plate lined with paper towels and fry the remaining fish pieces.
7. Serve hot with malt vinegar and battered lemon slices (recipe below).

Beer Battered Lemon Slices

Makes: 6 slices

Ingredients:

1 lemon cut into 1/4-inch slices (not including the ends)
Leftover batter and oil from your beer battered fish

Preparation:

1. Remove seeds from lemon slices.
2. Coat slices with batter.
3. Lay lemon slices in the hot cooking oil and brown on each side.
4. Remove from pan and serve with fish.