When I spent time in Morocco a couple of years ago, I found harira on nearly every menu. Traditionally, it is the food that breaks the month-long, daylight fasting of Ramadan, but I was told by more than one old geezer that it was also referred to as "Smoker's Soup" because it helped purify the lungs. From what I saw, these men most likely ate spoonfuls of the stuff between long drags on their Marlboros.

Owing to the fact that I was not only riding, eating, and wearing camels, but smoking a hell of a lot of them, too, I decided to join them in their health regimen. My lungs didn't necessarily feel any better, but my stomach did. And maybe my soul, too.

Two years later, as I struggle to leave the Camels back in the Sahara where they belong, I have returned to harira in my latest and most successful attempt at purification. Nowhere on the internet could I find any mention of this being a smoker's soup. Of course, the old men who imparted this wisdom looked as though they'd never heard of a gmail account. God bless them and I pray that they never do.

It comforts me to know that you can't find everything by Goggle search.

Harira

There are probably as many harira recipes as there are families who make it. No two recipes I've seen are alike. This is one I happen to think is really good. Some people like to add pasta, some people prefer a bit of egg. And some people can get a thrill knitting sweaters and sitting still.

This soup can be made meatless by simply omitting one of the ingredients. If I have to tell you which one, you are a very bad vegetarian.

Serves 6

Ingredients:

1/2 pound lamb. Not fancy cuts, just stew meat. Cut into 1 inch pieces. Throw in a few bones, too.
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1/2 cup lentils. Not French lentils. Some Moroccans still take issue with the French.
3/4 cup tomato paste
1 bunch parsley stems, tied together like some sort of Morticia Addams bouquet.
1 bunch cilantro stems treated as the parsley has been treated, leaves reserved for garnish.
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 cinnamon stick, three to four inches in length
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon powdered ginger
A pinch of saffron
1 cup (for this recipe) canned chickpeas, drained
1 tablespoon flour
The juice of one lemon
Water
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. Heat oil and butter in a large Dutch oven. Add lamb bones and meat to brown nicely.

2. Add onion and cook until translucent. Then add spices, tomato paste, lentils, parsley, and cilantro stems. Cover with 8 cups of water, stir, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer for 30 minutes. After 30 minutes, add the canned chickpeas.

3. Make a slurry of flour with 1/2 cup of cold water and add to the soup, stirring well. Simmer for another 15 minutes.

4. When finished, remove lamb bones and the parsley and cilantro stems. Add as much salt and pepper as you deem necessary. Be generous with the salt, if you don't think it will kill you.

5. Ladle into warm bowls. Garnish with a scant fistful of cilantro leaves and wedges of lemon. Have at it with a loaf of very crusty bread and a spoon.

6. Repeat as needed.

Now how do you feel? Has the tar from 20 years of passionate cigarette smoking suddenly found the urge to leave your body? Oh. Well, I hope your soul is satisfied. Or, if you lack one of those, then at least your stomach.

San Francisco restaurants are suffering from what Michael Bauer at The San Francisco Chronicle called "another 1-2-3 punch to their already slim wallets." The first hit: a minimum wage increase to $9.36 per hour. The second: a sick leave law which states that employees receive one hour of paid sick leave for every 30 hours worked.

And then came the rabbit punch: The Health Care Security Ordinance, which mandates that businesses employing 20 or more employees to spend a minimum of $1.17 per employee per hour on health care. For businesses employing more than 100, that minimum increases to $1.76.

If one also factors in sharp increases in fuel costs, the doubling of wheat prices, and a public hyperventilating over dismal economic forecasts, the San Francisco restaurant industry isn't looking forward to a rosy-hued 2008.

The cost of business, my friends, is rising like so much expensive dough. How, then, are our local eateries attempting to punch it down?

A few are taking it on the chin, while others are increasing their menu prices to help absorb the costs.

And some are implementing an additional service charge, in the guise of either a percentage of the total bill, or a per person cover charge. With letters of explanation attached.

There are those among us who appreciate the transparency of these explanatory letters, even applaud them. Others find this new trend offensive. I sense that composing such letters and adding these charges was a tough call for those who have added them-- one made under the strain of coming to terms with a well-meaning, but essentially flawed ordinance. The result has become unavoidably political.

Personally, I don't want my dinner to be any more political than it needs to be. I make enough of those choices in my daily life as it is. Even the choice of which restaurant I go to is often a political decision. Once I enter that restaurant, however, I'm done. I want someone to greet me warmly, I want to be fed and watered well, and I want to forget-- for an hour or two-- the problems I purposefully left outside the front door. I want to feel taken care of.

If I want a full explanation of what goes into a Tripe alla Fiorentina, I'll ask my server, thank you. The same goes for any price increases. I don't need an essentially whining, buck-passing letter of explanation slapped in my face. It is the diner's role to whine, not the restaurant's.

If these letter writers were indeed so "proud to do business in a city that has chosen to test a landmark solution to this ongoing and serious national problem," these letters would not have been written in the first place. It is clear that the authors are distressed about the increased financial burden this new ordinance places on their shoulders. Of course, they are. But these letters just smack of insincerity. What's next? "Dear Guests, we are excited to announce that our rent has just been raised! We are proud to live in a city of astronomical real estate values..."

I think not.

For the time being, the health care ordinance is, for better or for worse, part of the cost of doing business in this city. There are many other restaurants here that have chosen to deal with this hit gracefully. And, yes, I think that a discreet increase in menu prices is graceful. It allows customers to make their own choices. Actually, it allows customers to feel more akin to what they should be feeling like-- guests. It offers a choice. It allows them to feel a little more in control of the dining process. If a guest wishes to pay x amount of dollars for a steak, he will. If not, he will opt to pay y amount for something else. Regardless, he is paying for his seat one way or another. Adding an extra math equation in the form of a service charges is anything but guest-friendly.

Great restaurants don't just fill the stomach, no matter how spectacular the food. They must satisfy an emotional need, as well.

Think of all the people who go out to dinner and then think for a moment about how these people have spent their day. Most likely, they have been working at their own jobs, seeing to the needs of others. How many people come into restaurants after hours of taking on the stress of their children, their bosses, or their customers? As a waiter and twenty-year veteran of the restaurant industry, I have to remind myself daily that it is my job to see that the people who walk into my place of work forget their troubles and get happy, even if it's just for the two hours they are under my watch. They've got problems of their own. They don't want to hear about mine. Or yours.

By writing these letters and adding this charges with little notes attached, restaurant owners are chipping away at the fragile-yet-necessary façade that a diner's needs are what matter most. By reading these letters, people of good conscience trade in a part of their much-needed role of the care-given, to that of care giver. It's a subtle shift, but it's important.

As diners, we know that we all have to pay in the end-- the check, I mean. But tacking on an extra percentage or per-person fee to the end of the bill will ultimately cost the restaurant industry far more than the money it hopes to recoup from the sting of this health care ordinance. Like goodwill.

The letters? To me, it's like reading the list of ingredients on the side of a pint of ice cream. I already know the basics of what goes into the mix, but do I want to know everything? Not always. Sometimes, I just want to treat myself to something that is going to make me feel good for a little while. If the machinery involved in the perfect churning of the cream is expensive to maintain, if the vanilla pods are of the best quality, I am quite willing to pay the reflected price for my indulgence. I don't want to read a god damned sob story about it on the side of the package.

What is most irritating to me is that these charges are being implemented by some of the busiest -- and most influential-- restaurants in the city. These chefs and owners have ridden mighty high in the good times. Now that the going has gotten tougher, they're still busy as hell but, rather than deal with their problems gracefully, these darling prime ballerine of the food press are bitching to the audience that their toe shoes are too tight.

If they want to play the Dying Swan, I suppose we should let them. However, to the best of my knowledge, no one ever paid Anna Pavlova to honk and squawk when she first performed it-- it is a role that is most effective when it is played in silence.

Yes, this is a troubling time for the city's restaurants, but if these restaurateurs could stop their complaining and blame-gaming long enough to realize that their integrity is potentially at stake, they might hopefully get back to the business of doing business. If these already-successful places keep providing us with the food and service they're known and respected for, we'll keep supporting them. Should they need to raise prices to offset the costs of a harsh city ordinance, no one in their right mind is going to think they're greedy. I just want them quit their pandering, stick out their grease-encrusted chins, and remember that the show must go on.

Because it will.

Why is this fish sweating? He isn't. Fish can't sweat. They don't have sweat glands. But he does look rather distressed. Why does he look distressed? Because he was painted that way. He's not real.

If he did have the slightest understanding of human food ways, Fridays would be met with a great deal of anxiety indeed. There are more than one billion Catholics around the world.

And it's Lent.

My family was not the greatest model of a Catholic household. Neither son was an alter boy, holy days of obligation were not obligatory, and an experiment with Catholic school was an unmitigated disaster for my sister, ending with her prompt placement in a public school after her habit-wearing instructress was not-so-quietly removed in a piece of protective (for others) outerwear. So the story goes. But somehow, we always managed to eat fish on Fridays.

To my own horror, this invariably meant a tuna fish sandwich in my lunchbox, the smell of which permeated the plastic and even the skin of the accompanying brownish banana. I loathed this part of Lent. But, of course, Lent is about privation and penance. Lent is also about alms-giving, but try as I might, no one-- not even the poorest of my classmates-- wanted my tuna sandwich.

The one, bright, fish-related candle upon my Lenten cake was the occasional Friday foray to Anthony's Fish and Chips, a dark, wood panelled establishment housed in a mini-mall that smelled, unsurprisingly, of grease-- both from the fryer and from the heads of the old men that always seemed to be loitering around the place. My mother or sister would send themselves down the road to pick up a bright pink box filled with monoliths of battered cod and hot, steamy fried potatoes. Fish and Chips. It was the only seafood we ever saw as kids, barring the occasional shrimp cocktail. I loved it.

I had nearly forgotten how much I enjoyed fish and chips until it was suggested the other week that, while visiting friends in Redwood City, we all go have some for lunch.

We went to Al's Fish n' Chips on Roosevelt Boulevard, located in an unassuming mini-mall not unlike those of my suburban youth. It led me to question whether or not there was some sort of zoning law specifically targeting such establishments.

We ordered several items, but the fish and chips ($7.95 for a two-piece order) really stood out in my mind. It was (and I don't use this word often) perfect. A crisp, flavorful batter coating that complimented rather than competed with the tender, steamy cod inside. The chips were nearly the same. A tad thinner than the usual chunky chips associated with the dish, but still thick enough to produce both exterior crunch and inner steam. Everything we consumed there was fresh and really very good (the black beans? Yes, do try). I nearly wet myself with joy. And I cursed myself for not having my camera with me.

The following weekend, I rode up to Sausalito for a morning run to Heath Ceramics with my friend Mark. He suggested lunch at Fish nearby. There was no need to twist my arm. No guessing what we ordered.

I was a bit shocked at the sticker price-- $21.00 for beer-battered fish (3 pieces) and chips. It was, however, extremely good. I just had to tell myself that I was sitting in a restaurant in Sausalito and not in a suburban mini-mall. Perhaps the proximity of a bait and tackle shop adds incalculably more to property value than, say, a Tan n' Nails.

The final stop on my cod binge was a place in my neighborhood I've wandered by for years-- Piccadilly Fish n' Chips. A fire knocked it out of commission a little while back but it has returned. I ordered the 2-piece fish and chips, of course, for $6.95. Since this is classic English takeaway, I did just that. What made me happiest was the fact that my order was wrapped in newspaper-- the SF Weekly. I stifled any impulse I had to engage in Cockney rhyming slang, since I was the only person in the place apart from the sweet woman making my fish who is, I believe, Korean. And I'm not a Cockney. I took away my take-away.

When I arrived home, I found that the fish and chips had continued to steam as they snuggled in the Pink Section-- exactly what is supposed to happen. To my joy, the fish was still crispy, but not beer-battered; more tempura in style-- delicate, brittle and pock-marked. It was good. I ignored the small packets of tartar sauce and made my own impromptu condiment of mayonnaise, chopped sweet pickles and cider vinegar (since I didn't have the traditional malt vinegar handy). It worked in the pinch. Disappointing, however, were the chips. Rather soggy and bland. Of course, I am partly to blame. I was the first person in Piccadilly's door at 11:00 am and these were the first batch of chips of the day. I should have known better. The fish (and the price point) will bring me back.

All this battered cod and fries over the past few days. I'm actually not sick of it. Could you, my reading public (yes, all three of you) tell me of other, great places to go for a Friday Night Fish Fry? I'm all ears. And all stomach.

And now for the history lesson.

A Brief History of Fish and Chips
The potato has been known to the English since the late 16th century-- about the time that old canard about Sir Walter Raleigh introducing it to a grateful nation started making its rounds. According to The Straight Dope, the Irish refused to plant them, since potatoes were not mentioned in the Bible. They have since eaten their words. It was the French, naturally, who invented pommes frites, in the 1840's.

Fish has, not surprisingly, been known to the English for a much longer time. They live on an island, after all. Frying the fish is believed to have become popular in England in the early mid-19th century, even being mentioned in Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens.

There is a bit of controversy as to where the inspired idea of combining fried fish with fried potatoes first occurred. A Mr. Lees opened a fish and chip shop in Mossley, Lancashire in 1863 while a Mr. Joseph Malin opened his London shoppe in 1860. Or 1865. No one is certain. The National Federation of Fish Friers recognizes that both should share the Oscar. They ought to know, since an average of 300 million servings of fish and chips are served each year in Britain. That's six servings for every human.

Fish has a rather entertaining website, its map is drawn on a napkin.

350 Harbor Drive
Sausalito, CA 9465 (latitude and longitude also given)
415) 331-FISH

Open seven days a week
11:30 am- 4:30 pm for lunch
5:30 pm- 8:30 pm for dinner

Piccadilly Fish and Chips
1345 Polk Street (at Pine)
San Francisco, CA 94109

Open seven days a week

Monday- Thursday 11 am - 11 pm
Friday 11 am - midnight
Saturday 11 am - 11 pm
Sunday 1 pm - 11 pm

Al's Fish n' Chips
2139 Roosevelt Avenue
Redwood City, CA 94061
650) 366-FISH

Open seven days a week

Monday - Thursday 11 am - 8 pm
Friday - 11 am - 8:30 pm
Saturday - 11 am - 8 pm
Sunday - 11 am - 7:30 pm

* Oh. A food person's fun(ish) fact about Lent. Marie-Antoine Carême's last name means "Lent", derived from the Latin quadragesima. Go now, and impress your friends.

At some point in his motivational speaking career, Dale Carnegie uttered the famous, if misguided words:

"When fate hands you a lemon, make lemonade."

The fault is not so much in the sentiment-- making lemonade out of lemons is, naturally, a rather positive, productive activity. What bothers me is the underlying belief that there is something inherently unpleasant about this citrus fruit. Carnegie was not alone in his thinking. Used car salesmen have given the lemon a bad name over the years, associating them as they do with automobiles that are slick and shiny on the outside, but of dubious dependability under the hood, which is all rather pot vs. kettle when one stops long enough to think about it.

All I know is this-- Carnegie's family certainly didn't hail from a sunny, Mediterranean clime, or he would never have said it. He might instead have related his comment to the Germans or the idea of an eight-hour work day. When fate hands you a German... you can fill in the rest.

Of course, Carnegie was telling his audience that, when fate hands you something unpleasant, make the best of it. When fate hands me that kind of lemon, I would more than likely stare at it for a moment and say something like, "I don't think that lemon is mine," and walk away.

When fate or, more often than not, the supermarket checker hands me an actual lemon, I am more likely to own it. When fate hands me Meyer lemons, I get happy.

I am not about to delve into the history and genetics of the Meyer lemon today. Others have done it well enough that I do not have to. I suggest you let our own Amy Sherman tell you about them. Read her blog post on Meyer lemons.

If you want a few ideas as to what you can do with Meyer lemons, read another Amy's (Scattergood) fun list "100 things to do with a Meyer lemon" from the Los Angeles Times online to get some great ideas. Some are oddly practical, like playing fetch with them in order to freshen canine breath. If you can come up with other uses, please let me know. No one has mentioned the Meyer lemon as an elbow-softener. Perhaps there are few people who still care for supple joints as I do.

And if you really, really want to know everything you could possibly want to know about the lemon, its history, and its uses, by all means go out and buy yourself a copy of Much Depends on Dinner by Margaret Visser. It's quite a fascinating read.

Look, I just like lemons. Perhaps it's my Sicilian heritage and the fact that my ancestors actually earned their bread and marmellata exporting the little yellow fruits. Which leads me to wonder that, had Dale Carnegie been born, say, Dale Carneghi, he might have said, "When fate hands you a lemon, make limoncello." But he wasn't and he didn't, so I am stuck with making lemonade for the purposes of today's post.

It strikes me as a cruel twist of fate that a fruit which makes such a great summer thirst-quencher should reach its peak in the dead of winter, but that isn't going to stop me from making it. One still needs to stave off scurvy, even in the chilly months. What better way to pretend that winter isn't happening than to wear gingham, put some zinc oxide on your nose and pour yourself a tall glass of lemonade? It is denial perfected. After all, I believe it was Mr. Carnegie who also said, "Happiness doesn't depend on any external conditions, it is governed by our mental attitude." I am not going to argue with him about that. With that as my new credo, I shall chose to pretend it isn't raining outside, my complexion isn't pasty, and I haven't gained 10 pounds. Instead, you'll find me inhabiting my inner world, where it's perpetually sunny, and I am always tan and thin. Thanks for the motivation, Dale.

Meyer Lemonade

Meyer lemons are ideal for making lemonade. Lacking confidence in their own identity (half lemon, half mandarin), they share space well with others. Three flavors that blend well (in lemonade) with the fruit are mint, cucumber, and coriander. Yes, coriander. Don't ask me how I know. I have chosen mint today because it is pretty.

Ingredients:

1 cup freshly squeezed Meyer lemon juice-- about 5 to 6 lemons, depending upon size and juiciness. You can actually squeeze them the night before-- the juice won't separate like orange juice does.

1 cup simple syrup. Mint is added to mine here. I'm not telling you how to make simple syrup.

3 to 4 cups cold, clean water.

Mint sprigs and (very) thinly sliced Meyer lemons for garnish.

Ice cubes, if you're into them. I find they keep the garnish from floating to the top.

Preparation:

1. Take all the ingredients and dump them into a big enough pitcher. Stir and serve.

Or, if you want to be very French about it and serve it comme un vrai citron pressé...

1. Place lemon juice and syrup in the antique apothecary beakers you found for next to nothing at the marché aux puces in Dijon last autumn. Place on a tray with chilled, bottled Volvic, one pastis glass and spoon per person, and a pack of Gauloises Blondes. Let your guests prepare their own concoctions, according to personal taste.

Note: If you opt for cucumber lemonade, slice up a cucumber thinly, add to the water and refrigerate for 24 hours. For coriander? I haven't quite figured that one out. I'll let you know when I do.

Serves 4 to 6.

Typically, when I heard the phrase "Cordon Bleu", I used to think in purely French terms. Mustachioed men in perfect white chef coats tasting expensive-looking dishes with silver spoons pulled from little pockets in their sleeves. Or I'd think of the literal translation, which is, of course, "blue ribbon", which I might mentally attach to one of the chef's coats. Since I moved near Polk Gulch four years ago, the little Frenchmen in my head have been replaced by thoughts of five spice chicken. And I couldn't be happier about that.

The restaurant isn't much to look at. In fact, there are those who are downright turned off by its distinct lack of physical charm, décor and, well, apparent hygiene. As far as I'm concerned, the unadventurous can keep their distance. It's not as though Cordon Bleu needs their business-- there's a line out the door every evening.

Why the line? Well, Cordon Bleu is tiny-- nine stools bolted around a formica counter, three small tables in the back, and next to no room in between. The real reason for the crowds, however, is the chicken, which they tout as... just read the sign:

I've never been to Vietnam, so I wouldn't know. Considering the fact that the jungle fowl-- the ancient proto-chicken from which all others derive-- originated in Southeast Asia, the Vietnamese have been able to take their time perfecting chicken recipes. The one at Cordon Bleu is pretty damned good, but the best? I'll take their boast with a grain of salt. And a pinch of five spice.

Chinese Five Spice, if you didn't know, is a combination of ground cinnamon (cassia), star anise, cloves, Sichuan pepper, and fennel. When rubbed on chicken, it gives Cordon Bleu the means to pay its rent.

When I visit the place, it's usually before or after seeing a film at the Lumière Theatre, depending upon the subject matter. I'd much rather fill myself here than with movie theatre fare. And possibly for less money than a coke, some popcorn and a candy bar.

The food is-- I hesitate to use the word cheap-- inexpensive. I can stuff myself silly for $8.25 with the "Number Five", which I think is the most expensive thing on the menu.

The Number 5 consists of one piece of "five spiced roast chicken" which, apart from roasting, spent a good deal of time on the grill, one pork and glass noodle fried Imperial roll, one "shish kebab" (which is neither shish nor kebab. It's very thin slices of marinated steak. The only common ground it shares with kebab is that it is meat that spents a good amount of time over a hot grill), country salad (shredded cabbage), and "meat sauce on rice".

Meat sauce on rice. Ground pork, peppers, onions, tomato. It's piled high on nearly every plate. I'm fond of its no nonsense name. And its flavor. It's no surprise to me why SF Weekly dubbed Cordon Bleu the Best Dive Restaurant of 2006. It's good food. And damned cheap.

The next time you're in the neighborhood, whether it be to see an art film, catch a drag show, or pick up a hustler, stop by Cordon Bleu. That is, if you can get in.

Cordon Bleu Vietnamses Restaurant

1574 California Street (at Polk Street)
San Francisco, CA 94109-4708

Phone: (415) 673-5637

Hours: Tuesday- Saturday 11:30 am- 2:30 pm, 5-10 pm.
Sunday 4-10 pm

Cash Only. No alcohol is served, so bring your own beer. Hell, bring some for the women behind the counter. The last time I was there they said they could sure use one.

The title says it all. There is a world of joy in Jell-O-making.

I picked up this treasure written in 1963 at a garage sale years ago. I had always meant to prepare the recipes from it but, invariably, I'd just dust it off every once in a while to giggle over the saturated color photos.

Flights of 1960's culinary fancy fill the pages. Dishes such as Hawaiian Eyeful, Fruited Perfection, and Under-the-Sea Salad Keep me reading. Fantasies, Medleys and no fewer than five Surprises populate the book. The most surprising being the fact that someone discovered what pleasure combining stewed tomatoes, vinegar and strawberry Jell-o can produce.

I was fascinated by Jell-O's versatility-- a Twentieth Century aspic--especially, according to the company, how well it goes with seafood. The Sea Dream, in which a cucumber and vinegar-spiked lime Jell-O serves as the perfect pedestal for bay shrimp, was intriguing, as was the playfully named Ring-Around-the-Tuna (a "beautiful jewel-like entree salad for your luncheon or buffet table"). Luncheon. I wish more people said that word.

At some point during my latest perusal of this book, I realized that no one I know seems to make Jell-O anymore. Except my friend Karen. Granted, it still seems to be a mainstay of the Mid-western Junior League and the state of Utah, but the product isn't a part of my life as it was when I was a kid. And before you ask, I have never ever wrestled in a pool of it, no matter what anyone tells you.

In my household, there was never any ceremony to its preparation. No sophisticated layering, the special molds collected dust behind my giant playchest of Hot Wheels. One just added the boiling water, poured it into custard cups and shoved them into the refrigerator. At my grandmother's house, it may have been prepared solely and grudgingly for the purpose of entertaining grandchildren. A woman who made pastas, soups, sauces, and desserts entirely from scratch must have held this product in contempt, judging by the cracks and semi-petrified state which developed from lack of interest and/or consumption at the back of her ice box. I never asked her about it, I'd simply take one and eat it anyway--letting the super-hardened bits melt on my tongue. Texture is important to children.

I've gone a very long time without eating Jell-O. What makes this product so immensely popular outside my circle? Is it the watching of its wiggle? The witnessing of its jiggle? Perhaps there are more people with throat infections out there than I had previously thought.

This week, I decided to find out how much joy this gelatinous product could give me.

I thought I would tackle one of the more savory, aspic-like dishes such as Vegetable Salad (pictured below, right) with cauliflower and pimiento.

It was much more difficult than I thought. Rather than the looking somewhat like one of Hedda Hopper's spring hats, which is what attracted me to the dish in the first place, mine took on a rather sinister appearance. Growing impatient for the thing to gel, I had great difficulty in getting the vegetables to suspend themselves attractively. Lots of air bubbles ensued and the result looked more like cauliflower drowning in an algal bloom. It even tasted of futile panic.

And it turned my fingernails green.

I sat down on my couch, empty Lime Jell-O box in hand, and took a look at the ingredients. Sugar topped the list, followed by gelatin, adipic acid (for tartness), less than 2% natural and artificial flavor, disodium phosphate and sodium citrate (control acidity), fumaric acid (for tartness), Yellow 5, Blue 1, BHA (Preservative).

Adipic acid? I looked it up. Granted, this is food grade adipic acid, but the realization that it's primary, non-food use is in the production of nylon and Polyurethane made me a little uneasy. At least fumaric acid is found naturally in lichen and Iceland moss. BHA? Butylated hydroxyanisole, which the National Institute of Health considers reasonably anticipated to be a human carcinogen. I threw my little disaster away.

And yet, I still wanted Jell-O. I opted for something Jell-O-esque instead. Like real gelatin. I grabbed a box of unflavored gelatin from the store shelf and read the ingredient list: gelatin. That's it. I decided to make my own, with a little suggestive help from a recipe on the side of the box. Why not add real fruit juice for tartness? Why not indeed.

Making your own flavors gives you a lot more freedom to explore an exciting gelatinous world outside your door and inside your refrigerator. It doesn't really take any more time than the other stuff. And it wont give you cancer.

In all, I was more disturbed by Jell-O than over-joyed by it. Don't misunderstand me. I love to be disturbed by food items. I enjoy the idea of Jell-o, and there will always be room for it's cookbooks on my shelves, just not in my refrigerator.

Tart Cherry Gelatin

You can use whatever juice you want in this, provided you avoid pineapple, kiwi, ginger, papaya, fig, or guava juice-- the enzymes in these will not allow the gelatin to set. I just chose a tart cherry juice because that's what my mood dictated.

You may or may not wish to add sugar to the recipe. The sugar level of your juice-of-choice will tell you what you need. Just taste it first.

Ingredients:

1 packet (7 grams) of unflavored gelatin
2 cups tart cherry juice
1/4 cup sugar (or not)

Preparation:

1. In a medium bowl, sprinkle gelatin over 1/2 cup cherry juice, letting stand for one minute.
2. Add 1 1/2 cups of boiling cherry juice, stirring until dissolved. Keep stirring for about five minutes.
3. Pour into vessels of your choice-- a two cup mold, dessert dishes, or wine glasses.
4. Chill for several hours or overnight until firm.
5. Garnish with whatever you feel like. I'm tired of telling you what to do. I chose a slightly sweetened whipped cream and toasted almonds. Judging by the photo, a lot of whipped cream.

Serves two.

Always searching for a happy, late-night snack, I recently turned my attention to Welsh Rarebit, primarily because I'd never had it before. I'm not Welsh.

I'd heard tell of rarebit, garnering sufficient information to know that rabbit meat was not involved, yet not enough to understand that this was not some vegetarian variation on S. O. S. , also known as chipped beef on toast. I was certain of two things: 1) bread and cheese were involved and 2) the Welsh were not being flattered in the naming of this dish. I did a little research.

Yes, it was cheese toast and, no, praise for Welsh culture was not intended. Though ostensibly an English dish (other British and European cultures have their own versions), the original name of the dish was Welsh Rabbit. In England, rabbit was considered poor man's meat so, in a rather clever, back-handed way, naming the dish "Welsh Rabbit" suggested that, not only were the Welsh poor, as they were, but too stupid and/or lazy to go out and capture their own prey, thus having to satisfy their hunger with bread and cheese. It's 18th Century insult food. But it's good, both as an insult and as a dish.

Sometime in the late 19th Century, some forward thinking, politically correct person or personess took pity upon the poor Welsh and softened the name by changing it to Welsh Rarebit, taking with it much of the bite. In a sense, making it blander than it need be.

Personally, I think the Welsh are doing just fine. How can one not love a culture that has given the world Tom Jones, Dame Shirley Bassey, and countless vowel-shy place names that no one but an insider can pronounce? And I would argue that this dish is for the lazy. Lazy is a grilled cheese sandwich. Think of this as a grilled cheese sandwich that requires a bit more effort.

Welsh Rarebit with Apples

The rarebit recipe is taken directly from New York Times food columnist Mark Bittman, a.k.a The Minimalist. You can go directly to a video of him preparing the dish here, which is what made me want to make it in the first place. In fact, I spent so much time sitting at my desk, watching his videos I got very little done that day. I've always enjoyed reading him, but I am now an even bigger fan of his as a result of seeing him on camera.

There are a great number of variations on the rarebit-like, cheese on toast theme. I have chosen to prepare Bittman's because, apart from being extremely simple to prepare, it has a little spicy kick. I added sliced apples because I like apples, which is reason enough.

Ingredients:

For the Rarebit:

2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon dried mustard
a healthy pinch of cayenne pepper
1/2 bottle of good, dark English beer, like Guinness Stout
a few generous shakes of Worstershire sauce
1 pound excellent English cheddar, grated

For the Rest:

1 loaf of good, hearty wheat or white bread. I do not recommend sliced sandwich bread. The results will depress you.

1 tart, sweet apple, sliced thinly. I used Pink Lady, because I like their flavor, they're available and I loved the pop duo as a child. Granny Smith will do, too.

1 bunch scallion, chopped

Preparation:

1. In a saucepan large enough to contain all of the ingredients, melt butter over medium low heat and add flour. Cook the mixture, stirring with a wooden spoon, until it is dirty blonde in color and smells faintly nutty.

2. Add mustard and cayenne pepper, then pour in the beer, stirring all the while.

3. Add Worstershire sauce (if you add the sauce before the beer, the sauce will burn, sending up blackish flecks as you stir, so I do not recommend it).

4. Now add the cheese and keep stirring until your efforts result in a smooth cheese sauce.

5. Pour into a bowl, large ramekin, or containing vessel of your choice. The rarebit sauce will cool into a solid mass, looking just like a cheese spread, which is precisely what it is. The sauce will keep covered in your refrigerator for several days, which is precisely the idea-- it's ready for you at a moment's notice.

6. When the moment has notified you sufficiently, slice your crusty bread to its desired thickness, place on a sheet pan and put it under a broiler. If you place the bread slices under your broiler and you notice that no change has occurred to them in several minutes, make sure your broiler's heating element is turned on-- listen to the voice of experience. Toast the slices well on one side, remove the pan from the oven and turn the bread over, replacing them under the broiler and toasting them less thoroughly than you have the previous side-- this will be the upside to your rarebit.

7. Spread a little of the now-solidified cheese onto your toast. This will adhere your apple slices to the bread. Arrange apple slices over the cheese.

8. At this point, I like to warm up a bit of the sauce in my microwave on low, to make it softer, therefore easier, to spread over the apple slices. Cover the apples generously with the cheese. Place the hopefully well-constructed toasts under the broiler. Do not remove them until the cheese bubbles and browns. If you have a conventional, broiler-on-the-bottom oven and your kitchen floor is clean enough, I might suggest lying down on the floor with one hand propping up your head and the other clad in an oven mitt, leaving the door of the broiler open a bit in order to get a good view of the action. If you are prosperous enough to have two oven mitts, I would suggest wearing the second one on the hand that supports your head for added comfort.

9. Remove the toasts from the oven when they have reached the desired doneness, transfer to a serving plate and sprinkle with the scallions. If you eat them immediately, the cheese will very likely burn the roof of your mouth. The time it takes to walk to you refrigerator, grab a beer and pop it open is sufficient cooling time.

For years, I've driven by Russia House-- it's large, red letters and neon-framed windows staring me down every time I head south on highway 101. I've wanted to go there for a long time, but just never got around to it. This week, I finally stared back.

Very little information could be gleaned from a Google search of the place and no one I know had ever been there. The most information I could find was a list of seven comments on Yelp.com. The reviews were decidedly mixed. Rumors of all-you-can-eat (and drink) Russian food, dancing, and either a hostile welcome or no welcome at all were all I had to go on. To me, that sounded almost like a dare. I discussed the restaurant with a friend of mine who felt equally up to the challenge. In fact, she said she already had her Russian name picked out for the evening-- Katinka. While I googled her stage name (which I learned means "pure"), she made the reservation. We gathered a group of eight people together, figuring there was a certain safety in numbers.

While I busied myself snapping photos of the Russia House sign upon arrival, the three dining companions I showed up with were confronted by a man of about sixty dressed in blue jeans and leather jacket standing near a sign that read "Dress code strictly enforced." A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was anything but welcoming. After explaining that we had a reservation, we were allowed entry.

Once past the Russian Cerberus, we stepped inside the zodiac-themed blue doors and walked upstairs to the dining room. The first thing I noticed were the enormous crystal chandeliers that seemed to be in some sort of battle with the neon of the bar for who could throw off the most light. It was extremely bright.

The second thing I noticed was a little girl, maybe seven years old, in some sort of ice dancing outfit. My friend Gary asked if that was the Russian Jonbenet. Several other children of varying ages were all dressed up and running about.

The third thing to capture my attention was the group of about thirty people standing about two banks of long, platter-filled tables. Some of them stared at us blankly. Others stared out the window, waiting for someone or perhaps something to happen.

The fourth thing I noticed was that no one came to greet us. After about a minute of standing around trying not to look helpless or uncomfortable, my friend Lyle stopped a waiter who was rushing past us. We mentioned the name of our reservation. He pointed to a table for four and said we could sit there. When we explained that more were joining us, he pointed to a larger table next to the large party with all that shrimp cocktail. We sat. And then we sat some more.

What was I hoping to accomplish by being here? Was this a big mistake? Was the big, Russian dinner I've been promoting among my friends going to be a big, Russian failure? I wondered.

After a thorough examination of a wall mural we decided could only have been inspired by Russian fairy tales filtered through the mind of a Chernobyl survivor,we tired of sitting without benefit of food or drink. No one had approached us for minutes. Lyle pulled some money out of his wallet and beckoned a blond woman who was standing under the neon sign of the bar to come over. He asked for her name and how we might procure some service. While he did this, he handed her the money. She handed the money back, telling us that she was Elya, the owner. When I asked her if she wanted the name of our party for reservation purposes, she said, "No, it's okay. I don't need that." At that point, I knew we needed some vodka. Fast.

We made our vodka selection-- not expensive, considering we had to buy it by the bottle, but decent. 750 ml of Absolut for $60. When it was brought to the table, we asked if there was any real Russian vodka to be had. Elya replied, "No, not yet. Soon." Lyle asked how long Russia House had been open. 20 years. Russian vodka must be harder to obtain than I had previously thought.

We also asked about the menu. We had heard of an all you can eat and drink feast, but what we had in front of us was an a la carte menu. She told us, yes, she did that sometimes on Fridays. Fridays? I told her we understood the restaurant was only open to the public on Saturdays. She shrugged her shoulders and said that sometimes she felt like opening on Friday, too.

When she noted the empty seats around our table, I explained that we were still waiting for the rest of our party.

"Your girlfriends?" she asked.

"Sort of," I replied.

"Are they Russian?"

"No. Not Russian." I thought of the fake Russian names they'd be using tonight.

"That's surprising," she said. "Ninety-five percent of the American men who come here have Russian girlfriends or wives. So why have you come?"

I thought about how to answer that one, but settled on, "To have fun!"

She smiled and got our waiter. I think at some point in that brief exchange, it was decided that we liked each other and the mood of the room shifted. The girls arrived, we settled into our first drink, and Lyle took charge of ordering appetizers.

What came to the table were baskets of soft rye bread and butter, platters of beef tongue, smoked salmon, smoked sturgeon beef piroshke, and shrimp cocktail. Lots of shrimp cocktail.

The beef tongue was good with a little mustard sauce and soft rye bread...

The beef piroshke was excellent. We were certain there was more that just meat in them. We briefly discussed which organs might have been included.

The best dish, to the unanimous decision of the table, was the smoked sturgeon. Salty, faintly smoky and butter on the tongue, it needed nothing but perhaps a little vodka to keep it company on its way down my throat. We had two platters. They even threw in more shrimp cocktail.

Our table livened up after some food, cold vodka, and soda water served in iced pitchers. I looked over at the birthday party next to us. I still didn't see anyone smiling. Just people milling about in fur stoles (women, naturally) and not touching their food. I thought they might be having a wake instead. Commenting on the brightness of the lights, my friend Gary looked to the birthday crowd and commented that he now understood why Russian women wore so much make up-- it was to hold up under those damned bright lights. He wondered where he could get a make up mirror with a Russian setting. I drank a little more vodka.

Then, suddenly, everything changed. Everyone's attention turned to the bandstand. A woman who looked remarkably like Jan Wahl started singing. The lights, mercifully, were dimmed. Everyone started smiling and moved to the dance floor. Apparently, the party had begun.

People danced, moved back to the tables to drink a little, and then danced some more. We watched from our table, since our main courses had arrived. Chicken Kiev, which seemed like a must-have since I frequently ate the Stouffer's version as a child, was a bit of a dry disappointment, and shashlik -- kebabs of fish and chicken, we found tastier. Lots of potatoes made their way to our table, as did some excellent pickled vegetables. The hands-down favorite was the watermelon. The eight of us were stuffed and ready now to give our full attention to what was about to happen on the dance floor.

The little girl in what we thought was an ice dancing dress was partnered with a dancing boy. Everyone in the restaurant crowded around the dance floor. We were shown the proper way to swing dance, fox trot, and just about every other kind of trot. The dancers were cute and we laughed and clapped for them, but the Russians looked on humorless, as if this were something to be taken very seriously, which doesn't seem so surprising when one considers that Russia has produced some of the greatest dancers the world has ever seen. Think Nijinsky, Pavlova, and Baryshnikov. I felt as though I might be missing something important. I had another sip of my vodka.

A much older couple then took over, showing us hot Latin-inspired moves that loosened up the crowd a little. Decency (or simply poor photography skills) prevents me from showing you the 13 year-old girls costume, but I can show you an example of her excellent hand movement...

Having been shown how it's all done, we took to the dance floor ourselves, working off the shrimp cocktail and vodka. Everyone else in the room seemed to have the same idea.

Back at our table for a little resting and watering, I saw that the birthday club had finally sat down to their meal. For a minute or two at a time. Some ran off to dance, some came over to flirt with a couple of my friends.

I thought perhaps we'd gone about our dinner all wrong. We ate then danced. The Russians danced, then ate. Perhaps there was sense in that. Do we see dancing as a digestive activity while they see it as an appetite stimulant? I wondered.

I also wondered what all the fuss regarding hostile service was about on Yelp. In my opinion, the people that walked away from the place weren't trying hard enough (Yes, I know-- they have a good point). I regarded the experience as a bit of travel adventure.

I'm certainly no sociologist, but given centuries of strong-armed governments, pogroms, and war, I don't think it strange that Russians might be a bit tight-knit, insular, and suspicious as a group. Once we got past the doorman and actually started talking to people, we found them warm and lively. It just takes a little while. To make more pat generalizations about the Russians, I think that any civilization that has made such incredible contributions to literature, music, and dance is worth the effort to get to know a little better. And those little matrioshka stacking dolls. Sigh.

What started out as a rather uncertain evening ended up being a hell of a lot of fun. If you can see yourself making it past the doorman, I say put on your (fake) fur hat and your dancing boots and just go.

Here's a sped-up video of the place. Stop at any frame to get a good look at the joint:

The Russia House is open to the public on Saturday nights. Please don't ask the hours, because I have no idea.

Russia House is located at 2011 Bayshore Boulevard in San Francisco, 94134
View Map
Call 415-330-9991 for reservations. Be strong.

After a pre-shift service meeting at work the other night, a colleague of mine turned to me and said, "You know, when I go out, I don't even expect good service anymore." I found myself identifying with him.

The following evening he came up to me with a revision-- "Actually, I've come to expect bad service." I thought that was rather harsh, but it got me thinking...

How hard is it to find a good waiter around here? This is one of the great restaurant capitals of the world. Thousands upon thousands of foodies live in the Bay Area. Surely, more than a few work in the service industry.

Of course, being a foodie does not necessarily make one a great waiter. It might provide an excellent culinary knowledge base from which to build, but a great waiter also needs patience, an eye for detail, a battle-tested calm, great diplomatic skills, and human warmth.

Taking care of strangers' needs is a tricky business because, often times, the need goes beyond mere feeding and watering. Taking care of a woman who is trying to impress clients? A man attempting to seduce his date? A table full of women with scrapbooks and wrapped presents on a "Girls Night Out"? Grandma's 80th birthday? If you've been a party to any of those parties, you know what I mean. A great waiter can take any of those situations and turn them into triumph. A bad waiter can turn them into one of those horror stories you tell at cocktail parties.

We all have our opinions as to what great restaurant service is. I think a great waiter has the ability to either wholly incorporate him or herself into a guests dining experience or, if need be, create an environment where the needs of the guests are met with an almost Beauty-and-the Beast-like invisibility. And I am talking Cocteau, not Disney. As a server, I find that I am much more suited to the former rather than the latter.

Following my colleague's comments on the state of San Francisco's service industry, I thought about my own dining experiences. Had I had any great waiters lately? Mostly, I drew a blank. One only remembers the really good or the exceptionally bad. In the good category, I could come up with only two in the past couple of months and both examples occurred where I least expected great service. The best of those two was a young server at Kate's' Kitchen in the Haight. It's hard to pinpoint precisely what it was about her, aside from keeping the coffee cup filled, warning against my ordering too much food, her sense of humor, or her deft analysis of the pros and cons of the cheddar pancakes versus the hash. In my opinion, what made her a great server was all of this and that human warmth factor I have already mentioned. She actually seemed concerned, like her eye was on us, and not in an are-you-stealing-the-silver? sort of way. The fact that she managed this when the restaurant was packed to the gills with a waiting list half a mile long impressed me. I watched her. She wasn't just singling out my table for special service. She treated everyone like that. I think I was a little bit in love.

I'm not getting into the terrible service experiences I've had in the recent past because I'd be typing here all day and I've got another 200 or so people to help take care of at lunch today. I just needed to tell myself something positive about the service industry today because all I ever seem to read is about bitter waiters and bad experiences.

Have you unearthed any great waiters lately? If so, tell me who and where. I want details. Pleeeeeeeaze.

Are you as tired of 2008 as I am? The stock market is tanking as miserably as the housing market, winter storms have left us without power for days (and, in one case I know, without a roof), and I just might scream if I listen to any more caucus coverage. The general mood is anything but sanguine. Is there any good news?

Well, yes. California's citrus crops have been doing rather nicely, especially when compared to last year's disastrous freeze. I realize this isn't the most exciting news in the world, but I feel the need keep my joys simple this year, and what could be simpler than a small, roundish piece of fruit?

Of all the known oranges in the universe, my favorite is the Citrus sinensis, or blood orange. There are three common varieties of which I am aware: the Sicilian Tarocco, the Spanish Sanguinello, and the Moro, which is grown right here. Not exactly "right here", but rather in San Diego. And Texas and Florida, but those are two states I generally try not to think about.

Blood oranges aren't exactly a revelation to most foodies today. In fact, some may think them overplayed and mildly pretentious (before you say anything, remember: glass houses). But, if you can reach back into your past, when you weren't so jaded about food a moment...

The first time I encountered a blood orange, I was fascinated. Don't tell me you weren't. The stupid thought of, "It's an orange, but it's red!" popped out of my mouth. Thank God I was among friends. I think I also used the word "neat". The flavor was, of course, citrusy, but tinged with berries. The acid wasn't overpowering and there was a hint of bitterness behind the sweet of it. It was a fruit I could wholly identify with. I bought up several and ate them out-of-hand, I put them into salads, I squeezed them for juice, which I still do. Apparently, so should you. Read on:

Anthocyanin, the pigment, which gives the orange its distinctive interior color (and possibly gives the fruit its subtle berry-flavored notes), is a powerful antioxidant that neutralizes the effects of free-radical chemicals within our bodies. Free radicals, if you haven't heard, are in part responsible for cancer and, even more horrifying to some people, aging. Anthocyanins also help prevent ulcers and improve one's vision, so drink and eat up.

Blood Orange Salad

I want to thank Erik Cosselmon of Kokkari for this one. There are innumerable ways to slip blood oranges into salads, but this is my favorite method, by far. It's great to eat as either a salad course or as dessert.

Ingredients:

3 blood oranges (Moro are used here, but use whichever you want or can find)
2 to 3 dates (I used Medjools), pit removed and cut into slivers
1/4 cup walnuts, either toasted and salted or candied. I vote candied.
Olive oil for drizzling, the best you've got.
Rose water for more drizzling.

Preparation:

1. With a very sharp knife, cut skin from the oranges. Slice the flesh into 1/2-inch pieces, across the grain, so that they look rather like bleeding morning glories. Arrange on your serving dish of choice.

2. Sprinkle slivered dates and walnuts over and around the orange slices.

3. Drizzle with olive oil.

4. Drizzle with rose water (orange blossom water works very well, too, if rosewater reminds you too much of your grandmother). Be very sparing with the rose water, otherwise your salad will smell rather whorish, in my opinion.

5. Serve and eat. Exhausting recipe, I know. I'll do my best to present you with something easier next time.