Last week, my friend Lyle invited me down to the Peninsula to have a big fondue dinner with him and our friend Jack at The Melting Pot. Why? What else can one do when one's girlfriend is out of town except eat an enormous meal of melted cheese, bread, and hot oil-cooked meat? I took the Caltrain down to San Mateo, empty stomached and ready to be amused. The Melting Pot sounded quaint to me, like some homey, Americanized little Alpine restaurant. I had absolutely no idea it was a 33 year-old national franchise born in Maitland, Florida (just outside of Orlando, not surprisingly) with 130 restaurants in its partnership. Of course, I have absolutely no idea about a lot of things.

As we approached the restaurant, I worried about its size-- a two-story fondue restaurant with outdoor seating? On a cold winter night, I wasn't surprised to see no one dining al fresco. Then I wondered, who eats fondue outside? Give me an old pine table by a roaring fire, not an aluminum one under a portable heat lamp. I knew my hope for quaintness was about to be dashed to pieces upon the hardwood-veneered walls and Corian tabletops inside, so I checked that hope at the door with my coat.

When we entered, the first thing I noticed was The Melting Pot logo etched onto glass, sheeted with a constant stream of water immediately behind the host stand. I shuddered a little. I hoped that, should a grease fire occur at my table, no one would come to douse it with a cooling waterfall. The host standing in front of the image was very friendly and passed us to a server who gave us a table upstairs.

The decor upstairs was evocative of a suburban steak house-- leather banquets, pendant lamps that hang too close to the eyes- forcing one to look down at the table and not at one's dining comanions without sunglasses, and odd bits of painting hanging on the wall. My favorite is shown above. I suppose an endless glass of red wine and a woman who can bend herself any which way is a great night out for some.

Our server was the same woman who showed us to our booth. Over the course of the meal, I would come to decide that she was possibly the best server I'd had in quite some time (much better than the server we had the last time the three of us got together for dinner)-- funny, warm, always showing up when we might need something, and very knowledgeable about the menu. When I asked for the silliest cocktail available, she suggested the Tipsy Turtle, a beverage of various rums and juices. Knowing full well that this was not to be a traditional fondue experience, I accepted, it was refreshing, though I was too stubborn to remove the half of a pineapple wedged into the glass, so it kept hitting me in the nose and I dribbled a little.

Opening the menu, I was immediately depressed by the pull-out image of Marlo Thomas with two cute, smiling yet mortally ill children. I won't argue that St. Jude's Children's Hospital is a worthy charity, I just don't like being accosted for change as I'm settling into dinner, whether it be some man rapping on a window asking me for beer money in the Haight or That Girl. Perhaps most disturbing was the amount of airbrushing done to the photo. I flipped the advertisement over so I no longer had to look at it. That accomplished, I read the large, laminated menu.

Filled with photos, the menu told me what I could expect from The Melting Pot and "How [my] Melting Pot Experience Works". I was relieved to know, with the guidance of image number two shown above, that I was to simply select my salad and presumably eat it without dipping it in anything hotter than ranch dressing.

A four course dinner at the Melting Pot is called a Big Night Out. Mediterranean Cheese Fondue, a choice of salad, a choice of "featured entrée selections", and then a choice of chocolate fondue for dessert.

The Mediterranean Cheese Fondue was a concoction of Swiss Gruyère, a touch of shallot, garlic, white truffle oil, and-- perhaps for Mediterranean-ness-- chopped dates. To my knowledge, the peoples of the Mediterranean have no deep history of fondue. But, I thought, this is the Melting Pot. Cultures will mingle, blend smoothly, just like in this big, big country of ours, God Bless it. I gave it a go. It wasn't bad. I rather liked the dates. What I liked even more was the fact that our server mixed up the whole mess tableside. For one brief moment, it was Benihana with cheese.

The main course selection was rather disappointing. We selected the Fondue Feast platter at $84 per couple, because none of us could see the logic of ordering the Lobster Indulgence at $95 per couple. Who wants lobster fondue? Oh. You do. I'm sorry. I was rather put off by the fact that the price of the platters was listed by the "couple". I might have chosen to write "for two" rather than point a sharp stick in the eye of couple-less souls like myself. Besides, there were three of us. I might have been more impressed had the menu given a break to "throuples".

The platter was a collision of items: filet mignon medallions, citrus pork tenderloin, White Shrimp (?), garlic and herb chicken, vegetables, and balsamic-marinated sirloin which, as a result of sitting in so much blackish vinegar, looked more like liver than sirloin. Also on the platter was pasta. To fry? Jack experimented with one of the black and yellow striped ravioli, lost it in the hot canola oil and asked Lyle and me to help him "find Nemo" because he thought they looked like little clown fish. None of us saw any benefit to frying ravioli, but we ate compulsively.

After we had finished our main course, a gentleman came over to the table to remove the boiling oil from our sight with a fascinating little contraption, the name of which escaped me after a cocktail and a few glasses of wine. I thought back to the Canadian PSA that Mrs. Lucianovic had reported on a few weeks back. A very, very good idea.

Dessert was, to my mind, a bit much, but not out of place, considering where we were. I decided to just embrace this too-muchness and dive in. I selected the Flaming Turtle Fondue-- milk chocolate, caramel, and chopped pecans, flambéed tableside with Amaretto-- as a sort of gilded, lead-filled bookend to my Tipsy Turtle at the beginning of the meal.

A platter of brownies, strawberries, banana, cheesecake, pound cake and various marshmallows sat on our table.

For all my big city, I'm-a-bloody-food-snob posturing, I ate everything. Okay, the Oreo cookie crumb-dusted marshmallows were not palatable, but you can pretty much dip anything in chocolate.

It's little wonder Americans are so fat. A Big Night Out? Well, I felt so much bigger as the result of our dinner. When I returned to Lyle's house, I got on the scale and nearly cried as only a gay man or teen-aged girl can in such situations. I looked at my Melting Pot-belly and thought ahead to my New Year's resolutions.

I think the next time I opt for fondue, I shall do it at home. And simply. Cheese, wine, bread, apples. The warmth of a fire and a friend or two. Perhaps in my own couple. Of course, the only heat source in my apartment is the tiny radiator in my living room, so I may need to rethink the romance of it all. If you've got a fireplace, give me a call.

To visit a Melting Pot near you, visit their (rather bizarre) website. Take special note of the front page and click on a fondue pot or two. Please let me know if you decide to join their Club Fondue.

The Melting Pot in San Mateo is located at:
2 North B Street
San Mateo, CA 94401
(650) 342-6368

For directions, view the map.

Hours of Operation:
Mon through Wed: 5pm - 10pm
Thu and Fri: 4:30pm - 11pm
Sat: 3pm - 11pm
Sun: 3pm - 10pm

Always looking for a little extra help with ringing in the New Year correctly, if quietly, I have turned to eating luck-giving food. I would consider 2007 a very good year, since I didn't die as I had supposed I would, on or before my last birthday. I'm not going to attribute my good fortune directly to the eating of Hoppin' John, but I won't entirely discount it either.

So I am continuing my consumption of pork in the New Year, given the fact that pigs are symbolic of good fortune and prosperity. Since most of the ones I've seen end their short lives being consumed by humans, I don't feel that their luck is personal, but rather that it radiates from within their own pot bellies, only to find its way into other pot bellies-- ours. There are, of course, notable exceptions, like Babe, Wilbur, and Arnold Ziffel. If our pig friends are aware of these porcine super-stars, I do not know. I can only imagine that it might lead to unrealistic expectations of salvation and celebrity lifestyle on the part of the pig, but who am I to judge? I still believe I am going to win the lottery and meet a special someone who isn't crazy.

The scientific reasoning behind pork's luckiness stems from the fact that, unlike fish that might swim away with your fortune, or fowl who could very well likely fly away with it (and are thus to be avoided), pigs tend to root out treasure, aiding in your well-deserved prosperity. Not being one to question science, I am upping my pork consumption next week. It seems to be working for my neighbor across the hallway. She looks as though she has spent a lifetime eating nothing but pork several times a day. Judging by the headboard-banging and fascinating vocalizations emanating from the other side of my bedroom wall at this very moment, she seems to be a very lucky woman indeed.

Pork Chops with Apples and Thyme

This is a recipe taken (but is not exactly duplicated) from a cookbook I worked on several years ago called New England by Molly Stevens, which was part of a series called New American Cooking by the folks at Williams-Sonoma. I was the food styling assistant on this book and was initially disappointed that we didn't photograph this recipe. Given the rather monochromatic nature of this dish, I now understand the wisdom of that decision. What this dish lacks in color, it definitely makes up for in flavor. It's seriously good.

Ingredients

4 or 5 fresh sprigs of thyme
2 tablespoons of unsalted butter
2 large tart apples, like Granny Smith, peeled, cored, and sliced
4 center-cut pork loin chops I chose the bone-in variety and, oh, 1 to 2 inches thick
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
salt and ground (fresh) pepper to taste
2 tablespoons of olive oil
3/4 cup apple cider
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1 clove of garlic, minced
1/4 cup of heavy cream

Preparation:

1. In a frying pan large enough to hold all four chops, melt butter over medium-high heat. Add apples and sauté, shaking often (the pan, though if you've got the DT's this dish might help. Just pour yourself an extra glass of cider.). When apples have some lovely browning to them, remove them from the pan and transfer to an awaiting bowl.

2. Pat the pork chops dry with paper towels. Season liberally with salt and pepper. Put the flour on a shallow plate and place chops in the flour. Coat on both sides of the pork, shaking off any excess flour.

3. Return your pan to medium-high heat and add the oil. When the oil is very hot but not smoking, add the pork chops and brown evenly on both sides, about 1 to 2 minutes per sides, but no more than that, please. Add cider and vinegar, then turn heat to low. Add garlic and thyme. Cover tightly to cook. turning them once half way through the process. Cook until done, of course, which will take you anywhere from 14 to 18 minutes, depending upon the thickness of your chops. A slight rosy pinkness in the center is idea. In the center of the pork chop, that is.

4. Transfer the chops to a plate and keep warm. I suppose that might relate to both you and your chops. Remove thyme from the pan. Raise the heat to high, scraping the bottom of the pan to dissolve any caramelized bits, and add the cream. Boil until the liquid in the pan is reduced by half. Stir in the apples. Taste and adjust your seasonings.

5. Spoon apples and sauce over the pork chops and serve immediately.

Serves 4

When the weather turns cold and Christmasy, what do you think about? Chances are you think about roaring fires, snowflake-patterned sweaters, or lacing the chestnut stuffing with arsenic. Me, I think about Scandinavian food. In particular, my mind wanders to gravlax.

Perhaps it's just a reaction against all the frosted sugar cookies and enforced glee, but the desire for something clean and salty that comes from a land prone to waves of alcoholism and depression during the long, dark, and cold winter months is irresistible to me.

Gravlax, gravad lax, gravlaks, graavilohi or graflax. However you spell it, it's salmon cured with salt, sugar, and dill. Traditionally, it is served with a gravlaxsas-- a sauce of dill and mustard, and with dense, dark bread or boiled potatoes, but Christmastime is no time to think of tradition, certainly.

Gravlax is a fisherman's dish, originally of salmon salted and the buried in the sand above the high tide line. If you hadn't made the connection between the Scandinavian grav and our word grave, then you weren't paying attention. It should now come as no surprise that the true meaning of gravlax is "salmon dug into the ground." If you, in turn, could now explain to me the true meaning of Christmas, I'll call us even.

The original dish was somewhat fermented, not unlike the way those clever Vietnamese make that lovely fish sauce I used to put into everything, but times have changed. Today, the only burying done to the salmon is in salt and sugar.

If you are as tired of cookies and fudge as I am, this is a great treat to take to a party or have at your own. It's remarkably easy, taking very little skill, which I appreciate during the Holidays. All that is required is a little forward planning.

Gravlax

There are hundreds of recipes for gravlax. I don't know why, since it's basically the product of very few ingredients. The one I used for the purposes of this blog is a good one, but everyone, especially Norwegians, is bound to argue about the exact ratio of salt to sugar. All I have to say is please, not on Christmas, Dawn, not on Christmas.

Ingredients

1 to 2 pounds salmon fillet, sliced into equal pieces. If you want to get fancy, buy center cuts. I, however, do not care.
1/4 cup kosher salt
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon of cracked black pepper
1 bunch of dill
a splash or two of alcohol-- Akvavit is traditional, but vodka or brandy works well, too.

Preparation

1. Remove pin bones, if any, from salmon with needle nose pliers or tweezers.
2. In a small bowl, combine salt, sugar, and pepper.
3. Rub both sides of salmon fillets with salt and sugar mixture. My salt and sugar, when preparing my mise en place for this blog looked very much like a granulated Maidenform bra when poured.

4. Spread remaining sugar and salt mixture onto the pink, fleshy side of the fillets and sprinkle with your booze of choice, but not too much.

5. Lay dill more or less evenly over one of the fillets. I like to crush it in my hands to release the essential oils. Place the second fillet on top of it to form a sandwich, with the salmon acting as the bread. If this is difficult for you to follow, I don't want to know you.

6. Place your "sandwich in an appropriately-sized freezer bag, removing as much air as possible. Close the bag.

7. Place your package in a shallow baking dish or pan and place a weight evenly over it. There is much disagreement about this step. Some people like 5-to-8 pounds of weight, others, none at all. Weighing down the salmon produces a denser finished (or Finnish, in this case) product. I decided to go for something lightweight in both the literal and literary sense.

8. Refrigerate for 2 to 3 days, turning the salmon every 12 hours or so.

9. After the appropriate amount of time, take salmon out of the bag, scrap off most of the dill and pat dry with paper towels. Once cured, the gravlax should stay "fresh", or at least, good, for a week, if refrigerated and well-wrapped.

To serve, slice at a 45 degree angle, as thinly as possible and leaving the skin behind. Drink a little glasas of Akvavit or vodka to toast your good fortunes. Or drink a bit of champagne, that pairs well, too. Did I mention that this is a great New Year's Eve or New Year's Day breakfast dish? No? Well, it is.

It seems to be Cookbook Week here on Bay Area Bites, so I thought I'd throw in my two cents...

I think there are entirely too many cookbooks in this world. Okay, in my world. Too many have been choking up my bookshelves collecting dust rather than grease stains, so I thought I would give my kitchen a little purge.

Before you start thinking that I'm just being a bit cranky this morning, I should state that I love cookbooks. Collecting them used to be one of my little fetishes. Fortunately, I've grown out of that little phase. Perhaps it's because I've been involved in the production of more than a few of them, catching authors' mistakes and even adding a few of my own to the mix, sometimes on purpose, just to leave my mark.

Lately, however, I've been wondering just how many cookbooks one actually needs? I don't think I need the one hundred or so in my collection. Some I shall keep for their kitsch value, like my Jell-o cookbook, others I'll let hang around because they're such a damned good read. Do I really need a book devoted exclusively to the baked potato? I don't think so. I don't even know how that one snuck onto my shelves. Out it goes. 100 Recetas Dulces by Sister Bernarda of Argentina? I don't even speak Spanish, but I'll keep the book because I think Sister Bernarda looks like a man. There is no clearly-defined criteria for this weeding-out process.

What I have come to understand about my collection of cookbooks is that there are only a few that I return to over and over again. These are the books I would take with me to my hypothetical desert island. Even if the island lacked a fully functional kitchen or access to a grocery store, these books are just plain great reading. Everyone has their own favorites and, since everyone seems to like lists, I thought I'd post my own list of favorites.

I'd like to know yours, too.

Five Cookbooks I'll Never Throw Away:

The Moosewood Cookbook by Molly Katzen

This was the first cookbook I owned. Actually, I just realized that I didn't own it originally-- it was my college roommate Craig's book. I am not a vegetarian by any stretch of the imagination, but this is the book that hooked our attention as neophyte cooklings in college. The recipes are simple, the ingredients are inexpensive and the handwritten copy is homey and non-threatening, just the ticket for those who might be intimidated by the cooking process(es). I return to this book when I am feeling broke, nostalgic, or both.

This book holds a permanent space on my shelf for another reason: Ten years after my introduction to this book, it was Molly Katzen (and very specifically, a lovely producer-woman named Tina Salter) who gave me my first job in food media on her show Vegetable Heaven. Thank you.

The Way to Cook by Julia Child

This is my go to for "how to". Full of no nonsense photos populated by Mrs. Child's skillful old hands and informative sidebars, this is the book I bought when I decided to get "serious" about cooking. I've never abandoned it and, more importantly, it has never abandoned me. It walked me through the first Thanksgiving dinner prepared my by own soft, lily white, hairy-knuckled little hands. Fool (me)-proof choux pastry? It's in here.

The Best Recipe by the editors of Cook's Illustrated

This is the book I read for "how not to". Any group of people who takes the time to find out and report what not to do when, say grilling a steak, is okay in my book. Walk-throughs of tricky or intimidating techniques like lattice-topping a pie are well-illustrated and, of course, the examination of how one might best avoid tearing up when cutting onions is priceless. This is one of my best-stained and highest-functioning volumes.

The Art of Eating by M.F.K. Fisher

This is not exactly a cookbook, but it has enough recipes within it to make this list. Her opinions on and recipe for oyster stew in the section entitled, simply enough, Consider the Oyster, made me get up off my ass and learn to shuck when I was younger. I've read it cover to cover at least five times and I return to it whenever I need to remind myself to stop eating Chinese food over the sink and take better care of my inner and outer self, when I am feeling sad or alone or both. Fisher's writing is thoughtful, self-obsessed and some of the best writing about food ever. Amen. My copy is quite literally falling apart, but I hesitate buying a new copy. I'd hate to get rid of this old friend.

Lunches and Brunches by the editors of Better Homes and Gardens (1963)

This book is a jewel. A gaudy paste-diamond perhaps, but a jewel, nonetheless. It satisfies all of my kitsch needs: garish, color-saturated photography, what-were-they-thinking? recipes, etc. And everything seems to have gelatin in it, like some sort of Mormon family picnic. It's a peek into the past-- a time when cream sauces were "fancy" and people drank coffee with every meal. Confetti Relish Mold? Yes, lemon-flavored Jell-o, scallions, radishes, beef bouillon, and sour cream sounds like a heavenly combination. You will have to rip this book from my cold, dead aristocratic hands..

Well, those are mine. What are yours?

It's getting to be that special time of year again. I will leave the reasons behind its specialness open to interpretation. Holiday party invitations start showing up in one's mailbox the moment the turkey baster has been dried and tucked away in a drawer. Concurrently, this is the time of year when egg nog starts to muscle its way into your local supermarket's dairy case.

Egg Nog. It's a heart-stopping, cholesterol-laden, alcohol-spiked, phlegm-producing cup of Holiday goodness. And I'm a huge fan. I always have been.

As a child, the appeal was obvious; what eight year-old is going to say no to a sweet, creamy dairy product? I imagined I was drinking melted nutmeg ice cream. Given the ingredients, I didn't know how close to the mark I was. I would drink several glasses at holiday gatherings. If I accidentally got into the rum-spiked nog for adults (which was understandable since the crystal punch bowl full of alcoholic nog looked exactly like the cardboard carton that contained the booze-free liquid), so much the better. Open a container, pour out its contents, mix in a little rum, and get the party started. Egg nog punch is that simple. Or was, until I had my first taste of the real stuff.

It wasn't until I was well into adulthood that my family would pay a call on my stepmother's friend Charlene and her family, who had a sort of open house party every Christmas Eve. The house was always dressed to the teeth in holiday drag, complete with a sort of Christmas-on- Main-Street, U.S.A. recreation in miniature spread out over the tables in the living room and onto the grand piano. I'd peek into the tiny cellophane windows looking for any signs of domestic unhappiness or violence, but was invariably disappointed in my search. Booze-spiked cocktail wieners, prawns, and every kind of dip imaginable were there for the taking, and our hosts were always warm and in a festive mood, which is just the thing my family needs during the holidays. For me, the two main attractions of the party were the Presentation of the Egg Nog, and the Wheeling-in of Grandpa. This quiet old gentleman was missing one of his legs and an eye. At least, I assume he was missing an eye since he wore an eye patch. This in itself is nothing unusual, since it it very likely that he suffered from diabetes, though I never asked. What I always found interesting was the fact that he was always parked against the wall near the center of the main room, slightly to the right of a parrot cage, which hung near (but wisely not over) the dessert table. He was, to me, a sort of pirate centerpiece to the party.

The Presentation of the Egg Nog was not a heralded event, but one I always watched with interest. Charlene and her husband Bill would be in the kitchen fussing over the bowl, stirring in something here, adding a little nutmeg there. They'd do a little tasting, adjust favoring, do a little more tasting, add more booze, then Charlene would pick up the enormous bowl and walk it to the buffet table very carefully, the whitecaps of stiffened egg white gently rising and falling against the sides. When her mission had been successfully accomplished, people would grab their cups and huddle around the bowl, waiting their turn to dip in. It was a revelation, in terms of my nog-drinking experience. It was fresh and frothy. I finally understood where the egg part of egg nog came in-- the subtle yellow coloring from yolks beaten without mercy, the foam of egg whites folded in for body. It ruined my enjoyment of store-bought nog forever.

I won't assume that all three of you reading this have ever tried homemade egg nog. If you haven't, and you don't have problems consuming dairy, cholesterol or alcohol, I say go ahead and try it. It's really, really good. And you only get it once a year, so drink up.

Egg Nog

The rumor behind the word "nog" is that it derived from the English word "noggin"; a small, carved, wooden mug used to serve drinks in various taverns. The full name of this beverage might have been "egg and grog in a noggin", which does not sound especially appetizing. There also seems to be some disagreement as to whether the beverage is spelled as one word or two. I like two, it sounds more important that way.

Ingredients:

4 egg yolks
1/3 cup sugar, plus 1 tablespoon
1 pint whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup rum, bourbon, or whatever poison you prefer
4 egg whites

Procedure:

1. Beat egg yolks until pale yellow in color. Gradually add 1/3 cup of sugar until it is totally dissolved.

2. In a medium saucepan, over high heat, combine milk, cream, and nutmeg and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat and temper the hot milk mixture into the eggs and sugar. Return everything to the pot and cook until mixture reaches 160 degrees F. Remove from heat, stir in alcohol and extract, pour into a medium-sized mixing bowl and chill in your refrigerator.

3. In a medium bowl, beat egg whites to soft peaks. Gradually add one tablespoon of sugar as you beat until stiff peaks form. Whisk egg whites into chilled mixture.

4. Put your now fresh and somewhat safe beverage in the noggin or vessel of your choice and drink up.

On my way home from Thanksgiving dinner, I walked down Capp Street in the Mission, fully bloated and lightly buzzed from an over abundance of great food, good wine, and a mild case of self-satisfaction over having won two games of Celebrity. I had just spent the past eight hours feasting and laughing with friends. As I turned the corner onto Mission Street, I saw a man sitting on the sidewalk. He stared at me and I stopped in my tracks and stared back for a moment. He didn't ask me for anything and I realized then that I didn't have anything to offer him. No leftovers, just a bagful of dirty dishes and a book of short stories by Saki. The warm, fuzzy glow of the evening I had just spent evaporated and all the casseroles, turkey, and pie turned to cement in my stomach. It was clear that our respective celebrations of the holiday differed. I felt thankful that his experience was not mine and impotent to do anything about improving his. The exchange lasted about three seconds.

If you are reading this, chances are you own a computer and pay for online service, which means that, in all likelihood, you can afford turkey and, if not all, then some of the trimmings. Like me, you probably spent Thanksgiving with friends or family or both, either sitting about a giant dining table stuffing yourselves silly, or milling about a party, drinking and grazing your way through relish trays and pumpkin cheesecakes (Please tell me you didn't spend the day locked in your bedroom, quietly drinking). Whatever the case, the chances are slim to none that all the food was consumed.

What can you do wth the leftovers? Apart from salivate over Madame Laidlaw's ideas from yesterday's post (I am a sucker for a good quesadilla), you might think about donating food to your local food bank, if your feast of plenty was too plentiful.

Of course, most places aren't going to accept a couple of slices of pie or a pile of turkey skin. Most food banks request items that are in some sort of packaging, but I wonder, since there was a shortage of deposits at local food banks this year, according to Maris Lagos of the San Francisco Chronicle. When you are shopping next year, buy an extra thing or two and just give it away-- nearly every grocery store has some sort of food drive happening.

I suppose we should think ahead to next year, not that one need only give on Thanksgiving. If you're saddled with cooking dinner for 20, why not push that number a little higher. Feed an extra person or two. Or twenty. If you are affiliated with a particular church or mosque or temple or glee club for all I care, find out if they are involved in any feeding programs, like Glide Memorial Church, for example.

If there are organizations that accept cooked food from private homes, I would very much like to know. Why not bake a pie for a total stranger? It's a not-so-random act of kindness.

If you are in the restaurant industry and have a surplus of holiday fare, contact Food Runners in San Francisco, they'll know what to do with your leftovers.

During this time of year, we're supposed to take time out of our lives to think upon what it is we are grateful for. Last night, among other things, I was grateful I wasn't that guy sitting on the sidewalk on Capp Street. I have promised myself that next year will be different. Not that I will be that guy sitting on the corner, mind you. I've just realized that I actually can do something, which is get up off my lazy, self-involved ass and give something, whether it be time, food, or money. Most likely time or food, since I don't have any money. I suppose it would be unethical to suggest that, while you are giving food and time to those in need, you make large monetary donations to me. I am thankful that I know better than to make that particular request.

The holidays are fast approaching, whether you like it or not. For many of us, that means a major spike in entertaining, either of the at-home or in-a-restaurant variety. In the course of all this entertaining, an increase in the amount of wine purchased and consumed enters into the picture. At least in my circles, anyway.

I serve wine to people. It's just one facet among many in my job profile. Recently, in a fit of boredom, I came to the conservative conclusion that I have served at least 140,000 people in my eighteen years of service as a waiter. Granted, some of them are repeat customers, but that's still a lot of folks. In fact, that's about the entire population of Pasadena, California. By next year, I will have well outgrown that estimate. I hope to retire before I reach, say, Oakland.

During the course of serving all those people, I have opened roughly 25,000 bottles of wine, or, the equivalent of one bottle of wine for each person living Atascadero, California. I can't confirm any of this, of course, since I am uncertain as to whether or not the residents of the State Hospital are allowed alcohol. But that is one hell of a lot of wine. 18,750,000 milliliters. Sadly, I'm too stupid to convert that number into liters.

In all my years as a waiter, I have been mildly alarmed by the number of people who seem bewildered by the process of wine service. There are those of you who tense up (you know who you are) as your server approaches with the bottle. It can be as subtle as nervous little clearing of the throat, or as depressing as blurting out that you know nothing about wine tasting and pointing a finger at one of your dining companions to do the job for you. There is no need for that, really. Then, of course, there are those of you who feel the need to emote like a silent film actor. I applaud your enthusiasm. I really do. Of course, I'll probably point you out to the other waiters, but I applaud your enthusiasm just the same.

As a civilian, I have often been saddened by the shaky hands of servers who appear to have no confidence in their ability to pop a cork out of a bottle, especially if it's an expensive wine. Very seldom do I see the ritual performed properly. Everything from dripping wine on the tablecloth, which is forgivable, to taking the bottle of wine away from the table to open the cork, which is unforgivable, to putting the bottle of wine between their legs while removing the cork, which brings to my mind certain unpleasantries of the human digestive system or perhaps a crescendo of sexual excitement. In either case, I don't want those particular corks on my table.

Apart from my introductory ramble, this is a fairly straightforward sermon today, designed to clarify any problems or discomfort at the table. It's called:

How to behave when a bottle of wine is being opened for you.

1. Let's pretend that you have ordered the above-pictured bottle of wine, a 2004 Tenuta San Guido "Guidalberto". Excellent choice, by the way. The server or sommelier will hopefully return with the bottle cradled like some precious baby in his arms (or her, I am not going to spend my time writing s/he him/her, so please excuse me) and present the bottle, label facing towards to you.

2. He will verbalize the producer (Tenuta San Guido), the varietal (If it is a New World wine. In this case, the varietal is not labeled as a Merlot-Cabernet-Sangiovese blend) or name of the wine (Guidalberto) and the vintage (2004). This is extremely important. Stop talking to your girlfriend and pay attention for a moment. Is this the wine you ordered? Yes? Good. Now is it the correct vintage? That's important. For example, in 2003, there was a major heat wave that killed hundreds of Europeans over the summer. Not that that has anything to do with wine, mind you, but it did make for fruitier wines that year. If the vintage on offer differs from what is advertised on the wine list, that's nothing unusual. Time-- and vintage-- marches on. Just be sure to clarify this with whoever serves your wine.

3. When the wine is opened, the cork should be placed in front of you, just to the right. Just eyeball it. There is no need to sniff it. Most likely, it will smell like a cork with some wine on it. Sniffing a cork and then smelling your wine will do you no good whatsoever. The purpose of presenting the cork is to show the condition of storage. Is the outer edge dry and the inner wet? Excellent. If the inner part of the cork is dry, that could mean that the wine was stored poorly-- like straight up-- which is bad. Very bad. If the outside of the cork is wet, that means seepage, which is worse.

If a bottle of wine has been sealed with a Stelvin enclosure (that's what those screw caps are called), it should not be placed on the table. I made the mistake of presenting the cap to one of my diners not too long ago, because we were all playing at being overly formal with the wine. He picked up the cap between his fingertips and waved it dramatically under his nose. I'm glad I had my serviette handy to catch some of the blood.

3. The only thing you need your nose to do (apart from breathing) is smell the wine once a taste has been poured for you. You are only looking for defects like oxidation and spoilage. Please do not comment on the wine's legs. You are not supposed to pass any other judgements on the wine at that moment. Is it fit for consumption? Yes? Good.

4. What if you don't like the wine? If you have ordered the wine on your own and simply do not like it, you may be considered "at fault." No one told you to order it. It's not as cherry ripe as you were expecting? Sorry. Now if you have the advice of the sommelier and he has lead you severely astray (they are, however, typically trained to steer you in the other direction), you've got a case. Thankfully, I work in a place that isn't going to argue with a guest about wine. Don't like it? Hey, we'll drink it later! Can I get you something else? That makes my life much more pleasant, anyway.

5. Alright. You've given your nod to the person who has opened your wine. He will then pour out for your guests, saving you for last. Do not pour your own wine. Let the server do that. Unless he is a particularly bad server and you are forced to. You should never be forced to.

Wasn't that easy? And it only took about 90 seconds.

I've added a great link to a little series of videos about how to serve wine from Hospitality University. Sounds rather Canadian to me...

Before I moved to San Francisco, I knew surprisingly little about the City, which suited me fine, since I have never felt the need for too much advanced knowledge about anything. And I had no desire to trade the fantasy I had of Carol Doda and a chorus of flannel-clad gay men singing the Rice-a-roni jingle from a cable car as it crested some hill or other with the reality of some homeless guy defecating in front of me on Capp Street as he ranted incoherently.

Once moved, I had a formulated a shortlist of what I thought were very San Francisco-y things I needed to experience. One: Visit Alcatraz, no matter how touristy. That I finally accomplished this year. Two: Read Tales of the City by Armistad Maupin. Still haven't gotten around to it, much to my friend Bill's irritation. Three: oh, there were lots of things on that list, but way down near the bottom of my to-dos was eating a dish called Hangtown Fry. Why? I think I read about it in a cookbook somewhere at some point and I got it into my head that it was more ur-San Francisco that sourdough bread. So I was wrong. But not by much. The Hangtown Fry is a very old school San Francisco dish-- take a look at the Tadich Grill menu if you don't believe me, but the hangtown in question was not, as I had hoped, our City-by-the-currently oil- streaked-Bay. That particular honor goes to Placerville, a charming little town in the Sierra Foothills formerly fraught with multiple crises of identity.

Originally called Dry Diggins by the miners who carted their dry soil from there to the river to wash out the gold, Placerville's second sobriquet was collected in a pique of impromptu vigilante justice. Tired of being robbed of their hard-earned gold at knife point, some merchants and miners of the area suggested making human swings out of three men accused of the crime. Since this was the first such recorded hanging in the Mother Lode area, the camp was rechristened "Hangtown", leaving its old name to blow away like so much dust. As the town grew up and struggled to become respectable, the best of their marketing minds came up with the more child and virgin-friendly "Placerville." I suppose they could have done worse.

It was at some point in the early life of Dry Diggins/Hangtown/Placerville that, as legend has it, a newly rich gold miner walked into the restaurant of the El Dorado Hotel and demanded the most expensive meal that could be had there, mumbling something about being tired of eating nothing but canned beans. What he was given was a scramble of eggs, oysters, and bacon. Perhaps the chef misunderstood him and made the richest meal he could think of rather than the most expensive. Whatever the case, he was charged a princely sum since, it was explained, "Canned oysters had to be shipped in from Boston, eggs were as scarce as pig feathers, and bacon was just as expensive." Of course, as read at Gold Rush Chronicles, "Eggs, bacon, and oysters were the only ingredients the chef could find. Chickens were portable so the camp had eggs early on, oysters were prolific in San Francisco Bay at the time, and bacon would keep without refrigeration." I somehow doubt this miner held onto his money for very long. At least he got a good meal.

Hangtown Fry

Many of the recipes I found called for the use of a non-stick pan. Since I strongly suspect the humoring chef at the El Dorado Hotel had no acquaintance with Teflon, I asked my trusty cast iron skillet to take on the job instead, to keep in the spirit of all things 49'er. Of course, it is also doubtful that he utilized a gas stove, overhead electric lighting, or an ipod. My spirit carries me only so far.

This particular recipe is an artery clogger, near as rich as anything one might care to put in one's mouth. I decided to go for broke, otherwise, what's the point, really? There are lighter versions of this dish, certainly, but the spirit of the thing is it's richness. This was made at the request of a man who stumbled upon a gold strike after months of eating nothing but beans, after all. Life expectancy rates were lower then and no one knew the meaning of cholesterol. Shave a few months off your own life and try it.

Ingredients:

3 whole hen's eggs (if using Plover's eggs, 4)
1/4 cup heavy cream
1/4 teaspoon of salt
1/8 teaspoon of nutmeg
a turn or two of your pepper grinder
6 small oysters, alive and in their shells...

enough flour for dredging the shelled oysters as they lay dying
1 tablespoon of cow's butter
1 tablespoon chopped parsley (I use the curly kind because I have finally rejected my previous rejection of it)
3 strips of thickly sliced bacon

Preparation:

1. Into a pan heated to medium intensity, place your bacon and fry until crispy. Remove to a paper or cotton tea towel to drain and cool. Reserve the bacon drippings.

2. Combine cream, salt, pepper, nutmeg and oysters in a bowl and beat until egg yolks are just incorporated.

3. Drop shelled (you may have to do that yourself if your mother is not available to help you) oysters into flour to coat lightly and suffocate. Tap off any excess flour.

4. With the bacon grease still hot in the skillet on mediumish heat, introduce the oysters to the fat and brown on each side. About 45 seconds to one minute per hemisphere. Do not overcook, since a certain degree of juicy sweetness is desired of them. Remove from heat onto paper or other materialed towel.

5. If the bacon grease is hissing and spitting at you, I find the best way to deal with such rudeness is to ignore it. Return to it once it has cooled down sufficiently to introduce it to it's new fat friend, butter.

6. Add egg mixture to the butter/grease melange and treat suitably, as one might treat an omelet, say. When half way cooked through, crumble in some of the bacon, add the oysters, and cook the other half of the way.

7. Remove your newly developed Hangtown Fry to some sort of plate and have at it while it is still warm.

Over the past several years, I'd wandered past Hellenic American Imports on Mission Street many, many times, never bothering to go in. Mental notes were made and promptly filed away. If I ever had the need for a Greek flag or an evil eye charm, I thought, I'd know just where to go.

After lunching with a friend in the neighborhood a few months ago, I found myself in front of the store. As I peered through the plate glass windows and past the statuary, I saw something that caught my attention-- food for sale. A sucker for interesting markets, I found myself compelled to enter.

After browsing the cheeses in the refrigerated case at the back of the store, a young woman descended a little staircase to the right to welcome me.

"Let me know if you need anything," she offered, "My name is Greece." Was she serious? About the name, not the offer of help, I mean.

"Your name is Greece?" I asked, thinking how fortunate she was to have found just the right occupation for her name.

"It's actually Griselda, but they call me Greece here."

And why not? I continued to browse, working my way over to the wines.

As I wandered a bit more, grabbing a box of Dumplings with Yeast (Loukoumades. It sounds better in Greek.) here and a can of giant beans (Gigantes) there, I recognized a man I had waited on before coming down the staircase from the office that looks down upon the store. I said hello. He introduced himself as Savas Deligiorgis, the owner of the store.

After chatting for a few minutes, he mentioned that he had some work to do for his radio program. Radio program? Savas, it turns out, has been producing the Hellenic American Broadcast-- the only Greek radio hour west of Chicago-- for the past 43 years, which is as long as he has owned the store. Journalism is a passion of his. It's what he studied in school. He then excused himself and went back upstairs into the office.

I was intrigued. I made my purchases, thumbed through some Greek VHS tapes for amusement, and left, quite glad I had decided to wander in.

When in Greece last month, I got rather hooked on taramosalata, a spread made of fish roe, oil, and bread. I remembered Savas carried the stuff, so I made a pilgrimage back to his store.

He was there, up in the office. I waved hello and was invited up. As I sat at his desk drinking Amita brand peach juice surrounded by office walls lined with photos of Savas posing with the likes of Jerry Brown, Anthony Quinn, and several Greek dignitaries, we talked about the changing demographics of the Mission. When he bought the store 43 years ago, there were still many Greek and Italian families living in the neighborhood. Now that most of them have moved away, he still serves to hold the community together through his Monday-to-Friday radio hour. Greek-relevant interviews, news, commentaries and music are all on offer. While we talked, the other half of his radio team, Tonia Demitriadis, arrived and we all chatted a bit more.

Back downstairs with Savas, I noticed some cookies dusted with powdered sugar. "Hey! What are these called again? The lady I stayed with in Santorini would make these for me." I said, excitedly, but not very gracefully.

"Kourabiethes. Take some. The one's in the box are better." I took some home and had them with my coffee, powdered sugar blown like talcum over the front of my shirt and in my beard. But they were good and worth the wiping for.

Again, I thanked him for his time and wandered the store while Greece busied herself arranging merchandise. A bin of ouzo candy wrapped in shiny metallic blue paper caught my eye. I plunged my hand in as if it were a barrel of pinto beans and hoped no one would notice. I did not purchase any candy.

I went back to the cheeses. Manouri, feta, myzithra. The back walls were lined with products I'd seen in markets on the Greek islands I'd so recently wandered. Cookies, dakos, calamari, Nescafe, and frappe shakers. It's all there. I was glad to know it.

I moved on to the non-food-related areas, contemplated buying a book or a video. I wondered how funny I might find a Greek comedy. If the phrases "thank you" or "I'm sorry" or "where is the toilet, please?" were said in a particularly hilarious fashion, it might be well worth it. Otherwise, it would be a purchase entirely lost on me. I took my cod roe, cookies, a little wine, and left.

I'll be back as soon as the roe runs out.

Hellenic American Imports
2365 Mission Street
San Francisco, CA 94110

Tel: (415) 282-2237

Open Monday through Saturday from 10 am to 6 pm

The Hellenic American Broadcast airs at 8 pm Monday through Friday on KTVO- AM 1400

In case you didn't know, yesterday marked the 14th anniversary of Vincent Price's death. I hope everyone took a little time out of their busy schedules to remember him. Since this post falls conveniently between his death day and Halloween, there is no other possible topic for discussion, as far as I am concerned.

As a poster child for classic American horror films, one might expect Vincent Price to have had more blood in his food than the other way around, but I assure you that is quite untrue. His father, Vincent Leonard Price, founded the National Candy Company, which did not, as I had previously thought, invent wax lips (that honor goes to the American Candy Company). I was crushed to learn that Mr. Price was not, in fact, a scion of the House of Wax Lips. I realize it's a horrible joke, but it's early and I'm just having my coffee.

Price was, however, the grandson of Dr. Vincent Clarence Price, creator of the first commercially manufactured baking powder in the United States, which must count for something.

Though most famous for his roles in horror films, Price was a well-known art collector and gourmet. A Yale graduate with a degree in Art History, he appeared on the $64,000 Question as an "expert" contestant in the same category (He won half that amount), and was an avid collector and promoter of art, founding the Vincent Price Art Museum at East Los Angeles College in 1958-- the first "teaching art collection" owned by a community college.

As a gourmet, Price made his rounds on the talk show circuit in the 1960's and 70's, once chatting up Johnny Carson while demonstrating how to poach a fish in a dishwasher. (Note: I gleaned that information from wikipedia, so I hope it's true. Please do not suggest I punch myself in the face again). If any one happens to own that clip, I'd give anything to see it. The man had an odd sense of humor.

On a slightly more serious food note, Price and his second wife Mary produced a small number of cookbooks, one of which, I have in my own collection.

I found Come into the Kitchen quite by accident as I spent a lazy afternoon browsing The Abandoned Planet Bookstore on Valencia Street with a friend. At the time, I had no idea Mr. Price was an avid cook. As a lover of kitsch cookbooks, I immediately bought it without much reading it, simply noting the rather odd style and choice of illustration, as seen below...

When I got it home, I found that this book-- which is as old as I am-- was filled with bits of odd information, like the facsimile of the "Public Dinner Given to the Honorable James K. Polk" at the St Louis Hotel dated March 22nd, 1849. Given the expanse of the eleven course dinner created in his honor, I am not at all surprised that, weakened by diarrhea and severe intestinal cramps, Polk succumbed to an outbreak of cholera a few weeks later. No. that is not mentioned in the book.

What is in the book, odd tidbits aside, is a collection of American recipes, collected at a time when American food was not fashionable among "foodies". Fish balls a la Mrs. Benjamin Harrison is a favorite and one I shall be making in honor of our next inauguration. Check it out, if you are so inclined. It's worth it.

That's it for this week. I leave you with a clip from the film Theater of Blood, which I think perfectly combines Price's status as a horror film icon, his love of food, and his famously dark sense of humor.

Warning: This clip, though amusing, is rather violent, but not in a blood-and-gut-spewing way. If you are the queasy sort, or can't stomach the thought of anyone hurting puppies, do not view.