The giving of thanks
Certainly thankful I don't have to do the dishes
There are certain conventions in life, and one of them is that if you write a column or a blog you are supposed to write a Thanksgiving column, full of heartfelt sentiment designed to move the reader to moralistic reflection and altruistic action.
I’m no good at that.
These columns are either barely concealed bragging ( “I”m so thankful for my new Ferrari, my Nobel prize and my 9 children, all Rhodes Scholars”) or banal, maudlin tripe. I don’t even like tripe in menudo.
Life is pretty damned good. I live well and get to play bridge and travel, as do most of my readers. We are all awfully lucky, and generally smart enough to appreciate that fact. You don’t need me to tell you how lucky you are, and you sure don’t need to hear how lucky I am.
So what should we talk about? Food? We didn’t have turkey today; I made a prime rib. Baked potatoes, peas and onions, roasted brussels sprouts, salad and fresh popovers. I like the leftovers better this way–roast beef sandwiches, beef stroganoff, roast beef hash.
Family? Gail’s daughters came over with a passel of grandkids. Everyone should be thankful for grandkids. Kate announced that she and Brad were getting married this year. They’ve known each other since high school, I guess it’s time.
The weather? No point in being thankful or miserable, the weather is just a given.
Politics? I guess we can be thankful that the election is over and the next one won’t get moving for at least a few months. Our system seems to be broken, and nobody has any idea of how to fix it. I”m no fan of Mike Huckabee, but I sure like his idea that politicians shouldn’t get paid their salary if they are running for any office other than the one they hold.
The wonders of America? See above–I’m worried as hell about my country. We used to have pride, we used to have civil rights, we used to have the respect of the world. Now Washington is gridlocked, the sheeple are trading their rights wholesale for imaginary security, we’re headed straight to bankruptcy supporting wars we don’t belong in, in countries that don’t want us. At this point I’m mostly thankful that we haven’t collapsed completely, yet.
Friends? I”m very thankful for my friends; they’ve seen me through good times and bad, helped me when I needed it, kicked me in the ass when I needed it, celebrated my victories and mourned my losses. My life wouldn’t be any part of what it is without them.
I guess that sums it up–life is good,I prefer prime rib to turkey, and I’m thankful for my friends. And grandkids.
There, I wrote the mandatory column. Thanks for reading.
Good cheap Mexican food
Enchilada, taco and tamale--and a new sweater, too
It’s no secret that we like to eat out–I think Gail would eat in restaurants 7 nights a week, but I have to stay home and have tuna and noodles once in a while.
But not all dinners out need to be foodie extravaganzas. Sometimes we go out to dine, sometime we just go out to eat. Tonight, we just went out to eat. A great place for this is Celias, a Mexican restaurant in Lafayette, where the Cape Cod house was for all those years.
Nothing fancy here. We passed on the chips and salsa, since they are the first steps on the road to overeating and indigestion. The wine list is pretty short–if you drink white, like Gail, you can Chablis or Chardonnay. Period.
Gail had the classic combination plate–an enchilada, a taco, a tamale. Rice and beans (except she orders all rice). Tortillas. She didn’t exactly rave about the food, but I noticed she took the leftovers home for breakfast.
I had the arroz con camarones, rice and shrimp in a red sauce with plenty of cheese. She took those leftovers home, too.
Service is quick and friendly. Portions are large (hence all the leftovers). Prices are low. This isn’t a gourmet establishment, but if you want a decent meal in a short time for not too much dinero, Celias is the place to go.
Your Tax Dollars at Work
Somewhere, maybe in a cave in Afghanistan, maybe in a house in Pakistan, maybe in a sidewalk cafe in Paris, Osama Bin Laden is laughing his head off–he won. America has completely given in to fear from his one attack 9 years ago and a few failed feints since. Our civil rights are out the window, our common sense close behind. This is simply a travesty of what American life is supposed to be. What do you think Thomas Jefferson would say about this? What would Teddy Roosevelt say?
Truffles galore
Oakland’s Rockridge district is home to a very well regarded restaurant, Olivetto. Well regarded by many, I suppose, but Gail and I both think it’s generally over-rated, for 51 weeks of the year.
The 52nd week, however, the third week in November, we think Olivetto is great. That’s this week, and it’s truffle season. Olivetto is truffle central right this minute, with an entire menu devoted to the little Italian fungus. We ate there both Friday and Saturday nights, and we’ll be going back for more, in just another year.
Truffles come in two varieties: white and black. The black ones are pretty darned good, available much of the year and almost reasonable priced. The white ones are phenomenal, as expensive as sin and rarely available–except at the middle of November.
When you dine at Olivetto during truffle week, they come around to your table with a tray of the exalted white variety, and you pick the one you want. They weigh it, and leave it on your table to be shaved paper thin and added to the dishes you order. This year you will be charged $6/gram, which is $2, 670 a pound. That’s down from $9/gram last year, because there seems to be a bumper crop. Nobody has succeeded in domesticating truffles; they grow wild on the roots of oak trees and have to be found by trained pigs (in France) or dogs (in Italy). Scarcity plus difficulty in finding them accounts for the insane cost.
The flavor is rich and earthy, with an aroma that sends truffle lovers to heaven (you pick your truffle by smelling it, not by its looks.)
The menu is completely designed around the knobby little fungus–most of the dishes are fairly mild, the better to enjoy the celebrity flavor. Some of them already have black truffles included; you don’t need to add more to these dishes.
Gail can’t pass up the soft poached egg with celery and cardoons ( a thistle related to artichokes) in a rich sauce. I tried the sformatino, a spinach soufflé covered in melted cheese.
The second course is always a pasta–warm, soft, savory flavors that perfectly reflect the luxuriousness of the truffle you shave on top.
For my main course I chose the pork belly stuffed with sweet sausage–it was simply out of this world. Our companions on Friday chose the trout stuffed with smoked scallops in lobster bisque, and couldn’t stop raving about it. David Lee enjoyed the Fried Rabbit, but Joyce was horrified that he was eating Thumper.
Yes, there are desserts that cater to the truffle passion, but we were far too full to be tempted on Friday. Saturday, Joyce Hart ordered the malted barley ice cream. Hard though it is to believe, I was unimpressed. Sometimes, you can be too inventive. I like my ice cream cold and sweet with recognizable flavors. I don’t want to guess what it is that I’m eating when it comes to dessert.
So my truffle fetish is sated for another year. I’ll start saving up for next November.
The Rectal Roto-Rooter
Okay, the title is tacky but at least it’s alliterative. And it got your attention.
Today I “enjoyed” the adult rite of passage, the colonoscopy.
Everyone told me that the worst part is the preparation the day before–no food, liquid diet, then having to force down a gallon of the aptly named “go-lyte”. For the most part, that was true. The glop you have to drink is thick and yucky, but if you put enough lemon Crystal Light in it you can manage to get it down. Half a gallon the night before, then I had to get up at 6:00 am to choke down the other half.
The process is the usual bureaucratic silliness. Check in, pay the $100 co-pay, have 5 people ask your name and date of birth (while looking at your Kaiser card AND your wrist bracelet) to make sure nobody cons Kaiser out of a cheap colonoscopy.
In theory, the whole thing is painless because you are sedated. Everyone told me that they couldn’t even remember it. Not me. Kaiser was saving money on drugs today, because I woke up in the middle. Yes, it hurts, but less than the dentist. The interesting part is being awake lets you watch what’s happening on the screen the doctor is watching. I’ve seen more of the inside of my colon that I ever thought I would, or wanted to, but it was kind of fun. There were a couple of benign polyps she cut out and it’s intriguing to see the little remote forceps at work.
Then it’s all over, you get dressed and go home. You can enjoy, if that’s possible, being enormously gassy yet guilt free about it. They give you the usual dire threats–no driving until tomorrow, no alcohol for 24 hours, take it easy. Just lawyerly butt-covering, ignore it. I was driving 3 hours later, no problems. Probably could have driven myself home but they insisted that Gail accompany so I wouldn’t have to.
So it’s over. Like most people, I had been avoiding it and dreading it. If that’s the position you’re in, just bite the bullet and do it–the hard part is drinking the glop, the rest is easy. You’ll be glad you did.
Iron Horse Sectional
Big weekend in San Ramon.
Danny Friedman came in disguise:
He looks like a Lebanese rug merchant
The turnout was great. Saturday the 199’r game was projected at 14 tables–20.5 showed up. Overall, the tournament was 21 tables larger than last year.
Iris worked hard all weekend, and played as well.
See all the people in the room? See how tired Iris is?
The food was good. My play was bad. The unit made money and people had a good time.
What more can you expect from a sectional?
A surprise success
Sunrise over the delta.
This morning was a failure, by normal standards.
Larry Ledgerwood and I got up well before the crack of dawn and headed out to the delta, planning to photograph the migrating birds in general and the sand hill cranes in particular.
The ride was beautiful. We got to our location just as the sun was coming up, and the noise from the hundreds of thousands of birds was wonderful–a magical cacophony of geese, ducks, cranes, frogs and who knows how many other critters.
So everything was great, but the photos suck. Shooting wildlife takes more experience than I have, and much longer lenses. I have maybe 1 decent picture for the day, the sunrise above, and I shot that with my iPhone, not my fancy Nikon.
Technically, this is the definition of failure–I went out to get bird photos, and I don’t have any. Can’t hardly do any worse than that without getting arrested for mopery.
The good news is that I’m re-defining success: I had a great time. The bird watching was fantastic. The sounds were incredible, including the booming of shotguns as hunters all around were bagging dinner. The ducks on the water were much smaller than the ones I usually see, and I couldn’t believe how fast they were paddling around the flooded cornfields. The Sand Hill Cranes are enormous, 5 feet tall, and they sleep later than the smaller birds–you could watch as they were slowly waking up and stretching their wings while the other birds were already wheeling in the sky.
Sunrise is almost always beautiful–I like to see it, I just hate to get up in time. Couldn’t they make the sun come up about 9:30?
Riding along with a friend talking about the state of the world is a perfect way to pass the time.
Breakfast at a little local diner in Walnut Grove is a classic American morning ritual–even if the owner is Vietnamese.
So what if the photos didn’t work out this morning? I’m calling the trip a smashing success.
Biddy Buddies
One of these birds is not like the others.................
We got 5 new chickens this week–big, white leghorns that the county was using to check for the spread of West Nile Virus, who would have otherwise been destroyed. Thanks to BJ for connecting us.
We always worry if new birds will get along with the ones we already have, so I was gratified and amused to look in the garage tonight and see the five new birds roosting on the ridge of the coop, joined by one of our two babies.
It seems awfully trite to comment on how well “dumb” animals can get along and how poorly we ‘wise’ people manage cooperation, but I guess I’ll have to fall into the banality trap anyway. If only our political parties could function as well as my chickens……………………
COCO500
Thursday is gallery night in San Francisco; Gail and I went off to the RayKo Photo Center for an opening of their alternative landscape show. I liked some, I hated some. That’s art. People watching at a gallery is always interesting–real artists, wannabe artists, poseurs, collectors, connoisseurs, people of all stripe show up to see the art and each other.
After the art, we went to dinner. Gail hauled out the Guide Michelin, and found COCO500 just a couple of blocks away, at 500 Brannan Street on the corner of 4th.
Here’s what they say about themselves:
loretta keller’s south of market hot spot brings in the crowds to enjoy its warm, modern vibe and bold, stimulating flavors. COCO5OO’s commitment to high quality, small production ingredients begins in the kitchen, extends through the wine list, and forms the foundation of the bar program.
chocolate, blue, and caramel toned walls of new and century old douglass fir set the mood in this 1906 wood structure. a generous bar of rich teak and blue italian glass tile welcomes those looking to relax and enjoy a cocktail, glass of wine, appetizers, or an entire meal.
Here’s what we say: it was good.
Gail started with an incredible Cauliflower soup–it had both cream and chicken stock, so this restaurant doesn’t sacrifice flavor on the altar of politically correct vegetarianism. I’ve never enjoyed such a strong, earthy flavor in a soup before–it was like the vegetable had just come out of the ground.
She followed with the Hangar steak, served in a sea of perfectly mashed spuds. How can anyone not like mashed potatoes? The medium rare steak was perfect in parts, but suffered from too much inedible gristle in other sections. The portion was exceptionally generous, so even with the gristly parts there was plenty to enjoy.
I started with the California Burrata. Its interesting to me to watch trends develop and new products take their place in the market. A year ago I’d never heard of Burrata, which is a fresh Mozzarella injected with fresh cream. Now I’m an addict, searching it out on menus all over town. Where it was originally only available as an import, it is now being produced in great quality here in California. Lucky me. This salad was a goodly portion of the cheese served on toasted french bread with a salad of greens and fennel, topped with olive oil.
My main course was the duck breast, where “medium rare” means mostly raw in the center. That’s the way they serve duck in the good places, and who am I to argue? It was served with polenta, which was dressed with a mostardo, which I had to inquire about. Mostardo turns out to be fruit preserved in mustard–in this case wonderful crisp peaches, in a sauce of mustard, honey and balsamic vinegar. It is exceptionally piquant, and brings a unique vitality to the normally bland polenta.
COCO500 is fairly noisy, which I guess you should expect in a hip joint Elegant Touch Catering to the SOMA in-crowd. The service was professional without being obsequious, and our dinner, with one glass of wine, completely chewed up a C-note, which is about the norm these days.
We liked it, and we’d go back. Give it a shot.
Dinner at Jakes
Molly, Toby and Matt
So here’s the secret: I called Toby to come down from college in Seattle and join us for dinner Saturday night. Got a room for him and his girlfriend at the Hilton. He was excited, Gail was agog when she found out.
Then Toby’s oldest friend, Matt, came up from the University of Oregon in Eugene to join us. He camped out in the room with Toby and Molly–remember when we used to do that at tournaments?
Dinner was at Jakes, one of our favorite restaurants in the world. The oldest eating establishment in Portland, at 115 or so, Jakes is the quintessential smoke filled room where the state of Oregon has really been run since forever. Now part of the McCormick and Schmick chain, Jakes is a completely flawless old time, dark wood and heavy upholstery place to get a good solid meal with old fashioned service.
There are really two Jakes–Jakes Crawfish House and Jakes Grill. We eat at the Crawfish House. The menu features the freshest Northwest fish and shellfish, immaculately prepared. I had a cedar planked King Salmon that was as good as I have ever enjoyed. Gail doesn’t need the menu–she heads straight for the Crawfish Etouffee, served in a huge cast iron cauldron with bowls of rice. It features a dark roux, crawfish, shrimp and chicken, and can’t be beaten this side of the Mississippi river or north of Baton Rouge.
Molly is a vegetarian (seemingly like all college girls these days), and was pleased to receive a special vegetarian menu when I asked for one. She ended up with a vegetable linguine. Toby had the Coho Silver Salmon, crusted with horseradish. Matt, who has been a picky eater all his life, stuck to bread and butter. My kind of a cheap date.
We gorged on the dessert cart, enjoying the chocolate box filled with white chocolate mousse and whipped cream and berries, and the triple threat plate of strawberry shortcake, créme brulée and a warm huckleberry cobbler.
Since the kids are still a few month shy of majority the liquor bill was quite low. We got out for a pretty reasonable amount, even with a heavy tip for great service.
Sunday, we got to enjoy a slow morning with the extra hour. Then off to breakfast at the hippest hotel in town, Nines, and their upscale restaurant Urban Farmhouse. Pretty much your standard breakfast fare, just exceptionally well prepared in a very cool setting. Even Matt managed to down a stack of pancakes.
Then the kids headed back to school to study, and Gail and I shopped the Pearl and Warehouse districts for a couple of hours before our flight. You know you are in Portland when you are strolling down the street in bright sunlight and getting rained on at the same time.
And now we’re home. The next super secret mystery weekend is up to Gail–maybe we’ll go to Paris. Or Fresno. Stay tuned.
Totally Unauthorized 