Dinner for two.

I come home early from work with two hours to clean my apartment and cook dinner. By now I have decided against the pasta with escarole and spicy sausage. (I have been going back and forth about this all day). Instead, it will be rigatoni with spicy sausage bolognese and a side dish of braised escarole. So - first, the sauce. I finely chop an onion and a shallot that had been lurking at the bottom of the crisper. Actually, first I have to clean the pot, because it is full of chicken broth that I made some days before and forgot about (although how you forget about a pot taking up space on the bottom shelf of your fridge is beyond me). Fine. I can use the broth for the escarole. I pour some olive oil in the bottom of the pan and add the chopped onion and shallot. Once they become translucent I can add the sausage, breaking up the clumps with a wooden spatula as they brown. The canned tomatoes go in, and the diced fresh tomatoes. One and a half hours to go.

The sauce simmers away as I run around putting books away, shoving recyclables in the recycle bin, cramming papers in drawers and throwing dirty socks in the hamper. (Luckily K. is all too aware of the chaos that surrounds me at all times and even if it looks like a bomb exploded in here she will not comment, much as she does not comment on my driving, even when I am heading in the wrong direction). Having forgotten to buy flowers, I arrange the Italian parsley into a sort of leafy bouquet on the dining room table, like a feathery green fountain sprouting from a glass teapot. I run back to check on the sauce, which is bubbling away gently, and wash the escarole, which will be sautéed in olive oil and then braised in chicken broth.

As the escarole cooks I suddenly remember that I have forgotten all about the strawberries, which have to be sliced and macerated in a little balsamic vinegar and a sprinkling of sugar. The vinegar gives them a ruby-red translucency and a deep, intense flavor, neither sweet nor tart, or perhaps both. K. calls, and she is hungry. I boil water and throw in the pasta. The escarole is done, a whole curly head reduced into a tiny heap. I reheat some of the bolognese - some of it will be saved for another night - as the pasta cooks. Before I forget, I mince some Italian parsley and scrape it into a small bowl. The rigatoni is finally al dente, and I toss it with the sauce, the parsley, and a shower of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. Still no sign of my guest, though. Never mind. It will keep.

Then she arrives, with a bouquet of tulips and dazzlingly adorned with her favorite necklace and a fur-trimmed shawl. (And hiking books and backpack). My first real dinner guest. The first of many, I hope.

Dinner for two. (the night before).

The invitation was given on impulse. I wanted K. to see my new shelves (I am so much in love with my new bookshelves I show them off to anyone who will come and visit; soon I will be mugging strangers on the street and dragging them home with me), and the next thing I knew, we had agreed she would come to dinner on the following Tuesday night. Tomorrow night. As soon as the words left my lips the panic set in. What on earth would I cook for my boss, she of the elaborate salads and rice-paper rolls filled with who-knows-what and squid-ink pasta with white truffle oil and, once, an indescribable pudding made of puréed avocado and Kahlua, served in stemmed goblets?

For days I ran through all the possibilities in my head, braised pork and stir-fried corn with pine nuts and chewy cubes of dried tofu with long beans, the sort of thing I would cook for my mother. But that would involve an excursion into Chinatown. Maybe instead I would make grilled sausages with polenta, or orecchiette with braised escarole and tomatoes and spicy Italian sausage and a hefty sprinkle of Parmeggiano-Reggiano. Perhaps I would go down to the Pike Place Market and buy a piece of fish, whatever vegetables are in season, roast them simply with a little olive oil and a sprinkling of sea salt. All through the weekend different ideas sprang to mind and then were discarded. K., despite her own extravagant generosity towards others, would be fine with one or two dishes, perhaps a little dessert. It would be easy, if only I could decide on what to make.

Finally I decide on pasta with spicy Italian sausage and escarole, with mushrooms and tomatoes. Perhaps I would buy some fresh fruit for dessert. I sat on the living room floor absently watching the Food Network and making up my grocery list when I noticed that the Barefoot Contessa was making panna cotta. That looked easy, I thought, and quickly looked up the recipe. It seemed simple, cream and yogurt and sugar and gelatin. I would need a vanilla bean, but it promised only five minutes of cooking time. The list grew longer. Time to go shopping.

I buy produce first, escarole and Italian parsley and garlic and onions and tomatoes. I buy strawberries and blueberries and reject the sad-looking cremini mushrooms before heading towards the meat counter. There I buy spicy Italian sausage and bacon and a thick steak for later in the week. I have to think past tomorrow night, and momentarily consider a whole chicken before deciding against it. Milk and juice and eggs and butter, a box of rigatoni - they don't have orecchiette - pile on top of the other things. I can't reach the vanilla beans on the top shelf, and nearly ask one of the tall guys shopping nearby to get it for me when I notice more on a lower shelf. On impulse, I grab a can of San Marzano tomatoes, in case I change my mind and do something different for the pasta.

I get home, and assemble the ingredients for the panna cotta on the counter even before all the other groceries have been put away. The gelatin is softened in a little water; cream is heated to just under boiling with some sugar. I whisk the yogurt and a little more cream together with the vanilla seeds, and then add the gelatin and hot cream. Less than ten minutes pass before the filled ramekins are wrapped in plastic and put in the fridge. I wash the strawberries and remove the stems and leaves, eating a few before putting them away. Everything's ready for tomorrow.

Eating out. Monsoon.

I went to the Baguette Box for lunch this morning, early, just after 11:00. The place was empty of customers; even some of the staff were late, having forgotten about Daylight Savings time. I already knew before heading down there that I would order the braised pork belly baguette; I had seen it on the menu last time. It arrived quickly, the meat rich and fatty against the soft baguette within the thin shell of its crisp crust. There was a sprig of cilantro, a smear of something creamy dressing, the tender meat drizzled with the sweet darkness of Hoisin sauce. It was all very tasty, but it left me with a craving for more pork belly.

This craving would have gone unsatisfied had I not checked my phone upon re-emerging, blinking in the sudden light, from the darkness of the movie theater to find that C. had left me a message. Excellent, someone to drag out to dinner with me. I left the choice to her, but as dinner time came around and she lobbed the choice of dinner back to me, I thought ha! Monsoon! J., foodie extraordinaire (who makes me look like a lazy slob in the kitchen, which of course I am) has told me that it was a great restaurant, and I have always wanted to try it. (Coincidentally, it is the sister restaurant to the Baguette Box, a full-on restaurant instead of a sandwich shop). We hop in the car and drive off. Do I get a bit lost and drive past the restaurant and have to turn into a side street and circle around? Yes.

We arrive at an unspeakably early hour (unspeakably early for normal people, but perfectly normal for me, that is); the restaurant is empty. I have no reservation, but we are offered any table we like along the banquette that runs down one side of the room. The menu is simple, one page with a handful of appetizers and rolls and some main dishes and some vegetable side dishes. Our waiter comes along to tell us that there is one special for the evening, braised pork belly, and I know that is exactly what I want. We order some Imperial rolls, the braised pork belly for me, the grilled pork belly and shoulder for C. Our waiter is taken aback. Whoa...that's a lot of pork belly there, he says.

The Imperial rolls arrive, and our waiter tells us to wrap them in lettuce leaves with some soft white vermicelli noodles and fragrant basil. They are hot and crisp, filled with ground pork and shrimp, and I could make a meal of them. Our main courses arrive, with a pot of steamed rice. My pork belly has been braised in coconut water and served over a tangle of bean sprouts, in a pool of broth. The coconut water has given the pork a sort of wild sweetness, a faintly caramelized taste that emphasizes the natural sweetness of the pork. It is better than candy. Then I try some of C.'s grilled pork belly, chewy and intensely flavored and also a little sweet, and I am not sorry that we are not ordering dessert (it is still Lent for C.).

All I need is some pork belly to make me happy.

Eating out. Made in Kitchen.

J. was late. I had expected this, and was reading Lucifer Unemployed, by Alexander Wat, when my doorman rang to say that he was here. What I had not expected, or perhaps I should have, is that once J. is in front of a wall of books - approximately two-thirds of my library spread across twenty-four shelves that run along an entire wall of my bedroom - it is nearly impossible to budge him, particularly when he begins taking things down from the shelves and opening them at random. We were very nearly late to dinner. My boss had arranged this dinner for some thirty people at Made in Kitchen, a late New Year gathering instead of our usual Christmas holiday party held at our lab.

That morning I had heard K. say there would be four appetizers, nine courses, and three desserts, and I had taken her seriously, eating a light lunch and resolving to pace myself accordingly during dinner. But after we sat down and ordered drinks for everyone and the appetizers began arriving, it was difficult to exercise restraint when confronted with skewers of chicken satay and shrimp wrapped around sticks of sugar cane. There were crisp fried spring rolls and a beef salad (which M. eyed suspiciously until someone pointed out that those were slices of beef draped across the lettuce). Some of us were beginning to falter, full of chicken satay and sugar-cane shrimp and spring rolls. And then main courses began arriving.

K. was joking when she said nine courses, right? People kept asking me, and I kept telling them that they should know by now that the boss never jokes when it comes to food. She is not one to eat a large meal, but her generosity towards others at mealtimes knows no bounds. Christmas parties center around an entire roast pig; birthdays and holidays are celebrated with long lunches where the lazy Susan on our dining table creaks and groans with every turn. This dinner is no exception. It is all a blur.

There is lemongrass chicken and stir-fried chunks of beef and vegetables and cubes of tofu deep-fried and dusted with what appears to be flakes of dried seaweed. There are crunchy fried noodles with seafood and perfectly broiled black cod, the most memorable dish of the evening. The conversation flows from one end of the table to the other; seated as I am in the middle I find myself with the people on either side talking to me at the same time without realizing that I am not listening to either of them, because this simultaneous assault on my ears leaves me dizzy.

But it is good to be with my colleagues, those I work with every day, and those I talk to every day but see rarely. It feels different to be around people whose voices you know almost as well as your own but whom you only see at work-related parties, to talk about our lives as we share coconut sticky-rice and flan and a sort of shaved-ice dessert that involves some kind of weird jello and sweet red beans. We linger over tea and the last bites of melting ice and say our goodbyes over and over. Until next year.

Happy lazy sunny Sunday.

It has been my practice for some months now to walk downtown for a movie on Sunday mornings when I have no errands to run, no work to do. I wake up at eight or nine, have a cup of tea, read the newspaper, check the movie times. Usually there will be a movie showing around 10:30 or 11:00, and one theater downtown has $6 showings on weekend mornings. While drinking my tea - the slightly spicy Chandernagor from Mariage Fréres with a touch of sugar and milk - I watch a Food Network chef make fried chicken in his kitchen with his actress wife. In her funky eyeglasses and sparkly beaded cardigan - so different from her onscreen persona - she dips buttermilk-marinated chicken into a mix of spices and flour before slipping the chicken into the hot oil - and immediately my mind, which had been fixated on cheeseburgers, springs to how soon I can get my hands on some fried chicken.

In the darkness of the movie theater before the film begins I ignore the pre-show advertisements and think about whether I should make my own oven-fried chicken, or head out somewhere to buy some, either at Ezell's or KFC or maybe even out to Atlas for their honey-drizzled fried chicken, which comes with smashed potatoes and whatever vegetables are in season at the moment. Or I could go to the Baguette Box on my way home and have a Crispy Drunken Chicken baguette. As one of our clients would say, ding ding ding ding! Baguette Box it is.

The Baguette Box is an airy, well, box of a room, at the end of a street bustling with shops and cafés and pubs and restaurants, just before the street goes over the freeway and crosses into downtown. The menu is handwritten on chalkboards; the small room is decorated with paintings and photographs of dogs. (The logo on the window is of a bulldog - or perhaps a boxer - holding a baguette in his mouth). There is one long communal table and three small round tables. This place is an offshoot of an upscale Vietnamese restaurant not far away; their signature sandwich is the Crispy Drunken Chicken baguette - the crispy drunken chicken is on the menu at the original restaurant, too - and they have sandwiches made with fried tofu or lemongrass-marinated steak in addition to ones made with gravlax or braised pork or meatloaf or tuna salad. There are french fries, or french fries dusted with truffle salt, and salads.

I order a crispy drunken chicken baguette. I sit back and read an old James Bond that I threw in my bag on the way out the door and drink my Thai iced tea, which is a weird shade of orange, sweetened and made creamy with condensed milk. The sandwich arrives, chunks of fried chicken, a few bits of lettuce and sweet caramelized onions. The chicken is slathered with a tangy-sweet sauce, and bits of vegetables fall out with every bite. It is not Bobby Flay's buttermilk-marinated, spice-seasoned fried chicken, but it is very good all the same, the chicken moist and tender beneath the sauce and the crisp skin, all held together with the baguette that threatens to fall apart in my hands. Oh well. I have a fork, and plenty of napkins, and perhaps a new Sunday routine as well.

Dinner at Lark. (again).

Today C. and I are working together, and this time I manage to drag her to Lark with me after we have finished for the day. We walk into the nearly empty restaurant, to be greeted by K., who jokes that she knows I had to work today, because it is Saturday and I am here for dinner again. C. raises an eyebrow at me as we are seated in one of the booths that run along one side of the room, the way she does when the salespeople at Barneys say hi or the girls at Retrofit (a funky local home-furnishings store) greet me with hugs and ask where I've been lately. (I like to go back to the same places, places where people remember my name, who will take the time to stop and chat, whether it be for food or clothes or bedside lamps). The waiter brings menus and tells us the evening's specials; he is the one who does not remember me and always asks if I have been there before. C. asks me what the kumquat Dry Soda (it comes in other flavors, like lemongrass and rhubarb and lavender) tastes like; I tell her that it tastes like Fanta, if Fanta had a graduate degree in French literature from the Sorbonne.

Our waiter brings us the last kumquat soda, which he pours into two tall flutes. We order recklessly; translucent slices of salami arranged around a small bowl of mostarda di uva, that Italian grape chutney, sweet and intense against the salami. There is a piece of Spanish mackerel over thin rounds of fennel, with olives and tiny, glowing cubes of some spicy, saffron-scented jelly with the rubbery bounce of aspic, but unlike any other aspic I had tasted before. We have braised lamb shanks, served in (or under) a tagine over couscous with some chickpeas - or perhaps they are garbanzo beans. The lamb was tender and lightly gamy, and the couscous was soft and fluffy and soaked up the sauce with each bite. The agnolotti arrived last, this time with black trumpet mushrooms and a lighter, brothier sauce than last time, but with the same savory veal filling enclosed by a dough that has that perfect, firm bite to it, what the Italians call al dente.

Somehow eating here always makes me feel cozy and well-cared for, even when I am alone, perhaps especially when I am here alone. With someone to share it with, it is not exactly better, no, but certainly different. It is harder to concentrate on the flavors mingling on your plate when you are caught up in conversation. And then I have to consider someone else's tastes, someone else's desires, but at the same time, we can order more things and share them, four dishes instead of two. We skip dessert because C. has given up sweets for Lent, and I cannot bear to watch her toy sadly with a cappucino while I dive into the lemon parfait or a warm date-and-pine-nut cake. (As we gather up our things to leave, K. leans over and says, No dessert? I'm worried about you! C. has given up sweets for Lent, I tell her, I'm being a good friend). Next time. Easter is only a few weeks away.

I wanted to create a new blog separate from the old one, Conclusive Evidence. It had become unwieldy as I zig-zagged between literature and food. I wanted the food in my life to have a place of its own. It will take a while to move the old posts here and organize them, so please bear with me as I figure out how to do this.