Friday Lark.
C. and I head down to Lark for dinner. It has been a long week, so we order wine along with our dinner. I order for us, no meat because it is Friday and C. is observing Lent. (Which also, alas, means no dessert). We drink our wine - mine is a Côte du Rhone, selected at random - and eat bread-and-butter, and a salad of golden beets tossed with slices of Cara Cara (the name is like a song) oranges and lumps of blue cheese. I am curious as to who first thought of pairing cheese with beets, and how it spread from restaurant to restaurant like a red-and-white rash. The turbot is wonderful, heaped with shavings of fennel and just lightly touched with the heady, oily weight of white truffle oil. C. has the Spanish mackerel over pasta with chorizo and escarole; it being Friday she picks out all the chorizo, and I wonder what the kitchen makes of it. I give into a craving for steak tartare, which comes with onion crackers and a little tangle of something curly, like baby frisée. Like my glass of wine, it is exactly what I needed tonight.
The foie gras protesters are late, and have not gathered outside by the time we leave. Perhaps next time.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Late afternoon. Café Presse.
It has been months since I went to Café Presse. The menu is limited and the service is unpredictable. But sometimes you just want a bowl of soup, or a croque monsieur. So I head out after work - I am unusually early - and find a seat at one of those strangely olive-colored tables. I order onion soup and grapefruit juice, and settle in with a book. J. did not answer his phone, so the odds of him showing up are extremely slim. His loss. The soup is as good as I remember, sweet (the way caramelized onions are sweet) and savory (with cheese and broth) and intense, with an excellent ration of cheese-to-toast-to-soup. I finish my soup and juice and order hot chocolate. A hot chocolate, or a chaud? asks the waiter. (He is very cute). I order a chaud, which is very thick and chocolatey and comes with a separate saucer of whipped cream, and it rounds out my afternoon snack/early dinner very nicely.
Usually I see a familiar face here, people I often see around the neighborhood (once I saw two rather well-known tv actors and the frontman of a local band), and today I see K. (one of the owners of Lark) at the bar with M. (who is one of the owners of Licorous, next door), deep in discussion.
It has been months since I went to Café Presse. The menu is limited and the service is unpredictable. But sometimes you just want a bowl of soup, or a croque monsieur. So I head out after work - I am unusually early - and find a seat at one of those strangely olive-colored tables. I order onion soup and grapefruit juice, and settle in with a book. J. did not answer his phone, so the odds of him showing up are extremely slim. His loss. The soup is as good as I remember, sweet (the way caramelized onions are sweet) and savory (with cheese and broth) and intense, with an excellent ration of cheese-to-toast-to-soup. I finish my soup and juice and order hot chocolate. A hot chocolate, or a chaud? asks the waiter. (He is very cute). I order a chaud, which is very thick and chocolatey and comes with a separate saucer of whipped cream, and it rounds out my afternoon snack/early dinner very nicely.
Usually I see a familiar face here, people I often see around the neighborhood (once I saw two rather well-known tv actors and the frontman of a local band), and today I see K. (one of the owners of Lark) at the bar with M. (who is one of the owners of Licorous, next door), deep in discussion.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Friday Lark.
Ordinarily I head to Lark on weekends, but today I think I will head down a day early, even though the foie gras protesters have postponed their sign-waving verbal assault until tomorrow. So I sit at the bar and chat with the servers as they stop to mix drinks and pour wine. As always I order a few specials, and sit back to wait for my dinner. There is crispy-skinned fish (fluke, or something), curiously like the black cod some weeks before. Then lamb tongue, served on skewers. (Who doesn't like a little tongue, cracks J., when I tell her I love tongue and always order it when it is available). I finish with mango sorbet layered with slices of blood orange and grapefruit, with little lemongrass-infused marshmallows scattered here and there, and fluffy bits of shaved coconut. It is cool and sweet and just a little tart.
Ordinarily I head to Lark on weekends, but today I think I will head down a day early, even though the foie gras protesters have postponed their sign-waving verbal assault until tomorrow. So I sit at the bar and chat with the servers as they stop to mix drinks and pour wine. As always I order a few specials, and sit back to wait for my dinner. There is crispy-skinned fish (fluke, or something), curiously like the black cod some weeks before. Then lamb tongue, served on skewers. (Who doesn't like a little tongue, cracks J., when I tell her I love tongue and always order it when it is available). I finish with mango sorbet layered with slices of blood orange and grapefruit, with little lemongrass-infused marshmallows scattered here and there, and fluffy bits of shaved coconut. It is cool and sweet and just a little tart.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Dinner for three. Barrio.
My neighborhood has changed since I started working here nearly six years ago, and even more since I moved in three years afterwards. The eight or so blocks between my apartment and the lab is now a minefield of restaurants (in addition to the old pubs and clubs that stand steadfastedly against the yuppie tide), from an inexpensive Japanese(-American) noodle joint to a fancy gastropub, with Lark a few blocks out of the direct path. A new condo development has sprung from the shell of an old building, housing an organic pizza place and a Northwest-inflected Mexican restaurant, Barrio.
On K.'s suggestion we head to Barrio for dinner. I walk by this place almost every day, with its dark wood tables set for dinner even at seven in the morning. We are flummoxed by the towering wall of dark-metal-studded wooden doors, the main door handle somehow invisible to the naked eye. Oh. There's only one door. (Hint: it's on the left side, closest to the sidewalk). We are led to a table by the window, seated at what feels like a rather high table (we are short), on chairs that are heavy and uncomfortable. (They have deep cushions, but there is nothing to grip, so it is hard to move your chair unless you stand up). Through the window I can see K. sashaying down the street, and stand in front of the door, as we had, trying to figure out how to get inside. Nearly every other diner who comes in that night has that same problem.
We order tuna crudo and seared scallops to share, and a pork cheek tamale, the tortitas, and the tacos. Actually, we wind up sharing everything, from the crudo served with jicama chips to the tacos heaped with grilled steak, shredded barbecued pork shoulder, and bbq prawns. I rather like the tortitas, which are soft buns filled with that same pork shoulder, ancho chile chicken, and chorizo with a quail egg. It is all very tasty, and I wish I had ordered more. Another time. We finish with churros served with a thick chocolate sauce, crispy and light and rich. Definitely there will be another time.
On our way home my mother and I walk towards Lark, where the foie gras protestors are out in force. They are waving signs and yelling - they hadn't told me about the yelling - and making so much noise we can hear them halfway across the Seattle University campus as we head back up the hill. You have to admire their passion, even if you don't agree with their beliefs.
My neighborhood has changed since I started working here nearly six years ago, and even more since I moved in three years afterwards. The eight or so blocks between my apartment and the lab is now a minefield of restaurants (in addition to the old pubs and clubs that stand steadfastedly against the yuppie tide), from an inexpensive Japanese(-American) noodle joint to a fancy gastropub, with Lark a few blocks out of the direct path. A new condo development has sprung from the shell of an old building, housing an organic pizza place and a Northwest-inflected Mexican restaurant, Barrio.
On K.'s suggestion we head to Barrio for dinner. I walk by this place almost every day, with its dark wood tables set for dinner even at seven in the morning. We are flummoxed by the towering wall of dark-metal-studded wooden doors, the main door handle somehow invisible to the naked eye. Oh. There's only one door. (Hint: it's on the left side, closest to the sidewalk). We are led to a table by the window, seated at what feels like a rather high table (we are short), on chairs that are heavy and uncomfortable. (They have deep cushions, but there is nothing to grip, so it is hard to move your chair unless you stand up). Through the window I can see K. sashaying down the street, and stand in front of the door, as we had, trying to figure out how to get inside. Nearly every other diner who comes in that night has that same problem.
We order tuna crudo and seared scallops to share, and a pork cheek tamale, the tortitas, and the tacos. Actually, we wind up sharing everything, from the crudo served with jicama chips to the tacos heaped with grilled steak, shredded barbecued pork shoulder, and bbq prawns. I rather like the tortitas, which are soft buns filled with that same pork shoulder, ancho chile chicken, and chorizo with a quail egg. It is all very tasty, and I wish I had ordered more. Another time. We finish with churros served with a thick chocolate sauce, crispy and light and rich. Definitely there will be another time.
On our way home my mother and I walk towards Lark, where the foie gras protestors are out in force. They are waving signs and yelling - they hadn't told me about the yelling - and making so much noise we can hear them halfway across the Seattle University campus as we head back up the hill. You have to admire their passion, even if you don't agree with their beliefs.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Tuesday Lark.
My father leaves tonight, and as a parting meal he chooses Lark. As always, they are surprised to see me on a weekday, surprised to see me with other people. It is a running joke now. We sit at one of the booths, and I order whatever catches my eye as my mother complains about the dearth of vegetarian options. (She eats meat, just not a lot of it). A salad of endive and beets with blue cheese. Onion soup, with Gruyere toasts. Ricotta gnudi with escarole, a broth. Fat little sardines over assorted vegetables. A soupy risotto made with black rice, bits of chorizo. Sunchokes, also known as Jerusalem artichokes. Mussels. For once, we each order one dessert. I have sticky toffee pudding with dates and pecans or walnuts, I can't remember which. I steal some hazelnut chocolate mousse from my mother, and my father eats his tarte tatin without interruption.
It will be July before we are all together again.
My father leaves tonight, and as a parting meal he chooses Lark. As always, they are surprised to see me on a weekday, surprised to see me with other people. It is a running joke now. We sit at one of the booths, and I order whatever catches my eye as my mother complains about the dearth of vegetarian options. (She eats meat, just not a lot of it). A salad of endive and beets with blue cheese. Onion soup, with Gruyere toasts. Ricotta gnudi with escarole, a broth. Fat little sardines over assorted vegetables. A soupy risotto made with black rice, bits of chorizo. Sunchokes, also known as Jerusalem artichokes. Mussels. For once, we each order one dessert. I have sticky toffee pudding with dates and pecans or walnuts, I can't remember which. I steal some hazelnut chocolate mousse from my mother, and my father eats his tarte tatin without interruption.
It will be July before we are all together again.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The soul of a pig, day 3.
Today is about breaking up the pig carcass into recognizable parts. This is the fun part. Also the scariest, as I realize that we are casually sticking knives into thousands of dollars worth of pork. That belong to a restaurant that has invested a great deal of time and care, not to mention money, in these pigs. While we are in the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression. Later I look through the hundreds of pictures I took over the past three days, and there are several shots of K., the executive chef, hovering nervously near the edge of the frame as various people hack away at the precious halves of pork.
But first C. has to demonstrate, and it is like watching a sculptor create a head out of a shapeless block of marble as mountains of fat and muscle and bone fall into loins and ribs and layered sheets of belly. This kind of pork is almost equal amounts meat and fat (or perhaps rather more fat than meat), and the meat is richly marbled and a deeper red than ordinary pink-white pork. Definitely not "the other white meat." He moves quickly and assuredly with his knives and a weird plastic contraption that uses a loop at one end to remove the rib bones, instead of slicing off the rib section as you would with a regular pig. My photographs are blurs of movement as he trims away errant flaps of meat, separates muscles along the seams where they join together. Very little is wasted, which is important when you have such an expensive animal lying on your counter.
Unwilling to individually be held responsible for half a pig, D. and I work together. I am nervous, until I stick the knife between the ribs and pull it towards me, and I have to sink or swim. We follow the natural lines of the meat, trimming away as little as possible, tidying up as we go, stripping away ribs, turning the belly into a neat rectangle. I feel braver than I did a few days ago. I also feel like I will never scrub this layer of pork fat off my hands. I don't know if I will ever have a whole side of a pig to myself, and certainly it is doubtful I will remember everything I learned here, but as a life skill it might turn out to be a useful one.
Later, we have a simple dinner together. More roast pork - I have probably eaten at least ten pounds of roast pork in the last four days (including all that roast pork belly on Chinese New Year's eve) - more salad, some of the headcheese and blood sausage we made yesterday. M. whips what I believe is rendered and chilled fat into a smooth, airy paste, serving some plain and some infused with herbs, spread on toasts. It gleams like rich frosting, or very expensive face cream, and it is incredible. Everyone is excited about everything they have learned, excited to be part of this group. They talk about doing it again next year, in New Jersey and in Michigan, looking ahead. But this is the first workshop of its kind, and it has been such a privilege to be a part of it. We exchange email addresses and phone numbers, and I promise various people the photographs of these three days, having already downloaded them to my laptop and shown them to anyone who would sit down and take a look.
Today is about breaking up the pig carcass into recognizable parts. This is the fun part. Also the scariest, as I realize that we are casually sticking knives into thousands of dollars worth of pork. That belong to a restaurant that has invested a great deal of time and care, not to mention money, in these pigs. While we are in the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression. Later I look through the hundreds of pictures I took over the past three days, and there are several shots of K., the executive chef, hovering nervously near the edge of the frame as various people hack away at the precious halves of pork.
But first C. has to demonstrate, and it is like watching a sculptor create a head out of a shapeless block of marble as mountains of fat and muscle and bone fall into loins and ribs and layered sheets of belly. This kind of pork is almost equal amounts meat and fat (or perhaps rather more fat than meat), and the meat is richly marbled and a deeper red than ordinary pink-white pork. Definitely not "the other white meat." He moves quickly and assuredly with his knives and a weird plastic contraption that uses a loop at one end to remove the rib bones, instead of slicing off the rib section as you would with a regular pig. My photographs are blurs of movement as he trims away errant flaps of meat, separates muscles along the seams where they join together. Very little is wasted, which is important when you have such an expensive animal lying on your counter.
Unwilling to individually be held responsible for half a pig, D. and I work together. I am nervous, until I stick the knife between the ribs and pull it towards me, and I have to sink or swim. We follow the natural lines of the meat, trimming away as little as possible, tidying up as we go, stripping away ribs, turning the belly into a neat rectangle. I feel braver than I did a few days ago. I also feel like I will never scrub this layer of pork fat off my hands. I don't know if I will ever have a whole side of a pig to myself, and certainly it is doubtful I will remember everything I learned here, but as a life skill it might turn out to be a useful one.
Later, we have a simple dinner together. More roast pork - I have probably eaten at least ten pounds of roast pork in the last four days (including all that roast pork belly on Chinese New Year's eve) - more salad, some of the headcheese and blood sausage we made yesterday. M. whips what I believe is rendered and chilled fat into a smooth, airy paste, serving some plain and some infused with herbs, spread on toasts. It gleams like rich frosting, or very expensive face cream, and it is incredible. Everyone is excited about everything they have learned, excited to be part of this group. They talk about doing it again next year, in New Jersey and in Michigan, looking ahead. But this is the first workshop of its kind, and it has been such a privilege to be a part of it. We exchange email addresses and phone numbers, and I promise various people the photographs of these three days, having already downloaded them to my laptop and shown them to anyone who would sit down and take a look.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The soul of a pig, day 2.
We meet in the kitchen of the restaurant that is hosting this three-day event, and who actually owns the six or seven pigs we slaughtered yesterday. There are urns of coffee and lots of snacks, but today we are focusing on something a bit more important: the organs. Soon the kitchen is in chaos, tubs of pigs' heads and hearts and livers, kidneys and slabs of lard. I find myself cleaning hearts, slicing them open, removing the large ventricles and any clots of blood, then moving on to kidneys with their translucent membranes that have to be carefully peeled away. Other people are carving the cheeks out of the heads and trimming livers.
The heads go into a pot to be boiled until all the meat slides off, and later I find myself picking through the steaming bones, stripping away every bit of meat and skin, discarding the eyeballs and any stray bits of bone. It's disgusting, particularly when I have to dig around for errant eyeballs to make sure that they won't wind up in the sausages. Can't have that in a high-class joint like this one. The meat is ground up for headcheese, which along with a gruesome (yet tasty) mixture of blood and various seasonings, grain, and for some sausages, chunks of tongue, is stuffed into plastic casings and lowered into sous-vide baths that look remarkably like the water baths we use in the lab for keeping reagents at the proper temperature. I feel like I am covered in a thin film of pig fat, although I wash my hands so often I probably won't have any skin left on them by the end of the day.
Lunch is an assortment of organ meats cooked in various ways, in two different soups and sautéed with onions and made into canapés served on bits of toast fried in olive oil. There are roasted ribs, impossibly slender and with barely any meat on them, but incredibly rich-tasting. There are salads and more cookies, and a taste of a prosciutto made in-house and aged for thirteen months. It is incredible. Everything is incredible. I have never eaten in this restaurant before, and unless I win the lottery, I probably won't ever again. But their attention to detail and their clear passion for what they do is unbelievable, from the owners to the head chef to every last member of the staff, and I feel very lucky to witness it.
It is an interesting group of people here, mostly professionals, and I am at once humbled and exhilarated to be amongst them. This is not some feel-good entertainment for yuppie foodies who smugly shop at farmer's markets and are hoping to find some spiritual salvation in watching a pig slaughter. These people are here to learn. There are the owners and chefs of the restaurant we are working in, of course, and various other chefs and owners of other restaurants around Washington state. There is a private chef from New Jersey who is planning on raising the pigs for the New York market, as well as a farmer who raises naturally pastured chickens and goats in Michigan (and soon these pigs as well), and a couple from the Bay Area who plan to start their own farm. They are focused, intense, and eager to try anything.
We meet in the kitchen of the restaurant that is hosting this three-day event, and who actually owns the six or seven pigs we slaughtered yesterday. There are urns of coffee and lots of snacks, but today we are focusing on something a bit more important: the organs. Soon the kitchen is in chaos, tubs of pigs' heads and hearts and livers, kidneys and slabs of lard. I find myself cleaning hearts, slicing them open, removing the large ventricles and any clots of blood, then moving on to kidneys with their translucent membranes that have to be carefully peeled away. Other people are carving the cheeks out of the heads and trimming livers.
The heads go into a pot to be boiled until all the meat slides off, and later I find myself picking through the steaming bones, stripping away every bit of meat and skin, discarding the eyeballs and any stray bits of bone. It's disgusting, particularly when I have to dig around for errant eyeballs to make sure that they won't wind up in the sausages. Can't have that in a high-class joint like this one. The meat is ground up for headcheese, which along with a gruesome (yet tasty) mixture of blood and various seasonings, grain, and for some sausages, chunks of tongue, is stuffed into plastic casings and lowered into sous-vide baths that look remarkably like the water baths we use in the lab for keeping reagents at the proper temperature. I feel like I am covered in a thin film of pig fat, although I wash my hands so often I probably won't have any skin left on them by the end of the day.
Lunch is an assortment of organ meats cooked in various ways, in two different soups and sautéed with onions and made into canapés served on bits of toast fried in olive oil. There are roasted ribs, impossibly slender and with barely any meat on them, but incredibly rich-tasting. There are salads and more cookies, and a taste of a prosciutto made in-house and aged for thirteen months. It is incredible. Everything is incredible. I have never eaten in this restaurant before, and unless I win the lottery, I probably won't ever again. But their attention to detail and their clear passion for what they do is unbelievable, from the owners to the head chef to every last member of the staff, and I feel very lucky to witness it.
It is an interesting group of people here, mostly professionals, and I am at once humbled and exhilarated to be amongst them. This is not some feel-good entertainment for yuppie foodies who smugly shop at farmer's markets and are hoping to find some spiritual salvation in watching a pig slaughter. These people are here to learn. There are the owners and chefs of the restaurant we are working in, of course, and various other chefs and owners of other restaurants around Washington state. There is a private chef from New Jersey who is planning on raising the pigs for the New York market, as well as a farmer who raises naturally pastured chickens and goats in Michigan (and soon these pigs as well), and a couple from the Bay Area who plan to start their own farm. They are focused, intense, and eager to try anything.
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