Hedonia

Puppy (Bowl) chow

Dude. Can you feel the excitement? This Sunday, folks everywhere are polishing their wide-screen TVs for one of the most exciting events in television all year.

That's right, I'm talking about Puppy Bowl.

Of course, I know not everyone is as much of a sports enthusiast as I am, so perhaps instead you'll be tuning into some lesser event. I'm sure there's bound to be something on. Whatever you are watching, though, you might as well make an event of it. You know, have a few buds over, bust out the chips, dress for the occasion, enjoy a little quality bro time.

Whoa, those guys are really crazy for puppies.

Anyhow, I may not know much about sports, but I do know any televised event that contains the word "Bowl" requires copious amounts of hardy, gut-building man chow.

Wait, what? You were expecting us to conjure up some fancy new thing to serve this Sunday? Look, we have cooked our fingers to the bone for the last four years. I'm serving leftovers from the archive. Hey, they're still good. Maybe a little freezer burn here and there. You'll eat what you're given. Children are starving in Haiti. Finish your plate.

Cream of curried parsnip soup

Back in 2003, the year of our respective 10th anniversaries, we traveled to England and Scotland with our dear friends Sally & Lisa. We started in London, as one might expect, where we spent a few chilly but sunny days in March. From there, we took the train to Edinburgh.

En route, we were seated across the aisle from an Edinburgher couple. We remarked to them how clear the weather had been, and expressed hope that it would continue during our sojourn in Scotland. In unison, they looked at us through sad eyes and said, "oh, no." It was inconceivable that the the sun would persist in the northern hinterlands.

Our first evening in the city proved them right. The winding streets were filled with moody, low fog. You gain an appreciation for the warming jolt of whisky on those gloomy, atmospheric nights. However, the next day broke as clear and bright as could be, and so it remained through the rest of our trip. 

On the train, we had asked our aislemates about food options, and were surprised when they rattled off an amazing array of cuisines. "You'll be spoiled for choices," the man said, and right he was. But as tempting as the selection of ethnic restaurants were, the most memorable food we had decidedly and indigenously Scottish.

Of course we had haggis. I mean, why would you fly halfway across the globe just to ignore Scotland's most infamous foodstuff? And here's the thing: It's good. I mean, sure, you hear snouts and intestines and other gutsy bits with oats stuffed in a stomach, and you think, "ew." But guess what's in that breakfast sausage you ate this morning, hmm? Yeah. Anyway, you won't have to take my word for it too much longer. Soon, you'll be able to get haggis in the states once again, after a 21-year embargo. 

Tending our gardens

Sometimes, you just have to get your hands dirty.

For me, that mostly means finding strata of food under my nails after a sweaty day in the kitchen. But on a chilly morning in December, my hands got dirty with real, actual, honest-to-god dirt. As in, from the earth.

Me and dirt are like oil and water. Gardening is not something I have an innate passion for, but there is one garden I have a soft spot for. Tucked between modern apartment buildings on a dead-end street on the slopes of Eureka Valley, the Corwin Street Community Garden is more than a patch of pretty flowers.

As a tour guide in the neighborhood, I often drag my more ambitious groups up the steep incline to the garden and to the Seward Mini-park below. Here, deep in the residential tracts and close to the geographic heart of the city, they offer surprising morsels of our city's history.

The Eatsdropper only eats white food

Happy New Year!

I mildly lament not having something a little meatier for you for my last post of the year, but there you are. At least, I will leave you chuckling in the waning hours of 2009.

In 2010, may your life be filled with joy, your heart filled with love, your belly filled with delicacies and your ears filled with foodie funnies. And when they are, shoot 'em my way at eatsdropper-at-seantimberlake-dot-com.

---

Server: "You know, I am not that smart and only average looking but I am a fantastic liar and that is going to take me places."

- Eatsdropped by Rhonda at work

Coworker, points at a persimmon: "Is that a persimmon?"
Another coworker, pointing at the bowl of figs next to the persimmon: "No, those are called figs."
First coworker: "That persimmon is a fig?"

- Eatsdropped by Genie at work

Customer: "What kind of beer do you have?"
Waitress: "Mostly Mexican."
Customer: "You don't say."

- Eatsdropped by Charlie at Tres Agaves

Manager: "Dude, the urinal is like an ATM -- you have to stand 10 feet back."

- Eatsdropped by Anita at Mastrelli's

Coworker: "Ryan only eats white food."
Boss: "A man can't eat popcorn?"
Mollena: "It's OK, man. I have the same rule."

- Eatsdropped by Mollena at work

20-something girl, talking to friend:
    "Like, when am I going to say no to caramelized onions?"

- Eatsdropped by yours truly at Gough and Hayes

Punch drunk at Smuggler's Cove

A few months ago, we made an investment in our cocktailian education by attending the Beverage Academy Tiki class at Bourbon & Branch. The good professor Martin Cate, formerly of Forbidden Island, waxed eloquent on the rise and fall of tiki culture in America.

Beginning with Don the Beachcomber's 1934 Hollywood début and the advent of Victor "Trader Vic" Bergeron's empire of restaurants, tiki joints held the promise of something exotic and fun, a dose of escapism in a novelty mug. After World War II, soldiers came back with stories from the south seas, and tiki bars blossomed like island hibiscus all over the country. We were held rapt as Martin stepped through slides with images from the original haunts, decorated with palm fronds and fishermen's nets.

Martin's Power Point-fu was complemented by more practical learnings: Hands-on instruction on making classic tiki cocktails.

At their most basic, tiki drinks are punches and can trace their roots to the classic Planter's Punch. According to Wikipedia, the first known print reference was in the August 8, 1908 edition of The New York Times:

PLANTER'S PUNCH

This recipe I give to thee,
Dear brother in the heat.
Take two of sour (lime let it be)
To one and a half of sweet,
Of Old Jamaica pour three strong,
And add four parts of weak.
Then mix and drink. I do no wrong —
I know whereof I speak.

Menu for Hope

Hey! Hey you! Did you know that for the meager sum of just ten smackers you could find yourself in the possession of almost $600 worth of really excellent California wine? And for as little as twenty Georges you could possibly nab a total of a dozen bottles worth almost a grand? Oh yes, it's true. I wouldn't lie to you.

Today is the launch of the sixth annual Menu for Hope program, and I am beside myself with holiday cheer to offer up for auction two six-bottle collections of seriously kick-fanny wine. And? You'll be helping small farmers and feeding hungry people doing it.

What's that you say? You never win anything? Well, let me tell you something, little miss fussypants. Last year I bid on a bunch of wine and books and stuff worth over $2,000. And I won. Real people win, and so can you. But as they say, you can't win if you don't play. Head on over to my Menu for Hope post to find out how you can throw your hat in the ring to win wine, and maybe so much more. 

What are you still doing here? Go now!