Hedonia

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.

Daiquiri days and tiki nights

Food and drink bloggers tend to be a merry lot; DPaul and I are certainly not alone in our pursuits of things hedonistic. It generally takes little provocation to get a group of local bloggers to assemble to consume something of interest, in groups large or small.

Last year, Jen organized a come-as-you-are series of outings to case out the various bars and beverages featured in the 2008 edition of Food & Wine Cocktails, 17 of which were from Bay Area locales. A schedule was built, and week after week a cadre of bloggers and booze enthusiasts traipsed to watering holes in San Francisco and beyond in search of these rarefied concoctions. So regular and assiduously attended were these events, they became referred to as our "book club."

Sadly, as it turned out, relatively few of the cocktails in the book were available for the tasting. It stands to reason in an artisanal cocktail center like San Francisco that menus change with the moods and seasons, but some instances were just outright silly. At one location, the cocktail was on the menu, but is apparently never actually served, since they don't stock one key ingredient, a Belgian Trappist ale, that is both perishable and expensive. In one other case, the cocktail was not -- and had actually never been -- on the menu. Of the comparatively few cocktails featured in the book that were of offer, some were simply disappointing, though often there were superior drinks available at those locations. Ultimately, only a few stood out; my personal favorite was the Tommy Gun at Bar Drake.

Apples and oranges ...

... and flash-frozen corn.

Yesterday a couple dozen Bay Area food bloggers got together to volunteer at the San Francisco Food Bank (900 Pennsylvania St), packing cosmetically undesirable (yet still entirely edible) fruits for distribution, and then bagging and packing miniature corn cobs (or, "cobbs" as it were) one dozen at a time.

I think it's wonderful that, whereas many other cities' food banks can handle only canned and dry goods, the SFFB goes out of its way to incorporate lots of fresh produce in their program. There's no reason the beneficiaries of food banks should be subject to an unhealthful diet due to their circumstances.

This was pretty hard work, no doubt, and at times outright disgusting. Most of the apples were in good shape, but a whole lot of the oranges were squishy or, worse, completely covered in powdery or hairy mold. Seems like I just posted my confession about how I feel about oranges, and fate dealt me this card. Guess I better not say anything about how I feel about car accidents.

The corn bagging was more fun. We set up assembly-line stations to put stickers on bags, which in turn got filled with a dozen half-cobs, then sealed with a tape machine and finally boxed up for distribution. I enjoyed the machine-like process.

Being food bloggers, we obviously know how to handle food. We processed more than a ton of apples and oranges, and plowed through the entirety of our tasks in significantly less time than originally slated.

After, we all headed to Yield Wine Bar (2490 3rd St) for a little sipping, snacking and socializing. We sampled some excellent edibles, including a delish sausage from Fra'Mani; some super ham from Fatted Calf; rich, salted dark chocolates from Poco Dolce and really phenomenally good chutneys from McQuade's Celtic Chutney. Not to mention top-notch bartendressing from hostess with the mostess Sam.

Involved and interested as we all are in food, it was rewarding to get hands-on and do something that will help put food in the mouths of those who might otherwise not get enough. It's also bigtime fun. We worked like dogs and drank like fish. But boy, am I sore today.   

Related: See what other food bloggers present had to say about the experience: Our intrepid hostesses Amy and Sam, Christine of Albion Cooks and Joy the Restaurant Whore. Plus, an interesting reflection on the part of Marc of Mental Masala on mycology as it pertains to groady moldy oranges.

One year ago today ... we dished up some perfect pizzas.

Camper English, nightlife übermaven

I've kindasorta known Camper English for a little while now. Well, to be fair I only knew him in print (or web, as the case may be) until I met him as the plus-one of a friend at a fellow friend's wedding last year, and I'm pretty sure he couldn't pick me out in a crowd. But this much I have to say: Girlfriend knows her bars. Three recent stories have opened my eyes to the incredible diversity of drinking and cavorting venues that sound too much fun. He's also opened my eyes to the fact that I never, ever go to any of them. Loser!

What can I say. I'm sedentary, married, aging well ahead of my time. It's not that I don't also have my nights of blurred vision and missing time episodes, but they usually follow dinner parties (preferably chez nous) than a night barhopping. Ah, to be single and strong of liver...

But don't let me stop you from going out there and experiencing a whole world full of cocktails, bars that are not for Marina Girls nor Castro Clones, and ways you can swing it with the queers without the crystal meth (well, I suppose it's optional). Maybe, just maybe, I'll see you at one of them. Some day. Maybe.

Global cocktails (Bay Guardian)
Gray Bars (Chronicle)
Dancing Queens (Chronicle)

Cramper.com

Update: I happened to run into Camper yesterday evening at the Pilsner Inn. Yes, in a bar! He didn't recognize me.

VinoVenue

What was that I said about wine bars? Well, I think I've found the exception to the rule. VinoVenue is an intriguing concept: Upon arrival, you purchase a rechargeable smart card-type thing for whatever amount you like, and are given glasses. Throughout the bar, there are stations where you can insert your card, place a glass under a little pour spout and get a one-ounce pour of the wine of your choice. Pours range from $1 to well into the two-digits for higher-end stuff, but most hover between $2 and $4. It's totally self-serve, though there is an actual bar if you prefer to purchase full glasses or bottles of something.

I give this a thumbs-up. It's a clever concept, utterly unpretentious and allows you to be as adventurous as you want without getting hammered. In the end we had four tastings each (totalling 8 oz.) to the tune of about $28. Yes, that's a substantial markup from ordering by the glass -- it works out to about $14/glass -- but we tasted eight different wines and had fun doing it. Highlights included the Bohemian pinot noir (robust, forward with a long finish) and a downright crazy Barbera with outrageous tones of leather, tobacco, violets and licorice all at the forefront.

It amuses me, though, that would-be wine snobs (and I am not exempting myself from this category) turn up their noses at the idea of box wine, but will gleefully pay a premium for wine that comes from a spigot at what is basically an automat.

If you go, avoid the post-work crunch. At 7 pm on Friday the place was jammed with off-the-clockers; half an hour later we had the place nearly to ourselves. And afterwards, you can stumble a half-block over to get yourself some Beard Papa creampuffs.

VinoVenue
686 Mission St (at Third)

Bar bites: The Hidden Vine

Met up with Jen for convo and reminiscing last night. She called the place: The Hidden Vine, a wine bar in the basement of the Taylor Hotel in Nob Hill. Convenient for her, not so much for me. But it was a worthwhile excursion.

The place is cute, subterranean, and were it not for the placard on the corner of Cosmo Alley, would live up to its name. When I arrived, Jen was pretty much the only soul there; within 30 minutes the place was hopping.

They were pushing Portuguese wines, which I admittedly know little about. At first, my instinct was "high margins," but I kept an open mind and ordered a fleet of tastings. I had the 2001 Vinhos Sogrape; the 2003 Quinto do Crasto and the 2001 Quinto do Carmo. Unsurprisingly, they were similar in complexion to central Spanish wines -- extremely earthy, pretty tannic but had a few surprises in store.

Initially, all three were so tannic I could hardly discern any real character, but over time each opened up and revealed itself like a flower. The Vinhos Sogrape was the most basic, not really developing much complexity but eventually relaxing into a pleasant softness. The Quinta do Crasto developed a pronounced combination of smokey and honeyed notes, so much so that it was decidedly reminiscent of ham. The Quinta do Carmo started out with lush chocolate, tobacco and leather notes, but eventually picked up more delicate overtones of violet and mint.

It was cheese night, meaning they set out small trays with three cheeses and some (rather good) chorizo. Not enough to make a meal out of, mind you, but it's always nice to have some absorptive foil to a winey evening.

The server was quite helpful and clearly knowledgeable about the wines, even excited about educating people on Portuguese wines in particular. However, as the night wore on and our conversation lasted longer than our wine, we eventually were given the clear hint that the table could be better utilized. So much for European-style service. We hadn't even fully departed our table before some vulture-like twentysomethings descended upon it.

This is precisely what I don't like about wine bars. For my money, I'd be content to sit at the bar at Incanto, order up a flight of off-the-beaten-track Italian wines and enjoy a few small plates of top-notch food. Perhaps a Portuguese counterpart will come along someday.