Hedonia

Cyrus

All right, people. I have heard your desperate pleas for my opinion on Cyrus. I have to confess, I almost decided not to post it after such a delay, but I feel better knowing that at least one other blogger out there is still catching up from President's Day. And anyway, I did manage to scribble down my impressions on the bleary morning after, so why waste the effort?

My other hesitation in posting is that, despite or perhaps because of the amount of fawning praise I've read about it, I just wasn't over-the-moon about the place. I mean, don't get me wrong; it was good. Very good even. There were some things I really adored. But the whole was felt a little less than the sum of its parts. I think that had we not done this so relatively close on the heels of a life-changing meal like Alinea, I might have felt differently.

Nearly every thing they did well was mildly blemished, sort of a wabi-sabi approach, as if perfection would be an affront to the fine dining gods. As with another recent diner, they were very accommodating of dietary restriction, in this case DPaul's wheat problem ... with one little oopsie (read on). The service was professional yet warm and affable, but we ended up with a less than stellar table (why my reservation was inferior to others, I'm still not clear) with a lot of traffic, causing the back of my head to be brushed with every passing server.

Now the bar, that's another matter. We specifically arrived early to have the opportunity to sit at the bar and sample one of mixologist Scott Beattie's world-famous concoctions, and we were not disappointed. DPaul predictably went right for the bourbon with the Frankfort Manhattan, featuring vanilla- and citrus-infused Buffalo Trace bourbon, which has since become our house bourbon. I, in turn, tried the Pelo del Perro, a palate-tickling affair of Charbay Ruby Red Grapefruit vodka, Chinaco Silver tequila, grapefruit juice, lime juice, agave nectar, grapefruit foam and a red-salt rim. The garnish were three minuscule rosemary blossoms floating on top, each a tiny explosion of woodsy bouquet. Perfect.

Though we both partook of the 7-course chef's tasting menu, DPaul's was obviously  occasionally different due to the absence of wheat. Also, we opted for different wine pairings to mix things up; I took the standard pairing, and DPaul selected the Grand Tasting pairing, customized to highlight the chef's tastng menu ... at approximately twice the price. Worth the differential? Sometimes.

We both agreed that it would be delightful to return and enjoy a meal in the bar area with some excellent cocktails. So, a happy ending by and by.

After the jump, the blow-by-blow description of our meal.

Bucatini, a love story in two acts

With some foods, it's love at first sight. Others make you work for it, requiring that you endure their flaws and imperfections to unveil their charms. Perhaps they intrigue you at first, capture your fancy, invite your attentions; but then they do something to irritate, confuse our outright hurt you, and you just don't know where you stand with them. No big deal, you say, there are plenty of fish in the sea, to say nothing of what grows on land. And so you take your affections elsewhere.

But then you catch yourself making furtive glances in their direction. Your curiosity is piqued. Sure, they're ... difficult, but somehow also interesting for it. If only you could crack the code and discover the inner beauty.

So it was with me and bucatini. Until last weekend.

Bucatini, for those not versed, is a cruel joke of pasta: Thick, spaghetti-like strands with a narrow hole running the full length. To try to twirl the pasta around your fork results in irregular, spattering flailing of the snake-like noodles, flinging sauce artistically all over your shirt, kitchen walls and occasionally ceiling. Then, once you've crammed the tangled mass into your mouth, dribbling sauce down your chin and onto your lap, you cannot even slurp the dangling tubes in, as the hole in the center of the pasta makes each noodle into a fine straw through which you suck saucy air. Even bucatini's most famous and celebrated dish, bucatini all'amatriciana, though deliciously bacony, is infuriatingly difficult to pronounce. (For the record, it's boo-cah-TEE-nee all-lah-mah-tree-CHA-nah.)

So, bucatini was destined to be forever too high-maintenance for me. So many other pastas, so little time. But ... being of Italian descent, I just couldn't bear to turn my back on one of my people's creations. Bucatini are beloved by millions. They can't all be pazzi. Can they?

Olive me

Three months, two food service containers, one stockpot and lord only knows how much salt later, ten pounds of olives are ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world.

These puppies took a fair amount longer than our last batch. But then, they're a fair bit larger than those others as well. I procured these from Penna Gourmet Olives, thanks to a tipster in the comments from last year's post. Penna is based in Orland, in the northern Central Valley. That puts them 158 miles from here, which puts them a little outside the comfort zone of hardcore locavores. I figure, these olives have been living in our house for three months, and that makes them as local as it gets.

Acting on feedback left by another (frankly rude) self-purported Italian olive grower, I upped the ante on salt content in the brine to try to stave off the scourge of mold. Using double the amount recommended in the previous version did little to keep the crud away, though it did make the olives inedibly salty. Hence, I had to go through a few cycles with less salt, and at least one with no salt to try to bring them back into a happy place.

Finally, this week they were both sufficiently de-bitter-ized and not tongue-burningly salty. Let the seasoning begin. A fistful of chili pepper flake, a sprinkle of black peppercorns, some lovely fragrant bay leaves, a fagot of finely matchsticked lemon rind and a very healthy slosh of extra virgin olive oil should just do the trick.

I'm playing it safe: I'm keeping these babies in the fridge, turning them twice daily until I can offload them or consume them. Take that, mister mold.

And so ends another lengthy, tedious and fraught food venture chez Hedonia. DPaul gets his stockpot back, I can sleep at night without dreams of encroaching mold and we can finally give our friends their Christmas gifts.

Type casting

Perhaps it's reflective of my humble nature (snicker); more likely it's early-onset Alzheimer's. Two days ago was the two-year birthday of Hedonia! Of course, as it's been in a virtual coma for the past couple months, I didn't exactly break out the champagne and cupcakes.

You see, apparently, I have forgotten how to blog. Weeks, months go by and I cannot pull the words together to fill a post. Of course, lack of time factors in heavily as well. My work is crazier than ever (and I mean that in more than one sense); the holidays washed over me like a tinsel-clad tsunami; and I remain ever stunned at, as a dog owner, just how much time you have to -- have to -- spend rubbing bellies and throwing squeaky toys. There aren't enough hours in the day.

As a result, I am rusty. As I sit to write this post (Ed. -- again; this post was started weeks ago) I find myself hesitating at the keyboard, intimidated by the virtual white page. Of late, I feel the same way in the kitchen. Whereas I used to handily churn out delicious and interesting meals, I now move a little more slowly, check and recheck measurements, constantly fear that I am skipping an ingredient.

It's small wonder. With our time as constrained as it's been, not only have I not been cooking, I've also not really been eating. I mean, sure, I've consumed my couple-thousand calories each day, but more often than not I may as well have eaten cardboard, cheerlessly choking down whatever sustenance is at arm's reach.

Not that it has all been uninteresting. Attentive readers (and close personal friends) will know that DPaul suffers from a particular back problem similar to rheumatoid arthritis. Recently, in his efforts to combat this condition, he has begun working with a naturopath. Evidently, it's quite likely that DPaul's pain may be triggered by allergic reactions to certain foods.

The good doctor had DPaul purchase a copy of Eat Right for Your Type. The author, Dr. Peter J. D'Adamo, has devised a set of diets based on each individual's blood type. By many accounts, he's on to something with this. In point of fact, in just one week of adherence to the diet, DPaul was virtually pain-free.

Of course, here's the thing: DPaul is blood-type O; I am type A. Type O is purportedly the primal blood type -- hunter-gatherers, cavemen and whatnot. The diet comprises meat, meat, meat and meat, no dairy or grains -- diet not unlike one a certain meat-eating vegan I know was forced to reconcile with. "A" types came with the next step in human evolution: Agriculture. Hence, the type A diet is, well, vegetarian. There is stunningly little overlap between the diets.

Herein lies the irony: When DPaul and I first got together, over fifteen years ago, I was fairly pescetarian, leaning into more hardcore vegetarianism for economic reasons. DPaul was a meat eater. Over the years we gravitated closer together, but left to our own devices, were we doing what our bodies told us to?

Tasting 2007

The end of the year is a natural point of reflection. Lately I've been thinking back on some of the more delicious memories of 2007, new and interesting experiences all. I'll present them here, in no particular order:

• Grilled squid at Pescheria: Served in a charming little enamelized crock, these tender, smoky squid rocked my world.
• Shaved raw artichoke salad at Incanto: I would never have thought to use raw artichoke, but tender baby chokes shaved to almost paper thinness added a pleasantly grassy note and crunch to a spring salad.
• Cherimoya: Creamy, sweet and exotic, these became my new favorite fruit. 
• Jane's (sorta) homemade pickles: By starting with store-bought dills, these quick-pickled sweets retain their crispiness.
• Michelada: The lime makes humdrum beer extra refreshing, and a dash of Tabasco and Worcestershire gives it a grown-up edge. The perfect summer quaff.
• Mutton barbecue from Moonlite: No more ho-hum pulled pork; gamey mutton gave barbecue a unique twist this year.
• Hangar One chipotle vodka: The second in Hangar One's artisan series gave "firewater" new meaning. Perfect for Bloody Marys, but we concocted a few custom cocktails of our own. *
  
• Sai oa: Spicy and super flavorful, this Thai sausage was simply scrumptious, barely edging out three other delectable handmade sausages during a day-long grind-and-stuff session chez Married ... with Dinner. *
• Alinea: 'Nuff said.
• Proper mint julep at Alembic: Cool, refreshing mint and condensation sweating down the sides of a pewter cup were pure tonic on a sweltering summer's day. *
  
• McQuade's Celtic Chutneys: Bright, tart, sweet and complex chutneys that make an excellent complement to meats and cheeses. *
• Grit cake with wild mushrooms at Cafe Majestic: It's not every day that a vegetarian entree catches my eye anymore, but this dish was a hands-down winner at our table. *
  
• Fregula, butternut squash, kale and pomegranate seeds at Olea: It's even rarer that I eye a vegan entree, but this dish was at once playful, textural, flavorful and just flat-out fun. *
• Concord grape sorbet with warm ginger tapioca at Firefly: Perhaps it's cliche to refer to something as a study in contrasts, but this dessert was an elegant dance of counterpoints: Cold and warm, sweet and tart, rich and sharp, crystalline and puddingy.
• Oh, Henry!: My new favorite cocktail, made specially by my own personal bartender at my birthday party. I particularly prefer the spicy kick of Blenheim ginger ale for this application. *
  
• Hoshigake from We Love Jam: The Kobe beef of persimmons! Hachiya persimmons are massaged while drying, coaxing a fine, sugary coating to the surface. The resulting dried fruit is subtly sweet, with a date-like texture.

* Indicates items that I experienced while in the company of other Bay Area food bloggers.

Carne de porco com amêijoas à alentejana

No Iberian meal is complete without pork. The importance and prevalence of the meat in the national cuisines of Spain and Portugal cannot be overstated. In fact, had I not already been weaning myself off my fishetarian ways, I would surely have starved to death during our month-long sojourn in Spain.

But that's okay, for the pork in Iberia is exceptional. There are of course the cured hams, such as the famous jamòn serrano and jamòn iberico, the latter of which comes from pigs that dine exclusively on the acorns of black oak trees in central Spain. Iberico in its uncured state is succulent and tender, and unlike anything we have here in the states. The meat itself is darker, with a strong nutty flavor.

I knew the main course of the dinner had to be pork, but sought inspiration. I turned to the trusty Time-Life Foods of the World series, expecting to find a Spanish recipe that would transport me back to our trip. In fact, the recipe that spoke to me was Portuguese.

Pork and clams: What a delightful turn on the classic surf and turf. It sounds incongruous at first, but the two proteins have a strange affinity, as if they were long-lost cousins, star-crossed lovers from different worlds. Only in the sweet afterlife, and on the dinner table, could they be united.

A sidenote about Spain v. Portugal. Despite their tightly linked heritages, there is a clear tension between the two cultures. Whilst in Granada, enjoying a sherry at a local restaurant, we were entranced by the music. The bartender informed us it was a Portuguese group, Madredeus. We loved the soulful, fado-inflected songs. Later, in Madrid, we were perusing a record store, looking for a few choice items to bring home; Madredeus was at the top of our list. We searched through pop, to no avail. Asking one clerk after another, we ended up working our way through several sections, down floor after floor, until we finally found them in the "World" section, alongside tribal drumming and chanting. Keep in mind we are talking about a contemporary popular group from a country that shares the same peninsula.

Intra-Iberian politics aside, this dish is a keeper, though I cannot help but feel like it constitutes a culinary "screw you" to the Jews and Moors so maligned in Iberian history. I mean, pork and clams? Why not throw some milk in for good measure? Gentile that I am, I take no exception.

Pimientos piquillos rellenos de bacalao en salmorejo

All right, kids, I'm gonna finish this dinner party if it kills me.

During our month in Spain, despite traversing many regions with distinct culinary and linguistic dialects, a few dishes were constant. Tapas were of course an everyday occurrence, and we easily fell into a routine of a handful of favorites: croquetas, tortilla español and above all else pimientos rellenos. I'm a big fan of bacalao, the salt-cured cod, under any circumstances, but mixed into a creamy filling inside a sweet red pepper is perhaps the most enjoyable application. I knew I wanted to reproduce this for the party.

A couple weeks beforehand, I was thrilled to see muy autentico piquillo peppers appear in their explosively colorful glory at the Happy Quail Farms booth at the farmers market. I had assumed I would end up resorting to either tinned piquillos or roasted bell peppers. Eagerly, I asked how long they would have them on hand, and was assured they'd be appearing in abundance for weeks if not months. The Spanish sun was shining on my dinner plans.

I roasted the peppers, blackening the skin under the broiler for easy removal. This is my normal method of roasting peppers; in this case, however, the thin-skinned piquillos might perhaps have benefitted from blanching instead of roasting, as the flesh of the peppers became too fragile and lost their shape. Live and learn.

Salmorejo was another regular item on our table in Spain. This emulsion of tomato, bread and olive oil appears as many things -- sauce, dip, soup. I figured it would make a pleasant counterpart both in flavor and texture to the pepper.

The recipes I used as foundation came from a tourist-grade cookbook we bought in Spain called, simply, Classic Tapas. We were assured by a friend in Marbella that the recipes in the book were in fact quite authentic, and indeed we saw many dishes that we had enjoyed throughout our journey. But by virtue perhaps of poor translation, many of the recipes lack precision or even omit key steps, so it is at best a guide and not a bible. Fortunately, I am comfortable enough with basic techniques, like making a béchamel, that I was able to navigate successfully.

Alinea

Like some others, I always have a running list of restaurants locally that I'm eager to try out, but rarely do I have an irrepressible desire to travel to dine someplace. There are exceptions -- El Bulli for the scientific innovation, L'Arpege for exulting vegetables to their highest form, St John for    quite the opposite reason -- but domestically only one restaurant has piqued my curiosity in recent years.

Alinea, in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood, was the brain- and palate-child of chef Grant Achatz, a young maverick who had trained with the likes of Thomas Keller and Charlie Trotter, and by all accounts had taken that training and run with it to new culinary heights. For years I'd ignored the urge to go for one simple reason: It's in Chicago, and we are in San Francisco. Helluva commute.

But then, as our anniversary approached, I took stock. We had a certificate for a free night at a Kimpton hotel, ample airlines miles on United and an itch for some spontaneous travel. Why not?

One Monday in July I called and left a message requesting a reservation. The restaurant isn't open on Mondays, and so no one was there to take my call, but being forgetful as I am, I decided it was better to call and get it out of the way. Later that same morning, a press release hit the wires that young chef Achatz, age 33, had been diagnosed with stage-four squamous cell cancer of the mouth.

Still, the next day I received a call from a reservationist at Alinea, who quietly and politely offered seating options for the full 24-course tasting tour at 5 pm, or the shorter 12-course tasting menu at 9 pm. My inner glutton cried out for the 24-course groaner, but reason prevailed. After all, we would be on Pacific time, and a 9 pm seating was ideal for our needs. Besides, 24 courses, however small, is just too much.

Knowing what I did about the restaurant, I was not gravely concerned about Chef Achatz's not being in the kitchen. Food of this caliber and requiring such technical finesse is not made by one person alone, but by a well-trained team of artisans. I remained confident that Achatz's deft hand would remain present even in absentia.

In the cab en route to the restaurant, my excitement and anxiety grew. I felt jittery; butterflies fluttered in my stomach. We were about to consummate one of my greatest culinary wishes, a dining experience I sprung on my unwitting husband, who didn't know that we were going to this restaurant (or, for that matter, what it was) until 48 hours before. Would it live up to my expectations? Would it thrill and inspire DPaul as much as I hoped?

As we arrived at the restaurant, walking down a corridor ambiently lit in lavender, I was taken with a sense of serenity. Entering through the main door, we were met not by a host station and a bustling restaurant, but a lone man in a dark suit, standing there as if he were waiting for us all night. To our right we had a clear view into the kitchen. There were no clattering pans, flames flaring up from cooktops, harried cooks racing about. Each of the cooks were going about his or her business with methodical calm.

We were led upstairs and seated at a table large enough to seat six (ahem, by San Francisco standards). The deceptively large space was broken up into sections that lent a sense of intimacy and, yes, serenity. There were only five tables in our room; an adjacent room was similar, and there were other rooms as well.

And so it began. We gave ourselves over to our skilled army of waitstaff and the sommelier. We opted for the wine pairings, which is not only recommended but an obvious good idea. Who would have the hubris to think they could select a single bottle of wine to pair with what was about to come? We gladly accepted the assistance.

Chef Achatz has earned a reputation as a mad scientist chef for his use of high-tech equipment, custom-designed service pieces and otherworldly presentations. Rather, I think he's more of an inner child chef, playing with his (and, by extension, our) food to come up with creative, whimsical and sometimes outright silly presentations that simply never failed to delight.

What's more is that though the presentations were astonishing, the flavors were every bit as strong. Almost every ingredient seemed to be distilled to its purest essence and delivered in its most intensified form. Not every dish knocked it out of the park, but surely every one was at least a solid hit.

It is a sensual experience. Obviously his dishes delight the eyes and the palate, but there is a tactile element, and an almost over-the-top attention to olfactory stimulation. The only sense that was not overtly courted was hearing; though I suppose the novelty of being in a quiet restaurant was in itself a sensory experience.

I was also struck by how many dishes conveyed a sense of place. While Chef Achatz's presentations are rooted firmly in Japanese kaiseki, the flavors we tasted roamed the earth. We tasted the mountains of Italy, urban English comfort food, the moodiness of the Pacific Northwest and straight-up Midwestern bravado.

I also appreciated the rhythms expressed in the menu. Certain ingredients, like truffle, were used more than once to develop resonance between non-consecutive dishes. And then there was the key lime. Well.

Oh, and at the end they present you with a printed menu to remind you of everything you've just experienced. What a souvenir!

And so, without further ado, I present a blow-by-blow of our exceptional (count it, 15-course) meal at Alinea.

White gazpacho

In 2001, DPaul and I spent a month traveling and eating our way through Spain. We began the trip in Sitges and Barcelona, meandered our way through Andalucía for nearly two weeks, then wrapped things up with a quick jaunt to Toledo and finally nearly a week in Madrid. It was a life-changing trip on many levels.

Andalucia was the unqualified highlight. Being the last holdout of the Moorish kingdoms until the advent of the Catholic Monarchs at the end of the 15th century, it remains a place that speaks of cultural connections to the Islamic world in a way otherwise unseen in modern Europe. To this day, the whitewashed streets of Granada sport signs in Arabic, and you're more likely to encounter a tea house offering strong, tooth-achingly sweet mint tea than a Starbucks.

Our last stop in Andalucia was Córdoba, once the Moorish seat of government of nearly all of Iberia. The site to be seen is the Mezquita, a former mosque-turned-cathedral, famed for its forest of columns spanned by candy-striped arches.

Traveling with our friend Kate, we descended upon Córdoba by train from Sevilla, having already spent some ten days in the region. The Mezquita was our destination, but first, lunch beckoned.

We didn't really have a plan, just stumbling into the first place that looked nice nearby the Mezquita. Not uncommonly, this restaurant was nestled into an older building, occupying an al fresco courtyard, almost a cloisters. We took our seat, and were immediately presented with a glass of sherry poured directly from a cask in the middle of the floor. Good start.

I don't remember everything we had that day; in fact, I remember only one thing: A white gazpacho. It had never occurred to me that there was any kind of gazpacho other than the tomato-based variety, and I was entranced.

I knew it was made with almonds, but nothing more. For years it haunted me, and until recently I could find no recipes or even reference that such a thing existed. But then, just as it once again began to knock about in the dark corners of my memory, it presented itself to me. Catherine had beaten me to the punch, and posted a recipe. Such timing.

Similar to the classic ajo blanco, utilizing the same ingredients but with a lighter hand on the garlic and more grapes, this dish is everything I remember: The richness of almonds, sweetness from grapes, coolness from cucumbers and an unctuous texture. There's nothing like it.

Where to buy Spanish stuff: The Spanish Table

A major part of planning is shopping, and a major part of shopping is knowing where to shop.

While the grocery list for our Iberian dinner contained plenty of items that were easily gathered in one morning's visit to the Ferry Building -- produce at the farmer's market, pork from Golden Gate Meats, clams from San Francisco Fish Company -- there were some particular items special to Spain that we needed to source separately. I could probably have found it all by scouring the city and buying a little here, a little there, but I saw no reason to when we have a place like The Spanish Table just across the bridge in Berkeley.

The Spanish Table is an astonishingly comprehensive emporium of all things Iberian: Manchego, cabrales, jamon serrano, lomo, marcona almonds (blanched or roasted and salted), angulas, bacalao, piquillos, padrones, and of course sardines are just a few of the items at your fingertips. The array of olive oils, sherry vinegars and of course wines, sherries, madeiras and ports is dizzying. Luckily, the friendly and courteous staff is eager to help you navigate those waters.

We stocked up on meats and cheeses, bought almonds and sherry vinegar for the gazpacho, and picked a couple sherries to pair with various courses. Our mighty haul wasn't exactly cheap, but still less expensive than airfare to Madrid, so all good.

Not in the Bay Area? Why, check out their flagship location in Seattle or satellite store in Santa Fe. Or, just shop online.

The Spanish Table
1814 San Pablo Ave, Berkeley, CA