The Pig in me

What can I say about The Spotted Pig that hasn't already been said? Well, for starters, you can get a table in under a half hour, on a Saturday night no less, if you're willing to eat early. And you can subsequently get a seat at the bar if you follow the early bird schedule. As you mosey up, full of yourself and the several plates of food recently set before you, thinking "we should order another bottle of wine cause if we just got two glasses it would be wasting money," you'll find a space as another couple dances in the opposite direction toward a table.

But best of all, this: The Spotted Pig, a two-star Michelin gastropub in the Village, serves the biggest heap of crunchy, chewy, salty and steamy hot shoestring fries known to man or pig. Let's just say if I lived in New York, and you couldn't find me, know that I'd be chin-deep in a bowl-full of fries with my cell phone turned off. This, as those French tire experts will tell you, is serious bar food.

I'd been wanting to eat in April Bloomfield's restaurant ever since I read that Frank Bruni waited in the maelstrom (they don't take reservations for anyone) just to end up, 20 minutes later, folded up into a doll's size chair shoved under a doll's size table with a circumference so narrow it seems the servers must bring the dinner plates one at a time to avoid an entree sliding straight into a lap. Even if I lived in New York, I'd never be able to afford eating at enough of his chosen reviews to figure out whether we have similar appetites. (I'm more of a $25 and under girl.) But I enjoy his writing and his willingness to think outside the menu from time to time. More importantly, the Pig's menu sounded worth the wait.

As it turns out, the wait was short and dinner long. I'm not even sure if I can remember everything we tried. The devils on horseback came first, swarthy strips of bacon wrapped 'round warm and juicy dried plums and fruit. The foot-tall stand for the oysters with mignonette was as theatrical as it was necessary -- the half dozen Beau Soleils hovered over the deep-fried prosciutto balls with tomato and ginger sauce. The fried balls were our least favorite of the meal. (I've been waiting years to write that sentence.) The oysters were delicate and juicy, and the sharp mignonette somehow brought out the salt and tinny goodness in them. When I put one in my mouth, I could smell the sea.

Sauteed ramps with a fried duck egg arrived, its yolk big as a fist staring and daring us to forge on. At this point I'd begun to forget how much I'd ordered, in part cause we were halfway through a bottle of Condado de Haza. The ramps' garlickly tang softened the richness of the egg, a wonderful breakfast to be had halfway through dinner. And, finally, dinner, seared mackerel with vinaigrette, which, to our surprise, came with a smear of homemade mayonnaise. My feasting partner, sadly, does not share my perversion for mayo, so I quickly saved parts of non-corrupted fish for her. And then did everything I could not to dip my fingers in. Though at the Spotted Pig, I really don't think they'd care.

With this finale came the fries.Thin and wispy, they were the kind you could pluck away at, one at a time, for years and never grow tried or full. (They also proved perfect for a little flick through that mayo.) I felt a little remorse that we'd wasted so much room on "real food," exotic eggs and slabs of bacon and all. I cannot begin to imagine how many potatoes went into our serving, or when the poor schmuck who peels them has to get up each morning. Let's just say they would not have fit under the oyster stand.

I have immense respect for a person or a kitchen that can fry properly, food cooked to a tender crisp with almost no traces of grease. It's a skill that I find terribly hard to do at home on my own. Perhaps it should be incorporated into political debates. Whoever can produce the best onion rings wins. For now, I'm saving my vote for Ms. Bloomfield.

Me without my straw

I should say me without my camera. There was no straw either. Yet I not only managed, I triumphed. In fact, I made history. I know I lack illustrative proof. You'll just have to believe me. The fish really was that long.

A few days ago, I ate the po' boy of my life. This is saying something, since fried goodies wrapped in crusty, chewy French bread, dressed with lettuce, tomato, pickles and mayonnaise, sum up the best thing since horizontally sliced bread. A po' boy is my all-time go-to, the heat at the long end of my heat-seeking appetite. It's the meal I must have almost daily when I'm in New Orleans, and once I ate two in one day. (I should admit, one pass was a solo affair. If you compared this little confession to drinking alone, I wouldn't argue. And I can't say I wouldn't do it again.)

Po' boys linger at every corner in and around New Orleans. Stories abound about its Depression-era origins: a streetcar conductor/restaurant owner gave them away to fellow workers during a strike; a bar owner gave them to new customers as a generous initiation; thankful customers gave the snack as a tip for poor delivery boys. Here's my favorite: the sandwich is a most legitimate offspring of "the peacemaker," a loaf of bread split, covered with butter, filled with fried oysters, and presented to a finger-strumming wife by a stumbling husband after a late-night spree of no good.

The origin debate pales in comparison to picking a favorite: fried oyster, fried shrimp, fried catfish, roast beef, fried crawfish, meatball, Italian, sausage. If you thought the Democratic primary was a lost cause, try convincing a roast beef lover that fried shrimp is the way to go. My candidate, my whole life, has been fried oyster. This devotion and stubbornness has made for many a poor meal. In a place known for its fried catfish or andouille sausage, I stuck with oysters. I've eaten uncounted sandwiches with cold, tiny fried oysters on bread that couldn't hold its own. (Most recipes call for two dozen oysters per sandwich, so weak bread is a killer; perhaps one day it'll be known as a strong boy.)

Then I walked into Crabby Jack's, an outpost of Jacques-Imo's Cafe, on Jefferson Highway just outside of New Orleans' city limits. All the normal offerings were on the board, as was a special for the day: shrimp remoulade with fried green tomato. I thought, what the hell? Remoulade sauce mixes mayonnaise with tartar sauce with hot sauce and lemon juice and creole mustard. It usually dresses boiled shrimp, though it can be paired with crab, crawfish or just about anything in need of a juicy kick. Why not give it a po' boy try?

Luckily for you, people who are smarter than me have remembered their cameras when visiting Crabby Jack's. Luckily for me, I ate the best po' boy I've ever had. The remoulade had tang and bite and held together dozens of sweet shrimp. The tomatoes were fried perfectly, with that beer-batter-like crust that comes on really good onion rings. And the bread, the most important part, held its own despite its bulging, dripping weight. Even better, the verdict isn't limited to rash pick. My mother, also an oyster devotee, had fried oyster and issued the same decision. These sandwiches are, hands down, a new favorite.

Eating the thing took two hands, a fork and a willingness to chase down trickles of runaway sauce with fingers and tongue. A regular, the smallest size, really is almost a foot long. And I ate the whole thing. You'll really, really just have to believe me.

Welcome to Harmony, population you

When the population of wine bottles in the car outnumber the population of the town you're driving through, you have stumbled upon Harmony, Calif. And, if you have any sense (and uncorked bottles) left about you, you will undoubtedly be at Harmony Cellars and working your way through a collection that includes white riesling, red zinfandel, a merlot worth both tasting and buying, and a syrah transformed into a dessert wine.

Harmony has 18 people and stands at 175 feet above sea level. Our population -- three people, two dozen bottles of wine and one dog spread across two cars -- landed there level enough at about noon on Sunday to enjoy a generous tasting of six wines for $3.

The central coast of California is a perfectly lovely place to land after a 8 1/2 hour flight and after a year of living in a place where tortillas cost nearly $7 a package. It's a place where in four days a person can taste more than a couple dozen wines, eat fried artichokes and homemade chocolate, and expect fresh sourdough bread as a matter of course. And yes, oh yes, there were several, several courses.

Best of all, it's a place where, in one short meal, a person can figure out why she keeps buying and ordering wine that somehow feels like a lost cause, much like that classic tome that you know you should read but somehow never quite master beyond page 42. By my third or fourth sip at Soif, a dark and friendly wine bar in Santa Cruz, and a simple conversation with my sister and her boyfriend, the bell rung. In spite of what the kids have raved about for the past few years, I don't like pinot noir, at least not any I've had to date. What I do like is syrah, petite syrah and best of all, a happy fat blue grape called tempranillo, the star of Rioja. Who knew? I'd been drinking in the wrong key.


















With that life-changing discovery out of the way, we ordered. Sauteed broccoli rabe with garlic & chili. Fried baby artichokes and Meyer lemon. Duck rillette with cherry compote. Pumpkin-seed encrusted chevre with pomegranate molasses. Fish tacos, chicken marsala, oysters on the half shell, fresh bagels, fresh strawberries, hand-thrown pizza, and pomegranate sorbet soon followed. Or perhaps preceded. It's hard to remember now. Just take comfort it wasn't all at one meal.
















At last we were in Harmony, literally and metaphysically. It was noon, a Sunday, and a handful of new, lime-green figs hung on a sapling. Horses grazed in the far pasture. The dog slept in the warm car. You may think I'm exaggerating, but it really was that perfect, even before we started sampling. The winery makes about 5,500 cases a year. They don't use tempranillo, but I could now taste what I like -- berry, prune, maybe a tiny bit of vanilla or lavender. It sounds sweet, but its not, in the same way that a good cup of coffee is strong rather than bitter.
















My California finale proved best of all. At El Palomar, another restaurant in Santa Cruz, I fell head first into a deep-fried tortilla pillow, a sope stuffed with avocado. At this point, I was too giddy, relaxed and, well, drunk, to remember the camera. Instead a finished off the sope, packed up its accompanying fish taco and tried to stay awake on the way home. The next day involved a 4 a.m. wake-up call with a 7 a.m. flight. Thank goodness it also involved a quiet coda: a fish taco breakfast at the gate.

Soif
105 Walnut Ave

Santa Cruz, CA 95060

(831) 423-2020

Zin Alley

3730 West Highway 46

Templeton, CA 95465

Four Vines

3750 West Highway 46

WestTempleton, CA 93465

805.237.0055

Morro Bay WineSellers

601 Embarcadero #5

Morro Bay, Ca. 93442

(805) 772-8388

Harmony Cellars

3255 Harmony Valley Road

PO Box 2502

Harmony, CA 93435

805-927-1625

800-432-9239

Robin's Restaurant

4095 Burton Drive

Cambria, CA 93428

805.927.5007

Vida Lounge & Grill
1222 Pacific Ave.
Santa Cruz, CA
831.425.7871

El Palomar

1336 Pacific Ave
Santa Cruz, CA 95060

(831) 425-7575

Listing away

I have a list. It's long and rambling and tangles the time and space continuum to create a world that offers cheese grits and flautas and fume blanc all on the same menu. Ooh. What a tingling combination. Especially if the flautas came with salsa verde and the grits had a bit of Gorgonzola. And a sprinkling of fresh, fried thyme.

No, I'm not high. I'm headed back to America for three weeks. Look, I love Japanese food as much as the next gaijin girl. This blog, I hope, helps my argument. There are some things, though, that I miss. Actually, this being spring and the world opening up and all, there are some things that I just crave. And while Tokyo is now, undoubtedly, one of the best food cities in the world according to some, I sometimes get a little hankering for home. (I'm not the only one. My friend hasn't been to his North Carolina home in almost two years. He goes next month and says he's having this the first day.)

Many things I want I can find here, but they cost too pretty a yen. Exhibit A: Two nights ago, I actually considered spending $20 on a head of fennel. It was a very lovely head of fennel, no doubt. But I took more than a full minute deciding whether it would be foolish. What's $20? I mean in Tokyo, at many places, it's barely two beers. (I put it back, grabbed a $2 bunch of watercress, and made for the exit.)

Three weeks is a long time. I will miss sushi. I will miss onigiri. I will miss tofu and miso at every turn. I will miss fried food that stays crispy, apples that stay juicy, eggs that look, feel, cook and taste like eggs, and the mayo that makes me hum. I will certainly miss telling people that all I really want for dinner is a little rice and fish roe and having them think that sounds perfectly fine. At least when those people are Japanese. They seem to think I'm phenomenally normal. It's part of the reason I feel so at home here.

Yet, I'm feeling selfish, and there's just a few more things that I'd like to add to my perpetual shopping list:

sugar snap peas
rhubarb
asparagus
anything remoulade
fresh flour tortillas
fresh corn tortillas
refried beans, made in a pan that has never been washed because it's never been empty
pizza -- homemade, thin, crispy, chewy, mouth-watering pizza-pie
bread pudding
bread and butter
bread, toasted, with garlic and olives and hot peppers and basil
anything with hot peppers
cilantro
guacamole that someone else made for me
expensive California wine
cheap California wine
fish tacos
all tacos
alligator cheesecake
remoulade with a straw
gumbo
corned beef
greek yogurt
fresh hommus
fresh mint
radishes
sweet potato pie
fried chicken
tamales
a proper bloody mary
buttermilk, right there, in the store
artichokes
H&H bagels
matzo ball soup, straw optional

Please stay tuned for weight-loss May, or, why the Japanese diet really is good for you. It is. I know it. But could someone, in the meantime, please pass the biscuits?

Hanami

This year is the third time I've been in Tokyo when the cherry trees bloomed. As I mentioned, the arrival of sakura involves some serious picnicking. My first hanami, or flower-viewing, was a work party in a cemetery three years ago. That was long ago, when I considered parking a rotisserie chicken truck next to centuries-old family plots slightly rude. Silly, young grasshopper.

Hanami is welcome in nearly any public place, including cemeteries, shrines, parks and malls.
The Aoyama cemetery near our office is full of cherry trees, and tour buses bring in visitors. Vendors set up carts selling fried things on sticks and heaps of kakoyaki, round octopus fritters. Why is it that 'round the world all fairs and festivals involve dropping food into kettles of oil? Whatever our shared humanity, nothing says summer is coming like piping hot octopus balls.

I was invited this year to a hanami at Ueno park. So was every other single person in Tokyo. The sidewalks were so crowded, it felt like an endless subway car. Luckily for us, a friend of a friend got to the park at 5:30 a.m. to reserve a tarp for the day. We had a prime location, between the baseball park and the zoo. We had beer, chu-hi (a popular fruit-flavored cocktail that comes conveniently in cans), and, by the time I got there, a smattering of empty potato chip and McDonald's bags.

I wasn't worried; I'd already had lunch. But we did look a little lame next to some of the other picnics. A group next to us had brought platters of sushi, salads, fried snacks and at least half a case of wine. They had not, however, thought of a beer funnel, which another group of foreigners had brought along. When they demonstrated its use, it stopped all movement on the sidewalk and drew a round of applause and a television news crew. If only we'd managed to drive in another chicken truck.

Happy hanami!

Optimism, and a second mea culpa

Optimism, to me, has always seemed a little too easy, a promise waiting to be broken. One size fits all? Please. Then again, pessimism involves far too much effort for something that turns out to be so boring. Damned if you do or don't? You might as well stay in bed.

Half-full, half-empty: I could care less. I'm too worried about who filled or emptied the cup in the first place, and when will the server be back with more wine? I suppose I'm a cynic-in-training with hopeful leanings. At the end of the day, I'd like to think there will be more wine, not less. It makes the workday go faster, anyway.

But occasionally I will encounter an optimistic claim so outrageous I have no choice but to believe it. Take the promise from this everyday item from the grocery store: Food, for ages 0 to 100. That's something I can believe in. I know, however, that not all my friends and family will agree.

There is a line in the sand coming up, a love-it-or-hate-it feeling that, I think, is embedded in our very souls. This goes far beyond nurture versus nature, red state versus blue. You either take a seat at the table, or you move on. I am talking, my friends, about mayonnaise.

I confess, I am a bonafide lover of mayo, and I jumped into this precipice long ago. Looking back, it almost didn't happen. The very first thing I remember making in the kitchen was a cheese and mayonnaise sandwich. It involved two pieces of white bread, a slice of American cheese, and a slather of something white that came in a jar and I'm sure was labeled salad dressing rather than mayo. Still, it was my creation, I was five, and I ate it with satisfaction. Pride can be a great friend in the kitchen.

Years passed and I steered myself further into the mayonnaise-loving part of the world. Summers were so yummy, with potato salads and pasta salads and tomato sandwiches with a dose of Hellman's eaten directly over the sink. A BLT without mayo? Next thing you'll say you eat your tater-tots without ketchup.

But as time went on, I also learned the consequences of mayonnaise. It's fatty as can be. One serving can undo all your other good food decisions in a week. It is, I'm only half sorry to say, that late-night phone call that you should just let ring. So, in more recent years, I've considered mayo a special treat. I rarely request it on sandwiches. I make salads with oils and vinegars rather than eggs and emulsions. I wait until I'm extra good, or extra hungover, to order that BLT.

That all changed last year when I met Japanese mayonnaise. Japan's version of the dressing contains rice vinegar instead of white vinegar, but that can't be the only difference. I'm convinced it must contain some dashi, fish broth, or a splash of ponzu, citrus-flavored soy sauce. Maybe it's just crack. I can't decide and don't care. I just can't get enough of the stuff. I'm not alone. I have a Japanese friend who lives in Seoul. When she visits Japan, she mails the stuff back by the case.


























I finally broke down last week and bought my own, Kewpie-brand bottle. I made an egg salad sandwich last week, with two boiled eggs and equals parts of Kewpie and Zataran's Cajun mustard, that made me swoon.

So I ask those of you on the other side of the debate to reconsider. I know, mayo has treated you unfairly. It's appeared unexpectedly in sandwiches, eyed you dreadfully from the other side of the barbecue rib platter. But, then, I also know that many of those same folks who hate mayonnaise also love a good, homemade Caesar salad dressing. I'm not saying that's a problem; I'm just saying that a little egg, oil and steady stirring can have so many more possibilities than that American stuff that comes in a jar. Plus, you'll get to enjoy it for 100 years. How can you argue with that?

Raw, and wrigglin'

My first visit to an acupuncturist was a success. At least I think it was. It's a little hard to tell. I didn't feel magically transformed, neither able to leap tall buildings or touch my toes. But I certainly didn't feel worse. There was surprisingly little pain associated with eight tiny needles taking turns in my wrists, ankles, shins and back. In fact, it felt calming. Maybe my energy flow opened up and began to churn. Maybe I was reluctant to move while Rick, the acupuncturist, tried to jump-start my energy flow.

As you may recall, this all came about after I spent a weekend laying on the floor commiserating with peas and rice and a worn out hip that spread its evil ways to my lower back. I've been recovering slowly, walking not running. All this no exercise and too much food has left me feeling pretty raw of late.

After Rick finished his pricking, he gave me a 30-minute shiatsu massage. When it was all done, my head and neck felt lighter like he said it would. My hip still felt sore, like he said it would. He also took my pulse one last time and asked if I'd been eating too many sweets lately. Yes, but wouldn't you if you couldn't run around like always? Logic, never one of my strongest suits.

Rick told me to keep walking, keep stretching, and come back to see him in a few weeks. So I wandered around his neighborhood, Jiyugaoka, a tic-tac-toe board of shops, restaurants and coffee shops. I stopped for some tea and thought about lunch. What would suit a first-time needling?

Eel, I decided, and soba. Long, limber and soothing, grilled unagi is a rich, tender and buttery fish usually served on top of a tendonburi, or rice bowl. It's fresh-water eel, caught in the wild, and usually eaten in the summertime to provide stamina against the heat. Saturday was pleasant, in the low 60s, but I decided to rush summer with unagi and honor the last chill of winter with some hot soba. This, I have no doubt, was both relaxing and healing.