Pork chop

Eastside Road, February 7, 2010—

YESTERDAY WE DROVE DOWN to Oakland to pick up ten pounds of pork an e-mail had invited us to purchase. Pig in a poke, you might say: but we trusted the offer: first, it came through the auspices of Blue Bottle Coffee, who we trust implicitly; second, they came from pastured animals, raised by a Slow Food type farm in northern California; third, two of the three breeds involved were unknown to me. I know the Berkshire pig, of course; we raised them when I was a boy, along with Durocs and Chester Whites and Hampshires — we were pretty indiscriminate, I realize now; I imagine we raised whatever Dad could get cheap.

But I don't know the Ossabaw, "a lean, mean pork machine that's descended from famed Spanish Iberico hogs" according to the invitational email; and I'd never heard of the Mangalitsa, "a distinctively wooly pig from the Austro-Hungarian empire known for richly flavorful meat."

At the Blue Bottle address in Oakland we found a table with four or five attendants presiding over cute flat cardboard boxes, each with two packages of pork chops (two to a package), a pound or two of nice fat bacon, and several packages of loose pork sausage. One of these was ours. We were also given a hot Mangalitsa sausage sandwich with some tasty barbecue sauce. (And I took advantage of Blue Bottle's café to have a fine single-origin cappuccino.)

Tonight we had the Mangalitsa chops. In order to taste just them, Lindsey simply broiled them with a little salt and pepper. No garlic; no fennel seeds (a delicious approach to pork chopse), no lemon, no olive oil. We wanted to taste the pork.

Wikipedia says "The Mangalitsa produces too little lean meat so it has been gradually replaced by modern domestic breeds." There was indeed considerable fat: here you see the chops before broiling, with the fat Lindsey trimmed off them:



When we picked up the meat yesterday I sampled some lardo made from this breed, and it was absolutely delicious. This fat is silky, delicate, yet deeply flavored; and its flavor permeated the cooked chop.

But delicious as this Mangalitsa is — delicate and noble; I want to call it "Countess Mangalitsa," after the operetta — I'm a little unhappy about eating it. As I understand it you can't buy breeding stock; you can only buy sterile pigs to raise for slaughter. All the breeding stock in this country is owned by a single American representative. I should be happy anyone supplies them at all, I know; the race was very nearly allowed to die out altogether. But there's something Terminator-like about all this.

Still, if folks like Shasta Valley Farm, who raised the pork we had tonight, keep it up, and if the online media and the in-group foodies continue to stand in line for this stuff, maybe there'll be a breakthrough; maybe somehow a viable pig or two (I'm sure it would take at least two) will make a getaway, striking a blow for the kind of biological diversity our state and nation stand for. It would be a good thing. The pork chop certainly was.

Green salad, of course.

Sauvignon blanc, Viñas Chilenas, 2009

Snapper

Eastside Road, February 6, 2010—

SINCE WE WERE IN Berkeley today we bought some snapper at Monterey Fish, as good a fish store as we know within practical distance. (The website, though, is hopelessly out of date: read the page on California salmon and weep; then note the date at the foot of the page.)

Lindsey broiled it quickly and served it with steamed broccoli and potatoes she'd mashed and combined with chopped shallots, oh my. Green salad, naturally.

Sauvignon blanc, Viñas Chilenas, 2009

Monterey Fish, 1582 Hopkins, Berkeley; tel. 510.525.5600

Dhansaak (reprise)

Eastside Road, February 5, 2010—

AFTER LAST NIGHT a relative fast seemed in order: just my caffe latte for breakfast, no toast; a banana for lunch and a slice of potato pizza we'd brought home last night; a revisit to the Indian lentils of two days ago. It occurs to me you don't know our resources, so here's a look into the pantry.
Top left, a few flasks and glasses dedicated to such spirits as grappa, Fernet, Genepi, Alpestre, nocino, and the like. Below, the Row of Pulses: lentils, split peas, beans; with such grains as farro to thicken the plot. The Lavazza can is full of apricots I dried last summer. Cannellini next door. To the right, out of sight, several teas and coffees. Below them, various condiments: chutneys, mustards, vinegars, oils, and oddities like canned coconut milk — you never know when you might need it. And on the bottom shelf, bottles we always need: more vinegars, sherry, tequila, more olive oils. Below, out of the photo, another couple of shelves: wines, paper bags, three-liter cans of olive oil.

This is only one corner of the pantry, about four by nine feet. Elsewhere you'll find sugars, flours, marmalade, jams and jellies; salt; honey. And the pots and pans, of course. It's a busy room.

Oh, yes: dinner tonight. We finished the Dhansaak of day before yesterday, and had our green salad afterward.

Nero d'Avola

Pizzaiolo

Oakland, February 4, 2010—

IT'S ALMOST ENOUGH to make me want to move back to the East Bay: a truly wonderful restaurant, authentic to its ambition, using the best ingredients, cooking them with intelligence and passion, and serving the food comfortably and knowledgeably. It doesn't hurt that the genre is Italian. Pizzaiolo is as close as you can come, I think, in the San Francisco Bay Area, to eating in Testaccio, that meat-loving workingclass district in Rome.

Well, Pizzaiolo and Incanto, over in San Francisco. They're similar restaurants in many ways: the difference between the two feels to me like the difference between East Bay and The City. We need them both; they make a great pair.
Last night there were six of us at table, and I'm afraid I, at least, pigged out — literally. The waiter mentioned Antipasti di maiale, but my eye'd already landed on it: cottechino (as the menu spelled it) with lentils, pork loin with tonnato (!), ciccioli. I fixed on this for my main course, but we all shared one as an opener. The lentils were imported from Umbria; the cotechino, like the tonnato, was of course made in house. Pizzaiolo is a Slow Food restaurant, and the kitchen proves it.

The cotechino was loose-textured, very spicy, combining with the lentils to a rich depth of flavor that always makes me think I'm reverting to medieval tastes. (Panforte produces the same feeling.) This dish was indescribably good, and the ciccioli paralleled it beautifully — served as a loose paste, closer to the soft French rillettes than what I think of as crisp-textured ciccioli: but I'm not complaining. The pork loin, delicate and almost flowery under its moody tuna-based sauce, may seem an odd complement to these rich companions, but it held its own and provided a fine counterpoise. This one plate alone was truly remarkable, memorable: I'd eat this every Thursday night given the chance.

Most of us went on to puntarelle: who can resist? How often do you see it in this country — or anywhere outside Rome, for that matter? A chicory with very narrow serrated leaves, it's eaten primarily for its white, not-quite-bitter stems, which are split lengthwise and set to curl in ice-water. Pizzaiolo served it with shreds of Jerusalem artichoke and slices of grana, dressed with oil and lemon juice. Delicious.

Most of us also went on to pizze, and tablemates were generous, allowing me to sample three different ones: with tomato sauce, brandade, black olives, hot pepper and mint; with potato, pancetta, fontina and rosemary; and with tomato sauce, sausage, and cream. Charlie Hallowell was pizzaiolo for years upstairs at Chez Panisse and he knows pizzas; I'm far from the only one who thinks his pizzas are the best in the area.

Desserts! A curious, again medieval, extraordinarily buttery walnut-brown butter cake with strawberry preserves and delicious crème fraîche ice cream; chocolate bread pudding with brandy-caramel sauce, recalling the ciccioli; but best of all a plate of soft succulent Barhi dates with some nice fat small almonds alongside and an affogato made with Blue Bottle coffee — Pizzaiolo is where I first tasted this excellent product — and heavily laced with nocino made, again, I'm sure, in house.

This is one of my very favorite restaurants. Unfortunately it's also one of virtually every one else's very favorite restaurants. We didn't have any trouble reserving a table for six, three days in advance; but we sure had trouble hearing ourselves converse!

Greco bianco, Librandi (Campania), 2008; Dolcetto d'Alba, Cavallotto, 2007 (both excellent and, like the restaurant, true to type)

Pizzaiolo, 5008 Telegraph Avenue, Oakland; tel. (510) 652-4888