Potato

Eastside Road, April 30, 2011—

WE HAVE NOT BEEN eating enough potatoes lately; I don't know why. They don't seem to be a part of restaurant meals any more, and as you may have noticed we've been eating out a lot lately. When I was a boy we bought potatoes by the hundred-pound sack. There were four of us boys at home, and Dad. And Mom too, of course, but I don't think she made that much of a dent in them. I suppose we were potato-eaters, not that far removed from those van Gogh painted. We had them boiled, mostly, but occasionally mashed. I don't recall Mom baking them.

Tonight we had them baked, dressed with olive oil, salt, and pepper; and I had some leftover potatoes that had been steam-sautéed, God knows when. I suddenly realized how much I'd missed them, these last few days. We had chard with them, white, yellow, and red chard from the garden, and salad of course; and I was grateful for them. Lettuce has come up of its own volition in the garden, and the chard. But tomorrow or the next day I've got to plant some potatoes.

Cheap Nero d'Avola

Chez Panisse

Berkeley, April 29, 2011—

LUNCH TODAY IN THE car: a tuna sandwich, made by the delicatessen counter at Ralph's supermarket in Castaic. Gloppy, with tuna of some kind, "mayonnaise", mustard (!), lettuce, tomato, on a sesame-seed roll.

But dinner! One of the best I've had in months. After a couple of apéritifs, welcome after a windy drive up Highway 5, and an amuse-bouche of pork rillettes and green olives, we had a beautifully balanced salad: frisée, leeks, artichokes, and smoked cod. Then a "Billi-bi," a sort of Norman Boston-style chowder but with mussels rather than clams, shallots rather than onions, no potato, and a discreet amount of sorrel. This is a delicious and neglected dish. The execution was perfect and I was taken back to the 1970s.

Main course: grilled Alaskan halibut with tarragon butter dauce, asparagus, deep-fried spring onions, and gigantic leaves of tender sweet mâche. And then, after tangerines and dates, a classic rhubarb tart with strawberry ice cream. Spring looking forward to summer; rhubarb commenting on tarragon recalling sorrel; intelligence and knowledge informing technique and careful, knowing marketing. Everything a fine restaurant meal should be.

Sancerre, Chavignol "Les Monts Damnés," 2009; Pedro Ximénes, Priorat, Odysseus, 2009; Chardonnay, Lioco (Carneros), 2009. All quite wonderful wines, and the Lioco an amazing one: I'd have sworn it was a Puligny-Montrachet.

Chez Panisse, 1517 Shattuck Ave., Berkeley; 510.548.5525

Bashan

Glendale, April 28, 2011—

WE THINK A LOT of this small husband-and-wife restaurant off the beaten track down here in Los Angeles. Zagat gives it a 27 for its kitchen, and I don't think that's an overestimate. The food's a little heavy on presentation for my taste, but never over the top. Sometimes there's maybe one or two ingredients too many, but they always seem to justify themselves. I like the place.

Tonight we began with beet-juice "gazpacho" as an amuse-geule, then went on to beautifully dressed green salads with discreet shavings of excellent Parmesan cheese hiding among the leaves.



I then had a pork chop, well salted, cooked to rosy perfection, served on a bed of tiny beans with braised kale and chorizo, and accompanied by very crisp-fried pig's ears garnished with green grapes — this latter item actually making a lot of sense.

Dessert was a buttermilk panna cotta. Buttermilk ain't my thing, but panna cotta certainly is, and this was first-rate, topped with a thin layer of not caramelized sugar but frozen cranberry juice crystals. Excellent; excellent.

Sauvignon blanc, Sherwood (New Zealand); Pinot noir, Sean Minor (Carneros); Orange Muscat, Quady "Electra" (all in the glass, vintages unknown, very nicely paired with the food)

Bashan, 3459 N. Verdugo Road, Glendale; (818) 541-1532

En suite

Pasadena, April 27, 2011—

I'D THOUGHT OF fasting today, but yesterday's two-hour hike, and today's three-mile stroll, made us a little hungry. Economy and boredom kept us from going to yet another restaurant, though: we bought packaged salads at Gelson's instead -- mine a Wolfgang Puck "Caesar salad," no less -- and made do in the hotel room. A head of okay romaine, a little tub of some kind of dressing with not too many chemicals listed among its ingredients, a littler tub of grated "Parmesan" cheese (not terribly good), an insufficient number of croutons in a little plastic envelope. With a banana and part of a chocolate bar, it sufficed.

Torrontés, Astica, Cuyo Valley (Argentina), 2009

Chez des amis

Ojai, April 26, 2011—

YOU SPEND HOURS AND DOLLARS in restaurants, great and routine, and then you have dinner in a friend's house, and everything locks into place: ingredients, technique, personal history, conversation, caring, new acquaintance perhaps — all the things that really count: the things without which an evening at table is merely feeding.

Tonight we are with friends in their house, the first dinner not in a commercial space — not that they do not have a legitimate role! — for nearly a week. We had guacamole, and nuts, and farfalle in tomato and porcini sauce, and grilled sausages, and artichokes; and if I've forgotten anything, it's because of the

tequila and Hinano beer, and some leftover Zinfandel.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Tapas

Pasadena, April 25, 2011—

THERE IS THIS DANGER when dining in tapas restaurants: the ordering can be complicated. Tonight the four of us had: padrones peppers, arugula salad, beet salad, lamb sausage with white beans, salt cod and potatoes, steak tartare, and another order of steak tartare. Everything went smoothly enough, except that the second tartare — mine, of course — never seemed to turn up. I reminded the waiter a number of times, finally pointing out that if he didn't bring it soon it would be well done. I wanted my steak tartare, especially after seeing Todd eat his: nicely chopped, evidently with capers and onions already chopped in, with a raw quail egg sitting chastely atop.

My tartare finally arrived, but lacking its egg. I pointed this out to the girl who'd brought it — not our waiter; we'd never seen her before — and she said she'd been told in the kitchen that they might not have an egg.

Nonsense, I said, of course there's an egg, it's a kitchen, they're certain to have an egg somewhere, please bring it back with an egg.

She took it away and we continued our conversation, though I was a little distracted, thinking about my tartare. The salt cod was gone. The lamb sausage was mostly gone. We'd finished the salads long since, and Todd's own tartare plate was clean as a whistle. He had another glass of cava; I poured myself another glass of tempranillo. Finally it arrived.



Even though I'd begun to tear into it before I thought of taking its photo, you can see what's wrong. It has an egg, all right, but the egg is cooked. I've never in my life seen a steak tartare with a poached egg on top. It was okay, I suppose, but the romance was off the evening.

Cava, Cristalino; Tempranillo/Cabernet sauvignon

Bar Celona, 46 E Colorado Blvd, Pasadena; 626.405.1000

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Sempre italiano

Pasadena, April 24, 2011—

THERE IS NO SHORTAGE of Italian restaurants in this city. We've been to three of them now, and if tonight's isn't my favorite, neither is it in third place. We had a nice little salad to begin with, lettuces and very thin-sliced raw red onion, in a dressing tasting of good olive oil, vinegar, and salt. Then I went on to an enormous plate of gnocchi, a third of which I had to leave on the plate. They were tender and well-made, in a nice sauce featuring mushrooms and sausage, but they were just too many. There are worse faults.

Arneis, 2009; Barbera, Briccotondo, 2008

Gale's Restaurant, 452 S. Fair Oaks Ave., Pasadena; (626) 432-6705

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad