Sunday Supper

Remember Sunday supper at grandma's? If you were lucky enough to experience it, you're doubtless left with memories to last a lifetime. I recall grandma's special baked chicken (somehow no one else seems to be able to make it quite the same), green beans, mashed potatoes, and fruit salad, with berry cobbler for dessert. Swedish rye bread made according to the family recipe was served on the side, for no dinner could be complete without bread on the table.
Another great thing about Sunday dinner at grandma's (well, besides the company, of course)? Mom didn't have to cook! At least, I assume that must have been a blessing. As much as I love to cook, it's nice to let someone else take charge occasionally. And after a very full weekend, the prospect of Sunday supper at Volunteer Park Cafe may not have quite the same allure as grandma's, but it sure sounded good.

Fortunately for us, it tasted even better than it sounded. Light poured in through the open door onto the long communal table that runs the length of the cafe where Michael, Lewissa, and I took our seats. For Seattle, it had been a hot day - over 80 degrees! - but the evening warmth was pleasant, comfortable enough for me to wear the long-sleeved shirt I'd chosen to cover my newly sunburnt arms. Refreshed with beer, wine, and citrus agave water, we eyed the blackboard list of coming courses.

The idea behind the Sunday supper is a simple one: use what's in season, food from the garden, and serve it up family style. With a couple of musicians providing a low key soundtrack for the meal, we passed around giant enamel pots of salad, then meatloaf with onion gravy, silken mashed potatoes, and green beans. This was food that would no doubt have felt right at home on grandma's table, although it was admittedly a bit gussied up compared with the dinners I remember from childhood. The vegetarian offering was sweet pea risotto, something that never appeared at the grandparents' house, but the pop of fresh green peas amid creamy rice topped with succulent pea vines and a lemony, melt-in-you-mouth creamy cheese brought the taste of summer home.

After all that, it was hard to find room for dessert, but somehow we managed. Still warm from the oven, we received slices of golden-crusted blueberry buttermilk pie. The buttermilk custard lent a soft tang to the sweetness of the berries, and the crust was perfectly crisp and buttery. Pie is the ultimate in summer desserts, and a good Sunday supper is the ultimate end to a perfect summer weekend.

Remembering Morocco

In Sevilla, our tour is winding down (but not before tonight's final dinner and horse drawn carriage ride, of course). Spain and Morocco have been a whirlwind, with too few opportunities to write about the experience. While Morocco now feels like a world away, I can still recall sitting on the roof terrace of the Dar Nour by night, surrounded by the layered rooftops of the kasbah, and hearing the day's final call to prayer as the meuzzins one by one began their chant. Unlike most Muslim countries, in Morocco the call to prayer is still sung by a live meuzzin rather than a recording, and the sound spreads throughout the city via the loudspeakers atop the minarets.

Below, the streets are packed with action until late in the evening. Kids and cats roam the twisting alleys while men drink mint tea at tables lining the sidewalks. Many women are out two, making their way though the narrow streets in both traditional caftans and headscarves and skintight jeans, but the cafe scene still belongs to the men.

Some of the best food can be found just outside the prime tourist zone at Le Saveur de Poisson, where one menu is served for lunch and dinner. Take a seat and you will be presented with a dish of black olives, a bowl of housemade chili oil, roasted almonds, and a basket of Moroccan breads. Soon, a bowl of shrimp and couscous soup appears. Dip your bread in the chili oil - it's positively addictive, and far spicier than almost anything you'll find in Spain. Even the flavor othe roasted almonds seems amplified beyond any you've tasted before.

But these simple delights are only the beginning. An earthenware dish of shrimp baked with spinach and cubes of fish soon follows, steaming hot from the oven. It tastes fresh and bright, the shrimp bursting with flavor, the fish and spinach melting together on the tounge. A main course follows of flatfish simply roasted over coals, served alongside kebabs of swordfish. Fresh and meaty, sweet and tender, nothing beats seafood roasted to perfection.

Finally, there is dessert. Toasted barley and pinenuts are mixed with coarse brown sugar and thick, dark honey that is just starting to crystalize, and luscious strawberries topped with the same honey round out the meal. Throughout it all, your goblet is constantly refilled with a home brewed fruit juice, tasting of figs and plums.

Like Morocco itself, the meal is enchanting and exotic. It's also a respite from the crowded streets outside, much like the roof terraces take you away from the bustle of a city packed with people, traffic, and non-ending noise. Spain feels tame by comparison. Here in Sevilla the weather is perfect, the city is beautiful, and the atmosphere is relaxed. But I can't wait to go back to Morocco for another taste of this different world.

The Taste of May

"Do you know Maibolle?" Britta asked me.

"Marburg? No," I replied, wondering how it was that this town was coming up in the dinner conversation.

Britta proceeded to explain, auf Deutsch (the only language spoken when I visit my relatives in this part of the world), how wine and sparkling wine are infused with herbs to create a traditional spring beverege. It sounded delicious, but -

"They call this Marburg?" I asked again, still confused.

"Oh, no. Maibolle," she repeated, and this time I got it. The word "Mai", German for the month of May, immediately brings to mind thoughts of spring, and what could go better with spring than a refreshing drink of lightly sparkling and delicately herb flavored white wine. Peter, my dad's German cousin, brought out a pitcher and poured me a sample.

"It's delicious!" I enthused.

"And it goes quickly to your head!" Monika laughed.

"Don't tell her that!" Britta countered. Now everyone held their glasses out for a taste of Maibolle. Tonight, the grill had already made it's first appearance of the year, providing us with platters of wurst and marinated meats. Now, with the Maibolle, it was official: spring is finally here. Of course, it had grown too cold in the evening for us to enjoy the meal outside, but the sun was shining nonetheless.

Little discoveries, like Maibolle, provide me with some of the most pleasure when I travel. I don't even know if I'm spelling it right, or what a "Bolle" is, but two pitchers later, I can tell you that it sure tastes great. It's flavored with Waldmeister, a popular spring herb here in Germany, whose name literally means, "forestmaster". Having never heard of such an herb in the U.S., Peter pulled out a massive tome of a German/English dictionary to find a translation. The answer? Woodruff. Yeah, that cleared things up. Even at the Herb Garden, perhaps the Seattle area's fanciest restaurant, does woodruff ever make an appearance? Would the average American even recognize woodruff as a plant, let alone an edible one?

It's a shame, really, because Waldmeister is pretty tasty. So tasty, in fact, that you can even buy Waldmeister flavored Gummi Bears in the spring at Baeren Treff, the all-Gummi, all-the-time shop located in Wiesbaden. I made a pilgrimage to Baeren Treff with Leonie, the German student who visited us in Seattle last summer, who happens to live in Wiesbaden. I left the shop with a lighter wallet but a much heavier load, weighed down by more than four kilos of Gummi Bears, a bag of Waldmeister included for good measure. It may not be Maibolle, but for friends and family back home in the Pacific Northwest, it will be a little taste of springtime in Deutschland.

Always Fresh, Always Good

The website for Volunteer Park Cafe can be found at www.alwaysfreshgoodness.com. It's an easy one to remember because the food at VPC is always fresh and definitely always good.

Until last night, I'd only visited for lunch. January proved to be a good time to try out dinner, as the cafe was offering a three course menu for $30 in celebration of their third anniversary. Fittingly, we went as a group of three - Lewissa, Michael, and I - and together shared one of the most enjoyable meals I've had this winter.

VPC doesn't do fancy food. At least, not fancy by urban restaurant standards, although I realize that to some the fact that wild boar bolognese appears on the menu takes the food out of the realm of the everyday. But ultimately, the food is just good. Really good. Twirl the homemade pasta onto your fork and just revel in the flavors, food doesn't get much more satisfying than this.

Michael and Lewissa each ordered the bolognese mentioned above, while I got the vegetarian offering, a fantastic dish of pappardelle tossed in a light coating of creamy, tangy sauce tasting richly of cheese. Salads were tossed to perfection, and dessert almost stole the show. Tender bread pudding that melted in the mouth, a concoction of hot chocolate sauce, soft chocolate cake, and whipped cream they call "muck muck", and - almost surprisingly the piece de resistance - a pear and ginger crisp. With just the right amount of ginger, it was a winning combination.

I always feel like I'm walking on clouds after a meal there. Sure, it can be crowded around mid-day on the weekends, but I've never had a bad experience here, never a bite that wasn't delicious, never a server that just didn't care. And the homey atmosphere with window seats and throw pillows but without the tablecloths and overly styled decor make me want to stay for hours. So yes, I may sound a little overly enthusiastic, but Volunteer Park Cafe is always fresh, always good, and pretty much what I've always wanted in a restaurant.

Two on the Road

Jane and Michael Stern are my road food heros. Understandably, considering they wrote the book Road Food, as well as many others, including Two for the Road, a book full of hilarious tales from their times on the road that Michael and I read out loud to each other in the fall of 2008 on our own California road trip.

So, when I heard the couple was coming to town for a talk at Benaroya, I convinced Michael we should go; hilarious as they are in writing, I was sure it could only be better in person.

I was right. We spent almost an hour and a half laughing along with crazy anecdotes and learning about how their food and writing experience evolved. The only problem was, not quite an hour and a half was not quite enough. We could tell Jane and Michael had more to say, and there was little time time to answer questions from the audience before they were whisked off the stage. Boo.

Afterwards, Michael (my own Michael) and I were in the mood for food, but I admit our choice was hardly a Road Food kind of destination. The dessert menu at Poppy on Capitol Hill was calling; I'd been longing to try a dessert thali there for a long time, and this was the perfect excuse. On a Tuesday night just after nine, it was easy to find a parking spot and a spot to sit in the bar. The happy hour offerings led us to each pick a fancy schmancy cocktail, but I was really here for the food. The food held up its end of the bargain; it was really there for me, too.

The concept of the dessert thali is a great one: for $15, choose one dessert off the menu and one ice cream. You'll receive your choices on a small platter accompanied by five other mini desserts, perfectly paired for two to share. Mmmm...

The highlight was our main dessert, the "herbed apple deep dish with bay leaf ice cream". Amazing. Underneath a cracklingly crsip pastry crust studded with turbinado sugar crystals were squares of perfectly cooked apple, soft cubes with just enough bite and nary a mushy piece to be found. We twirled the small sccop of bay leaf ice cream over the crust, letting it melt against the hot pastry, making each bite a combination of hot and cool, the faint herby quality of the cold ice cream providing balancing out the sweet, hot apples. Heavenly.

Not that the rest was anything to complain of. Passion fruit gelees were flavorful, semi-sweet and semi-sour, the taste of the fruit shining through. Nutter butter squares combined a creamy peanut butter frosting with a crunchy, nutty bar. Best of all the small bites, though, were the salted chocolate caramel truffles. Nothing more than a thin slice of chocolate dusted with cocoa, these packed big flavor. The chocolate melted elegantly on the tounge, a perfect balance of dark chocolate, deep caramel, and a hint of salt.

It may not be as exciting as getting rear-ended by a truck with a couple dozen jars of homemade barbeque sauce in the back of your Suburban (yes, this happened to ther Sterns, not us), but our night out was still an experience.

So Happy Together

I love long days at home that make me feel productive, both in work and socially. In a society where it feels that people often move too quickly and substitute online tweets for lengthy conversations, it feels good to busy myself in the kitchen, making chocolate cream pie, washing the dishes, and even wiping down the floors, all with the expectation for an afternoon of company.

Two friends, complete with two baby daughters, made it out for a casual lunch and visit. Nothing special was on the menu, other than the aforementioned chocolate cream pie, but is there a better way to spend an afternoon than together with friends? Ultimately, what you do matters so little when compared with the value of time spent with each other.

And now it's back to work, preparing for tonight's dinner. But I don't mind. In fact, I'm looking forward to it.

It's the Busiest Time of the Year

Ah, yes... the "holidays". That mythical time when life becomes a whirlwind of parties, concerts, family gatherings, shopping, caroling, cooking, and sipping giant mugs of hot chocolate. In real life, it's perhaps not quite so idyllic, but the air around us does start to whirl a little.

Tonight I came home and immediately went to work in the kitchen. On top of this evening's dinner, I made sauteed a couple pounds of ground turkey and also made a fresh batch of tomato sauce, all because I know that it may be the last time I have to properly cook anything resembling a meal this week. And to me, meals are important. Eating homemade food is important. Just because the holidays are coming, that's no excuse to let the vital things in life slip.

Starting with tomorrow, there will be concerts and organized cooking baking and decorating, visits from family and work parties, putting up decorations and maybe even sending out Christmas cards, not to mention cooking up a new batch of chili for our friends' annual cook-off and watching It's A Wonderful Life for the umpteenth time at the Grand Illusion's Christmas party. And, not forgetting the spiritual side of the season (Jesus is the reason, after all), church services and hopefully some volunteering, too.

I'm looking forward to it all. Bring it, Christmas. I'm ready.

Falafel-ly Good

I once read a restaurant review of my favorite little Greek fast food joint in Tacoma, It's Greek to Me. The reviewer raved about pretty much every item he tried there, with one notable exception. The falafel, he noted, was "fal-awful". It's Greek to Me has the distinction of being the first place I ever tried falafel, back when I was staying with my aunt and uncle in Puyallup while attending piano camp the summer I turned sixteen, and, as such, it holds a dear, dear place in my heart. Clearly, this reviewer had a palate ill-equiped to appreciate the nuances of such a complex dish.

Fortunately, I was not the only one who took umbrage with the review; the next time I visited the restaurant in question, I saw that they had taped a copy of the offending article to their door, along with a lengthy response from one of their falafel fans, praising their falafel as one of the best he'd ever eaten, even taking into account the ones he'd had in Israel.

It had been a very long time, however, since Michael and I ate our last falafel. I do occasionally make them from scratch, and after a lengthy hiatus I decided tonight was the night to bring falafel back. Armed with a new recipe from the November issue of Saveur, I set about chopping garlic and Persian cucumbers for tzatziki, mixing yeast, warm water, flour, and olive oil for fresh pita bread, roasting red peppers in the toaster oven, and making the blender earn its prime spot on the counter top, grinding away at a mixture of raw soaked chick peas, onions, garlic, cilantro, and spices.

For dinner, we were rewarded with the best falafel I have ever made. What's the secret? You know, I'm not entirely sure, but I will say that having a deep fryer is a real boon. If you would like to try it yourself, you can find the recipe at www.saveur.com. I did deviate from the recipe slightly, using cilantro rather than parsley, since that was what I already had on hand. Also, I do not own a food processor, hence the iron man workout I put my blender through tonight (be cautious if you try this at home - some blenders may not survive).

Falafel is best served on freshly made pita bread (those cardboard frisbees from the store do not compare), and we like it with topped, rather untraditionally, with tzatziki, preferably made with a good Greek or Middle Eastern yogurt, as well as some Bulgarian feta. It's a real Mediterranean fusion food this way - fal-awfully delicious.

The Greek Odessey Continues

Lest you think that Greece is nothing more than a paradise where the sun shines 365 days a year - it is not. A couple of days ago, upon leaving Delphi and heading into the mountains of the Peloponnese Peninsula, we were caught in heavy fog and even heavier rain on our free day in the coastal town onf Kardamyli. Thankfully, the clouds broke today, leaving us with blue skies to explore the Mani Peninsula and our arrival tonight in Monemvasia.

Leaving Kardamyli this morning, we headed deeper into the Mani, first stopping at the tiny (population 40) hill town of Kastania. After a tour of the orthodox chapel-studded village, we sat under the trees for Greek coffee and locally made cheese.

Our lunch stop in the (almost) equally tiny town of Gerolimenas fulfilled everyone's vision of the sunny Greek coastal village that we had missed out on during our rainy stay in Kardamyli. Pale aquamarine water lapped over blindingly white, smoothly polished rocks. The restaurant terrace put us directly above the bay, where we could enjoy views of the water with our lunch of Greek salad, tzatziki, calimari, crispy Mediterranean anchovies (nothing like the kind that, as our guide David put it, "live on pizza in the U.S.A."), artichokes, and green beans in tomato sauce.

But the real entertainment came after lunch, when some decided to roll up their pants and test the water temperature. Lovely - yet treacherous. Those polished white stones proved to be quite slippery when wet, and one woman ended up thoroughly soaked after taking an unexpected tumble. Myself, I was safely on shore with my camera, documenting it all, of course.

But the excitement didn't end there. A Greek fisherman, enjoying lunch with his family, spotted dinner from their waterfront table and promptly went down to get it. The unsuspecting octopus he grabbed was soon the center of attention, trying vainly to wriggly out of the man's grasp. He ended up in a small blue plastic bag, and although he made a valient attempt at a daring escape, he was not fast enough to escape the fisherman, who prompty tightened the knot in the bay (and, we suspect, put the octopus swiftly out of his misery once our group had left).

The forecast for tomorrow is for clouds, but I still feel optimistic. And if it's sunny after all, you may just find me in the water as well - intentionally, of course. I have no plans to fall in clothes and all - I packed too light for that!

Athens Aglow

The Greeks love the nightlife. Any day of the week, they can be seen strolling the streets, stopping in clubs, sipping drinks at sidewalk cafes, and heading out for dinner as late as midnight, with the entire family in tow. And Athens, at least in October, is the center of it all. In the islands I felt languid in the evenings, happy to dawdle over a slow-paced meal at a local taverna. In Athens, I felt energized, surrounded by hundreds out for a Sunday night on the town.

Michael and I wound our way through the ancient streets of the Plaka as dusk settled over the city. Without even trying, we found ourselves on top of Mars Hill, a glorious view of the Acropolis and the incredible urban sprawl of Athens at our feet. It was almost enough to take one's breath away.

After drinking in the view, we set off for a three course dinner on the move. First stop: gyros on the go. On traditional and one pork, along with a Coke 0 for Michael, for less than five euros. If only cheap, fast food in the U.S. could be so delicious!

Next up: gelato in the Psyrri district. Disappointingly, the gelato was not up to Italian standards. Plus, it cost more than our gyros! But we strolled the streets nearby as we ate every last lick, peering into clubs blasting house music from what looked like an English pub on the outside, to restaurant floors carpeted in carnation petals while the staff tidied up for the night, to ultra mod night spots where it was evidently still far to early, even on a Sunday, for a crowd to have gathered.

Wandering the back streets, I let Michael take charge, but not without first speculating, "Where are we going?" Instead of streets lined with stings of twinkling lights and crowded cafe tables, we were surrounded by dilapidated buildings dark alleyways.

But then, rounding a corner, we saw the perfect little bar for our final course - ouzo for Michael, campari for me. With orange walls and crazy lamps strung together out of bits of glass, old silverware, and curling scrap metal, we took our seats on tall stools at the open window. In the corner, a jazz band set up to play, and Athenians in their thirties gradually packed in the tiny spot while the DJ spun a variety of songs. We were, in fact, the only non-Greeks there. As the band played, we nodded in time with the music, drinking in the scene. You never know what you might find around a dark street corner.

We got back to our hotel around 10:45 - very early for an Athenian, but just about right for us. Monday would be a long day, full of more discoveries in the incomparable Athens.

The Long and Winding Road

On Saturday, our last full day in the islands, we found ourselves with a full free day. Having spent the last couple of days on the very quiet island of Antiparos, we decided to explore a little further afield. After an early afternoon visit to Antiparos's famous cave (previously visited by Lord Byron, whose etched his name in the limestone, along with thousands of others, for posterity), we hopped on the ferry to Paros, only a quick ten minute jaunt across the water. From there you can catch the bus to the port town of Parikia.

Usually, the buses are scheduled to line up with the ferries, but at this point no bus was in sight. I checked out the schedule posted, and saw two distinct schedules listed side by side. Handily, the titles of these two schedules were written only in Greek, despite the fact that there was an English translation of everything else. To further confuse matters, the only difference between the two schedules was that one listed a bus departin at 13:25 - coincidentally the time of our arrival - and one did not. Hmm...

After waiting around for fifteen minutes, I grew impatient. No one else loitering around the stop was Greek, and they seemed to have complete faith that a bus would come. But me, I don't always like waiting. As usual, I decided I'd rather walk, and convinced Michael we should make a go for it.

"How far away is Parikia?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know. But it can't be that far. It was what, maybe a fifteen minute bus ride?"

Thus we found ourselves walking along a road with no shoulder, clearly not meant for pedestrian traffic. But we had scarcely gone two minutes when a van pulled to a stop alongside us.

"Where are you going?" asked the driver. "Parikia? I can get you half way there."

We clambered aboard, joining the two other passengers, who, it turns out, were on their way to the Paros tennis club.

"It's the finals today. Romania against Croatia. Who are you for?"

When I paused to think, the driver encouraged, "Go for Romania!"

"He likes the Romanian best," the man sitting next me informed us.

"And you?" I asked. But it turned out our fellow riders were the referees for the match - no favorites allowed.

Before long we had reached the club, and waved good-bye to our Good Samaritan driver. Ahead of streched the long, winding, shoulder-free road. Thankful for the ride, we realized we would have had wuite a long walk had they not come along.

Almost an hour later, after much grumbling about dodging the traffic, not knowing where we were, tired feet, and hunger, we made it to the old town of Parikia around 3:00. Famished, we sat down at a waterfront bar for fantastic dolmades and souvlaki pitas. It's amazing what a good meal can do for one's mood.

Rebuilding the Ruins

After our eventful day arriving in Athens, we were extremely thankful to be "home" on Santorini and have a full say to explore. Taking the bus, we traveled from our hotel in the beach town of Perissa to Fira, perched on the cliffs high above the caldera. The present day island of Santorini is the result of an ancient volcanic eruption, so violent that much of the former mountain collapsed into the sea, leaving behind the stunning crescent that is Santorini along with a few smaller islands, including the volcano itself in the center.

Fira is well known as tourist trap central, but the nice thing about being there in October is that the crowds have shrunk to a manageable level. Even as first-time visitors, we could tell that we had missed the usual crowds; while there were certainly many others out walking the winding streets and snapping photos of the fabulous view, street upon street of nearly deserted bars, restaurants, and hotels attested to the fact that this was a place geared for serious tourist traffic. We walked long and hard through the entire town, stopping for lunch at a place far from the town center for a sit down meal of delicious chicken souvlaki for only two euros apiece.

Our favorite town, however, was definitely the lovely Oia. While it, too, is a magnet for travelers, especially for the famous sunset view, Oia managed a charm that escaped the more commercialized Fira. Out on the ruins of a castle overlooking the tip of Santorini, we took in breathtaking views of Oia in the golden glow of the evening sun while the wind whipped around our heads.

By the time sunset was nearing, the entire western edge of town was lined with people hoping to catch a view of the famous sunset. Never have I seen so many professional-looking cameras in my life; many made my dear little Nikon D5000 SLR look like child's play. Tripods were set up upon the rocks, their owners desperately clinging to them to keep them from toppling in the violent gusts of wind. The people watching was just as entertaining as the sunset, if not more so.

Michael and I had other plans however, so we slipped out from the masses early, before the sun had finally sunk below the horizon. We headed straight for the restaurant 1800, a slow food place recommended in the Lonely Planet guidebook that sounded like just place for a romantic splurge out to celebrate our first "real" night in Greece.

The meal did not disappoint. Our beautiful servers and hostess graciously showed us to a table on the terrace, where we were soon greeted with an amuse bouche from the chef - a shot of Greek salad in a minuscule cup - pureed, creamy tomato topped with a dollop of smooth feta and olive oil. It was our first taste of the evening, and it boded well for the meal to come. An elegant take on the traditional Greek salad came next, with thin ribbons of cucumber mixed with sliced fennel, capers, cherry tomatoes, mild goat cheese, and a crisp pita for embellishment. Michael enjoyed tender pork with fig sauce, sweet pepper relish, and herbed canellini beans, while ordered the sea bass. It came with perfectly crispy skin topped with lemon "caviar": beads of light lemon aspic piled like caviar atop the fish, alongside tender cooked fennel and a puree of fava beans. Our wine, far from the Greek stereotype of sweet retsina, was an excellent accompaniment.

Tired and happy, we took the bus back to Perissa. The trip may have gotten off to a rough start, but things were definitely looking up.

Fair Food and Fainting Goats

"I wish we lived in Wallingford," Michael mused.

"Yeah, but if we lived here we'd probably get fat," was my response.

Case in point: We had just bought a chocolate mint cupcake at Trophy - for later, naturally, because we'd just shared three scoops of gelato from the Fainting Goat, a new gelateria that has joined the conspiracy to make Wallingford a center for sweetness. The verdict on the Fainting Goat: the mango sorbetto is excellent, the peanut butter (yes, peanut butter gelato) and the coconut very good, but perhaps not the best we'd ever had.

"It's hard," said Michael. "I really judge a gelato place by their coconut; it's my favorite."

"Yes, but you can't beat that mango!"

"True, that was amazing."

At least we'd been responsible adults and eaten our lunch before our dessert. Joule was having the last of their "urban barbecue" Sundays for the summer, so we stopped in to try their take on fair food. As always, food at Joule comes with a twist. Michael tried a homemade hot dog topped artfully with shoestrings of pickled white cabbage, while I went the healthy route with "Farmers Market in a Cone", which turned out to be a paper cone stuffed with a variety of heirloom veggies served alongside a tasty dipping sauce. Maybe it seems silly, but I don't know when I've had so much fun eating a salad. Pulling out mustard greens, a skinny radish, an albino carrot, and an Anaheim pepper and dipping them in the mystery sauce allowed me to snack on my salad the way I always secretly want to - with my hands rather than a fork. Actually, in the privacy of my own home I will often roll up salad leaves and pop them straight into my mouth; it seems much less fussy than stabbing them with a utensil, only to find that half of what you wanted didn't even end up on the fork.

We also split an order of cheese curds, a collection of precious cubes of fluffy farm cheese lightly battered and appetizingly golden, scented with truffle oil. Rather than the heavy, tastes-so-good-but-you-know-they've-got-to-be-so-bad cheese curds I've had before, these ones tasted suspiciously... healthful. OK, healthful would be an exaggeration, but they had none of the oozy melting qualities of the typical fried curd. I can't say I really minded once I dug in, however. Cheese is cheese, after all, and I am a fan of all kinds.

And yet, I am already feeling a little hungry again. And that cupcake is just sitting upstairs.... so lonely. Yes, I think a little snack may be in order. We may not live there, but at least we can bring a little Wallingford home when we want it.

King of Crab

Third time's the charm - for our third night at the grill this weekend, Alaskan king crab legs were the star, brought to us by Michael's grandfather, Chad. After a change of plans this afternoon, we convinced that family they should come to our place for dinner - bringing the crab legs with them, of course - offering us an opportunity to show off our house and our Lucy dog to Michael's Aunt Robin and Chad's son, Scott.

Precooked crab legs are the epitome of simplicity when it comes to preparation: simply thaw and serve, or throw onto the grill to warm them up before eating. But it's in the eating, you see, that crab becomes messy, and I admit to squirting my tablemates once or twice in my effort to pull out every last piece of succulent crab meat. Fortunately they were good sports about it. And seeing as we were all in the same boat, passing around kitchen shears and digging into the flesh with our forks, it really could have been any one of us. Due to its size, however, king crab does have one advantage over Dungeness. It may be messy, but you get to your reward much faster than with the smaller Dungeness, and with legs the size of Lucy's , you do reap a substantial reward.

Some enjoyed their crab in salad, while I reveled in simply pouring melted butter over the exposed flesh. OK, that came out sounding a little cruder than I intended, but crab brings out my gluttonous side. Perhaps that's why God made eating crab such a chore - it keeps us from overindulging, unless you pay the high price for prepared lump crabmeat. But there's a certain satisfaction in working for your supper, at least when that supper happens to be crab.

The Bessings of Barbecue

The barbecue got a workout on Friday night, when our house made room for about a dozen guests - nurses, their families, and friends, everybody glad to get together away from the VA Hospital (and who could blame them?). Michael was proud to grill up racks of baby back ribs, glazed with a sweet balsamic sauce from the pages of Gourmet's July issue. The July issue of Gourmet is always a hit - is there a better time of year to enjoy cooking and eating than this very month? I'd say not, although I admit to being prejudiced.

The ribs were eaten clean, only a pile of bones left in a bowl by the time the evening was over. Supplemented with sangria, salads (we must make an effort to be healthful - while still enjoying good eats), bourbon mint tea, chips, beer, ice cream treats, and the burgers that Michael couldn't resist picking up at Whole Foods, I don't think anyone left hungry. I, for one, ate far too many Tim's Cascade Jalapeno chips. They put something addictive in that flavor, I'm sure of it.

And even though I abstained from the ribs myself, being generally a non-eater of mammal meat, I have to admit they looked very, very tasty. How could one resist? But even a turkey burger cooked over mesquite charcoal and topped with a slice of Tillamook vintage white can taste like heaven on a sunny summer night. With that in mind, I wasn't too disappointed when we fired up the grill again last night for a fresh batch of burgers. In Seattle, you have to enjoy it when you can.

San Sebastian, Seattle-Style

One rather unfortunate fact about urban restaurants is that they can often be "trendy". This is not to say that the trends themselves are bad - after all the recent emergence of Capitol Hill as a homemade ice cream hot spot (can you reasonably call anything related to ice cream a "hot spot"?) is nothing to complain about. The unfortunate thing is that trends come and go, they can be exclusive and uppity, and they can put a false focus on food as a hip lifestyle accessory, as opposed to, well, simply good food.

Take small plates: it's only logical that this trend should lend itself well to tapas bars, and even, in the case of Txori, a real San Sebastian style pintxos bar in Seattle's Belltown. Along with fellow foodie John, we visited Txori for the first time tonight, and had a wonderful meal of pintxos, those little bites I have been craving since I left Spain in May. Owned by a Basque, the food at Txori (meaning "bird" in Euskera, the Basque language) really captured the spirit of Donostia (aka San Sebastian). The atmosphere, on the other hand, was typical Seattle: spare walls, people casually sitting at postage stamp-sized tables with cocktails and ordering off a chicly minimalist menu.

Of course, I knew this would be the case. It's impossible to transport an entire culture of evening pub crawls, with hundreds wandering the narrow pedestrian avenues, filling the streets with chatter and stopping in at their favorite haunts to reach through the crowds and pluck their pintxos of choice from the platters laid out in all their glory across a hundred year old bar. That this is not what Txori is is hardly Txori's fault, and no reason to avoid the place. I'm just saying that if you ever have the chance, go to San Sebastian, because nowhere else in the world can recreate that scene.

But, as noted above, Txori does an excellent job recreating the food, and our smiling waitress, although not herself Basque, made me fondly recall the gracious Maria and Anna, desk clerks at the Hotel Parma in San Sebastian, who always greeted me with a smile and pleasant conversation. The mushrooms were outstanding, the squid in its own ink was unbelievably tender (How do they do that?! Is the ink the secret?), and they even had txakoli, a barely bubbly Basque wine, although it wasn't quite as tasty as what I remembered from my travels.

Definitely, I want to go back. But I couldn't help but feel a little wistful for the pintxo bars of San Sebastian, where some bars are high end and some bars are divey, and while they are always competing for what's new and novel, the concept of pintxos themselves will never go out of style and are enjoyed by all. How many people are going to enjoy Txori, and how many would look at the fact that it serves blood sausage and octopus and $10 cocktails and never set foot inside? If Txori is still here ten years from now, will it be out of fashion, the hipsters and foodies having moved on to the latest craze, or will it grow comfortably into someplace that everyone knows, where everyone goes to get an evening bite with friends both young and old, foodie or not?

I hope it stays. I hope it continues to delight people with unexpected tastes, while keeping old favorites, and proves that so-called small plates are more than just a trend here. Because ultimately, it should be about good food and good company, and taking a little time out of the day to slow down and savor the good things in life.

So Txori, stick around. And hey, homemade ice cream, you can stay, too. Good food is good food, no matter what.

Pie Crust Perfection

This Father's Day, I am thinking about one trait that I inherited from my father: a love of crust. Put just about anything edible in a good, flaky pastry crust, and we will eat it. Does it really get much better than golden, buttery layers that shatter under the gentle pressure of one's fork? I have my own definition of crazy: people who eat the pie, and then LEAVE THE CRUST BEHIND. When it's a truly good crust, this is nothing short of a travesty.

I experienced crust perfection today at the Volunteer Park Cafe. Stopping in for a late lunch, Michael ordered a chicken salad baguette, while I decided on the quiche of the day. Hey, it was salmon - salmon and crust! - how could I resist? The first bite was a mixture of silky smooth egg filling that melted in the mouth, a little salty tang from the salmon (my one complaint would be that the quiche could have used more salmon, but perhaps they kept it a little sparse to keep the price at the regular daily quiche level), and tender, flaky crust. I couldn't resist breaking off a piece of the extra thick edge of the crust, savoring a bite of pure buttery goodness.

But how does Volunteer Park Cafe do it? Crust is notoriously finicky, and while I would say that my mom is a masterful pie baker, I have to admit that the Cafe's crust beats hers, hands down (sorry, Mums). At home, I've managed to turn out some fabulous pie crusts, and some not so fabulous ones, but none quite compare with this.

I guess I'll just have to go back to Volunteer Park for more.

Breakfast of Dreams

In fewer than 34 hours I will be on a plane, probably eating bad airline food for breakfast. Fortunately, at this point in time, I still have one more Austrian breakfast to look forward to.

I love the breakfasts in German and Austrian hotels. Nutty whole grain rolls, rye bread, cheeses, yogurt, and eggs are always available, and any meal that features good bread and cheese prominently is fine by me. The Schweitzerhof, where we are staying in Vienna, offers the best breakfasts I have had during this entire trip, including fresh strawberries (mmm!), a basket of warm rolls on the table (outstanding!), and, rather than the typical pre-sliced cheese squares, a large selection of whole cheeses accompanied by a knife allowing one to slice off as much of any wedge as one would like. As is standard for such places, they bring the coffee in individual pots to each guest upon request, rather than using the automatic coffee machines that have unfortunately become common in many European countries.

Now, to some such a a breakfast may not sound like all that. But keep in mind that I have only listed my personal favorites. You will also find at the Schweitzerhof a variety of cold meats, muesli, cornflakes, Caprese salad, more fruit, scrambled eggs, assorted jams and honeys, and numerous spreads for topping a slice of bread, among other things. True, it doesn't have the same decadence as an American breakfast of pancakes, waffles, or sauage and bacon, but for a hotel buffet it far surpasses the sad continental breakfast of a packaged roll and bad coffee.

Hmm, I must admit my mouth is beginning to water. It's a good thing I'm still full from an excellent dinner, otherwise I think I'd have a hard time waiting until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I'll dream of one last breakfast in Vienna. I hope they still have strawberries!

How Further to Eat in Basque Country

Traditional Basque society was matriarchal. Women ruled the home (including the purse strings), while men worked, often as fisherman. When they got home, however, the wives were in charge. What's a poor fisherman to do? In San Sebastian, they chose, logically enough, to start their own men's clubs, a place where no woman was going to tell them what to do. What might not be so logical, to some, is that the clubs they chose to start were.... cooking clubs.

OK, obviously there's more going on in a Basque gastronomical society, as these clubs are known, than cooking. But, as the name gastronomical society suggests, food truly does play a major role. And if you've read my previous posts about food in this region, this should come as no surprise.

Nowadays, the rules of the clubs have relaxed a bit, and while women are still absolutely not allowed to set foot in the kitchen and cannot be members, some clubs do now invite women in to dine. These are still exclusive places, however. Eating at an txoko (pronounced "cho-ko), the Basque (Euskera) term for the clubs, requires the invitation of a member. And somehow, we've managed to get that elusive invitation for our tour groups. The first night's dinner of the San Sebastian tour takes place in a local txoko, where our tour members are plied with some introductory tapas, followed by a four course meal and a tour of the txoko. It makes for a fabulous start to the tour and introduction to the importance of food in Basque culture.

Today, I continued my culinary exploration of this region when we stopped for lunch in the tiny fishing village of Getaria on our way to Gernika. The guide and I split a fantastic, not to mention enormous, cut of fresh fish desribed on the English version of the menu as "nape of hake". Hmm... think "halibut cheeks", and you would not be too far off. This was one of the specials of the day, where one kilogram portions (enough for two or more) of fresh caught fish (mainly whole fish, although not in the case of the hake) are just waiting to be chosen, at which point they will be grilled to perfection on an outdoor charcoal grill for your eating enjoyment. When choosing one of the whole fish, you will even have the uncooked specimen brought to your table for your approval before grilling.

Well, as stated about, the fish was excellent, possibly the best I have ever tasted. With soft, sweet meat, barely cooked through to the middle, but nicely charred on the edges, this was a fish to win over anyone who has criticized the average filet as being "too fishy". As is typical in Europe, the eyes were still attached, although in this case, since the fish was butterflied to reveal the juicy meat, resting on a pool of olive oil, you had to turn the filet over if you wanted to check them out. Yep, I noted on inspection, it doesn't get much fresher than this.

And now, almost eight hours late, I am still full! But maybe I'll have room for some pintxos in a little while... just a couple. Yeah, just a couple.

Pintxo Paradise

This morning, the streets of San Sebastian are almost empty. Being Sunday, few places are open, and the alleys that were bustling with life last night are now a wall of closed doors. Still, one good breakfast option attracts a small crowd, and I head there with my tour guide, Robert, for a breakfast of brioche and cafe con leche. The brioche tears into tender, buttery layers beneath its dark, carmelized exterior. It is a perfect breakfast treat.

And the food last night didn't disappoint, either. This, in fact, was my first true pintxo crawl, as we stopped by various bars, elbowing in to choose from among the artistically arranged platters of pintxos: fresh, white fleshed anchovies that tasted only of lemon and the sea, a sliver of Spanish ham topped with juicy mushroom and shrimp, whole mushrooms cooked to complete tenderness and infused with garlic, their juice bathing the bread on the toothpick as if it had been dipped in au jus, and a Spanish tortilla unlike any I have had so far, one that tasted purely of well seasoned potato morsels, the egg that bound it barely detectable. Where but in San Sebastian could we have such a meal? Robert, who should know, claimed the pinxtos here really are the best in Spain, and even though I lack the necessary experience to make a judgement, I believe it.

Since it was Saturday night, the bars were especially popular, the narrow streets filled with people out for an evening with friends, their chatter providing the soundtrack for the night. And despite its reputation within the food world, San Sebastian is still a place where locals - not tourists - dominate the scene. Perhaps that's one reason why the food is so good?

Tonight our tour group will meet for the first time, and gather for dinner at one of the traditional Basque gastronomical societies, a very special event as one can only dine at such an exclusive club, where the male members cook all the food, through an invitation. I can hardly wait.