Oral Gratification

Pureed and Simple

2012-11-24T13:06:00.000-08:00

I work in a nursing home in wound care. A far cry from a previous career in IT but just as stressful, though probably more personally fulfilling whenever I come across angiogenesis - a speck of life on a tiny granulating wound.

Working with a senior population gives a certain perspective in terms of the food you eat now and the kind of life you will have in your future. But let me tell you something - you may arrest the downward spiral but you will still reach that point where you are either riddled with dementia and you don't know what you should be putting in your mouth. Or there is not much choice but to eat pureed meals because your swallow mechanism won't allow it, or your dentures are not helping at all.

I suggest stop juicing and macerating your spinach and start putting good unadulterated deliciousness into that oral cavity while your teeth and your mentation can still handle it. Assuming your mind doesn't go south before then, then you at least have memories to carry you through. Because let's face the truth - getting old sucks.

Diet if you must - but that actually gives you more reason not to limit your food choices, but rather, to expand your horizon and select carefully what you put in your diet. And go on the deep end and munch on silkworm, once in while.

At some point, there is also that possibility that we might have to resort to roadkill so best be prepared. Stir fried skunk anyone?

Ramen - Carbo Loading with Umami

2012-11-13T14:07:00.002-08:00

Tonkutso Ramen - with konbu, seasoned hardboiled egg,
chashu pork slices. Tonkutsu broth takes 20 hrs to brew
At Yamadaya Ramen house - open till midnight.
:/http://www.ramen-yamadaya.com/index.html

Ramen should be banned from a dieter's repertoire if you were thinking right. But not on a cold drafty evening, with a head cold that threatens to split your brains worse than a hang over. A piping bowl of ramen is the perfect company. Make mine shoyu with extra chashu and egg.

Japanese design philosophy of minimalism trickles down even to something as lowly as ramen.

The Filipino pancit threatens with its penchant for excess - with the rice noodles frantically vying for attention amidst an abundance of sliced chicken, pork and vegetables of many colors.

In contrast, the ramen is so stark in its simplicity. Two thin slices of boiled pork, half of a boiled egg, pickled bamboo shoots saved before the winter chil or shinachichu roots, a sprig of boiled spinach if you pay for it, nesting on a bed of pale yellow noodles. Peeking from a pool of gleaming broth flavored with pork bones or chicken. And it hits you as soon as you start slurping those suckers.

Tsukemen - ramen dipped in a rich warm
broth is another way to enjoy your noodles.

Because that is how ramen should be eaten - it is fitting and proper that you make those funny noises which your mother told you not to as you tackled your first culinary venture with a spoon and fork. The louder you slurp, the happier the ramen chef would be, tantamount to saying oishi through the whole dinner.

But slurping should proceed in an elegant manner so as not to be offputting. Perhaps a slice of a video from the movie Tampopo would provide an idea of how to do so - http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=1XyoAZFREnY

It is the broth that makes the ramen, though purists will tell you that the noodles should stand on its own and must be appreciated as well. Nowhere would you find a dish so comforting, so flavorful yet so simple than ramen, so much so that it is designated as a separate art form from sushi and yakitori. It is where you find plenty of Umami - touted as the fifth basic taste, separate from sweet, sour, bitter and salty, - and naturally occuring in meats, vegetables like leeks, cabbage and konbu seaweed. Did you know that green tea has an abundance of umami?

In case you feel adventurous and you wanna work a sweat - here's a recipe Shoyu Ramen Recipe - Food & Wine . Me, I'd rather drive down to 182nd street, and sample the fattiest broth with my noodles, said to be the best in town.

Spicy Tuna on a bed of rice for appetizers

Dining with Lucullus

2012-06-29T01:06:00.000-07:00

First Published 3/21/08, Myspace

When the boss said "meeting will be at the patio" and turned to me, I thought it was time to amp things a bit - ordering Japanese for the regular monthly meeting has become too trite, and Im sick and tired of looking at plastic coteries housing the luscious and crunchy rolls. The tight assed budget would be hell to play with, but a gourmet spread was possible. Max, the ex-chef (french trained) minding the kitchen while he was scrounging for Eric's replacement, was no help - I guess a french temperament came with the training but he gave a nod when I said I planned to serve - melon slices wrapped in prosciutto and bruschetta for starters, pasta alfredo al verde, and roast chicken with pepperoncini and smoked sausage for the entree polished off with tiramisu. It was a week before the spring solstice, but the weather came great - the sun complementing the slight nip in the air.

One lesson learned though it was pretty impressive with turned up napkins - never serve prosciutto on melon al fresco - it was soggy in less than a minute in open air. The renewed interest probably spawned by midnight reviews of Top Chef made me think it was time to replicate the osso bucco from faint memories of countless lunches at Cafe Rizal.

On another note, the prospect of dining alone seems to be a morbid idea, even in this day and age, and is relegated as a lonely exercise best done with a burger or take away Chinese. The horror is much more if you have to do it in public.

But, it is when you dine alone that you actually do great service to the food and the effort of so many people behind its creation - timed to the precise minute for your steak to come out medium rare, your carrots julliened to perfection, the deliberate thinness of your carpaccio, the flourish with which it is presented to you.

Only then can you appreciate edible art, and properly compose yourself in a leisurely trip from your salad to your dessert without worries. No listening to some boring topic about his car, their children, her love affair, no need to turn your head 45 degress down to the side so he wont see the full glory of your bad teeth when you open your mouth to swallow that morsel of sushi. Unless the lonely guy sitting across the room happens to be looking at you this time.

So, the next time you feel you are brave enough to venture out alone for dinner, splurge and order the nicest dinner you can and give a large tip.

Unlike masturbation, there's no worry about your teeth falling off for indulging in a little self gratification...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucullus

What's Smokin'

2012-06-23T22:02:00.000-07:00

Scenic Bluffs 5 miles on the
Approach to Half Moon Bay

An afternoon trip to Half Moon Bay shares some interesting finds that somehow veer away from the usual quaint town formula of endless mediocre cafes, thrift shops selling stuff from China, wine and cheese bars. There is a Le Creuset shop that carries some stuff not normally found in Sur La Table, and the small bakeshop with no tables, selling filtered coffee actually has decent tasting cannolis, eclairs and fruit tartes. There is a glass gallery with pretty handblown wall sconces that would look great in a wine bar if I ever had one and I just might. And an artist showing in a small gallery moved me, though I think the visit gave me an idea of how I would deliver my silk paintings in another media - metal.

At any rate, the visit was concluded and going back we see a succession of handcrafted signs announcing Smoked Salmon and Salmon Jerky. Albert seemed fixated on the subject so we took a sudden turn and came across a nondescript shack painted in blue.

The Creekside Smokehouse. The smoky flavor hits you as soon as you open the door into a cramped standing area before a glass counter showing vacuum wrapped fish and cheese and schmears. With no expectations, we took the offered morsels dropped by the bubbly lady behind the counter on a small tissue paper on top of the glass counter. And I was lost.

Fresh Catch of the Day - Smoked
Albacore Tuna & Sturgeon, Hot and
Cold Smoked Salmon, Smoked Gouda

In the intense smokiness with none of the saltiness I have tasted in various ocassions - not even Susan's find from the Pike Market in Seattle comes close to the quality of what they put out for you to taste. After sampling all the sturgeon and the albacore tuna, and noting the subtle difference between the hot smoked and cold smoked salmon, I was putty with my credit card.

The lemon pepper salmon jerky was finished even before we hit the 280 back to Sanfo and I was left with the thought of opening the smoked gouda and of my next crafty project - smokin meat and fish.

Yuletide Gastronomy

2012-06-23T21:29:00.000-07:00

Susan and I decided to skip the usual Christmas eve dinner prep and instead opted to sample the steaks at Fleming's Prime Steakhouse Restaurant and Bar. She ordered the filet mignon with lobster, paired it with a Black Pearl 2007 red. I opted for the rib eye with bearnaise sauce and scallops and chose the Clos du Bois merlot which I was familiar with - a little too young, but nonetheless did not detract nor lessen the rib eye. And, later, it was perfect with the lava cake.

As far as I was concerned, Christmas was perfect. There was no cooking involved. Which is something that always overtakes my consciousness a week before each holiday and the requisite family dinner. My tendency is to raid every grocer and meat market within a 5 mile radius and all I think about is how to compose the meal, racking my brains on how each should complement the other. I should instead be raiding the fridge and freezers and find out what's been sitting there for sometime now and throw them all together in a pot to simmer.

Now I have 2 dinners to worry about - New Year's Eve with the family, and New Year dinner with Ron.

New Year's Eve Menu

Appetizer
Pate de Campagne

Entree
Braised Shrimp in spicy sauce
Rib Eye Steak w Red Wine and Bearnaise Sauce
Susan's Baked Salmon
Potatoes Au Gratin
Medley of Carrots and Merlitons

Dessert
Cheesecake with Dulce de Leche Apples
Pots de Creme

New Year Dinner
Appetizer
Cream of Carrot

Entree
Trio of: Duck Confit w Plum Sauce, Seared Ahi Tuna, Rib Eye w Bearnaise Sauce
Vegetable Medley
Joseph Drouhin Pinot Noir Laforet 06 (amazingly, Bev Mo carries this Drouhin - its dryness goes great with duck)

Dessert
Pots de Creme

The pate de campagne is totally drunken with brandy right now and ruminating in the fridge - the liver component has been edited out since most of the young people do not like the taste - by tomorrow the rest of the ingredient would be thrown in and the loaves will sweat it out in a bain marie. Today it was the duck confit and the potatoes au gratin - now languishing in the freezer.

Like I said, making dinner is a week long planning and prepping affair.

Voila. The secret to ahi tuna is the time it takes to sear - 1 minute on each side.

Rustic Italian–Fusilli Con Gamberi et Spinaci

2012-05-06T13:48:00.001-07:00

The faint sounds of the Sunday Grove St Farmer’s Market coming in from the front door and the whirr of coffee beans being ground rouse me slowly from a late night playing Scramble and a last minute decision to watch a Samurai movie I’ve seen some years back. The sheets are still warm, but the prospect of imbibing coffee tickle my nose. So I do a slow yogaesque transition from the bed to the door, to the can of Lavazza in the pantry, a spoon and filter, and managed to produce piping hot coffee in no time and survey the commotion as I sip.

View of the Farmers Market from the
opposite side to showcase the pretty wall mural

It is a small market – 12 or so stalls that includes flowers, two vegetable stands, an artisanal cheese maker laying out her meager spread of cheeses, dressings and salsas, various nuts, seafood and oysters from Sta. Cruz, and… oh, pastry. Coffee cup in hand, I snag a few bills, get down to the gate and cross over to buy a pain au chocolat, a plain croissant and a small pain de levain.
I rummaged through my meager rations in the fridge, throw away last week’s spring mix. Eyes dart to the left over spinach, manchego, the fusilli pasta and decided I would go rustic, inspired by countless sits through Lidia’s Italy series.

Fresh garlic is milder than old ones,
kinda like people LOL

While I miss the warmth of South Bay, I take delight in the small pleasures my new city and block has to offer. The fact that I can boil pasta while I peruse additional ingredients downstairs and dash back in time to drop young sliced potatoes into the boil, feels decadent enough. Akin to coming down to pick fresh herbs and pull out young carrots in your garden. Okay, close approximation but not quite. Cooking should be delightful, uncomplicated, simple enough, that allows you to be lost in the process and not in the clean up. Like doing a one pot meal. Except that cooking Italian elevates the whole thing into a new level.
I turn on the Tuscan Episode of No Reservations, lost in the countryside with Anthony Bourdain as I sit down to Fusilli pasta sauteed in olive oil with fresh young garlic, shallots, shrimps, spinach and young carrots sprinkled with chili spices, a pinch of smoked paprika, herbes de provence and freshly ground garlic. It is debatable if a young white whine would add to the experience of such a lunch on a glorious spring day, but why not.

Fusilli con Gamberi et Spinaci

2 cups fresh spinach, washed and cleaned
Young carrots, sliced
Young red potatoes, sliced into halves, drop into boiling pasta water in the last 3 minutes
Young garlic, minced, Young Onions, diced
6 to 8 pieces prawns, deveined and shelled, sliced into halves
chili flakes, herbes de provence, chopped parsley, smoked paprika, ground pepper and salt

Fusilli or Rottini pasta, boiled in salty water al dente

Penzeys Spices imported from South Bay !

Saute the minced garlic, onions and carrots in 3 tbsp olive oil. Drop the prawns followed by the pasta and potatoes. Add the spinach and the rest of the dry ingredients. Cover for 2 minutes, open and stir until prawns are translucent in color and cooked through. Adjust salt and seasonings, add freshly ground black pepper. Serve and enjoy.

Scent of Apples - my Own Culinary Diaspora

2011-12-11T12:56:00.001-08:00

Rustic Mini Apple Tart with Guava

It is amazing how snippets of my college literary upbringing seem to intermingle and come back triggered by food. Gullermo Pesigan, my English homeroom class adviser would be mighty proud of me. He stood on top of his table to stress a point long before Dead Poet Society came about. So blame him for some of my eccentricity.

While Bienvenido Santos attempts to connect a displaced Filipino farmer in Kalamazoo Missouri to the essence of the modern filipina of his times in the story of the same title, how I relate to apples makes me reflect on my own detachment from my patrimony and yet untenable thread linking me in so many small ways. Leaving Manila was part of a longing not to be confined to a string of islands for the rest of my life, to shake off the toxin of a career that came too early, and this unshakeable need to connect with my muse, who is more a bitch most times, unless I am writing and cooking.

Apple pie is quintessentially American - how I make it is essentially me - a mish mash of who I am trying to be and memories connected to my youth - the guava preserve I spread on the bottom of the pastry on a mini tart pan is reminiscent of countless treks to the hills of my childhood in La Union to gather the fruit from wild trees, fill a sack, cross the river back to town, and watch as one of my grandmas peel and seed the guavas, boil them in sugar until the jam turns a reddish brown. The next morning, Grandma would wake me up, give me some coins, and I would walk three blocks away in foggy streets to the village bakery in my ratty pajamas and buy hot pandesal. I would come back to the scent of freshly boiled coffee, sit down on the rickety communal table, and dig into the jam.

At second grade I would not even have seen apples that much, though I read incessantly about them in my books, along with wheat, red barns and 4 H clubs. Nowadays, I don't even eat them raw, i brew my coffee with the touch of a button, my favorite niece Camille at the same age would not be allowed beyond the community gate to buy dinner rolls or vinegar, and I would not taste guava jam again unless I go to the Japanese grocery where they sell stuff from Hawaii or buy pastries from the Cuban bakery. I love that my childhood was bucolic, my youth was literary and my advancing years have been loaded with experience which reflect my cooking.

Kiss Your Gourmet Dinner Goodbye

2011-06-11T00:41:00.000-07:00

As with any great meal, certain connections come to an end and do not deserve to be renewed, not even through a thinly veiled friendship that doesn't really amount to much. I think being on friendly terms work best for couples who have heavily invested together on something - like kids, or property, or even a dog. Like a great meal, an ended great love is something you remember with fondness and with good memories, long after you have digested and dumped it in the toilet.

It will be a while before I hit the kitchen again with passion. For it is with pleasure and heart that certain meals came about, inspired by the energy of love one experiences at that time. And it was an inspired period - starting with beef borguignone and sole meuniere, progressed into tarte tatin, that inspired a foray into Julia Child, which in turn brought me to the doorsteps of San Francisco's La Boulangerie for french baking because George Mulot and Laduree were continents away. Those were the evenings dedicated solely to the tactile maneuvering of butter and dough to make puff pastry, croissants, pain au chocolat, mini rustic apple tarts, eclairs and french fruit tartes. Trios of duck confit, filet mignon and seared ahi tuna were capped with creamy pots de creme. Never was pork so ignored to adjust to someone's taste. And I can barely remember how many rib eye steaks I have composed and served on a rickety table covered with a Middle Eastern headscarf until I finally whipped it off in disgust and replaced it with a more civil and matching linen. Seared chilean sea bass or black cod took turns with poached salmon and tuna steaks on the odd Sunday night. The last dinner I served him was now inspired by Spain, perhaps a sign of the changing times and forked roads.

Cornish game hen roasted with garlic and rosemary from Adrian Feria's discussion on the new Spanish gastronomy. It was good. No, it was perfect.

Le Pain Quotidien–Your Friendly and Packed China Tea House

2011-01-24T00:32:00.001-08:00

It is time that we debunk the claim and popular belief perpetrated that China bistros, tea houses, restaurants and other Asian eating places are noisy. That Asian people are noisy. In that respect, yes we are, when we are with friends and family and conversation is flowing. And so is true for other peoples. As I was the only Asian in this packed and small (not cosy, if you have to hear the next table’s conversation in full decibel) franchise café along Ventura Boulevard on a Sunday morning, I’d say white people are just as enthusiastic about their tete a tete’s, and just as merrily careless with the continuous clinking of utensils that are being used, and gathered by the harried busboy.

Le Pain Quotidien at Ventura Blvd.

Sherman Oaks, CA

Like all busy restaurants, service tends to go a grade lower given the attention each table needs. But I’ll give kudos to the waitresses whose smiles have not faltered a bit, perhaps because of years of having to wait tables while waiting for that movie or tv part that has not come through the years. There seems to be a height requirement for service people in this branch.

He hates it – he says the place suffers from the same trendiness and artsyness that plagues most up and coming restaurants – no solid offerings, sacrificing substance for form in order to charge more. In a sense he is right. If a simple tomato omelette with a slice of avocado on the side will set you back by 10 dollars just because you threw in a slice of artisan bread and a heaping of mesclun greens that will not be eaten anyway, then yes, it is a shame. But that is exactly what I ordered. Sans the mesclun, I have had a better omellette in a remote shack in Puerto Galera with authentic artisan bread taught to the locals by a German who missed his pumpernickle bread and other stuff back home. Oh, and the bratwursts were to die for.

Nonetheless, the locals suck it up, so I guess that puts Kevin Mcnaughty’s opinion to the test that French food (or something that approximates it the US way) is passe. I would say Le Pain Quotidien is not entirely french – it is fusion – drinking coffee from bowls is reminiscent of china bistros. The restaurant façade and walls is mainly Italian, with its stucco roughsanded walls and minimal interiors in earthy tones. The atmosphere noisy, and communal, as it claims. Like an Asian restaurant.

What rises above the commercial is its bread, as it claims to be first and foremost, a bakery. And he was honest enough to admit that yes, everything he ate was good – from the bread to the coffee to the jams. I feel bereft that the Pain Au Chocolat is single barreled but it is moist and fluffy as it should be, the artisan breads, with their french names intact and displayed haughtily, are tasty, and there is a smattering of specialites pastries but not savory ones. French bakeries are not entirely best or better than what we have in the US. What makes them special is the idea of a place, an atmosphere of strangeness and new sensations, and tastes and sounds so foreign.

Alas, we cannot import that so we frenchify our San Francisco sourdough bread and call it Pain de Ble Levain.

Chasing Breakfast

2010-10-06T22:19:00.000-07:00

It has become the de rigeur Sunday activity - trying to find a hole in the wall, one of a kind, Sunday brunch destination and so far, Ventura Blvd is not yielding a lot of promising finds, though there are a few gems.

Trying to add miles to the Nike Ipod counter in the early weekend morning has taken a back seat to catching a few more snores on the snooze button, perhaps a backlash of having to chase a 7am workweek schedule. By 10am, I'm just about ready to face the world and begin yet another discovery, though there's always the fall back option of going to a spot in Sta Susana.

He says the buttermilk pancakes were better at Du-pars. At the back of my mind - I think - "pshaw, a pancake is a pancake no matter where" but bit my tongue lest he realizes my occasional barbaric tendencies with food. Though I know the better way to make one is to fold in beaten egg whites at the last minute to get that springy feel.

That got me thinking though. What is your idea of the perfect breakfast and have you found it? Is it something your neighborhood cafe can serve you? Or is it something you'd probably have to do yourself? Of course, nothing can aspire to the grandness of the brunch selection from a hotel or country club cafe and my all time favorite will always be the champagne breakfast at The Wynn Las Vegas - but there is no fun in that. It is the spirit and quaintness of the small cafe, bistro or diner, run by families, and nurtured by histories and neighborhoods that provide excitement and purpose to going out on Sundays, a copy of the LA Times tucked in the arm.

If you can set a worthy repast before me - it will have to consist of Pancake House's chocolate chip pancakes with peanut butter on the side, slices of crispy bacon, Eggs Benedict from Martha's at Hermosa, a croissant from La Boulange in San Francisco, freshly squeezed orange juice from Du-pars, made fresh everyday, and perhaps a tiny pastry to nibble on from Nata's, slices of avocado, piles of newspaper, a good cup of Batangas coffee or the Cravings house blend, seat me down in a nice sofa where I can tuck my legs in, and I'm good to go.

La Boulange de Hayes - with an exciting array of french breads and pastries.

Natas Pastries

The Proverbial Tarte Tatin

2010-07-06T20:26:00.000-07:00

The following recipe is a result of several attempts with two or more recipes, including that of Julia Child and those from a compilation of French patisserie et boulangerie recipes feature. I have adjusted the quantities based on what works for me and those who dared to critique the finished product, with much appreciation, of course. I would have wanted a mold, but an enameled cast iron pan (which can be hunted down for a mere 25 USD) will serve the purpose just as well.

Tarte Tatin

4 medium sized Golden Delicious apples (adjust accordingly), cored and cut into 8 pieces, yields about 2 cups or so. Drizzle and coat with 1 tbsp of lemon juice.

1 cup sugar

1 tsp vanilla

6 tbsp butter, or about 3/4 of a stick

frozen puff pastry - sized just enough to cover the pan, and thawed.

1. Melt the butter, sugar and 1 tbsp of water in moderate heat on a cast iron enamel pan (about 9 inch diameter) but do not brown.
2. Arrange the apple slices in the pan in a circular pattern. Of course, you may choose to just throw it in as you wish. What's a dash of madness in the finished product. Adjust the flame so as not to burn the caramel.
3. Let it simmer, press against the apples without breaking your pattern for the sugar to evenly coat the slices. You may at some point cover the pan for a short 3 minutes. Once you get a thickened consistency for the caramel (consider that you need to turn out the pie later without the caramel running out and the fruit will come off loosely from the pan), turn off the flame. Heat the oven to 400 degrees. Let it cool for a few minutes.
4. Once the oven temp reaches 400, unroll the pastry and cover the fruit in the same pan, taking care to seal the edges thoroughly. Cut 4 slits for the steam to come out.
5. Bake for 12 to 14 minutes, take out of the oven and turn onto a serving plate, rearrange the fruit if necessary. Serve with ice cream or whipped cream.

What's Your Beef?

2009-11-10T18:40:00.000-08:00

Right now? It's Morcon. I have vague childhood memories of Nanay Andang, my paternal grandmother, making it for those rare Sunday parties when they would host lunch that stretched on to merienda cena.

On the round, rough, dining table, they were served sliced with those bright yellow and orange centers, alongside the halayang ube - grated purple yams mixed with sugar, condensed and coconut milk, painstakingly churned overnight in a large "kawa" with a large wooden spoon until they become creamy and almost solid. The purple yam mixture is then mounded onto those two, old Italian glass oval plates, which I have managed to stash before I came to settle for good in America, hoping to re-create Sundays when I can host parties for family and friends. In which case, I would be the 3rd generation descended from the Ferrer clan to use those plates - these having been in my great grandmother's possession at the turn of the 19th century, buried together with the celadon flower pots of long ago that have heretofore been lost or broken to survive the Japanese Occupation. Perhaps I should bring it back to Los Angeles which I now call my home.

Morcon is essentially a beef roulade or "roll", similar to an Italian Braciole or French Paupiette or German Rouladen. It is Spanish in etiology, though the latter's denizens would recognize it as a typical tapas slice akin to jamon serrano or sopresatta, not a braised roll as the Philippines knows it. A decade back, Tes, a good friend re-introduced me to the delights of the dish. She crashed the apartment in Makati too many nights she was almost a 3rd roommate, in addition to Jen. That apartment in my IBM days was raided by Club G most often for an ocassional dinner or dance practice, and Kiko would sneak in when I wasn't around, for what reason I would keep to myself. Though I can say I introduced him in the first place.

While Jen was lost in her own world upstairs, Tes and I would cook up a storm and talk about too many things while I had a steady hand on the red wine bottle. One thing I learned about the basics of preparing Morcon was that any thread would do, and that it needs to be as stiff as a dick that's cocked, though twice or 3 times the size, relative to your exposure. Then and now, my perspectives in terms of size have changed considerably, though I cannot claim to be a connoseiur :). But bigger is better. We are still on the topic of the morcon, of course.

The recipe calls for beef flank or beef round, sliced into a small mat where you would roll a mixture of chorizo de bilbao, boiled eggs, stuffed olives, carrots and sweet pickles, in typical Japanese maki roll fashion. This last time, I wasn't nozzling a red wine bottle (I was stinking sober) since I rarely imbibe these days, and the Mexican butcher couldn't understand shit of what I was describing with my hands and my broken Spanish. He thought I was being disgusting and he was wiggling his bushy eyebrows while he snickered so I said forget it ... just give me those damned beef slices and pointed to what I wanted, right by the Carne Asada pile. Note to self - need to bring interpreter when I go shopping here for Anthony Bourdain's Pate de Campagne meat ingredients.

It didn't come out good - the meat was too thin, and rather dry - a repeat experience which I have lamented to Tes on the last 3 or 4 locations I have done the dish alone. I have a stinking suspicion it was because the meat slice is too thin, so next time I will start with a whole round and do my own slicing.

It was a hit with the nurses and the dietician at work though, amateurs at this kind of cuisine as they are, having been exposed mainly to Caldereta, Pancit and Adobo - which I am starting to hate.

I am, however, not giving up on this exercise, and armed with my lessons of the past, will try to reprise the legendary Morcon for Thanksgiving Lunch in 2 versions - my Osso Buco braising gravy, and a typical Spanish tomato sauce.

Here's a typical Morcon recipe

Say Cheese.

2009-11-09T11:15:00.000-08:00

I always try to coincide new efforts with the coming of the new moon. It gives a more graphic perspective of where I am at a certain point, as well as a feeling of affinity, knowing a golden orb hanging somewhere in the sky can witness my travails with whatever new venture I have embarked on, crazy hag that I am. So last weekend, sore from a work out session with my new found trainer, I made a turn for the Torrance Farmers Market to check out stuff. And fell in love with cheese all over again.

So I lingered and hee hawed over the fresh organic heirloom tomatoes, the sweet peppers and the fennel shoots debating on what kind of salad I will make. Memories of Manang Abat who served me spinach and fennel with fresh baby mozzarella, olive oil and salt, in a small apartment by Leon Cavalho in Rome on one hot summer day came to mind as I poked around the shoots. It was after a long trek from the Vatican all the way to the Trentini fountain that morning. Having had a single espresso, the salad tasted sooo good. With this in mind, I bagged the veggies, cut a short trip to a Greek stand for some pita and hummus and became reconnected with greek yogurt. Giaorti kai meli – yogurt with honey – was another culinary discovery in a small tavern in a corner of the Plaka at Athens. But that is another story – nonetheless, in went a pack into my shopping bag.

There were 3 cheesemongers in the market, side by side, selling only organic California cheese. Not knowing where to go was solved when the guy from one of the stalls beckoned with his gloved hand and a smile. I moseyed on to him, easy prey that I am and he greeted me with a morsel of hard cheese with one paw. “Chipotle Cheddar. One of our best sellers. It’s handmade in a small farm in Travers and aged 60 days. Fully organic.” With that he reeled me in. I was a sucker for great stories behind each artisanal effort. Which is why I will never make a great Communist, no matter how clear thinking and logical I am always. I am always interested in what went on beyond the making of a great product.

“Do you like hard cheese? This one is made by a 23 year old in his grandfather’s dairy in Sonoma.” It was a milder version of the Reggiano – I told him after tasting it and he agreed. Then proceeded to cut a portion from another cheese – these time it had a sweeter tinge which I liked very much and we set that aside. From there we went to homegrown Brie, then to a young goat cheese smoked and wrapped in maple leaf – very mild, very little gamey flavor to it. Like a wine connoisseur he was taking me through the paces – of cheese, that is. I wish I had a bottle of Tempranillo to swish on while I went through the process. Better yet, a whole wine cellar would be better. And to hell with my cholesterol. At least I did not have to deal with toxin, this being an organic market.

And then he pulled his last piece de resistance, as he calls it. Burrata cheese – again by a young cheesemaker from the hills of Sonoma.

“Burrata is a close and very young cousin of classic Italian mozzarella. To produce it, cheese makers stretch a thin layer of fresh mozzarella curd around a pillowy blend of cream and still more mozzarella curds called stracciatelle, or "little rags" in Italian. Presto—burrata. Sweet, creamy, and delicately textured, the cheese is irresistible, or so say the chefs and diners who have made it the formaggio del giorno around the West.”

This was an online review culled to acquaint myself but my cheesemonger had a more humble appreciation – his wife loved it and he thought I would too, being a cheese lover and all that. I totally agreed – it was just as subtle as fresh mozzarella but with a more interesting texture and flavor which requires simple service – a dollop of herbed olive oil and arugula.

“A small crowd has gathered around us by this time – perhaps enjoying our pleasant exchange, eager to try as well. After 20 minutes, he wrapped my purchase of 3 slices of different cheeses and happily sent me off with a big grin and a fairly large parcel of Buratta. It was my free gift.

Who needs a shrink if you can have cheesy conversation?

My Name is Soc … I’m a Foodaholic.

2009-11-09T11:12:00.000-08:00

At 8:30am I set my purse down and proceeded to clock in. I snagged a small cup of apple juice from the medicine cart on the way, passed by the kitchen for a cup of coffee, tossed Joel my usual “Wots Up Chef” then rummaged in Medic’s fridge for the French Vanilla creamer.

It was a good morning so far.

A box of Krispy Kreme’s was at the coffee corner – snagged one and sat down to start the day. By the time I was done with the morning census – Flor, the social services director, came by – this time, showing me sliced pork medallions with crème of spinach and rice. Come up to the pantry, she says. “I’ll start warming them up for you.” Of course, I have much respect for my elder so I followed her and sat down to a steaming plate. Then went for seconds .

Everything was a blur after that. All I can remember was that when I got down, half of my colleague’s Jamba Juice (Mango) was at my desk.

And then right after my meeting with the boss, Mieko called to say she had cold soba noodles and her own version of Japanese sinigang. I remember carrying back with me a bunch of grapes.

Martin just got back by that time – he brought Orange chicken and Chinese fried rice with him. Did I get a plate again?

Luz came knocking by – she was on her way to pick up some Starbucks – did we want anything? Did I say white chocolate mocha with whipped cream? At the end of the day, I had no recollection if I actually sampled another batch of cookies, or that Auntie Marilyn called to say to leave some room for dinner (crab), and that I snuck into the juice bar by the gym at 8pm for some calorie busted shakes.

Oh. my. God … I think I also went down at midnight for a moist Brownie studded with mini Hersheys kisses and topped it with Cold Stone ice cream.

The next day I woke up and I couldn’t understand how in hell did I gain 5 lbs …