Food mythology momentum

The tide is shifting, it seems.
While there are still outbreaks of breathless nonsense about food (acai, anyone?), the amount of writing I bump in to that tries to deflate all the puffery about cuisine and diet has increased. Take this piece that's right on the nose about food mythology.

A (glancing) blow to the food puritans

Chicago has lifted its 2-year-old ban on foie gras. Such news would typically merit open celebration as legislators are rightfully shamed in to removing themselves from your dinner choices. But, as the article makes clear, there is no moral victory in what seems to be another example of legislative spinelessness and railroading (no, not unique to Chicago, but it sure seems that way).
Moreover, I confess that...I don't love foie gras. That's right. And the practice of force feeding geese seems just odd. Nothing that keeps me awake at all at night. But, odd. None of which encourages the slightest desire to have our fearless legislators ban the practice. As always I appreciate the voice of the people - the dining public. If and when they decide not to buy the stuff any more, that'll be fine with me.

Yes, nanny

Where to begin?

5 Restaurants in Manhattan Get Citations...

Greening

For the most recent foray into culinary eco-Stakhanovism scroll to the bottom of today's Inside Scoop.
It will be fascinating to see whether there is any correlation at all between earning the highest blessings of this group, and creative, good food. Apparently it's not enough to earn thimmakka's certification, a perfectly fine idea. One must aspire to greenest-of-all status. Another tiresome attempt to impose uber-virtue on food.

A new detour

While between gigs there's more time to comment on the food scene. The musings about food and the culture, most of it commentary on the hyperbolic and self-important, began before culinary school. But now there's time for more.

Rare is the restaurant now that does not claim to cook seasonally and locally (for example). It came to mind reading this review of Bar Jules, which sounds delightful, truthfully. But there's a level of bunk associated with the local/seasonal mantra. Every day, at most restaurants, at least one diesel truck parks in the alley and unloads much of the local/seasonal product. On rare occasion at Rumi the chef would carry in shopping bags of local vegetables purchased from the farmers market. But the fact that most food is delivered in smelly trucks begs the question: how local is it, really? The artichokes from Salinas, Lodi grapes, Mexican basil? How close does it have to be to qualify as "local?" For the foodier-than-thou I'm not sure what the answer is. For the reasonable, I'm not sure it matters a great deal. As always, you simply don't want your intelligence to be insulted. You know local when you see it, basically. But let's not pretend that "local" food offers some sort of culinary salvation when it's entirely unclear what the term constitutes. And yes, it is largely preferable to eat things that were grown/raised near ones home - I'm not arguing against that point. Let's just be careful about the puffery and advertising cache of terms like "local."

There are many examples of restaurants that serve what is grown on their own land, but here is my favorite: Gibb's Farm. A rare breed, and home to the single most satisfying meal of my life.

Viognier, San Mateo

The holiday season allowed for some new dining opportunities, thus the chance to comment on them.
My patience for writing comprehensive restaurant reviews is limited, so the style will be to cover the big beats of these places. Take it for what it's worth.
Vioginier is located (strangely?) above the upscale Draeger's market in San Mateo, which gives it the shiny-catalog patina of high prices and fancy cooking utensils. But the atmosphere does fall short, stretching to fit an upscale image it can't fulfill.
To say the food is disappointing ascribes higher expectations to it than it deserves. Suffice it to say that it was not good, highlighted by butternut squash rice pudding that was wishfully called "risotto." Individual grains of rice were genuinely unrecognizable, and the entire mass was hidden crazily by a layer of delicate greens. The flavor was not unpleasant, but combined with the tapioca consistency it remained nearly entirely uneaten (no notice made by our waiter). Very surprising that any cook would serve it, frankly, it was so overdone.
The rib eye was quite nice, equally well produced as hundreds of others, nicely fatty and crusty. Its traditional accompaniments, creamed spinach and potato-Emmentaler gratin were superb and memorable. The price? $40. Ridiculous. And $25 for the butternut squash-starch pile.
Starters of charcuterie & cheese and beet salad were fine, if unremarkable, which would be completely forgiven if not for being wildly overpriced for the overall quality.
Draeger's had a certain upscale concept in mind when it created Viognier. Most local diners will know what it aspires to. But it fails - not without some charm and certain well executed flavors. But overall a place to overlook until the quality of what it produces even approaches the height of the prices charged for it.

Viognier
222 E. 4th St., San Mateo

Number of visits: 1

Mama cooking

"Why did you get in to cooking?"

I hear that question a lot (not necessarily directed toward me). There was a San Francisco Chronicle article published back in June that articulated many of the reasons love doing this. Suffice it to say, I have no interest in becoming Ferran Adria (nor could I).

Vegan

We have a new student: a vegetarian. She's talented and doesn't proselytize, which makes for a pleasant working relationship. But regardless, the food is boring and dishonest. For the last week we've been treated to vegetarian lunches of various ethnic heritages. And overall the results have been predictably uninteresting.
Jambalaya with soy chorizo: nearly flavorless. Soy-based vanilla pound cake: a lump of vaguely flavor-tinged mush. The vegan chocolate mousse reminded me of the 70s with all things carob. And then there are salads; lots of salads.
Salads are and can be lovely. But, to paraphrase some French chefs when they viewed Alice Waters creating her magic with fresh local produce: "This isn't cooking; this is shopping."
To be fair, there were also roasted corn cobs with romesco sauce, and a pineapple sorbet, each of which was utterly delicious. But those two dishes merely highlight the problem with narrow vegetarianism. Such fare that attempts to replicate animal-based dishes is doomed to failure, and is dishonest by its nature. Jambalaya does NOT include soy. Pound cake is made with butter. Avocado is not an acceptable substitute for animal fat in anything called chocolate mousse. Why was the sorbet so good? Because it's not an attempt to replicate anything else. As the nauseating cliche goes: it is what it is.
This is no passionate screed against vegetarianism. My libertarian leanings are such that I could care less what anyone chooses to eat. And I agree that the too-often shoddy and lazy treatment of animals could use a revision. But so much of the vegetarian menu seems to be self-enforced settling for mediocrity. How disappointing, especially for anyone who chooses a culinary career.

Why wine gets a bad rap

My interest in wine is a relatively recent one, and was spurred somewhat by George M. Taber’s Judgment of Paris, which deserves its own review, perhaps. A recent random grab from the library is red, white, and drunk all over by Natalie MacLean, which is making me consider a full-time return to beer.
One of the fundamental criticisms of wine is it own self-regard and preciousness, which MacLean addresses in her introduction. Yet, her own book is a mess of overwrought wine-hooey. And the grammatical devices – well. Let’s just say that it’s like Rip Taylor is spastically tossing ill-conceived simile confetti at a Shriners’ parade celebrating self-importance and melodrama. You get the idea.
Annoying writing is an easy target, and there’s plenty of fodder here. But why didn’t she just post a compilation of her best grammatical gymnastics on the web and share the worthy stories that reside between them in her book? Better yet, this book is a series of articles at best; each of them would have been interesting if uninterrupted by the sap. To wit, verbatim and in full length for affect:

First, tasting the 2003 Nuits-St-Georges, then the 2002 Romanée-St-Vivant. Send the children away.

Fine red burgundy is said to enter the mouth like a peacock’s tail: narrowly at first, then fanning out unexpected across the palate, with flashy aromas of raspberries, leather, sandalwood, smoke, burning autumn leaves, and earthy truffles…The wine’s suppleness feels as though unseen hands pull a velvet dress over my head and down over my breasts and hips, until the hem brushes my thighs. By now, my tasting notes have become contented purring noises.

Yet as I swirl it around, the aromas seem to pull me headfirst into the glass, as though I’m drawn by gravity through layers of timeworn soil—the earth’s power to reclaim all that belongs to her.

Then, similes are like when two things are similar…

The earth between the vines is covered with tractor marks under a dusting of snow, compressed as though one of those evil Star Wars machines has rolled through.

But the vines Eduardo planted flourish with new life, their leaves fluttering in the light September breeze like marching bands wearing floppy, green-tasseled hats.

As we walk through the rows, the baked jagged clay collapses beneath my sandals like meringue, sending puffs of dust up between my toes.

And now, breathless commentary about…plants, dirt, sunshine.

The rich dirt has a voluptuous savory-sweet aroma. I have a strange craving to eat it. I can almost feel the ground beneath me seething with microorganisms groping in the dark.

The vine roots extend their gnarled fingers blindly down into the soil, whispering reproduce, reproduce, reproduce.

At first, I feel like a hero returning to a hometown parade: leafy, green vines reach down in front of me on either side, like well-wishers wanting to shake my hand.

Every half hour or so, I head back to Walsh’s truck and we plunge our hands into the pails to squish the grapes like ink-stained laundry. Manic flies, their diaphanous wings glowing like cobalt-stained glass in the sun, take suicide dives into the sweet mess.

…we emerge from the warehouse blinking in the extravagant light of a California evening, the kind of honey-gold rays that pour through the window in a Vermeer painting.

The darkening fields of grapes are now ghostly line drawings, shadows sketched in a hurry, to be painted into oils tomorrow morning.

Why make readers roll their eyes about the subject? Ink stained laundry...?
Good wine tastes and smells delicious. The people who make it are (often) to be admired. There is much beauty in the geography, history, culture, etc. of winemaking. And, perhaps most importantly, wine gives you a really fine buzz if done correctly. That’s it! Why is it not OK to say that vineyards can be a dusty hot mess? If you’re so tempted to eat the soil then do it—seriously. Tell me how those microorganisms taste while they’re groping. But no, it’s always easy to write such flighty nonsense when you don’t appear to really mean it.
A competent book reviewer would also detail how often and unnecessarily the author inserts herself in what should be a very basic and interesting story. Regardless, I plan to ignore this kind of fluff and read The Wine Offensive.