PICI

Two Years Later

It's funny, or maybe telling that my best idea for a life-plan remains the same. Except that now the diner is vegetarian.

My mid-year resolution is to write more. SInce I am no longer trotting the globe, I've ditched dirty toes for the time-being and am resurrecting The Sliv. (Better name anyway).

When I get internet in my place and a nice writing station set up, I'll be sure to hit the blog. hard.

Other kinds of dreams

It's 6:52 am and I've been awake for an hour. I slept horribly last night on account of a) the caffeine and sugar I ingested at 10 pm last night and b) some weird-ass dreams.

Picture a pool full of ramen with a dead chef floating in it. The man is wearing a red wet-suit and goggles, Ramen is wrapped around his neck. The scene suggests that the ramen has to be harvested and grows in formations similar to large kelp-beds. In this dream I am both a customer and the ramen monster. As the customer, I watch as my dining partner questions the waitress (who I'm pretty sure is this Turkish girl in my Italian classes--she had awesome butt-length curly black hair) on the pink, fishy-smelling broth. Though I say nothing, it is clear that neither I, nor my dining partner, (unknown character, male) is interested in her food--I believe mine gurgles at me.

Then, as though by way of explanation, my dream pans to the dead chef seen from underwater. My POV has now switched to that of the Ramen monster. I have obviously attacked the chef. The waitress enters the kitchen/ramen pool room and talks to some kitchen minion. I think she's stoked the chef has been strangled by the ramen but nervous about "what lies beneath." Now I'm looking up at her from the bottom of the 15 ft deepish tank. Her head waves into view as she looks apprehensively down into the depths of the ramen pool. At this point, my creepy-ass self zooms up from the bottom of the pool grabs her hands. She screams and I wake up.

Weird.

Dreams

When I own my diner with a rooftop garden, I will be sure to include the following offerings:

Cinnamon coffee and donuts
Bombdiggity pies of all persuasions
Incredible, edible ice cream
Things floral and fruity
Vegetables roasty and toasty
Yolks that are runny
and duh, biscuits.

I can't wait to work harder for less return than anyone else I know!

thoughts on breakfast

This (late) morning, as I poured myself three different types of cereal in my preferred ratio, I thought to all my funny breakfast habits of the past--to my refusal to eat anything but rice pudding in early elementary school, to my shift to frosted mini-wheats with the milk in a separate mug in the fifth grade. (This was a particularly OCD breakfast phase concentrated on preserving the integrity of the cereal's crunchiness and the distinctness of its parts: I would individually place each mini-wheat, frosted-side-up, onto a large soup spoon and then dunk that spoon into my milk-filled mug. This way I didn't run into the problem of unnaturally sweet non-fat milk and bland, soggy mini-wheats. genius.) Then I hit middle-school and became even more of a persnickity breakfast eater in the sense that I couldn't be bothered by it. I would wake up fifteen minutes before leaving to go to school and my cussing, hates-to-be-late, father would worry over feeding me. This usually meant a luke-warm sampling of his interpretation of scrambled eggs on a paper plate in the car. Or, on a good day, sugar toast. Gross.

At a certain point in High School, I discovered the pleasures of a social weekend brunch. Eggs and bacon and bagels and cheese and ham and butter, syrup, waffles... I have few fonder memories than of the times spent with my best girl-friends over hot cocoa and swedish pancakes at the Original Pancake House in Encinitas. In Virginia I added biscuits, potato flour donuts and hash to that list of cardiac arresters and enjoyed them in the ambiance of smoky diners insulated by the rustling of fall leaves and mountain winds.

I can thank Italy for adding coffee to my morning ritual: Thank you, Italy; and Virginia for Escalara Roasters: Thank you, Virginia.

In conclusion, I look forward to my next Breakfast obsession.

Ode to 1954

Today I ate a deliciously crafted BLT alongside a strong cup of coffee, watched "Mad Men" and knitted a baby's hat. The only element missing was layered clouds of cigarette smoke and an ashtray piled with stale butts.

Freshly made pasta in 100% real Cheddar Cheese Sauce

Getting my tonsils removed has ushered in a culinary suicide of sorts. For the first four days of my recovery anything I drank went up my nose which, though an unpleasant sensation, was almost preferable to having it go down my massacred throat. Never has something I love so much--eating--been so painful and so utterly uninteresting. Vegetables and fruit must be cooked or blended to within and inch of their lives and left to discolor so they'll reach a luke-warm temperature that won't offend my violated wind-pipes. Over the past three days I've come to incoorporate more substantial forms of mush such as Stouffer's mac and cheese ("freshly made pasta in a 100% real cheddar cheese sauce"!!!!!!!) but must be careful to load up on pain medication and narcotics before attacking my throat with much-needed calories.

There has been one genius discovery, however, which is to blend watermelon, and pour it into Popsicle or ice-cube molds. The Ice cubes are wonderful with iced tea (I've been using the "first flush" blend from this year's harvest at the American Tea Plantation outside of Charleston, S.C.--it's the only tea farm in the states and my mom and I visited it driving cross-country--the tea is remarkably fragrant for being nothing but good ole tea leaves. It was made from the first young leaves that sprout in May and which supposedly have had the opportunity to store up the most flavor and vitamins of any of the tea processed all season. Of course, I paid too much for it.)

IOU

I promise to blog about graduation lunch at Barboursville Vineyards, the obscene amount of chinese take-out consumed at my house last saturday and lunch at historic Michie tavern with mom in the near future. (or as soon as my family emails me the pictures :) )

Food is fun

Yesterday I came home stressed out and wired after driving four 12 year old girls home who thought it would be fun to give me the wrong directions. So I decided to cook. I put some rice with tomato paste on the stove, and set about making my own tortillas (tortillas are wonderfully simple to make--masa, water, a pinch of salt) which I filled with garlic-shrimp and corn and then sprinkled chopped onion, cilantro and lime juice on top. At the last minute I heated up some black beans and had myself a bangin' baja feast. It was all rather involved for a Wednesday night--but it made me feel better. I didn't take any pictures, but imagine two home made tortillas--thick, golden and covered in small browned circles--filled with diced pink shrimp and bright yellow corn kernels and then topped with chopped green cilantro and iridescent diced onion. On the side imagine red-pink rice, shiny black beans and two slices of lime. It was beautiful.

I wrote an article for the Cav Daily about Edna Lewis and the Southern Comfort Food dinner party I threw. (I don't know how long that link will be good for. so, get it while it's hot!) I also forgot to take pictures of that gorge-fest, but did take a picture of the remains of the pecan pie the morning after. After people left, there was still half a pecan pie. By 1 in the afternoon. Well...you see how it is.

Outside of that, I just got back from NYC where I ate my way through three days of Hillary time. Notably, I got a cappuccino and pastry at this amazing Italian bakery on Bleeker St. Called Rocco's. I also ate my weight in Burmese food at Cafe Mengala on 73rd and 3rd, went to this fun Turkish place at 81st and 3rd called Beyoglu (the lamb dish here was AMAZING), and got a crazy brunch at Park Avenue Winter. This place is a crazy: Every season it closes it's doors for 48 hours and redesigns the interior and menu to be season-appropriate. So, if you want to eat what I ate, you better go before they turn it into Park Avenue Spring. Plus, my buddy Lawrence is the sous-chef and he's flipping awesome, so you need to go.

I'm leaving you with a picture of china-town produce vendors because it's pretty. That's all folks.

Biscuitly

So, I'm fully settled back into the ville and in the process of over-scheduling myself into a sure-fire melt-down in my last semester. Might as well go out with a bang... Food-wise, I have made good on my promise to myself that I would ingest a biscuit or two in as expedient a manner as possible upon my arrival in the South. Said biscuit was eaten at Blue Moon Diner and served alongside a sausage, apple and blue cheese omelet and home fries. The omelet was good though a little disconcerting because the apples were crispy granny smiths and I'm just not used to fresh/non cooked things in my eggs. Think about it, you're not either. The tots were fry-tastic--especially after I drenched them in siracha sauce. Outside of that, I haven't eaten out but have instead been living off a bangin' batch of chicken vegetable and rice soup that I made in the first days I was back. I also made a decent batch of fiery, roasted bell pepper pasta sauce that has helped sustain me. Saturday i hope to have people over for a Southern food fest. I got a twofer on frozen e-z peel jumbo shrimp at Teeter so maybe I'll make a huge thing of shrimp and grits? Boil up some greens to go with... who knows. Maybe I'll cook some of the recipes featured in the Gourmet Magazine on Edna Lewis.

Giving You Flack for Flax

I'm back in Charlottesville as of 11:30 pm yesterday and am using my settling in time for rumination and organization. On the organization side of things, I spent four hours in front of my computer and Food Network today sending emails and setting up appointments. (Turns out that 10am Wednesday is not only the time at which I will be meeting with Joy but is also when Sandra Lee will be enjoying a "yummy" cocktail--you go girl.) Concerning rumination; I'm missing San Diego, it's weather, it's food, my home-town friends and my fambly. Before leaving the idyllic bay town, the mamas Cory and Coleman took us kiddies out to lunch for our last health-obsessed SoCal meal of winter at the newly opened Cilantro Live! in Hillcrest. Cilantro Live! is raw, vegan and adept at dishing out surprisingly edible fare. My mom's "nacho nut cheese Enchilada" and Mrs. Cory's "rawviolis" made of slow roasted tomatoes filled with "pine-nut, basil, cheese and pesto sauce" were wonderful (Though I do wonder what they mean by "cheese" here.) Other items (the name-sake soup, for instance) relied to heavily on Flax seed oil which I happen to think tastes like toilet water. I was appeased when the server brought me my Coconut Water because, for every degree to which flax-seed oil is vile, coconut water is delicious--a delectably confusing combination of warm nuttiness and cucumber coolness. In the end, Cilantro Live turned out to be just what the doctor ordered as all those intact and uncooked vitamins and enzymes made my hung-over self feel a lot better about life and the gigantic carne asada quesadilla I had consumed at 3AM that very day...

The next day I dragged my parents downtown to see American Gangster and eat at Cafè Chloe where I completely nullified any of the health benefits reaped at Cilantro Live! and took a head-first dive into cholesterol and saturated fat (which feels and tastes a lot like animal infested custard.) I started off with the bistro salad which was a delightful combination of Frisee tossed in a vinaigrette made from bacon grease and topped with bacon, butter drenched croûtons and a poached egg for good measure. I continued in this this ovular vein with my second course: a savory lobster custard with buttered toast. All the while I made sure to help my dad finish off his steak frites (oh the frites...) served with a side of cauliflower gratin and assisted my mother in eating her lightly battered fluke served with a celery root puree and a mustardy, red winey, vinegar sauce (the fancy french name of which I cannot impress you with as it escapes me. Started with a "b" I believe.)



San Diego has so much to offer foodies and I am sad to leave it having left so much untouched: Nobu San Diego in the Hard Rock Hotel; Bradley Ogden's new jazz and supper club, Anthology; the Pho houses in Kearney Mesa; the Linkery's new sister site, The Ritual Tavern... But any regrets concerning unconquered San Diego dining experiences were easily and appropriately dismissed in transit from SoCal to THE South when I read Edna Lewis's posthumously published piece, "What Is Southern" in the most recent Gourmet. Her foodie answer to that question effectively knocked the regret out from under me and got my mouth to watering over the biscuits, hush puppies, fried chicken, corn bread, virginia ham, shrimp and grits, sweet potato pies... I would be loving myself with in the coming months. :)

My Egregious Error

Allie correctly pointed out that I forgot about PIZZA NIGHT. Two weeks ago now, The Carmels hosted a pizza making party using their new wood-fired brick oven. Upon arrival, us lucky guests found the kitchen counter covered in little bowls full of potential toppings: lamb sausage, a variety of cheeses, stewed tomatoes, herbs of all colors, truffle oil (!!!), mushrooms, smoked salmon and so much MORE. Mr. Carmel had prepared personalized -pizza-sized balls of simply delicious dough, the subtle sweetness of which, upon cooking, manifested the chef's investment in its proper kneading and leisurely rise--so well done.

The evening was spent amongst friends and marked by culinary firsts. For starters, both Mrs. Carmel and Lulu effectively convinced me of the merits of pairing champagne and pizza. Of note, also was the opportunity to cook something in an oven that reaches 750+ degrees! I can't tell you how fun it was to slide an uncooked pie into the oven using a pizziaolo's shovel thingy (yes, this is the culinary term), rotating the pizza as it cooked, and then taking it on out within two minutes of having put it in. It made me feel rather competent.

The specimen pictured above is one of the meaty "man's pizzas" put together (I believe) by elder brother Carmel.

a little ketchup

So, here's the lowdown on memorable food experiences over my winter break:

I guess I'll start with Christmas when Mom and I fed 13 of our peops full of a Martha Stewart Ham bought at Costco (hormone free, organic, etc. go Martha) with an apricot/ mustard seed glaze, the never fail potato fennel gratin (includes 2+ cups heavy cream and a pound of gruyere), maple brandy sweet potatoes, green beans (the blah dish of the evening) and DESSERT. Here it should be noted that, in our fambly, dessert dishes ofttimes outnumber dishes served at dinner and that Christmas was no exception to the rule. For my part, I contributed a pumpkin cake with caramel cream cheese frosting--delish but super sweet--and a peach pie special for Ole Tex (my Texan Grandfather). Sister pulled through with three-layer chocolate, hazelnut, mousse cake and a simple fruit tart and mom delivered with the finishing touch of a double batch (read: > 4 lbs) of fudge. Oh decadence.

Two days later the Flocke and Coleman Ladies celebrated Mama Coleman's Birthday with Dim Sum brunch at Jasmine in Kearny Mesa. Truth be told, dim sum is always simultaneously over and underwhelming for me as the amount of choice is confounding and I always end up saying yes to things I don't want and don't like. Somehow we were barraged in the early stages by carts serving all things shrimp and outdid ourselves on crustaceans without getting a chance to sample the pork buns or the bok choy with the delicious mystery sauce. The Highlight of the day, however, was dessert (notice a trend). After dim sum, Mrs. Flocke drove the kiddies across the street to Yogurt World where we helped ourself to the self serve machines (numbering more than 10)featuring flavors such as green tea coconut and tart mango, and the plethora of unusual toppings. The yogurt here is reminiscent of pinkberry and its spinoffs but the texture is undoubtedly less crystalline and delightfully creamy.

New Years featured the grandparentals, Fran and Tex, back at the Coleman Cabana for texas-style cornbread (read: dense and without sugar, oven baked in a griddle and topped with a healthy amount of butter and honey. mmmm), blacked eyed peas cooked with onions and the the leftover Christmas ham hock, and stewed greens of course. (we gussied up the greens a bit with some balsamic vinegar)

About a week ago, I convinced my parents to take me to Clay's atop Hotel La Jolla. I ordered cassis braised duck breast lain across sautéed vinegary spinach and flanked with butternut squash ravioli. The bechemel-type sauce on the ravioli needed salt, the cassis flavoring on the duck was nice, but as I'm not a huge fan of soggy, thick, gelatenous duck skin, this flavoring was mostly lost on me. Everything we ate was cooked to perfect doneness and my mom's ceder plank smoked salmon also suffered from a lack of seasoning. By far the highlight of my meal was the SCRUMPTIOUS Chilean Pinot I ordered. It is worth noting that Clay's has an awesome and bustling bar attached that serves more affordable food such as decked out, thick burgers and features live music nightly.

Can You Tell I'm a Women and Gender Studies Major?

I have been horribly remiss in updating this blog choosing instead to fill my free-time with the wonders and frustrations of furnishing a college apartment (think weekly trips to the Salvation Army.) Yet the time that has passed (four months) since I last blogged has been marked by many a wonderful food experience and I find it a shame that I have not shared these experiences here. As this is a blog about food in Charlottesville, however, I will spare you the details of wild boar sauce on pici pasta in Medieval Italy and I will refrain from gushing to you over the Istanbul's tea bazaar and the world's most perfect lamb kebob. In fact, I won't even talk to you about my continued love affair with San Diego's The Linkery (if ever you find yourself craving boutique charcouterie). I will instead reinvigorate this blog with a discussion of gendered bites. Thus, I present to you:



FROM FALLACY...

TO OVATION:

A Redemption Tale

So, you all get it and I really don't have anything all that interesting to say about these pictures outside of the fact that I was tickled to discover that in a period of less than twenty-four hours the symbolism of my two main meals was glaringly lewd.

The Wurst Sampler plate was eaten over a Friday night birthday dinner at The Bavarian Chef in Madison which I would recommend if not only for the experience. Highlights included two liter beers in boot shaped glasses and never ending veggie side-dishes. The wurst themselves weren't all that bad, though the fat red one in the center tasted a lot like a ballpark frank and the browned white one was suspiciously slimy and even in texture. The sauce and the garlic mashed potatoes on which the wieners lie, however, were exemplars of the definition of flavorful. The figs were then picked the next morning on Steph and my way back from Pancakes for Parkinsons (good-eat in and of itself.) They came from the tree on the south side of Pavilion 9--I think...I often get my UVa geography confused. As the suggestive split in these ovular little gems indicates, they were deliciously ripe. We went home and sprinkled honey and sunflower seeds over the figs and a good dollop of Greek yogurt. A combination I highly recommend.

Next time look out for my entry on the Nelson County Sorghum (that's molasses to you) Festival...

During Finals One Orders a Lot of Pizza.

Not much exciting going on in my food world other than the revelation that, if Mellow Mushroom delivers to your area, you should always order from them in place of Domino's or Papa Johns. The medium 14" pizza I had delivered to my place the other day is the same size as a Domino's large and cost me a mere $13.69. Taking into consideration the five fresh toppings decorating my Kosmic Karma and the fact that the crust is made with spring water (!!!!) and a mix of whole wheat flours, a Domino's pizza that would surely cost as much and would never include fresh spinach and pesto seems paltry in comparison.

Ode to a Biscuit

The Bluegrass Grill and Bakery is tucked into an inconspicuous corner of the Glass Building on Second Street. It serves up hearty three egg omelets and makes all its breakfast pastries in house. I have dined there twice. On the first occasion, I and the lovely Ms. Julia Schumann indulged in the more starchy offerings--I with the honey wheat pancakes and she with the French Toast. The pancakes were the size of 7 inch vinyls and made with buttermilk--a delightful combination of hearty texture (whole wheat grains) and fluffy satisfaction (the acid in the buttermilk reacting with the baking soda--a leavening agent.) Topped with strawberries, butter and real maple syrup, my pancakes were an experience worth returning for and the next day I did exactly that. This time, however, i set out intent on tasting the three-inch tall biscuits I had seen the day before.

I ordered my biscuit alongside a cheddar cheese and sausage omelet and a side of cheese grits. (A heart healthy breakfast...) The grits and omelet were fine but the biscuit...oh the biscuit. It was, as I have mentioned, three inches tall and endearingly lopsided. At some point in the baking process it had reached a point where it could no longer support a vertical climb and veered off to the right like an extended jack in the box. What's more, this biscuit was made with a good portion of whole wheat flower and looked like a scrumptious nugget of earth. Steam fogged my glasses as I broke the biscuit in half and spread butter atop it's cloud-like layers of buttermilk pastry. I liberally drizzled each half with honey before the first bite, which once taken, resulted in my most cherished of masticatory sensations--when what you are biting into is so thick and airy that a condensed version of it ends up stuck between your front teeth and your upper lip. There is, in my opinion, nothing more indicative of true comfort food than the need to swipe away food lodged in said space with a thorough sweep of the tongue.

The impression this biscuit made on my taste-buds was otherworldly. So, I leave you with a little haiku, the form and content of which is intended to express my serenity and contentedness in having had the privilege to eat such a glorious feat of American cuisine.

three inches giant
broken in two, honey topped.
I eat all of you.

God Bless America

I am usually the type to laud the merits of things locally produced, organic and whole wheat. But sometimes one gets sick of this sort of politically sensitive ingestion and craves things bleached, colored and lacking in nutritional value. So it was that yesterday morning I, feeling gustatorially irreverent, ate a grilled egg sandwich with bacon and American Cheese on White. Genius.

Seriously though, when was the last time that you, a food snob, indulged in something a little bit plebeian for breakfast? Screw the granola made with unrefined sugar and no trans-fat, ditch the rBGH free yogurt and grab yourself an American classic. Cap'n Crunch, Pop Tarts, Wonder Bread and Welches grape jelly--they are all pleading for you to jump off the high horse and take a trip down memory lane. And I promise, if you throw aside your preconceived expectations, you will, as I was yesterday, be thoroughly pleased with your choice.

For a dining experience that serves up all things Bisquick with a side of chintz, be sure to hit up the Italian Villa.

Distant Future

Imagine: What would your life be like if you couldn't easily order some pizza?

This has nothing to do with Charlottesville. But it does have something to do with food and just how dire our lives would be without it...

Set to the wailings of Sigur Ros, my dear friend Alex and his pal Sebastian have painted a stark picture of the future of home delivery. This film won the UChicago 48 hour Film festival. Way to go boys.

POTLUCK

I delayed this post in the hopes of acquiring some digital images to post alongside. Alas, a) I was too lazy to ask people with cameras to send me stuff and b) no one posted any on facebook. So, you will have to survive without visual representation and rely solely on my prose.

SO! As I mentioned before, I attended a potluck this past weekend and it was everything one hopes a potluck will be--copious amounts of food, good people, cheap beer, and an impromptu dance party to top it all off. For my contribution, i set off in an attempt to recreate the DELICIOUS Korma I ate with Mundy at Royal Indian Restaurant (3450 Seminole Trail) last week. However, I ended up printing off the wrong recipe, and made chicken Masala instead. My expectations were a little deflated because the Masala used Yogurt in place of cream and the dish lacked the sweetness that had been so satisfying in the Royal Indian version. (Also, because I hadn't felt like spending money on ghee (clarified butter) and used vegetable oil instead, the flavor enhancing qualities of butter were lacking.) Nevertheless, I started to feel better when, to go alongside, I whipped up a batch of Jasmine Basmati rice, the smell of which rivaled that of the curry in terms of olfactory pleasingness. Turmeric, garlic, cloves, cardamom, ginger, and fennel ain't got nothing on white rice and jasmine.

Feeling satisfactorily confident in my dish, I awkwardly carted the giant pot full of curry three blocks to my car and strapped it into the front seat. When I finally made it to the third floor apartment to which i was headed, my glasses fogged with the steam of thirty friends and their thirty dishes crammed into a small room. After finding a spot to dump my pot and taking a chance to survey my surroundings, I saw that the contributions included a stick-to-your-ribs-sorta-comforting chicken, pea and pasta casserole, spicy gazpacho; a salad or two; Kyle's signature meatiferous lasagna and plates upon plates of rice krispy treats with M&Ms. We ate, we laughed, and eventually we danced. It was, in a word, awesome.