Northern Run...

 A while back as Spring first began to emerge, took a road trip up to the northern woods, a chance to wander in an expanse of open land, catch up with old friends, and of course eat some good grub. A few hours outside the City, having followed the twisting bends of the Eel river, we cut up through rutted road, snow still dusting the surrounding hills implying the possibility of needing a "tow" out should it drop any lower during our stay. Wood smoke served as our welcome, along with the wagging tails of hearty dogs sitting at the drive's mouth.

Quiet spot by the chicken coop.

 The cool air tasted good, the sun broke from a lingering fog, and my long frame was grateful to stretch from the small European car not intended for me. Embraces and small talk, dogs sliding about our legs, the day was slowly coming into focus as we stood under  the canopy of scrub oaks that were set about the main house. Ushered inside, the popping of newly placed logs could be heard coming from the iron wood-burner, the sole source of heat. We were offered a late morning beer, very cold and good, and settled in at the kitchen table; a perfectly weathered picnic version.
  It didn't take long for food to come up in conversation, signaling the time to retrieve the bags we'd brought. With several raised beds forming the garden, the growing season offers an abundance. As that was still a ways off, we came prepared. First was a kale salad tossed in a brown sugar and balsamic vinagrette with shaved red onion and fresh goat cheese that my traveling buddy (Katie having opted out of the trip.) had picked up as the Sunday Marin Market opened. As all were "pescatarian", a departure for one so meat centric as myself, I put together a fennel and cauliflower soup, drizzled with a salsa verde. The Heinekens, preferred drink of the house, kept appearing, sections of the Sunday papers were passed around, and naps descended upon all.

 And so, the pattern was set. Good food seemed constantly to find its way to the table, wood to the fire, the odd beer to be opened. The large valley-to-peak parcel of land demanded to be hiked, and we would set out to explore, following one of the many streams that fed the property's water tanks, along with providing power by way of turbines. When changing light or cooling wind reminded us of time, we'd be led by the wood smoke back down, cutting along the tiers of waterfalls, past the turtles sunning themselves in the failing sun on large stones exposed in the small pond.

 

 Once back, the cooking would again start. A spaghetti of aglio-olio-pepperoncini... pizzas of Spring garlic, chard, and goat cheese... tossed chicories, with roasted beets, Spring onion, and crostini of early season salmon. When a few days had passed, and the City called for our return, no tow was needed. Instead, the sun held true, as we headed back refreshed, ready for another go round with reality.

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Spring Rain... France (Spring Sessions 2012)

We returned to France on the heels of several weeks of wet weather which left the rolling terrain beyond our train window understandably green, a color heightened by the electric yellow of rape seed fields. While farmers are struggling Stateside with the early heat and dry conditions it brings, our French farming neighbors in the Charente spoke of the want for sun. No strangers to re-entry, we pride ourselves on being able to pop shutters, lift linens, and have a fire going in short order. No need. Thoughtful friends had been airing the house for a few days, then filled our fridge with staples (cheese, milk, butter, ham, etc.) to ease the arrival. Humbling is such generosity.
 That evening we were treated to dinner, as well, so as not to have to struggle with the fatigue of travel. Alice and Aleric, two friends who go out of their way to make sure we are always well received, insisted we take dinner with them. The afternoon had warmed a bit, but I got a fire going anyway, the better to lift any residual damp from stone walls. Alice, seemingly taking a cue from the show of sunshine, treated us to a taste of North Africa with a chicken braise and couscous meal that was perfect and light considering we'd be hitting the sheets promptly. A shredded zucchini salad and small balls of bufala mozzarella had gotten us started, Aleric opening some of local vintner Roland Villneau's rosé. Just right. Some young goat cheese... a few small strawberries... some crème brûlée... a short coffee. (I'm weird that way. Able to hit a coffee, then sleep directly afterward.)
 And sleep we did. Rain returning as we settled in for the night made me glad to have added a log to the fire;  the better  to "open" the house up a bit more. Then sleep, that wonderful, thoughtless sleep after having traveled long distance.

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Repas CG: The Aftermath... April 29

A very welcome gift.

With the sound of the jet engines warming to take us back to France, a few quick words of sunshine, Spring, and lamb. As the cassoulet repas of March fell amid a series of late season storms, and the less than ideal cooking conditions they instilled, Katie asked that I toss her a "softball" for our next location. No more comfortable and welcome embrace than our beloved Dopo over in Oakland. A space so well known to us, it's as if cooking at home. And so it was that we set to open the doors to a warm, sun washed day, the breeze full of budding flower and cut grass.
 A friend, and very talented young East Bay sous chef, recently remarked, "It's a great time of year to be a cook." With the markets awakening, becoming more plentiful each week, his words rang true when we were making our way through the early morning quiet of Allemany Market ("The People's Market."). From full baskets, Katie began with a soup of young asparagus, a mound of baby artichoke hearts in the center that had been tossed chervil, olive oil, and lemon. For this we began with a Petite Courbu from the Madiran. Referred to as the "Viogner of the Southwest" for it's weight and rich, silky texture, there also is the added benefit of a nice natural acidity. She followed this with her lamb sausage, broken into little mounds that were sautéed with fava beans, Spring garlic, radish greens, and lemon zest, served over a round of toasted baguette. A Minervois from the 4th generation Andrieu family was seleted, the peppery Syrah well able to stay with the lamb, and the full berry of the Mourvedre softening the Calabrians (some of the last of our hanging Winter bunches) Katie tucked in before plating.

 Then it was time to unveil the Spring lamb, boned and tied, studded in herbs and sea salt. Pink and lovely, she sliced it thin, and served it with the potatoes Dauphinoise; sliced paper thin, crispy brown on top, cream and butter oozing from within. The dish called for a Burgundy, and Les Dames Huguettes 2009 from Mongeard-Mugneret (Hautes Côtes de Nuits) slid into glass, mouth, and belly very nicely; well balanced, soft cherry, and a minerality that added to the finish. With a pungent and gooey Pont Levesque chosen to accompany the wild arugula, it was back to where we started (the southwest) for a Malbec from the Cohors (Georges Vigouroux).  The Gouleyant (Loose translation: Gulp-able!) had the cocao and licorice you might expect, but also a fresh, bright berry to ease the intense elements of the cheese. Lastly: Gateau Fraise with Crème Citron! Ahhh... Stacked little vanilla cakes, layered with a lemon laced butter cream, the first small strawberries spilling about. Not wanting to bury the freshness, went with a slightly more light cognac (Pierre Ferrand, 1er Cru, Ambre), subtle in it's apricot, rose, and pear.
 As the afternoon stretched into early evening, and guests slowly trickled off, the jazz turned to R&B, another splash of cognac tossed into the glass. Familiar faces from Piedmont Avenue appeared in passing, pulling us happily from our chairs to visit, catch up. Sunday's... Good meals, longs talks, and friends.

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Repas CG: The Aftermath... March 18

 Set between a series of late season storms, we managed to sneak in the Cassoulet repas. Wet gave way for a day, in it's place a cold, dry northern wind, perfect for cassoulet. Tucked in among the French country gems of Garden Court Antiques in the Design District, Jim and Matthew served as our most able and generous hosts. Chandeliers and candles lit the space, and bounced off the waxed string of tables, perfectly dented by time and meals past.

 Katie started us with flaky tarts of Spring garlic, leak, and goat cheese which were paired with an Alsatian Pinot Blanc, crisp and light as not to overpower the subtle pastry. Then it was choux farci, a favorite when found in season in the Charente. There the mixture of ground pork, herbs, and onion is set inside of blanched cabbage leaves which are rebuilt to resemble the vegetable as found in the garden; the filling a treat revealed when slicing. Katie's take on it was to make it more individual, wrapping the pork mixture in the blanched leaves, then steaming to order before setting on a pool of roasted red pepper coulis. To this was offered the soft spice and ample fruit of a Grenache, Carignan, and Censault blend by Abbaye Sylva Plana (Les Novices 2009) from the Languedoc, able to hold up to the richness of the pork, and yet also the smokey tang of the coulis. Next came the cassoulet, a mixture of confit of duck legs, crispy pork belly, and lengths of sausage braised with white beans, all hidden beneath a thick crust of garlic and herbed bread crumbs. Turned to a Gigandas (Domaine Saint-François-Xavier, 2009) for this, mostly Grenache with a bit of Syrah, and was very pleased how the dark fruit, good weight, and soft spice ket pace. Snuck in a Domaine de Labarthe from the small Gaillac region east of Toulouse which made great use of the seldom seen Fer-Servadou and Duras grapes, resulting in a deep , earthy glass that set well with a triple cream Brie Robert and arugula.

 By the time the dark chocolate pot de crême and coffee were served, the wind had eased up, giving us few excuses to packing. But... comme d'habitude, there was cognac to sip, and we weren't about to have our guests drink alone! So we settled in for a taste of Le Reviseur, smoke and caramel in the glass, which comes from the southern edge of the Petite Champagne growing region. Eventually, eyes began to wander about the space, hands to reach for the smooth old finishes of armoirs and end tables, and us to offer an embrace and a kiss in thanks for another Sunday well spent.

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A Little Easter Love...

 Easter began early, a bit too early for the side of me that craves a good lie-in on Sunday mornings. We had promised to join friend George before the weekend crowds filled the trails, on a hike up Mt. Tam. The sun eased the fatigue, and gave comfort no doubt to the large group doing the holiday run across the Golden Gate. We somehow managed to get a word (if only briefly) to our dear Suzanne in Charmé, wishing her a "Bon Paque", Katie excitedly trying to convey the description of the sun, the bay, Alcatraz...
 Snaked our way up trails left green from recent Spring rains, the stream beds echo of falling water staying with us until high up in the manzanita. Not lost were the few turkey buzzards which kept pace with our ascent, seemingly waiting for a waver in our resolve. We watered on top, the Bay giving way to the Pacific, the thicket of redwoods that was Muir woods tucked just the other side of Stinson,  a turn in the far coast marking Point Reyes, the City looking much too small. Our recent addition of little mop-head mix rescue puppy took seamlessly to the change from kennel to hillside. Once down, we made up for the lack of breakfast with margaritas, shrimp tacos, and crab enchiladas in Mill Valley.

 A nap was not far off, and a short, yet hard sleep very appreciated before the afternoon meal at Jon and Kayta's. Increasing clouds had them shift the tables in from under the massive oak out back, running instead through their Glenview District Craftsman. With an ease that we've come to expect from them, they offered platters of deep pink lamb chops, grilled young asparagus, and a lamb stock rissoto turned light green by a purée of mint, chive, and parsley. A trio of cheeses, tossed greens, and red wines in abundance left for little room, but I still managed to sneak in a few of Katie's citrus shortbread cookies with just a bit of cognac.
 As their little ones were put down for sleep, and even the energetic dogs showed a slowing in their play, it was time to head back to the City. So content at the long day's end, even the absence of a single chocolate egg couldn't shake the satisfaction.

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"Where do you guys like to eat out?"

 The one question put that comes up often: "Where do guys like to eat out?" It's generally followed by a soft exhale, a little toe scrape of the ground, maybe even the always welcome time-buyer, "Pardon?" It's an awkward question if only because he and I eat at home. ALOT! I almost feel bad except... that I don't. Being out, working in food several nights a week, leaves us craving the quiet and ease of our own kitchen table.

 Oh sure, when we throw off the fatigue, and get dolled up for a nibble out, maybe a bit of jazz, we invariably end up wondering why we don't do it more often. Fortunate to live in a wonderland of talented chefs, remarkable butchers, bountiful markets, a wealth of seafood... The list  is long, and could go longer. So when we do make it out, albeit rarely, it's for something we can't overlook: The steak tartar and icy martinis bar side at Bix, carnitas and hand made tortillas at LA Palma in the Mission, large steaming bowls of phô  at Loi's in the Inner Sunset or Turtle Tower in the Loin, the cleanest of clean Chinese from Irving Street's San Tung, or maybe just the best burger in town with a cold one from it's next door neighbor. (Sorry, keeping this one a secret. As much as a place can be secret that only serves burgers one day a week. Hint: Tuesday.)
 So, when free from commitment, it's off early to a local market, a stop by our favorite wine guy (Hey David!), a coin toss between seafood (Fish!.... Monterey Seafood) or meat (Avadano's or our local guy, Bobby), and then... simply share it all with friends.

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Repas CG: The Aftermath... February 19

 Despite the long holiday weekend, and the Bay Bridge closed for construction, we settled into a meal featuring some tried and true French "classics" last Sunday. Big doses of thanks to all who joined in, especially those that trekked over from the City on BART; the bridge be damned! Café 817 proved home for the day, the charming spot in Old Oakland owned by the talented duo of Scott and Emily Goldenberg; until recently fixtures at the Zuni Café. Once the storage room for Ratto's Market (Est. 1897) next door, 817 has maintained the old (chipped subway tiles, wood molding, and ample ceiling) without sacrificing the new (iron support beams, cast cement bar, and blown glass pendants).

Stealing a stove side bight.

 A warm sun and nearly empty streets allowed for the doors to be open for a pleasant breeze to flow. Katie wasted little time in plating the onion soup, gruyère bubbling at the bowl mouth. With the beef broth rich and onions sweet, a hint of cognac drizzled just before crouton and cheese hit the broiler, a Vatan Sancerre was poured; walking the line between clean acidity and distinct minerality, just a hint of flint. For the goat cheese soufflé that followed, a mound of roasted golden beets tossed in champagne vinaigrette included to tease the mouth, a Picpoul de Pinet from Languedoc was needed. Known as the "lip stinger" for it's bright acidity, it rounded out nicely,  the citrus finish seemingly softened by the Mediterranean air. From this light perch, it was then time for the deep, dark flavors of the boeuf bourguignon, braised with pearl onions, wild mushrooms, and carrots, served over  pommes purée; cream and butter present, to be sure. Tempted by a few options from Burgundy, it was a Mourchon Grand Resérve from Séguret (southern Rhône Valley) that proved true. Fat and full of dark fruit, tannins subtly present, it was Grenache driven with enough Syrah to keep it interesting. With Kate's choice of an intense Reblochon to accompany the tossed arugula, a Morgan by Laurent Guillet was opened, the cooked cherry and brighter acidity offered ample balance to the cheese.
 In the failing light, with the strings of white holiday lights that wrap the trees of Washington Street having come into focus, the smell of sugar and butter announced the tarte tatins coming from the oven; a bit of whipped cream soon added. As coffee and cognac followed, a calm took easy hold of the room. Content to let the herb and apricot of the medium weight Park Borderies (Single Vineyard) play about my mouth, acting as if the room would clean itself (It never does!), we spoke of it's origins, the smallest of cognacs six growing segments. Ben Webster was blowing a soft sax accompanied by strings, when we reluctantly began our goodbyes.


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No Fair: Snowballs out of reach!

 Winter has been hard to Europe, very hard in some areas. For our little pocket in the Charente, however, it's been pure joy. Known to get a day or two of light snow every other year or so, they have been hit with the white, and quite a bit of it. Several inches blanketed our village recently, with cold temperatures to keep it around for several day's of play.
 Snow men mark property lines, and snow ball fights ("Les batailles de boule de neige.") gladly have broken the measured routine of the non-growing season. Only one problem as Katie and I see it: We're not there! Not meant to be back until Spring, we've listened with envy to the stories of silent nights of snowfall, fireplaces heaped with extra logs, and the sneak attacks of neighbor-on-neighbor snowball fights. Ah, how good the cognac must taste when brought to cold face...

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Repas CG: The Aftermath... January 29

 With a soft Winter sun lighting the normally gray Avenues of the Inner Sunset, we sat to enjoy a bit of duck weekend before last. Tucked into a side street just beside Golden Gate Park, the Everybody Bikes + Art Gallery was our home for the afternoon; an eclectic mix of art and bicycles created by Michael Penza, who also owns the bustling bike shop around the corner on Irving. With a rack of the two wheeled beauties running the length of one wall and the canvas of fashion photographer/film maker Daniel O'Neill set upon the other, tables stretched out before a wall of old windows rimmed in Christmas tree lights, the conversation bouncing from stained cement floors to the soaring ceiling above.
 Duck was the focus, but shared the stage. As guests assembled, Katie pulled hot gougieres from the oven in welcome, little puffs of pastry rich with gruyère. She then proceeded with a fennel soup prurée topped in crab meat, a tartine smeared with a blood orange butter for dipping. An Aligoté from Bruno Clavelier, cool and "minerally", was used to pair. Next began the duck, as a salad of endive, escarole, and radicchio was tossed in a warm wild honied vinaigrette, to which was added tender sautéed duck livers along with crispy, salty strips of lardon. With this was poured a Cabernet Franc from Phillipe and George Vatan of Chateau du Hureau. The "Tuffe", named for the local limestone of Saumur-Champigny in which the vines grow, was more rich and round than it's Loire Valley brethren of Chinon to better handle the livers, but finished with distinct tannins as not to overwhelm with fruit.

Then it was time to get serious as confit cuisse de canard were plated with a gratin of cauliflower, a bit of lightly tossed pepper cress littered about the plate to ease the richness of the dish. In an effort to finesse the succulent, fall-off-the-bone duck, a Mercury 1er Cru from Patrick Size was needed. New blood in an old growing family. The product: elegance in the glass. Tossed wild arugula came next, along with a trio of cow's milk cheeses: a firm Morbier,  a sharp and pungent Camembert, and a bright and salty Vendéen Bichoné. Opened some Santenay by Domaine Jessiaume for this, full yet floral with just a hint of annis; added depth to handle the varying flavors of the cheese. For desert, Katie went subtle on the sugar in the form of a goat cheese pot de crême, topped by a few strands of candied grapefruit. Having said that, she did slide onto the plates some layered cookies of caramel, chocolate, and shortbread, in honor of a good friend's beloved Brittany.
 With dusk settling, muting the warmth of the brick building that had filled our view across the way, candles and track lights filled the room. Coffees were served, cognac poured; a Gilles Gautret, old school in deep , rich caramel, a hint of smoke. Too soon it was time to head on, another afternoon well spent.

Duck Laden Afternoon... France (Fall Sessions 2011)

 Going over menu ideas for the January duck repas, Katie and I found ourselves reliving a lunch we'd had on a misty afternoon in a sleepy enclave just northeast of Barbezieux. Sliding through a series of low hills and subsequent hollows, we'd been tipped off by acquaintances who'd generously given up one of their favorite "neighborhood" gems. Quite a neighborhood it is with two bio (organic) farms, a spot that focuses on small pigs and geese, another that does foie gras, and lastly the Auberge des Grands Aulnais where duck is served in many a remarkable way.

 Despite very clear directions, it was not easy to find as the landscape kept nearly all of the concerns mentioned tucked subtly away from each other; around a bend, behind a knoll, down a lane. It was only when happening upon the farm producing foie gras that we took a shot at a driveway set opposite that led us to the auberge. Greeted by an old pooch roused from sleep, we slid into the nearly empty restaurant; a pleasant byproduct of a late, mid-week lunch. The simple decor of plastic tables covered in oil clothes seemed perfect as the rain increased it's pace, and us with nothing to do but eat the preferred meat of the house.

 Glasses of pineau arrived, the port-like blend of eau-de-vie and young red wine reminding us that we had no where to be. A terrine of zucchini soup soon followed, puréed smooth, helping to keep the damp from settling upon us. As a piché of simple Bordeaux was set on the table so were sautéed duck livers and gizzards served with lightly tossed lettuces, the former plump and tender, the latter with a subtle crisping about the edges. A few slices of smoked duck breast along with a chunk of rillette were slipped onto the plate for good measure. Decadent, with no argument from us. With drops leaving large circles on the pond beyond the windows of our table, Isabelle, the cook and owner, kindly allowed us stove side as she finished off Katie's confit cuisse de canard and my magret au poivre. Warm and calm, the kitchen a reflection of those that used it. 

 Again seated, Katie's duck leg slow cooked in it's own fat until falling off the bone, was tender and succulent. We traded bites, as my á point duck breast with green pepper corn sauce proved the equal to her dish. Both came with potatoes fried in duck fat, of course!!! Cheese followed, more red was poured, and the rain continued. Somehow we managed to share a slice of apple tart, not able to say no to the morning's efforts. Coffee yes, cognac no; hard to do, but necessary with a drive home still to come. 

 As we stepped out into the fresh of the rain soaked afternoon, we were treated to a few bands of warm sunshine. They stayed with us for a stroll about the frontage of the small lake, and for most of the drive back to Charmé. Coming over a rise just the other side of Montigné, a bit of roadway still to cover before home, the horizon was inked in black; streaks of lightening implying little good. We somehow slid below it's menacing presence, the first ping of hail hitting the car's rooftop as we hustled inside the house. The iron wood burner caught on the first match, and the cognac passed over at lunch seemed right to lift  the chill present before the fire warmed the room. Images by Robert Hass kept my attention while Katie turned to a collection of the Times crosswords. The field turned white with the falling ice, and we were home.

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