Articles in Restaurant
Mystique — and hyperbole — surround North Berkeley’s legendary Gourmet Ghetto after almost half a century. The neighborhood, ground zero for a gastronomic explosion that morphed into a California cuisine revolution in the 1970s, seems to get more media coverage today than in its heyday. And sometimes it’s just plain silly.
Consider, for example, the overhyped version of today’s Ghetto portrayed in an October Forbes magazine article by Lanee Lee titled “Spending 24 Hours in Berkeley’s Gourmet Ghetto.”
Her mission to spend a whole day eating her way through the Ghetto begins at 9 a.m. But after just nine hours of nibbling and sipping at Ghetto icons such as the Cheese Board and Alice Waters’ Chez Panisse, and several of the nouveau arrivé spots such as Philz Coffee from San Francisco, Lee takes off south for downtown Berkeley and even Oakland. She as much as admits the aborted mission when she says about one downtown restaurant, “Technically, it’s not in the Gourmet Ghetto …” Technically? You are either in or you are out (see map).
Lee’s article reveals, however unintended, the unhyped truth that the Gourmet Ghetto struggles today to keep up with its own revolutionary legend, let alone the increasingly vibrant foodie meccas to the south.
The reality behind the hype
By Joyce Goldstein
* * *
By Susanna Hoffman and Victoria Wise
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Two female chefs-cum-writers who can testify to the true gravitas behind the original Ghetto’s supersized legend are Ghetto legends in their own right — Joyce Goldstein and Victoria Wise. Both cooked at Chez Panisse during its formative years before moving on to their own fame: Wise with her Pig-by-the-Tail Charcuterie (1973-1986), across the street from Chez Panisse, and Goldstein at her Square One restaurant in San Francisco (1984-1996). Since the close of their much-missed showcases they have established themselves as culinary consultants and prolific cookbook authors with national reputations.
Both women have impressive new books out that attest to their continuing commitment to the revolution they served so brilliantly: Goldstein’s “Inside the California Food Revolution: Thirty Years That Changed Our Culinary Consciousness” (UC Press) and Wise’s recipe collection, “Bold: A Cookbook of Big Flavors,” co-authored with Susanna Hoffman (Workman).
With the publication of Goldstein’s book, we finally have a scholarly account of the California cuisine revolution based on hundreds of interviews of the food- and wine-loving souls who made it happen — cooks, artisan food producers, winemakers and farmers. Among them, adds Goldstein, were an “unprecedented number” of women. One of these was Victoria Wise herself. Before she opened “the Pig,” as her shop was affectionately known in the Ghetto, Wise was Chez Panisse’s first chef.
Wise’s new book, “Bold,” presents a collection of full-flavored and full-plated (bye-bye, little plates) dishes that further define the hearty international melting-pot foundations of a new American cooking that has emerged in the wake of California’s outsized culinary contributions.
When legends collide
I had known Goldstein and Wise professionally back in the day. Then in 2010, after publication of my “graphic memoir,” “Foodoodles: From the Museum of Culinary History,” I invited them to join me on an author’s panel at the Berkeley branch of Books Inc. I titled the presentation “Legends of the Gourmet Ghetto” and included Alice Medrich of Cocolat fame (1976-1991) as well as Bruce Aidells, Berkeley’s sausage king who got his start in the Ghetto in 1979 chefing at Marilyn Rinzler’s “still-clucking” ode to chicken, Poulet.
The panelists shared stories and laughs about the early years in the Ghetto and agreed that the revolution, though clearly Euro- and mostly Franco-centric in inspiration, was largely triggered by the lack of traditional culinary arts training in the Ghetto. An autodidact love of fine food translated our European food epiphanies into an ingredio-centric cooking language outside the narratives of haute cuisine and directly relevant to our own time and place.
A new body experience
To be sure, ours was not the first generation of Americans jolted by what we tasted in France and beyond. A generation before Julia Child’s fateful encounter with French gastronomy, The New Yorker’s “Letter From Paris” columnist, Janet Flanner, had her own Proustian moment in France. In the introduction to her book, “Paris Was Yesterday 1925-1939,” a collection of her still wonderfully readable columns, Flanner writes:
I can recall the sensual satisfaction of first chewing the mixture in my mouth of a bite of meat and a crust of fresh French bread … Eating in France was a new body experience.
Yes, a sensual body experience. Very different from the visual and brainy (as in left brain) extremes of fine food so common in today’s haute cuisine world of masculine high-tech art food offered in San Sebastian, Spain; Copenhagen; London; and New York.
And who better than women such as Goldstein and Wise a few generations after Flanner to seduce our sensual bodies with simple, traditional food sourced and prepared right in our own gastronomic region — California.
Cuisine bonne femme
If you study my map of the Ghetto of the 1970s you will note that it was, indeed, the women at their shops and restaurants who were calling the revolutionary shots: Joyce Goldstein, Victoria Wise, Alice Medrich, Marilyn Rinzler and, of course, Superwoman herself, Alice Waters.
I say “Superwoman” because Waters has always had the extraordinary ability — “genius,” Goldstein says — to get people to do her bidding — especially men, I’d add. When she came to the Cheese Board just before Chez Panisse was to open and asked whether I would wait tables, I jumped at the opportunity, as if I had been handed a first-class ticket to Provence. Waters must have memorized Dale Carnegie’s perennial bestseller, “How to Win Friends & Influence People.”
One of Waters’ leading men in those early Ghetto days, Mark Miller, who followed the epic reign of Jeremiah Tower as chef de cuisine, slyly observes in Goldstein’s book that the food emerging at Chez Panisse in the 1970s was far from revolutionary. It was, he notes, heavily influenced by the genre of French cooking known as cuisine bonne femme, the bourgeois home and humble restaurant cooking of French women. He’s right. But wasn’t that, if not the food per se, the Gourmet Ghetto’s revolution, or at least a key component? Talented and powerful women running the show.
It was an increasingly feminist world we were living in circa 1970 and Berkeley was, of course, one of its capitals. Today, we take for granted women running professional kitchens, though it’s still a struggle for female chefs to get the same media attention as the men.
But back in those early days of the revolution it was, it seems to me, as if a Code Pink version of Mother Nature rose up and shouted out through Ghetto legends like Joyce Goldstein and Victoria Wise, “No more crap food! Off with his toque! You go girls!” And they still are.
Top graphic: “Original Gourmet Ghetto 1970s.” Credit: L. John Harris
Start a meal with an amuse-bouche, and you’ve gone from zero to 60 in five seconds. Fine dining chefs learned long ago that an amuse-bouche gives a preview to the meal with a palate-pleasing morsel. At home, an amuse-bouche turns an everyday meal into fun.
Strictly speaking, an amuse-bouche is an amusement for the mouth, usually a single bite or small plate served at the start of the meal in an upscale restaurant. The dish is not on the menu, is free of charge and spotlights the chef’s culinary interests.
From Michelin-star kitchens to home kitchens
Doing research for a series of articles about five-star hotels in Switzerland, I was hosted in a dozen upscale restaurants in Geneva, Lausanne, Vevey, Interlaken, Zurich and Lugano. Without exception, every meal was preceded with an amuse-bouche, and they were as different as the chefs who commanded those kitchens.
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Some amuse-bouche featured expensive ingredients such as caviar, lobster and foie gras. Others employed labor-intensive techniques that transformed solids into airy foams. All were small plates of luxuriousness and indulgence, like the lemon-scented carrot gelée flavoring a disk of veal tartare at Restaurant Le Mont Blanc at Le Crans, a ski resort in Crans-Montana not far from Geneva.
At the three-star Michelin restaurant in the Beau-Rivage Palace in Lausanne, the amuse-bouche prepared by Anne-Sophie Pic’s kitchen was a single plate with three disks of flavor, texture and temperature, employing ingredients as disparate as avocado, ham, figs, Parmesan cheese, shrimp, tomato and mozzarella.
Get inventive with small bites
In the home kitchen, an amuse-bouche can be as inventive and flavorful as any from a Michelin-starred restaurant, but it need not be as labor intensive. An espresso cup with a fragrant soup of roasted tomatoes and spinach with homemade croutons on the side is a great way to begin a meal but does not require the crew of prep chefs necessary in a fine-dining kitchen.
The best amuse-bouche are packed with flavor. The point is not to satiate hunger but to stimulate the appetite. Think of an amuse-bouche as a gateway to the meal. A single grilled scallop seasoned with finely grated Parmesan cheese. A shucked oyster topped with a few salmon eggs. A cube of roasted kabocha squash flavored with caramelized onions and shiitake mushrooms.
For a Vietnamese-themed dinner, I served an easy-to-prepare grilled shrimp with lemon grass to tell everyone the meal was taking its inspiration from Southeast Asia.
Lemon Grass Grilled Shrimp With Garlic and Onions
1 stalk lemon grass, washed, root end trimmed
4 medium sized raw shrimp, washed, shelled, deveined, pat dried
1 garlic clove, washed, peeled, finely chopped
1 teaspoon finely chopped yellow onion
⅛ teaspoon turmeric
Sea salt to taste
Black pepper to taste
1 teaspoon olive or sunflower oil
1 teaspoon fish sauce, Nam Pla or Nước chấm (optional)
Dusting of cayenne powder (optional)
1. Scrape the white end of the lemon grass stalk against a fine grater. Use the first 2 to 3 inches of the stalk and discard the remainder.
2. In a bowl, toss the shrimp, grated lemon grass, garlic, onions, turmeric, salt, pepper, oil, fish sauce (optional) and cayenne (optional).
3. Preheat an outdoor grill to high or the oven to 400 F. If using an oven, place a small wire grill on a piece of aluminum foil on the bottom of a small baking tray.
4. Skewer the shrimp using two skewers to the shrimp to keep their shape.
5. Place the shrimp on the outdoor grill or in the oven.
Turn over after three minutes. Remove when shrimp have grill marks but are not overcooked.
6. Serve each shrimp on a small plate with garnish.
Top photo: An amuse-bouche from Chef Dominique Gauthier of Le Chat Botté at the Beau Rivage in Geneva, Switzerland. Credit: David Latt
Not too long ago, I was treated to an authentic Shanghainese dinner by the great cookbook author Florence Lin. We dined at a restaurant in the eastern San Francisco Bay Area, a place that shall remain unnamed for reasons that will soon become obvious.
After we sat down, Mrs. Lin chatted quietly with the chef, and in a few moments we had Nanjing saltwater duck, braised gluten and a warm and perfectly balanced smoked fish appetizer arrayed in front of us. We were soon diving into a tender and flavorful braised pork shank with its creamy skin, fish with pine nuts and flash-fried pea sprouts that were bathed in nothing but fresh oil, a sprinkle of salt and fat bulbs of browned garlic. Dainty desserts followed, an assortment of little handmade gifts presented to us with smiles and hot tea.
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It was a revelation. But contrast this with the dinner I was served there a few months back without a famous person beside me to impress the chef: a lukewarm and decidedly inauthentic bowl of hot-and-sour soup, fatty and flavorless pork in aspic and an insipid plate of poached tilapia coated with a gummy sauce. After this sorry repast in the near-empty restaurant, the understandably idle chef came by to complain about how tough business was.
In a way, I understood. After all, it used to be that Americans were satisfied with pseudo Chinese food. But our growing population of wealthy Asian immigrants, coupled with the heightened sophistication of American diners, has changed up the game. Pseudo just doesn’t cut it anymore. As famed restaurateur and author Cecilia Chiang noted recently to me, there is simply no good place (meaning Chinese, of course) to eat around here – meaning that if these retrograde places wish to survive, they will have to step up to the challenge.
Chinese restaurants shouldn’t be all over the map
China’s culinary traditions are the best in the world, but you would never know it from what passes for the lion’s share of American “Chinese food.” Part of the problems is that too many restaurants serve dishes that are literally all over the map of China, as can be seen in the enormous menus they often foist on their customers; sometimes even Japanese and Thai dishes get thrown into the mix for no good reason. As a result, everything is available and little of it is worth eating, and the kitchen therefore has to depend upon canned foods and an enormous stockpile of ingredients that eventually spoils, even if stashed in the deep freeze. The owner then tries to cut even more corners to mitigate his losses, and an already ugly cycle gets even uglier.
Contrast this with the way you get to eat in Taiwan, China and Hong Kong: Almost every place, from palatial restaurants to the tiniest mom-and-pop stalls, focuses on a distinct provincial cuisine — and sometimes even a single dish — and because of that, the foods are fresh, tasty, honest and absolutely authentic.
On the off chance that some hometown specialties or seasonal delights are offered here in the States, they are often hidden in the Chinese menu or scribbled as afterthoughts on the wall with no English translations. After all, the thinking goes, why bother with customers who won’t be interested anyway?
But the truth is that on eGullet, Chow and other online epicurean gatherings, as well as in knowledgeable restaurant reviews and on Yelp, whoops of delight are heard and long lines suddenly form whenever a terrific Chinese place opens up, while mediocre eateries are treated with the contempt they deserve. There is therefore no longer any room in this urbane digital age for laziness or condescension.
Follow this 12-point guide
As a dedicated worshiper of great Chinese cuisine, I hereby nail the following 12-point thesis on the front door of that hopeless East Bay restaurant in hopes of an epicurean Reformation:
- For the love of Buddha, cook with pride from a specific area of China.
- List these dishes in English with no excuses.
- Do not assume that Americans will not like certain ingredients. Just like Chinese diners, some of us will and some of us won’t, but offer them anyway.
- Use good-quality peanut or vegetable oil in your cooking, and always use fresh oil for stir-fries. That means that instead of sneaking old oil into your dishes to save a few pennies, you should sell the gunk in your deep-fat fryers to recyclers. Honestly, this stuff tastes disgusting and is very unhealthy.
- No more MSG or “chicken essence” bouillon in the food. We can taste that too and it reeks of apathy. Instead, use good stock to amp up the flavor.
- Give us fresh or frozen bamboo shoots and water chestnuts, not canned. Toss out the tinned mushrooms, baby corn and other cheapo garbage, and stop clogging every dish with cornstarch. You don’t cook that way in China, so why do it here?
- Buy good quality meats and seafood; if cost is a problem, put a little less in a dish or increase your prices a bit, but please feed us well.
- Offer meatless dishes that are just as tasty as the other items; China has a rich tradition of vegetarian cuisines, so there is no reason not to make them available.
- Please explain things to your customers. Tell us what is in each dish if we ask. If your waitstaff does not speak English, have the ingredients and description on a list you can show us.
- Become obsessive about cleaning up the kitchen, bathrooms, dining areas and around the perimeter.
- While you are at it, put in ambient lighting, consider redecorating, get rid of the cardboard boxes everywhere and invest in some nice background music. This shows pride of place and makes your customers feel welcome.
- Treat non-Chinese and Chinese customers with equal respect. Courtesy means as much to us as good food, and you will see our happy (and hungry) faces again and again.
Top photo: Author Carolyn Phillips. Credit: J.H. Huang
What does it take for a well-established farm-to-table chef to make a name for himself in a hotbed of gastronomy like Portland, Ore.? If you ask Rick Gencarelli, it’s all about street cred.
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His recognition came by way of the food cart called Lardo that he opened in September 2010. Slinging a porchetta sandwich with a side of hand-cut Parmesan-herb fries and homemade ketchup, Gencarelli instantly won the attention of the food-loving cognoscenti. “Who is this guy?” Portlanders began to ask.
Until then, restaurant developers wouldn’t even return his phone calls.
Gencarelli arrived in Portland from the East Coast with his family in 2009, ready to hit the ground running. He sported a stellar fine dining résumé with the requisite high points: an early start as a busboy in a Chinese restaurant, a degree from the Culinary Institute of America and involvement in award-winning restaurants from San Francisco to Boston. Most notably, Gencarelli launched several restaurants for celebrity chef Todd English before leading the kitchen at the Inn at Shelburne Farms, a landmark farmstead restaurant in Vermont. He even had a New York Times notable cookbook to his name.
Nonetheless, no one in Portland took notice until Gencarelli created Lardo in a charming blue cottage-style cart. His name value skyrocketed, capped off when Smithsonian magazine declared Lardo one of the top 20 foods trucks in the nation in 2012.
The new fine dining
In switching from four-star fare to street food, Gencarelli trailed Portland’s top chefs, including Tommy Habetz, a Mario Batali protegé who created Bunk Sandwiches, and Andy Ricker of Pok Pok restaurant fame, a 2011 James Beard Best Chef Northwest winner. His food was fitting, too, in a town that excels in raising lowbrow cuisine — including PB&Js and barbecue (locally sourced) — to new heights.
Lardo generated so much buzz, the community of chefs and restaurateurs opened up their arms to Gencarelli. “I give Portland all the credit,” he said. Soon, he was on the receiving end of phone calls, including an invitation from restaurant developer Kurt Huffman of Chefstable to give Lardo a real home.
On the day in June 2012 when Gencarelli locked up his food cart for the last time, he felt both relieved and anxious about the transition. “This was never a way to earn a living,” he acknowledged. Now that he was taking his food cart concept into the big time, he worried, “Will I still be able to make my own porchetta? My own ketchup?”
Food cart followers
Gencarelli did not predict the big welcome his brick-and-mortar Lardo would receive in its new Hawthorne Boulevard neighborhood.
On opening day that summer, 1,000 fans crowded the shop. “It was absolutely crazy,” Gencarelli remembered, “and we didn’t stop for three days.”
He felt relieved when demand rescinded to manageable levels, but the ball was already rolling with food pod fans ready to follow wherever Gencarelli went with his meaty, signature sandwiches.
Lest anyone think Gencarelli the chef was going back to white tablecloth dining, Grassa has no waiters, no stemware, no linens in sight. Just generous $8-$12 bowls of homemade pasta served to a surging niche of diners who seek well-crafted, affordable food without the frills. Created in Portland, this is the next wave of fine dining.
Building the Lardo brand
With three new restaurants in operation within eight months, Gencarelli reflected on his quick ascent. He was happy to report he was still rolling his own porchetta, producing the pastrami, and forming banh mi meatballs by the hundreds of pounds. “The flavors of the cart live on,” he said, noting that the only sacrifice was replacing his homemade ketchup with Heinz.
Strangely enough, a business built on Lardo was never part of Gencarelli’s plan. At the first chance, he believed he’d distance himself from the food cart. “I never thought I’d stick with sandwiches. I’d do the cart for a little while and then do plated food again.” And he’d thought about being on the short list for a James Beard Award. “You have to let your ego go a little bit,” he confessed. Now, with his reputation solidly built on the tagline “bringing the fat back,” this ambitious chef was embracing a different career strategy while making real food for the people.
Might Gencarelli follow Ricker to New York, opening a Lardo in that proving ground where his career began?
“I plan on dying in Portland,” he quickly replied. True enough, the last word was that Gencarelli is planning his third Lardo location for Portland’s thriving Alberta neighborhood. It will open by the end of the year.
Top photo: Rick Gencarelli. Credit: David L. Reamer Photography
The interior of Malaysia Kopitiam, tucked downstairs on M Street in Washington, D.C., reminded me very much of the many local restaurants from back home in Malaysia.
I knew this place existed as I walked down 17th Street near Connecticut Avenue, looking for some Asian cuisine to tuck into.
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The bright red awning with the name “Malaysia Kopitiam” emblazoned in white is nestled near a Vietnamese restaurant and not far from the Daily Grill.
During my visit, I sat in one of the vinyl booths and perused the extensive menu filled with familiar Malaysian dishes like nasi lemak (rice cooked in coconut milk) and beef rendang (tender curried beef simmered in coconut milk and roasted dessicated coconut).
Minutes go by and two young Americans walk in to inquire about the food. “What is Malaysian food?” one asked the waitress while her friend scrutinized the names of the foreign dishes. “It’s a mix of Chinese, Indian and Malay flavors. … We have noodles and rice, too,” explained the staff. Still not convinced, the woman asked, “So, is it like Thai?” to which the waitress replied, “It’s similar, but we use different spices. You should try it.” Both women seemed hesitant, so they politely declined and left.
Chefs help customers embrace Malaysian menu
Actually, this is not the usual scenario at Malaysia Kopitiam. “A lot of Americans who come in here already know what to expect of Malaysian food. You would be surprised how adventurous they are,” said Penny Phoon, 54, the chef who owns the business with her husband, Leslie, 58. The couple lives in Falls Church, Va., with their two sons.
The owners hail from Ipoh, a city in the northern state of Perak in Malaysia. In 2000, Malaysia Kopitiam was the first Malaysian restaurant to open in the Washington, D.C., according to Penny.
“There was a café called Penang, which unfortunately closed down after two years. We feel lucky to have survived the first 10 years with the support of regular customers and our staff. It was tough because we went through a recession, too,” she said.
Because Thai food is the more popular Southeast Asian cuisine, Penny and Leslie make it a point to educate their customers. “We tell them Thai food consists of mostly cold salads, grilled fish and the use of roots and different peppers as well as lemon and sugar. In Malaysian cooking, we use a lot of coconut and gravitate towards tamarind and lime in our dishes.”
Those with spice intolerance will ask what on the menu is spicy and what is not. “There are more adventurous ones who can eat more spicy food than we do,” Penny said.
The menu comprises mostly signature Malay, Chinese and Indian dishes from Penang and Ipoh, including roti canai (Indian-influenced circular flat bread usually consumed with curry), assam laksa (sweet, sour and spicy broth with thick rice noodles, fish, onions and mint leaves) and char koay teow (flat rice noodles fried with dark soy and chili sauce, egg, chives and bean sprouts), to name a few.
Many people have a love-hate relationship with assam laksa because of the “fishy texture.” “You either like it or hate it. If you are adventurous then go ahead, which is what I tell my customers. If I can’t decide what to eat, I will choose laksa, especially in cold winter months as warm comfort food,” Penny said.
Leslie said that apart from surviving the volatile economy, naming the restaurant was another hurdle. “We wanted to simply call it Kopitiam, but it was too generic,” he said. (“Kopi” means coffee in Malay while “tiam” means shop/cafe in the Hakka/Hokkien dialect). “So we had to go with Malaysia Kopitiam, which means Malaysia Café.”
Hung on one wall in the restaurant are the accolades they have garnered over the years. They were bestowed the title of Restaurateur of the Year in 2002 by Washingtonian magazine; 100 Very Best Restaurants Award from 2001 to 2005, and 2007 and 2008; and 100 Best Bargain Restaurants Award from 2001 to 2010, also from Washingtonian. They were also rated “excellent” by Zagat.
When I accompany Penny to the kitchen, she starts to prepare a serving of hokkien mee (thick egg noodles braised with shrimp, fish cake and cabbage in thick soy sauce). She mutters some orders to her helpers in Spanish. “I don’t speak fluent Spanish, but good enough to communicate,” she acknowledges.
I was curious as to where she sourced her spices. “It’s easy to get them from Asian markets here … stuff like turmeric, lime leaves, galangal and torch ginger are available. The first five years we had a supplier make a delivery every two months,” she said.
Penny’s mother was her biggest influence when it came to cooking. “She told me, if you want to be a good chef, you must listen to the good and bad comments. Otherwise, you won’t progress. That is why I keep as close to the ingredients in my cooking but adjust it to suit the local taste here.”
The aroma of the spices permeating throughout the restaurant and warmth from the familiar food was blissful, as I was really missing all of it for the six months I was in the U.S. It was like a home away from home.
Top photo: Assam laksa from Malaysia Kopitiam. Credit: Aida Ahmad
Even an unrepentant meat eater like myself takes pause before the gory spectacle of tauromachia, the so-called art of bullfighting. Not that I’ve attended an actual Spanish corrida de toros, but I’ve recently seen Francesco Rosi’s painfully graphic 1965 film, “The Moment of Truth.” The “truth” of Spain’s traditional blood sport doesn’t get any more in your face than in Rosi’s classic tale of an aspiring young matador filmed on location at a huge bullring in Barcelona with a 300mm zoom lens used for soccer matches.
Animal rights advocates must have thrilled to the news in 2010 that bullfighting was being outlawed in Catalonia. From their perspective, a slaughterhouse bullet to an unsuspecting bovine brain is far more palatable than a matador’s sword “artistically” delivered between the shoulder blades to the heart of a charging one-ton toro.
After seeing Rosi’s film, I wished I could ask a bull: Would he prefer a painless but oblivious exit to one with suffering and style, or as bullfighting aficionados might say, con arte (with art)? As for me, I’d want to go con arte.
Bottom line, in either scenario the bull will be killed, butchered, cooked and eaten. Frankly, I’ve never considered bullfighting from a gastronomic perspective. I can now see, however, that the matador’s art form represents, in some sense at least, the first stage of an ancient life cycle ritual that ends, one way or another, at the dinner table.
A Spanish butcher in Berkeley
For all I knew, before Anzonini del Puerto arrived on the Berkeley scene in the late 1970s, the bloodied hulks dragged from bullrings were buried with cultural, if not military, honors. Anzonini, a legendary flamenco performer, butcher and cook from Andalusia (one of his nicknames was “butcher of bulls”) disabused me of my naïve disconnect.
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As a young man, Anzonini, born Manuel Bermúdez Junquera in 1917, worked at his family’s carnicería (butcher shop) in Puerto de Santa María, near Jerez in southern Spain. Among his tasks was to help cart bulls from the ring and prepare the meat for sale. The family shop was located near the town’s majestic Plaza de Toros. Legend has it that Anzonini could break down an entire bull and be back at the bullring in time to see the next fight.
When Anzonini arrived in Berkeley to visit a group of young flamenco students who had seen him sing and dance in southern Spain, they were ecstatic. These would-be performers worshipped Anzonini not only for his magnetic arte on stage, but also for his gifts in the kitchen. All of which were on full display the night I met Anzonini at a small fiesta held in his honor.
The evening was special for everyone involved: Anzonini’s fans and those, like myself, who were witnessing and tasting his special talents for the first time. As for Anzonini that night, well, he fell in love. The object of his coup de coeur (I know no Spanish language equivalent) was my fellow Cheese Board co-worker and founder of the now legendary Swallow Café at the University of California Berkeley Art Museum, the late Patricia Darrow.
Anzonini’s favorite matador
Moving into Darrow’s small Gourmet Ghetto bungalow, Anzonini was soon presiding over local fiestas; performing, cooking and sharing stories about Spain with his adoring minions. I became one of Anzonini’s minions, and he bestowed upon me my flamenco name: Juan Ajo.
One story, recorded in Darrow’s unfinished manuscript about Anzonini and his food, expressed his deep connection to the Spanish corrida, not merely its beefy spoils. His favorite matador was Curro Romero who was, according to Anzonini, usually terrible, unintentionally comedic and often cowardly. But on some occasions Curro surpassed himself and his fellow toreros with technical and stylistic genius.
Darrow quotes one of Anzonini’s quips about Curro’s unique presence in the ring:
Running away [from the bull] Curro has more arte than all the rest … That’s how I dance; twenty times badly and one time with arte.
Anzonini obviously saw himself in Curro, at least in terms of performance. But in the kitchen there was never any doubt about Anzonini’s brilliance, and the dishes we tasted over the years were invariably delicioso.
Cocina con arte
Anzonini’s tasty contributions to Berkeley’s gastronomic gestalt in the late 1970s and early ’80s are seldom referenced today. That his sausages, especially his chorizo, inspired important California chefs such as sausage king Bruce Aidells (see the scene in Les Blank’s 1980 film “Garlic Is As Good As Ten Mothers” where they make chorizo together), and were a popular item for sale at Chef Victoria Wise’s legendary Gourmet Ghetto charcuterie, Pig-by-the-Tail, is passed over in most published accounts of Berkeley’s revolutionary food scene.
Nevertheless, Anzonini and his cooking live on in the memories and stomachs of those who shared those exciting years with him in Berkeley. The aroma coming off his beefy Puchero, a classic Spanish soup simmering on my stove as I write this, is a ticket back to those delicious days when Anzonini del Puerto, butcher of bulls, served his inimitable cocina con arte.
Serves 10 to 12
One of Anzonini’s most celebrated dishes is a delicately seasoned soup/stew prepared with a variety of fatty meats; in this version, oxtails, short ribs and shank. He kept containers of the broth frozen in the refrigerator and would bring it to friends when they were sick. The dish can be served separately as a Sopa de Picadillo with chopped egg, ham and mint followed by a meat course accompanied by small potatoes cooked in the broth.
For the broth:
6 to 8 quarts cold water
6 to 8 pounds beef (oxtails, short ribs, shank)
¾ pound salt pork
2 large tomatoes, quartered
2 large onions, quartered
1 large green bell pepper, sliced
2 to 4 bay leaves
8 to 10 black peppercorns
Salt to taste
2 dozen small boiling potatoes
3 hard-boiled eggs, chopped
1 cup diced ham, preferably Spanish
Fresh mint leaves
Bread brushed with olive oil and toasted
lemon slices (optional)
1. The day before serving, bring all ingredients for the broth to a boil and skim off impurities. Continue cooking at a slow boil for 2 to 3 hours, until meat falls off the bones. Refrigerate overnight.
2. The next day, remove the fat layer that has solidified on top of the broth. Then heat the meat and broth and correct for salt. Remove the meats from the broth and discard the loose bones. Keep meat warm.
3. Boil potatoes in the broth until soft. Keep warm.
4. To serve, place a few teaspoons of chopped egg and diced ham in shallow soup bowls. Pour in the hot broth. Garnish with a mint leaf and serve with toasted bread. (Anzonini would fry the bread in olive oil.)
5. For the meat course, place meat back in remaining broth to heat through — a few minutes in simmering broth should do. Then serve the meat on plates with the potatoes. Hot broth can be placed on the table in gravy boats.
Note: Anzonini also served this broth in glasses with a slice of lemon and a mint leaf.
Top graphic: Gastro-graphical ISO street sign #4. Credit: L. John Harris
It was my 75th birthday, and I had no idea what to expect. My family insisted it be a surprise. We edged our way through a busy commercial street in Girona, Catalonia, and an open doorway beckoned us into the peaceful, sunlit courtyard of El Celler de Can Roca. “A glass of Cava perhaps?” smiles our server, and so begins five hours of unparalleled feasting. El Celler de Can Roca opened 27 years ago and is run by three brothers: Joan at the kitchen range, Jordì the pastry chef and Josep the sommelier. The three have created a gourmet destination that combines past and future with extraordinary brilliance. This March it was named best restaurant in the world on a website sponsored by San Pellegrino and Acqua Panna.
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Within the restaurant, the surroundings are strongly linked to the earth, with trees, pebbles and wood-paneled walls enclosing views on a miniature forest of birch trees, giving a feeling of the outdoors. In any restaurant, what’s on the plate should tell you where you are, and with our drinks arrives a tiny bonsai olive tree, instantly setting the scene. We crunch the hanging olives and our mouths burst with salty sweetness — the anchovy-stuffed fruits have been veiled in a whisp of caramel. What could be more symbolic of the ancient city of Girona in the mountains of northern Catalonia, flanked by olive groves running down to the Mediterranean Sea.
The olives lead into a tour of the world in tiny bites: a tomato and coriander guacamole from Mexico, an explosive ball of ceviche broth representing Peru, and pickled vegetables with plum cream as an echo of China. Visit on a different day and the world tour will be different we are told.
Eager to explore, we opt for the menu of the day, which leads to some 25 eye-catching, palate-teasing tastings, several of them among the most intriguing I’ve encountered anywhere. Just a small spoonful of zarzuela, pungent and concentrated, sums up the essence of the rustic Catalonian fish soup. A single prawn from the nearby port of Palamos provides astonishingly intensive tastes of raw tail, dried feelers, toasted liver meat, and jus from the shell — I would never have thought such a barrage of varied flavors could be extracted from one small beast.
Old and new cuisine combine in the two or three mouthfuls of crisp baby pig belly moistened with a Riesling jus, and the pigeon in a classic salmis blood, and liver sauce spiked with nuggets of candied walnut, a mastery of richness and intensity. Though the tastings are tiny, the ingredients are not treated as playthings (one of the great drawbacks of today’s Modernist cuisine). As the meal progresses, it’s clear that Chef Joan is focusing on regional ingredients — fish such as red mullet and bream, are typical of the Mediterranean, the green and black olives are local, pork comes from Iberian pigs, and game from the foothills of the mountains. Some seasonings hark back to the Arabs — rose water, honey, ras el hanout, saffron and orange.
The cooking at Can Roca has roots, but no way could it have been achieved without an ultra-modern kitchen. On arrival, we had been welcomed backstage to see the banks of buttons, stainless steel and gadgetry. The restaurant has lots of staff, too: 35 cooks in the kitchen and a couple dozen servers for perhaps 50 guests. The staff is as international as the diners, John from Philadelphia had just completed seven months at the stove, and Rocio, our server and guide, was from Valencia in southern Spain.
Among the abundance of dishes, the astonishing truffle soufflé stands out, a 2-inch round of feather-light hot truffle mousse enclosed in discs of fresh black truffle, set on a round of warm bone marrow and served under a glass bell which, when lifted, pervades the air with a hint of BBQ smoke. I like to think of myself as a soufflé expert, but I cannot imagine how this tour de force could be carried from the kitchen to diner after diner with never a hint of collapse.
Are the Roca brothers a successor to their former neighbor, Ferran Adrià at el Bullì? The two restaurants share the same Catalonian spice-perfumed air, the freshest of fish, the olive oil and garlic and warm registers of cardamom, cinnamon and cumin that date back to medieval times, backed up the rust red of paprika brought from the New World.
But Adrià, who creates imaginary images and flavors, the Roca brothers focus on real food on the plate. What distinguishes them from other Modernist chefs is their use of modern techniques against a background of tradition. If this is where the gastronomic future lies, let’s pursue it with gusto!
Guests exclaim in surprise when tasting these salty olives dipped in caramel. They will hold up an hour or two, perfect with a glass of cava sparkling white wine, or a very dry martini.
Makes about 30 to 40 olives
1 cup (about 5 ounces) anchovy-stuffed olives in brine
2 cups sugar
2 cups water
1. Drain the olives and dry them very thoroughly on paper towels, squeezing slightly to extract as much brine as possible. This helps the caramel remain crisp. Spear each olive on a toothpick. Set them on a tray lined with paper towels and chill them, uncovered. Prepare a large bowl of hot water, and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or foil.
2. Mix the sugar and water in a small, deep saucepan. (You will have leftover syrup, but this amount is needed for dipping.) Heat gently until the sugar is dissolved, stirring once or twice. Bring the syrup to a boil and boil without stirring to the hard crack, 294 F/146 C on a sugar thermometer. The syrup should be just starting to color. Take at once from the heat and plunge base of the pan into the bowl of hot water to stop cooking.
3. Holding an olive with the toothpick, dip it into the syrup (the syrup sets quicker on cold olives). Lift out, twirl so the olive is lightly coated, let cool a few seconds so the syrup solidifies, and set the olive on the parchment paper. Repeat with the remaining olives. The syrup may start to set, and if so reheat it until liquid and keep going.
4. Transfer the olives to a platter for serving. Serve them at room temperature.
Top photo: Anchovy-stuffed olives wreathed in caramel hang from a bonsai tree. Credit: Nicole Quessenberry
Cuban food in Cuba? A cinch, I thought. But common wisdom was that restaurants there were poor and served only passable versions of familiar Cuban dishes done better in Miami or New York. And it was, for the most part, true.
Paladar Doña Eutimia: Callejón del Chorro 60-C, Habana Vieja. Phone: 861-1332.
Nao: Calle Obispo 1, Habana Vieja. Phone: 867-3463.
Mamá Inéz: Calle de la Obrapia 60, Habana Vieja. Phone: 862-2669.
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As we barrel ahead into the 21st century, the exuberant citizens of Cuba struggle to come to terms with a regime that has barely budged in over 50 years of ironclad rule. Small freedoms have been won recently, cracks in the walls have appeared. People are freer to leave. Dissidents are left in relative peace. Gays are no longer jailed and even have their own beach. And the restaurant scene, from a visitor’s perspective anyway, is blossoming.
The Cuban government has allowed the private ownership of paladares (the word paladar means palate or taste), privately owned small restaurants, since the 1990s. At first, home cooks opened their dining rooms to the public, offering simple criollo — traditional Cuban — food. But restrictions were placed on the number of tables as well as the menu. Seafood was strictly under the counter, for example, keeping restaurants at a basic level.
Rules have been relaxed somewhat in the last couple of years as a concession to the call for free enterprise, or perhaps better said, reality. There is more tourism now: new, sophisticated visitors who come for music, food and culture — not just cigars and the beach. So some paladares have blossomed into full-fledged professional operations: maître d’s, wine lists, reservations accepted.
Some aim for the international hipster. Le Chansonnier, for example is set in an old mansion where black-clad staff serve contemporary cuisine to the likes of visiting Spanish royalty.
More interesting are several new venues that celebrate traditional Cuban cuisine. These places see fit to rescue and restore classic cooking. Recipes that languished in books or in the memories of grandmothers who lived before the revolution are being revived. Nowadays a wider variety of raw ingredients is available, and chefs, as well as the home cooks who can, are taking advantage of this wealth while exploring the rich lexicon of criollo cooking. Lobster, fish, lamb, even venison can be procured with some effort — indeed, most materia prima is produced on the island.
The view from Havana
A case in point is Restaurante Mama Inéz, named after a famous folk song (“Ay mamá Inéz, ay mamá Inéz, todos los negros tomamos café“). It’s one of the best of this new breed.
Located in the heart of restored Habana Vieja, the décor is homey, like an old-fashioned Italian trattoria, and the menu is classic, with dishes that would make any Cuban mama proud. Chef Erasmo meticulously prepares an artisanal version of arroz con pollo, the iconic Cuban dish. It’s made to order and served in a ceramic cazuela. Like a good risotto, the rice is al dente, little chunks of boned chicken are tender and the sauce fragrant, well balanced and made more complex by the addition of tomatoes, white wine, beer, green pepper, garlic and achiote (annatto). This is home-style cooking at its best; no corners are cut.
Another popular spot near the cathedral, Doña Eutimia, serves Cuban food, traditional albeit gussied up. The menu includes many well-known classics, such as ropa vieja and picadillo. The mariscada del chef, sautéed seafood served in a lobster shell, is somewhat reminiscent of a New Orleans-style étouffée. This is Caribbean cooking at its best.
Nao, which recently opened in Habana Vieja, is yet another venue for highfalutin Cuban cuisine. Its food is unpretentious and doesn’t turn its back on tradition. According to the chef, dishes are similar to those that would have been prepared during the colonial era in which a profound mix of African, Spanish and French influence can be detected. Case in point is deep-fried whole pargo, a meaty fish, whose crust is fragrant with cumin and garlic. Or the stuffed tostones, fried mashed plantain “boats” with four different fillings, both surf and turf, which are imaginative and modern but steeped in tradition: after all, tostones accompany almost every meal in every table in Cuba.
This is not to say that everything is smooth sailing. Like everyone else on the island, a restaurateur’s life is not easy. Shortages of taken-for-granted goods as tomatoes and onions are commonplace, sudden blackouts frequent. But, in keeping with the positive spirit of the people, these handicaps are overcome. And it mustn’t be forgotten that in Cuba the majority will never enter this kind of restaurant and will barely scrape by on beans and rice. So it’s a small miracle that this gastronomic revival, supported by visitors and the privileged few nationals who can afford the price of admission, is taking place.
I will now return on one of my frequent sojourns with light-headed gustatory expectation. I know I won’t be let down.
Top photo: Stuffed plátanos (plantains) at Nao. Credit: Nicholas Gilman