eggbeater

Popeyes, a biscuit I would have never found

Much to the complete surprise of myself and everyone who even remotely knows me, I found a fast-food item that I like. A Lot. I feel a little ashamed, but also thrilled and delighted, like having a new crush on someone I probably shouldn't bring home.

The other night I went over to my friend's house for dinner and when I arrived I was asked if I wanted to take a walk get a little something to add to our meal. I thought I heard H. say, "Hey, you wanna go to pie-pies?" "Sure," I said not at all understanding where we were going or of what business she was speaking. But as we entered the Mission I started to catch on.

Popeyes lives on the random corner of 22nd and Mission. For years I lived about three blocks from said location and had never, until now, stepped foot in it. H. picked up a dozen and I thought that sounded like a lot for just her and her g.f. D., but I knew better than to get between her and her home-town's comfort food. I felt completely honored that I, a Yankee, was being invited to eat real Texas/Louisiana border boudin and all the trimmings! H. also picked up some Popeye's red beans & rice and off we went back to their house.

OK, we have to talk. After one bite of that warmed biscuit I have had to re-think everything I have ever known. How did a fast-food joint get the bottom crust golden? Without a hint of nasty flour residue? How did that biscuit not only melt in my mouth but have the tricky perfume of good fatty butter? Goddamn.

The joke was that H. bought 12 biscuits so that I could have one. But now I have more than a crush. Even my Yankee roommate D. admits to thinking they're pretty good. I never thought I'd see the day when eggbeater  would fly the Popeye's logo proud. Except for the odd In & Out burger once every few years, fast food is not my thing. Politically or digestibility.

But here stands I, a waving-my-hand-in-the-air kinda convert. Praise these biscuits, they are yum.

**For those of you in SF who can't get with Popeye's, Great Biscuit News arrived yesterday. Amanda Berne reported in Scoop that Joanna Karlinsky of (the late) Meetinghouse fame will be serving her unbelievable biscuits at Elite Cafe (2049 Fillmore st.) when it is up and running after some renovations!!!!!! These little round baked mounds of joy are a reason for living.**

The 23rd, a Meme

Here we are again, in memeland. Crafty and cute, (the person, not the blog. The blog is serious, smart and pertinant.) World on a Plate has tagged me for a silly meme:

1. Delve into your blog archive.

2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).

3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).

4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas...

5. Tag five people to do the same.

CUSTARD CLASS NOTES AND PHOTOS 's fifth sentence read:

"Who will say that custard is not wondrous, mythical, beguiling?"

Custard is so magical. Eggs, which can turn their self-important little backs on us by becoming hard and bouncy, or trick us into thinking all they're good for is an over easy fried blob, are really both the architects and the flying buttresses of the baking/cooking world. Miss an instant in whisking they curdle, treat them with love and affection they give back triple-fold. Lofty meringues, tart yet creamy hollandaise, unctuous buttercream, the simple steaming white orb in an egg cup waiting patiently for your spoon, silk velvet elusive pot de creme, crunchy sable, the impossible fantastic fish quenelle, thick luxurious frozen vanilla flecked custard, the finicky creme brulee, an angel food cake elegant and tall, the challenge of one small raw quail egg atop a mound of red and bloody beef. The egg is the perfect shape the single spoon quennelle emulates and the shells are painstakingly hollowed out by many cultures to produce decorated masterpieces, both delicate and bold.

The egg never ceases to amaze me, still me, delight me.

Tag, you're it:

My new soulmate in praise of sardines, the bawdry salty-tongued Mistress of SF confessions of a restaurant whore, petite and pretty Lovescool, smart and informative food chronicles, and the blog of gorgeous proper English prose cook's cottage.

the sea is my siren

Because I have never had a middle name, (Isn't Shuna enough?!) I have, throughout my life, chosen one to fill the space. For a short time it was Nus, (I can't explain this, nor can my family), a slightly longer time, Snoopy, and now, for the longest time, it's been Fish. This could be because my mother and father used to put me between them and say, "we are making a Shunafish sandwich." ( I found out when I was about 30 that Shuna was the name of an island off the Northwest coast of Scotland, and even had a Shuna Sound.) And it could be because I am a Pisces and have always been obsessed with the sea. Anything Maritime, in fact. I like sailors, Poseidon, boats, islands, fishing, the Coast Guard, anything that swims, sea birds, watching diving on tv, swimming, you name it. I collect water inspired art and am an amateur water colorist. I learned how to drive a boat first and love the feeling of salt water that has been battered into my hair by the wind.

My last full day in Portland was spent on the beach with my extended  family. I love that beaches and coastlines everywhere are vastly different and reflect the ocean that borders the land in a myriad of ways. We have a steep dramatic coast here in Northern California and the whole of Ireland is like this but more craggy and dark. The beaches I grew up on in NY were long and sandy, tamed, and snaked with boardwalks and dotted with old ghost ridden amusement parks. I have swum in the Caribbean and Hawaii, waded into water just 100 miles north of Cuba, sailed for days through treacherous storms and snorkeled past barracuda. I miss living in a place where I can swim in the summer.

But even to be by the sea satiates like making love or exquisite eating. I fear the ocean and I desire it. It understands me, silences me and humbles me. It is where I go when human rumblings are too much or confusing.

Sahagun. a chocolate ally in Portland

My past trip to Portland was the first one where I was able to see the farmer's markets in full throttle. I had been hearing about them from my family for the last few years they've lived there, and even though here in SF we have some of the best around, I always like to see and taste how other growing regions  produce different fruit or fruit differently.

But I had not just been hearing about the amazing berries, apples and hazelnuts from the Pacific Northwest, I had been hearing about these wild chocolates at the Saturday farmer's market sold under the elegant trees that sprinkled dappled light on our heads and the umbrella tents. It helped that I was hearing about an exceptionally beautiful woman with tiny hand-dipped, seasonally infused ganache filled chocolates.

And I got lucky. I met the woman behind the exquisite sweets and was able to visit a slip of a ruby colored shop, her new space for showcasing these bittersweet jewels. Square plates present square chocolates with silver dust in shiny colors to hint at what lay inside. Pink faerie dust alludes to rose geranium, red - chili, green - fresh mint. I was there in time for the marionberry truffles, an orb that is Portland's dimple. Demure and coy, Portland entices with tiny hidden small businesses, summer weather that knocks your socks off, a burgeoning food scene where hope and possibility are in everyones eyes.

Portland is friendly, overly so, for the most part. The city is excited to be itself and every food person I spoke to just smiled and smiled, whether they were talking about bicycle paths, Laughing Stock Farm pigs, First Thursday, berries, bio-diesel, green architecture or the Willamette River.

When I approached Elizabeth Montes, the owner of Sahagun, I was shy and nervous. But a few days a later when I stopped into her store on NW 16th ave. {between Burnside and Couch}, we fell easily into conversation about 'the business' and she showed me the new tempering machine. She told me how temperature wasn't always her friend. Chocolate makers are really the scientists of the pastry world. Their spaces are cool, clean, streamlined and shiny. Chocolate must be tamed and every brand and bean produces a new wild animal.

It makes perfect sense that Sahagun's confections are sold at the farmer's market. They are fresh and should be eaten very soon after purchase. The other day I unfolded two whole hazelnut topped thimble shaped chocolates and shared them with an old beau. He was god damned lucky because they were filled with caramel the texture of silk spilling out of a box. I was expecting something much denser but was met with overflowing gorgeous sticky liquid. This innocuous little thing is a reason for driving the 12 hours it takes to get to Portland!

If you get there while it's still warm ask for a CHOCOLATE SODA. I got this email today, so I know she's ready.

Hi Shuna! 
Some people came in here last week and asked for a chocolate soda, yikes!  I quickly found out they were your friends and made them one.  Since you left I hadn't made another one so I don't think it turned out any better.  BUT
Since today was such a hot day I thought I might make another go of it.  ......Much better!  I used a cocktail shaker instead of whisking the chocolate and water then poured the soda.  It was good.  So .......I'm ready for any surprise chocolate soda drinkers you throw my way.....
: ) Elizabeth

And if you arrive there finding yourself a bit chilled she tells me she's working on THE PERFECT HOT CHOCOLATE.

Excited about Portland yet?

old skool shaved ice

Sitting here in my long underwear it is hard to imagine that just a mere month ago I was sticking to the asphalt and sweating in my cold shower. Dogs panted in the shade and people were very very quiet on the subway. (One only need spend one summer in NYC to understand why the homicide rate skyrockets when summer arrives.)

So to celebrate the Bay Area's version of summer, which we expect in October, I give you this chilly tease. Close your eyes. Open your mouth. Frozen flakes of sweet sticky syrup of flavours blue and red, milky white fatty coconut and chartreuse lime. You can barely catch the ice before it melts, melding with sugar and you lick your fingers and it spills down your shirt but now you're laughing because you're not sure if wearing this old fashioned concoction-elixir of street urchins, Puerto Rican ladies  and children soaked from the fire hydrant sprinkler, is what you meant to do when you asked in broken Spanish for the $1 icy treat.

But that big solid heavy block of ice caught your eye. It said low like a purring but definitive whisper, "You need me." Sparkled like dangerous bling in the hazy hot afternoon unforgiving sun.

The leather looking man flashed a sharp metal hand held tool and pushed into the dense rock. Swoop! Into the cup and then a quick reach for the syrup. Pours it over the mound of shaved ice but doesn't stop in time. Street food that makes you stop and drink it all up, now. You fumble trying to keep it in the cup so that the cold liquid can get to your desperate mouth.

My mother and I used to walk these Lower East Side streets when they weren't cute and in fashion. We bought bread pudding from the bodegas on letter street corners and lived on coco helado in the summer. I learned how to pair guava paste with cream cheese and what the whistles from rooftops  meant.

Go on, have a little taste.

~~~food as memory ~

Portland bakery crawl

Thanks to many of your suggestions, and a perennial favorite, I spent a number of days Bakery Hunting in Portland. Crouched down, donned light golden brown camo, took aim with my discerning butter sensitive palate, shot down and dragged in a number of pastries and bread for comparitive tasting.

but first the CAKE pilgrimage:                                                                                              I drove up from SF on a Monday and Tuesday morning I took my whole family into Crema {SE 2728 SE Ankeny Street 503 234.0206} to order a most incredible cake, The Basque Tart. The story behind this cake is this: When I started visiting Portland a few years ago my friend Ann nonchalantly brought me into Florio, a light airy bakery with more ceiling footage than tables. We picked up what would turn out to be the best Ciabatta I've ever had and  a piece of blonde, almond scented cake with cream tucked in the middle. I had trouble sharing the cake so the next time I went in I picked up a few pieces. It got to the point that a visit had to include that cake and a speedy dash before any flight home so as to prolong the too short visit to this small plush city in the comfort of my own home kitchen.

Then I got the call. "Florio has been sold to new owners." Crying ensued.

In May, on a hopeful whim, I ran in and breathlessly told my story to the random fellow behind the counter. "Well, you see, I know that this place has new owners but you used to make this cake and I was, well, wondering if you might ever make it again?" And it that very laid back Portland way this wonderful creature pulled out a business card and wrote down the name of the baker, Sal. Jackpot! The baker had stayed on!

Sal said that yes, he did still sometimes make that cake, but besides the few people like me who were obsessed, it had trouble selling.

And so I special ordered it upon arrival. It didn't look exactly the same, but tasted Mighty Fine and wowed my Portland family of eight. It cost $22 and was best the day it was made, (inedible on its third day.) Crema has a special order list and they are soon to be creating a more extensive seasonal cake menu. The coconut cake is another favorite of mine. Coconut pastry cream fills the three layers and the cakey part is tender and moist. They serve Stumptown coffee and mine went nicely with an apricot jam filled scone.

                                             ---------------------------------

On a reader's suggestion I also went to Criollo {(503) 335-9331 4727 NE Fremont St.} Although I tend to love bakeries started by ex restaurant pastry chefs I thought this bakery was underwhelming, generic and many of the items showed complete lack of bakery baking skill. Cookies were under baked, laminated doughs were soggy, brioche was dry, petit fours were stale. One find was outstanding, the sourdough loaf. it was both dense and had a light crumb, (extremely hard to achieve with a good & sour sourdough.) It made fantastic toast and was also very good sandwich bread. I would make a special trip for this.

The two other bakeries on the hunt were St. Honore and Ken's Artisan Bakery http://www.kensartisan.com/{338 NW 21st Avenue (corner of 21st and Flanders)} St. Honore is barely worth a mention. It was horrible. I ordered 4 items all made with different doughs, a sure way to see how knowledgeable and skilled a bakery is. Puff pastry  in the Napoleon was stale, the custard tasted of nothing. Apple chausson left a film on the roof of my mouth, a sign that a fat besides butter is present. And the apple paste inside was salty!? Think this is too harsch? Check out what The Portland Food Dude has to say.

Ken's specialty, hands down, is bread. I sampled 4 different kinds, both from their farmer's market stand and the store. The brioche was the exception. The yeast had  gone off and it just was not tender and buttery enough. (Della Fattoria has spoiled me beyond reason.) On a first afternoon visit I tried an almond croissant, cannele and a French chocolate macaroon. The little sweet things look and feel like an afterthought. The macaroon was inedible. It was so stale it shattered on impact. The almond croissant had a negligible amount of almond filling that tasted like it had gone through the flavor extraction machine. But when I went back on a cool morning I ordered a mixed pot of Rooibos and verbena tea, cannele and croissant. Divine. I sat behind a massive vase of cosmos at a communal table and savored every bite of my flaky warm croissant and dark and custardy cannele.

At a pastry conference I once heard that bread bakers make bready croissants and patissieres make buttery flaky croissants. That it's a matter of where ones viewpoint lies.

But canneles are another story. A challenge like no other. The shortest recipe I've seen is 3 pages long. You need the right molds, the correct coating for their interiors, the dough needs a number of disco naps and one small hibernation, the oven needs to be hot and those little molds have to be spaced perfectly.

So I'm happy when a bakery takes them on.

Like neighborhood strolling in Portland, each bakery has it's specialty and it's best to go to each of them for theirs.

Half & Half, PDX and 'zines

There are a lot of new adventures I'm having in Portland, but there's one place I always go. Loyal like a dog, tradition is very important to me. I like to see how the elbow of a street changes, how the unique stores shift and change.

Across from Powell's, ( a bookstore the size of a small continent), on a block the shape of an isosceles triangle, a tiny street houses a few very particular businesses. Portland, a city of nooks and crannies. Where resides the best butter.

Half & Half and Reading Frenzy are two complementary places on NE Oak street. The former a kitchy coffee shop, the latter a quirky book and magazine store. Not just any books. Local illustrators, political voices, DIY 'zines, hand printed lead type cards, chapbooks, Japanese sticker & stationary sets, modern embroidery kits, reign supreme here. Books that you pick up because your hands are attracted to the heft and feel of the paper. 'Zines that change your perspective, expose the authors intimate processes, musings and views. Sometimes I'm lucky and find Peko Peko, a food writing 'zine printed on cold press paper with illustrations like the tiny pen and ink cuties in the middle of The New Yorker pages.

An old fashioned screen door lets you into Half & Half, a coffee corner decorated with local art and reading material from Reading Frenzy. I bought a crumb doughnut and a Stumptown decaf cappuccino. Some of my options were deviled eggs, slices of watermelon, apple fritters and homemade oreos. I read Kitchen Sink (a magazine ownership-marked with 'half & half, please please please don't steal!') and took in the warmth before heading out into the sudden summer rain everyone in the shop was talking about. Half & Half is cool and quirky. It's one of those singular Portland businesses that makes being in that exact spot purposeful. A place that makes you feel as if you've discovered it and take a visual piece of it back with you. Playful, these shops can't be found in a tourist guide, they are what Portland is made of.