Apr. 15th, 2013 12:35 pm
Eating well
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muckefuckIt was a good weekend for rich meals: On Friday, I ended up taking my old college buddy out to The Purple Pig for lunch. No wait to speak of, and we were actually satisfied after only four dishes (neck gravy, pig's ear, sardines, morcilla), so the tab was almost reasonable. I've probably mentioned this before, but I really appreciate how thoughtful they are in the inclusion of ingredients: they're always there to improve the dish, not as fancy garnish to justify the price. (Yes, I'm looking at you, Emilio's!) I wouldn't've thought of combining morcilla with watercress and thinly-sliced apples, for instance, but I really enjoyed the combination.
His travelling companion expressed an interest in Vietnamese food, so we ended up at Tank, which seemed to go over well. For dessert, I steered us to Thai Pastry. After a thorough introduction to the specialties in the case (I lamented the loss of my beloved ลูกชุบ), they settled on nothing more exotic than Thai iced tea and ice cream. I ordered a scoop of the pandan-buko myself. A moment later, an embarrassed waitron came to tell us the freezer was malfunctioning and the ice cream was soft; I kept asserting that that was exactly how I liked it, but I don't know that I convinced her.
Saturday morning, I made gone on my promise to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu of making buckwheat crepes in our spanking new nonstick pan. The recipe was a marriage of Cooks Illustrated (which featured a detailed presentation of technique but no tips for incorporating buckwheat flour) and Bittman. CI called for one more egg, which next time I think I'll do without and see if it makes them easier to spread. They were tasty enough, they just weren't pretty. For lunch, I filled the remainder with chicken in béchamel and baked them in imitation of a dish I had in Bernal Heights a decade ago.
It was filling enough that that night at Trattoria no. 10., I was content with only one dish, the veal cheeks. (I know what you're thinking, but this is American veal, so no more cruelly treated than any other factory-raised animal. Moreover, "Veal" is likely to be a bit of licence anyway, given that the Italian name for the dish is guance di manzo "steer cheeks".) They came on a bed of fresh pappardelle with some tasty but superfluous bits of squash and shoestring potatoes. I was very tempted to wash it down with a birra rossa similar to the one I'd enjoyed the day before, but I restrained myself.
I felt no such restraint at lunch the following day, which began with breakfast at Uncommon Ground. This was a concession to me, since I'd told Scruffy I could only come if it were convenient to my house, though by this I meant only "Andersonville" not "two blocks away". For once, they didn't actually screw up anything in my order. The house-made sausage was unpleasantly peppery and too lean to retain the proper looseness, but that's a deliberate choice. The French toast was quite nice, but I don't see a lot of justification for it costing as much as it did.
I was bitching about this to Nuphy a couple hours later (I basically finished up, bought some groceries at Devon, and then had to head right out again and take the bus downtown to meet up with him and Blondie again) and he embarrassed me by announcing his intention to treat us both. I was full enough that nothing on the menu really spoke to me, and then our guest settled matters by voicing his indecision between the hash and the fish and chips. I ordered the latter and let him snitch. But in my mind this was merely accompaniment to a pint of melancholy.
We talked about having some dessert later and never did. Which is, amusingly enough, what ended up happening at dinner. Several times, the Old Man had recited the menu to me: roast chicken, polenta with mascarpone, Caesar salad, and fresh strawberries. I thought he was merely giving us a chance to rest between courses, but it turned out he'd completely forgotten about the berries. (In the end, an extra day of maceration didn't hurt them and they made a lovely topping for the last of the cinnamon coffee cake with vanilla ice cream last night.)
His travelling companion expressed an interest in Vietnamese food, so we ended up at Tank, which seemed to go over well. For dessert, I steered us to Thai Pastry. After a thorough introduction to the specialties in the case (I lamented the loss of my beloved ลูกชุบ), they settled on nothing more exotic than Thai iced tea and ice cream. I ordered a scoop of the pandan-buko myself. A moment later, an embarrassed waitron came to tell us the freezer was malfunctioning and the ice cream was soft; I kept asserting that that was exactly how I liked it, but I don't know that I convinced her.
Saturday morning, I made gone on my promise to
monshu of making buckwheat crepes in our spanking new nonstick pan. The recipe was a marriage of Cooks Illustrated (which featured a detailed presentation of technique but no tips for incorporating buckwheat flour) and Bittman. CI called for one more egg, which next time I think I'll do without and see if it makes them easier to spread. They were tasty enough, they just weren't pretty. For lunch, I filled the remainder with chicken in béchamel and baked them in imitation of a dish I had in Bernal Heights a decade ago.It was filling enough that that night at Trattoria no. 10., I was content with only one dish, the veal cheeks. (I know what you're thinking, but this is American veal, so no more cruelly treated than any other factory-raised animal. Moreover, "Veal" is likely to be a bit of licence anyway, given that the Italian name for the dish is guance di manzo "steer cheeks".) They came on a bed of fresh pappardelle with some tasty but superfluous bits of squash and shoestring potatoes. I was very tempted to wash it down with a birra rossa similar to the one I'd enjoyed the day before, but I restrained myself.
I felt no such restraint at lunch the following day, which began with breakfast at Uncommon Ground. This was a concession to me, since I'd told Scruffy I could only come if it were convenient to my house, though by this I meant only "Andersonville" not "two blocks away". For once, they didn't actually screw up anything in my order. The house-made sausage was unpleasantly peppery and too lean to retain the proper looseness, but that's a deliberate choice. The French toast was quite nice, but I don't see a lot of justification for it costing as much as it did.
I was bitching about this to Nuphy a couple hours later (I basically finished up, bought some groceries at Devon, and then had to head right out again and take the bus downtown to meet up with him and Blondie again) and he embarrassed me by announcing his intention to treat us both. I was full enough that nothing on the menu really spoke to me, and then our guest settled matters by voicing his indecision between the hash and the fish and chips. I ordered the latter and let him snitch. But in my mind this was merely accompaniment to a pint of melancholy.
We talked about having some dessert later and never did. Which is, amusingly enough, what ended up happening at dinner. Several times, the Old Man had recited the menu to me: roast chicken, polenta with mascarpone, Caesar salad, and fresh strawberries. I thought he was merely giving us a chance to rest between courses, but it turned out he'd completely forgotten about the berries. (In the end, an extra day of maceration didn't hurt them and they made a lovely topping for the last of the cinnamon coffee cake with vanilla ice cream last night.)