California dreaming

All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray, and I went for a walk, on a winter’s day/ if I didn’t tell her, I could leave today, California dreaming on such a winter’s day…”

I had visions of Disney’s Goofy, the original goof from California, bobbing about flying autumn leaves while The Mamas and The Papas’ 1965 hit played continuously in my head as I sat in the rainy Manila traffic coming home from the airport last Monday.

As the car inched its way through traffic, I ceremoniously opened a crumpled brown paper bag containing the last of my gorgeous smuggled organic white peach. It was the perfect cure to withdrawal symptoms from the Golden State’s blessed sunrays. I was transported back to a glittering moment by an unusually sunny San Francisco Bay, where the air smelled like ripe, swollen stone fruit mixed with smoked wonder from the porchetta stand and seagulls cried out to the bustling market-goers, asking for a crumb. Slightly bruised and tender from its long voyage, my peach was extra honeyed and I lapped up every last bit of nectar from my fingers.  I understood the sweet appeal of the settlers back in the 1800s. Why would we live anywhere else when every crop was bountiful all year round?

Thanks to its geographical and climatic blessings, almost everything on earth can grow and thrive in California. It’s the one true place in the world where the local food movement can flourish because of the abundance of variety. I was over there recently on a working holiday. Invited by Cali-grown organic food company Amy’s Kitchen to develop some Filipino and Asian recipes, I took the time to plot my hungry descent into the legendary state. Hanging around the Bay area, far from the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, I was plunged into the dichotomist world of inventive consumerism and shiny, happy idealism.  In-N-Out Burger and family-run oyster stalls; splashy California nouvelle cuisine and classic slow food; a shopping spree at Target and leisurely walk by Berkeley. Even the menu in the Flamingo resort over at Santa Rosa had the same split personality: bacon, sausages, eggs and a full stack of pancakes sat happily beside the asparagus-and-egg white frittata with Parmesan cheese. All of it was fantastic, all of it truly California.

Whereas most people save space in their luggage for their shopping, I had shaved off an extra kilo from my weighing scale to make room for the incoming food and the inevitable extra poundage it would bring. True enough, my first real meal was at the In-N-Out Burger at Gilroy. I loved the straightforward approach: hamburger or cheeseburger, with or without onions were your only real options. Oh, and for the extra-gluttonous you had the Double Double. Still owned by the same family of the original mom-and-pop founders Harry and Ester Snyder, who had a strong Christian background, they are one of the few chains to pay their employees significantly more than the mandated state minimum wage. They are also closed on Easter Sunday and back in the day there used to be bible verses on the cups and wrappers.

The sun bore through the windshield as the golden arrow shone. The burgers were fresh, simple, extremely tasty and for once I did not get a stomachache nor a woozy headache from a fast-food patty. Crispy fries, not overly salty … worth the junk-food dive.

Like stepping through Alice in Wonderland’s looking glass, we walked through the sleek doors of San Francisco’s original celebrity chef Michael Mina. The Egyptian-born, Washington-raised chef is often hailed as one of the originals in California nouvelle cuisine. Welcome to America! His namesake restaurant with one Michelin star is poetically found in the same building as Aqua, the first restaurant he worked in that received a star. The executive sous chef was kind enough to create a special tasting menu for my sister and I. True to American form, the service was impeccable: friendly but not imposing, well informed but not stuffy and every little request was accommodated. It just kept on coming. A crazy menu of not-so-“tasting portions” generously poured forth from the kitchen (where I later learned they grew some of their own veggies). As we pummeled through there were constant words of encouragement: “You guys are doing well! Just have fun with it!” My own gourmet rah-rah squad!

From a menu with over 20 items, one can’t expect to be madly in love with all, but I must say there were some truly stellar dishes.  Their signature deconstructed Lobster Potpie was divine. Flaky feuillete, a tender lobster gem flanked by the most adorable baby vegetables I’ve ever seen. And that sauce? Please make me a bath that I can swim in.  They had guessed right to bring us each our own, because I definitely would not have shared it.

The squid ink conchiglie had the perfect texture of al dente, the uni emulsion and sweet little shellfish were awash with a gorgeous nuttiness when paired with the German Eva Fricke 2010 Riesling. My favorite pairing of the evening.

There was a juicy crayfish head that I shamelessly scraped out and devoured, the most tender duck breast I’ve had in ages, and my personal favorite, the daunting geoduck clams. Ugly to see and almost monstrous to cook, but they had done it perfectly. A gorgeous plate with islands of geoduck crudo and tempura floating on a peaceful sea of white grape gazpacho, smears of almond butter and delicate flowers. Spring in a bowl. Unusually clean and sparkling flavors unlike anything I’ve eaten before. Dessert was almost a crime as they brought out what seemed like an endless assortment paired with a fantastic Hungarian Tokaji and a seriously good port wine. The strawberries with basil ice cream were like a tender first kiss and the crème au chocolat with whiskey, a passionate finale. Needless to say, I had to be rolled out of there.

As if I hadn’t had enough to eat, the following day at work in Santa Rosa, I had a massive Mexican lunch. Something so true to California, which was not too long ago a Mexican state. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked…” played in my head as I devoured a Taco Dorado: a grilled pulled chicken-filled soft tortilla deep-fried till crisp and golden topped with cheese, lettuce and fresh pico de gallo. Cheese and bean-stuffed bell peppers served as a shared side dish with my colleague. A hit of dynamite chili oil and green salsa, all I needed was a shot of tequila and a Corona chaser. Alas, it was work time and my dreams of cucaracha-ing with a mariachi band were quashed by some much-needed coffee.

My last real meal in the Bay Area, not counting my market frolic, was at the famous Chez Panisse. Stalwart of slow food and idealism, it was my first encounter with Berkeley as we killed time before our reservations. Jazz played while students drank wine from plastic cups on the street. Everywhere were people having a good time, grabbing a good bite.  We stumbled upon a fantastic gourmet food hall that housed Claudio Corallo Chocolate, some of the richest and purest chocolate I’ve ever tasted. Willy Wonka for the purists with 80 percent cacao, no vanilla, exotic mélanges like salt and pepper, ginger, Muscat-soaked Muscat grapes and my personal favorite: tiny pearls of chocolate-covered pink peppercorns. Handcrafted from heirloom cacao descended from seeds brought from Brazil to the West African island of Sao Tome, these chocolates — not for the faint-hearted — are bites of pure lust and passion. Inebriated with chocolate dreams, we headed to Chez Panisse hungry for more delights. 

Chef Jerome Waag explained that he worked closely with their suppliers and that the menu was planned weekly. The kitchen felt more like a rustic home cuisine de grandmere with warm fires glinting off copper pans, the sheen of marble tabletops and the smell of butter, slightly charred sugar and apricots — a feast of utter simplicity that will always linger in my memory, a plate of breathtakingly fresh grilled shellfish, leeks and an unctuous, buttery sauce des pecheurs. Each mussel, scallop and clam so innocent and fragile kissed by that smoky aroma, followed by the clearest broth with bits of green purslane and sorrel, tiny perfect cubes of potatoes swimming about. A roast chicken so scandalously tender and plump, flanked by a smattering of creamy squash blossom risotto and roasted torpedo onions. Punchy California goat’s cheese that could rival its French cousins. Apricot halves on a crisp feuillete glowing like the California sun on a sandy beach, the Muscat sabayon was the frothy sea foam at the edge of the shore. I had wiped out a half bottle of Domaine Weinbach Riesling Schlossberg 2010 from Alsace. No sharing, just for me … and my sister was giddy from the numerous glasses of the fabulous Gewurtztraminer grape juice. Our cheeks were flushed from laughter, the air was cold and our skin smelled like the sea, the mountains, the fields and an orchard.

I thought about that moment passing wearily through SF airport security … tears streamed down my face remembering my happy moments with my sister and her beautiful children. The teary eyes of the three-year-old redhead … “Don’t leave, tita Steph.” And the candid moments of joy sharing good food with someone I love so much. Tony Bennett plays in my head with his voice as syrupy and lilting as all the Rieslings I drank on the trip. “The loveliness of Paris seems somehow sadly gay, the glory that was Rome is of another day … I’m going home to my city by the bay. I left my heart in San Francisco.”