A Blithe PALATE

Herbed Pork Roast with Roasted Tomatoes and Caramelized Leeks and Onions

The past week has been a long exercise in patience.  I've had neither interest nor inclination to cook because my dining room is a mess.  We had hardwood laid down in the dining room and it's a disaster.  There's glue reside all over the floor and when the idiots who laid the floor down put the quarter round up, they didn't miter the corners. They simply stuck one piece of molding on top of the other.  It's the sort of half assed job you'd expect from an amateur -- I could have done a better job.  Our contractor was as horrified as we are by his sub-contractors.  I think his words when he saw it were, "This is the most unprofessional thing I have ever seen."  Yeah.  Me too.  He's going to make it right.  But the eyesore connected to the kitchen is causing me great anxiety and homicidal angst.  It's not very conducive to cooking.

During our trip to Napa, Kellie and I joined several wine clubs, including Robert Sinskey Vineyards.  Every shipment of wine also includes a gift and a recipe created by the vineyard's culinary director, Maria Helm Sinskey.  Earlier this week, a box arrived from the vineyard -- two bottles of their Pinot Noir and a jar of smoked sea salt, and a recipe for an herbed pork roast. 

I admit I was a little let down.  I'm not a fan of pork chops or pork roasts.  I guess mainly because all the pork I've ever eaten has been dry and bland.  The other white meat indeed -- it seems to take on the flavor of its sauce rather than standing on its own.  But the pictures Chef Sinskey's creation looked too wonderful to pass up.  And I thought, well, this is created especially for the wine -- and she would know better than I what to make for a wine pairing.  I showed Hubby the picture and he nodded enthusiastically.  So yesterday, while out shopping I picked up a pork loin. 

On the way to see the latest X-Men movie I read the recipe, which looked surprisingly simple (non sequitur:  I can't believe they took one of the best stories in graphic noveldom [Phoenix/Dark Phoenix] and turned it to utter crap.  Have I mentioned before that I'm a comic book geek?)  The recipe called on the smoked sea salt and the sweet, caramelized vegetables to carry through the flavors. 

I was skeptical.  And now I'm a believer.  I put both vegetables (adding leeks to the recipe which only called for onions) and loin in the same roasting pan and the roast came out succulent and tender, while the vegetables were sweet and smoky.  Sliced thinly and served with a sprinkling of the smoked sea salt, we were shocked by how wonderful it paired with the wine.  The smoked sea salt simply lifted the flavor and made the Pinot come alive.

"Man, this would be great sprinkled on a molten chocolate cake," I said after I finished a second helping.

Hubby paused.  "Go to it, woman."

Luckily molten chocolate cake doesn't take but 45 minutes from start to finish.  And topped with the smoked sea salt -- astonishing.

This got me to thinking.  I belong to several other wine clubs.  Every one comes with a recipe specifically designed to pair with the wine.  Maybe it's time to start cooking again.  Especially since I have about 100 bottles in the wine fridges right now...

Lemon Parfait in Basil Tuile Cups

Summer's approaching.  Despite my best efforts to neglect it, the garden continues to flourish.  Next weekend when we are home, I will have to prune back the wayward thyme and rosemary bushes -- they have survived three seasons in my care and they have become surly, know-it-all juniors, lording it over the freshmen herbs that have joined their box.  The cilantro is frail and weak, initmidated by its aggressive neighbors.  The flat leaf and curly parsleys, planted last summer, have grown thick stalks and are propagating as fast as they can.  Perhaps the other herbs have been telling them about the crazy woman with shears who comes down and routinely hacks away at overgrown herbs.  They're really safe for the time being; I haven't had much need of parsely. 

The strawberries are attempting once again to escape their corner box.  Bright red Seascape strawberries have been plucked and savored.  The birds and ground rodents are avoiding the berries.  They know.  They've heard about the crazy man with the scope and BB gun.  The heirloom tomatos are showing lovely little buds soon to be ripe tomatos (I hope). I am so looking forward to a summer of Caprese salads -- and I am so excited by these heirloom tomatos; they are hard to buy where I live.  I miss visiting the Santa Monica Farmer's markets every Wednesday and Saturday.

The garden box with the basil is doing well.  It explodes with Genovese basil, a yearly staple. I keep meaning to plant other basils but I never get around to it.  No matter.  This basil serves my purposes.  Hubby and I talked about planting citrus trees and olive trees a few years ago.  It's just as well we haven't -- when and where would we tend to them?  But I think to myself -- oh, if I had a lemon tree, I could have fresh lemons for lemonade and zest all summer long.

And if I had zest, I could make more of my beloved lemon parfaits.  But I've already made the lemon-basil bombe repeatedly...what kind of variations on the theme are possible?  Maybe a parfait in a tuile cup, like the one I made for Greg's birthday -- but make it with lemon instead of Key limes.  And if I don't put the basil in the mousse, where should it go?  Why not the tuile cup?  Surely that's possible?

Yes, yes...I think I shall go to the garden and pluck some basil and to the market to pick up some lovely lemons. 

Dessert is in order.

Wine Stock and Shock.

The last of the wine shipments arrived.

My God. 

I've spent the past week opening boxes of wine that have been appearing with alarming regularity at our front door to put them away in the wine fridges (one for white, one for red).  These are the souvenirs from the Napa trip with Kellie.  We're storing her wine till she picks up her wine fridge later this month.

Sweet Buddha, why did no one stop us from ordering when it was clear that we were in our cups?  We knew the credit cards had been been wounded but we had no idea that they required resuscitation!  The final tally from 3 days in Napa?  Seven and a half cases.  88 bottles.

On the other hand, the wine fridges are stocked full and inviting.  So inviting that as I finished putting the bottles away, I glanced at the clock and said wistfully to Hubby:  "Is it too early to have wine?'

Hubby turned, eyes wide.  "It's never too early to have wine."  Such a good husband.

We consumed three bottles with help from several friends, but this is okay.  A half case of Skywalker Ranch's Viandante del Cielo (no, really, I'm totally serious. His wine is not required to speak his dialogue and is therefore enjoyable) is due to arrive next week and shortly thereafter, a case of Parcel 41 Merlot.

We will need to drink faster or find more friends to help us to make room in the fridges.

An Empty Plate (Save The Internet)

You might have noticed several food bloggers aren't writing about food today.  We're writing about something else that's equally dear to us:  the Internet.

In this vast arena of everything, we can find anything, something, or nothing at all.  It's a lovely place.  So what's the deal you ask?  Well, today is Save the Internet Day.  And today is a day of without food blogs.

Pim, of Chez Pim sent a post on Food Blog S'Cool last Friday noting a rather alarming  law before Congress which would  violate the principle of Network Neutrality -- call this the Internet's First Amendment.  This new law would allow corporations and big telecommunications companies to decide what sort of web site service you get -- depending on how big your paycheck is; want to check out a commercial site where the owner paid them millions?  Fast speed.  Want to check out a little blog or some other grass roots website who couldn't afford to pay the new pricing scheme? -- well,  remember 14.4K modems?   

Pim says it much better and much more eloquently here.

Find out more about Save the Internet and sign the petition.

Take a look.  Chew.  Sign.

Cupcake Bliss

         

Last week I volunteered to provide dessert for our division luncheon.  Knowing my penchant for the culinary equivalent of double booking, I decided to make a simple cake.  No fancy desserts. no crèmes, no sauces, no mousses, no parfaits.  Just plain eggs, sugar, flour vanilla cake.  How long do you think this new leaf lasted?  All of two days.

What happened?

Well, I was taking a break from writing so I could recover from the flurry of work activities and spending my evenings trolling through some wonderful new blog discoveries (you'll find several on the links to your right).  Following a few links, I came across two fabulous blogs devoted to cupcakes:  Cupcake Bakeshop by Chockylit and All Cupcakes all the Time.  Utterly wonderful. 

A few months ago I was having lunch with Annie at the West Egg Café; we were intrigued by the dessert selection, which featured Red Velvet (ack!) cupcakes and (shudder) Coca Cola cupcakes.  I hear that the Belly General Store, in Virginia Highland, was voted as having the Best Cupcakes in town.  Having tried neither restaurant's offerings, I can't weigh in; but I was so entranced by seeing a cupcake that I couldn't stop staring, thinking how pretty the red velvet cupcake looked with its ivory cream cheese frosting (and yes, I totally admit I had a moment of weakness thinking that if I was ever asked to do a red velvet wedding cake again I would make a tiered red velvet cupcake "cake" instead of the monstrosity that I made for Krista's wedding). 

Now I did stick with plain vanilla cake, but after being inspired by some of the cupcakes I saw, tried to have some fun with the icing.  There's so much so you can do with a good cream cheese frosting, star tips and sprinkles!  What's not to love about a cupcake?  Who says they're kid indulgences?  Dress 'em up and they can give any petit four a run for the money on elegance. 

I'm transported by cupcakes.  Aren't you?

Review Revisited.

"Hey, didn't you put up a post the other night about eating at a new steakhouse in town?"

Yes.

"What happened to it?"

I took it down the next morning after a good night's sleep.

"Why?"

The wine and the desire to ridicule had worn off.  And so had the meanness (remember I mentioned previously I can be a mean drunk?).

"Was it really that bad?"

Well, when a restaurant claims to serve the best food in town, I expect fresh cut, not frozen french fries to accompany my steak.  I also expect the mussels I order to have flavor, not smell like brine and be utterly flavorless in taste.  Don't bother calling it a Pernod sauce if it's so watered down that describing it as a lovely H2O broth is more appropriate.  The steaks were okay.  Not superlative, just okay (you have to try really hard to screw up steak; an ex-boyfriend who had sawdust for tastebuds, for example, tried to boil a steak.  ["But that's how they did it when I was in the Navy!"  I thank Buddha every day that I upgraded to the Army.].  Not a good sign when the Outback restaurant across the way can do a juicier filet than a "chop house."  Food like this makes me feel like I have a better flavor palette with Iceberg lettuce.

"The wine --"

Oh yes.  They refuse to offer corkage (their restaurant, their rules; we're happy to abide) because they insist their wine selection is "phenomenal" (false advertising; which makes us unhappy).  When two of the three wine stores in town laugh hysterically upon being told that the restaurant manager said their wine list is phenomenal, a combination of things occur:  1) you feel vindicated that you politely disagreed with the manager who insisted repeatedly that "there's no need for you to bring your own bottle because we have everything you could want because our wine list is phenomenal," (there's that word again); 2) you weren't hallucinating when you saw the Asti  Spumante on their "phenomenal" wine list for $27; 3) that Hubby was right when he turned to you and said, "He keeps saying that word.  I do not think it means what he thinks it means."

I'd pass on ever going again.  On the other hand, if you crave exceptional service, our waitress provided the most flawless service I've been privileged to enjoy ever in town.  If some other restaurant owner was smart, they'd go hire the girl.

Better food can be had at the Garlic Clove and the Hunter's Pub.  Stalwarts with great steaks, serious side dishes (made from scratch, not a from a paper bag) and low corkage fees.  Want great wines in town?  Go to Tapatinis on 13th Street.  I haven't been thrilled with the food since John Melton left, but Faye's wine list is varied, intriguing, and chock full of great finds. 

Okay G., was this less mean?

North to South on Route 29

Saturday

In the 1976 "Judgement of Paris," which pitted California wines against the French stalwarts in a blind taste test, Napa was put on the world stage when the French judges selected two California wines over their French rivals.  It was Chateau Montelena's Chardonnay that won the white wine tasting.  This year marks the 30th anniversary of that tasting.  Steven Spurrier, the British wine merchant hosted the original event, is currently organizing the anniversary celebrations on May 24.  The winemaker for that winning bottle was Miljenko ("Mike") Grgich, who left Chateau Montelena in 1976 to found his own vineyard, Grgich Hills.  Chateau Montelena is owned by James Barrett, whose daughter-in-law is Heidi Peterson Barrett, the respected and admired winemaker for cult wines Screaming Eagle and Dalla Valle among others.

We started our day at the top of Napa Valley at Chateau Montelena, where we had one of our more interesting tasting room encounters.  Our pourer had been at a Giants game earlier in the week, and in addition to looking as though he'd been boiled in a lobster tank, functioned as though his brain had suffered third degree burns as well.

Example:  "This is our Chardonnay.  It's well known.  I could tell you more.  But I don't want to." 

Of course he would then share stats and fermentation information by rote but repeated the joke three more times, with an explanation the last time:  "I'm just trying to shake things up and make it more interesting." (For whom?  You or me?)

So, the irrepressible smartass in me:  "Well do it in Klingon then."

He paused, nonplussed.  "I don't know Klingon."

"Oh that's okay.  There's a website that'll teach you.  Although I don't think there are words in Klingon for 'fragrant,' 'sweet,' or 'delicate nose.'"

Hab SoSlI' Quch!  A case of Chardonnay and three bottles of their reserve Cabernets later, we headed south.

Our next stop was Flora Springs.  Kellie and I went in for a tasting and left unimpressed.  I think this is my last time at Flora Springs.  It's been operating on the fringes of sentiment for a while.  Their Zinfandel, which they no longer make, was served at our rehearsal dinner at Brix, and was unanimously loved by our families.  When we went to buy a case of Zinfandel after the wedding, we were informed that they would no longer be making Zinfandel, and they were focusing more on their Trilogy brand.  The best part of Flora Springs that day was their parking lot, where we situated ourselves to wolf down our bread and cheese.

Whitehall Lane provided much happier taste buds and a confident, very sweet and very helpful pourer assisted us to a half case of their Cabernets.

Niebaum-Coppola recently changed its name to Rubicon Estate.  This happened earlier this year, which would explain why I drove past it repeatedly looking for (and never finding) Niebaum-Coppola.  I enjoy their Sofia Blanc de Blancs sparkling wine; it's a good weekend bubbly to share with girlfriends.  Depth, no.  Thought-provoking, no.  Sweet and easy to drink, yes.  Think of it as hanging out with a very effervescent girlfriend with whom you shop and do fun things, but who is not your primary (or even secondary) confidante.  Kellie and I decided to pick up a couple of bottles of sparkling wine and when it became apparent that I had no idea what happened to Niebaum-Coppola, called the information line.  It should have occurred to me, after listening to the recorded message, that perhaps I did not want to go to the former Niebaum-Coppola winery:  the recorded voice spoke with a British accent, proclaiming that we had called Rubicon Estate, America's grand wine estate, formerly known as Niebaum-Coppola and indicated that there were 4 different tours and a concierge.  If ever a moment invited me to subdue my delight in the ridiculous, this would have been it.  However, I lack willpower.

So we drove up to the Rubicon Estate and hit our first checkpoint.  Yes, you read that right.  A security checkpoint of valets met us at the entrance and asked if we had appointments.  We explained that we were there to purchase some wine.  Our secret agent wannabe valet nodded and pointed down the road.

"Please go to the next checkpoint."

The second checkpoint was halfway up the drive and seemed redundant.  Once again, met by valets longing to be Secret Service.  Once again, being asked if I had an appointment.  Hello?  Do those walkie talkies you're holding work?  Did you not talk to the guy who waved us through?  Once again, I explained we wanted to purchase some wine.

"Please go to the valet stand."

The valet stand was located at the end of the road, guarding the entrance to the hallowed grounds of Rubicon Estate.  Another phalanx of youthful valets.  And another re-enactment of our previous two checkpoint experiences.  I'm sorry.  Does this look as much like overkill to you as to me?  It's wine, not the Manhattan Project!!

"We just want to purchase wine," I said, for the third time.

He pointed to the curb.  "Please pull over there."

I pulled over and got out of the car, thinking I was to be escorted to the wine shop.  Not so. A valet with a clipboard came towards me.

"These are our wines.  Please let me know your selections and I will be happy to go fetch them for you."

I am not kidding.  Cross my heart.  Hope to die.

Kellie:  "Is this normal?"

Valet:  "What do you mean?"

Me:  "Um, when did you change from being a winery to a destination site?"

Valet (not understanding, or perhaps ignoring, sarcasm):  "Earlier this year. Mr. Coppola wanted to focus more on the wine so he changed the name of the estate and took steps to reduce...ah..."

Visitors.  Say it, man.  Visitors who come to check out the homage to the Coppola museum.  Visitors intrigued by the juncture of Hollywood and Vine(s).  (Heh.  Sorry.  Um...very bad LA geographic pun)  Visitors who come by tour bus.

He couldn't find the word.  Kellie helped him.  "Were there concerns about too many people?"

"Yes, that was something that had been raised."

We gave him money for two bottles of Sofia.  He ran off -- ran, I tell you, not walked.  We got back into the car and Kellie opened the Wolloomooloo bar, handing me a chocolate square. I munched on it, working myself into a frenzy.

"This is bull!@#$%^&*!  It's a !@#$%^&*( winery, not Disneyland!  What the hell?  We're here to buy wine, not have an (wave fingers in quotations marks) 'experience.'  What a load of crap.  $25 for a tour?  I don't want a tour!  I want to buy wine!"  Noting two parked tour buses, I continued.  "Keep out visitors?  That's crap!  Look!  There are two tour buses there.  Those fit what, thirty, forty people?  This is just a @#$%^&* money racket."

Kellie:  "On the other, we are getting the personalized service of having our wine delivered to us while we sit on our fat asses eating chocolate."

I couldn't stop laughing, even when our delivery boy came back with our wine.

Dinner was at Cole's Chop House that night.  A purely unapologetic steak house.  I had the peekytoe crab cocktail.  Kellie had an old school Caesar salad, complete with anchovies.  The flat iron steak caught my eye -- but Kellie went straight for the Kobe filet.

Two highly hilarious incidents took place there.  The first was the gentleman whose artificial hairline made me think of the villain from "Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit," who, losing his toupee, puts a black rabbit on his head unwittingly.  The second was a conversation between two friends.  To protect the innocent, names are omitted in the following conversation:

Friend 1:  "Let me see that brochure on the wine club we joined."

Friend 2 handed over a slip of paper.  Friend 1 noted aloud the high points.

Friend 1:  "This is great.  Look, we get to buy an extra case of wine of any new release.  Hmm..  Oh yeah, and listen to this:  'Priority notice and seating for the vineyard's culinary events...dinners, cooking classes, and release parties.'  We should do that next time." 

Friend 1 continued to peruse the brochure and frowned.  "What is this?  'Special invites to club members-only events like -- who the hell is Ca Vé Raider?''

"Ca Vé?" Friend 2 read the brochure upside down and deadpanned:  "You mean Cave Raider?"

Friend 1 flushed.  Friend 2 choked.  Thirty minutes later, holding their sides, they were still laughing. 

Dean and Deluca Delirium

Kellie and I knew we weren't likely to get into the French Laundry (I was trying for a third foray into nirvana), but this is not to suggest that anything we ate was less than exceptional. You have to try (really) hard to to find a bad meal in Napa Valley.

We were staying at the Napa River Inn, which is located in the town of Napa at the restored, historic River Mill. Within walking distance (like, outside our hotel door) are three restaurants: Angèle, Celadon, and the Napa General Store (which has a pan-Asian cafe), one bakery (Sweetie Pie's, which provides breakfast for the hotel guests -lucky us!), an art gallery, a spa and a performing arts center.

Friday night found us at Angèle, whose owner, Claude Rouas is the former chef owner of L'Etoile in San Francisco, and the founder of the famed Auberge du Soleil in Napa Valley. I have a soft spot for Angèle: it always reminds me of being with people I love. My "bachelorette" dinner was held there with Sondra, Ellen, Anna and Wendy (who, having forgotten her wallet at home, was forced to panhandle 50 cents at a restaurant to get through a toll gate. While dressed in Dolce and Gabbana.). Hubby and I had our first dinner together on our honeymoon at Angèle.

Kellie had heard the duck confit was excellent, so we ordered a dish to share. Presented on a bed of lentils with a tangy vinaigrette, fatty duck never tasted so good. Kellie had the butter lettuce salad next and I had the (say it with me) foie gras. I ordered the gnocchi with wild mushrooms for Kellie since she had never eaten gnocchi; and I was confident that her experience at Angèle would not emulate my and Greg's gnocchi horror. For myself, comfort food was high on the list, as I was still bathed in the happiness from lunch at Tra Vigne, so I ordered the boeuf bourgignon. Two bites into her dinner, Kellie looked up at me.

"This is so good I want to cry."

"And now you understand my absolute obsession with coming here and eating here."

Her eyes glistened. My throat ached. Emotions were high. Bear in mind: we hadn't fully recovered from our late night partying Thursday night; had been tasting wine all day Friday; and were at that moment consuming the second bottle of Navarro. Kellie and I have discussed our various drunks states (Me: "I can be a mean drunk, a silly drunk, a sleepy drunk or a hysterical drunk." Kellie: "Oh GREAT. And I'm going wine tasting with you?!"). Apparently when exquisite food is involved, we're blubbering drunks. (Greg: "Still, you shouldn't under-estimate the power of great gnocchi.")

You don't have to eat at expensive or renowned restaurants to find good food -- the Oakville Grocery is a great stopping point on the way up to Oakville and Rutherford for a sandwich or some prepared deli foods. And while you're at it, there's an absolutely lovely selection of confiture, organic honeys, olive oils and other wonderful accoutrements for the pantry. At the Oakville Grocery, I picked up some organic honey for several colleagues because I was so enamored of the packaging. I am such a marketing victim. Kellie saw a mustard display and nearly passed out with joy. Apparently, she's a huge mustard freak so she tried all their different mustard tasting selections. I'm an olive oil addict so I separated from her to try the different olive oils.

If you're already up in the St. Helena area, Dean and Deluca is the place to stop. On our way up to Calistoga on Saturday, Kellie murmured that she wanted cheese and bread to go with her wine. I veered off into Dean and Deluca's St. Helena branch -- I think Kellie's gasp of delight wasn't much different than mine when I first went.

"The Dean and Deluca in New York doesn't look like this!" she marvelled. (I remember thinking, "The Dean and Deluca in Washington, D.C. doesn't look like this!")

Everywhere the eye could see, there was food -- fresh produce, fresh bread, a meat counter, a chocolates and confectionary case, teas, olive oils, imported foods, fresh meats, a wine store, dried mushrooms -- this was a gourmand's dream store; being fond of the intimacy of its rival in Oakville, I think of Dean and Deluca Napa Valley as the Oakville Grocery on steroids. No matter: Kellie was enchanted and I was ecstatic to see ruby red Seascape strawberries. We spent an hour in the store, wandering around. Old wine barrels had been recycled for use as serving platters and lazy susans. A row of gadgets, a veritable Williams-Sonoma lined one wall. A wine store stretched out in the back, including a smaller, more intimate room for large format bottles and unique or rare wines.

Recognizing the familiar black boxes with yellow emblems of Mariages Frères tea, I made a beeline and did a little dance (which is not a sight you want to behold, as I lack timing and nearly knocked over a display of water crackers) when I saw they had my beloved Marco Polo blend. Of course, it was double the price I had paid in Paris, but I suppose if you throw in the cost of a plane ticket, this was much cheaper.

A loaf of bread, a slice of goat's milk camembert, a wedge of Manchego and a bar of Vosge's "Wollomooloo" macadamia nut chocolate bar later, we headed up to Chateau Montelena.

Wishful Thinking

No. We did not eat there. But not for lack of trying: we were on the wait list but no one was accomodating enough to cancel at the last minute.

Drat.