Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor

The Inside Scoop on San Francisco Chefs

Last night, I pressed the send key on the last write-up of the last chef I was assigned to cover for the upcoming issue of San Francisco Chefs. I felt a tinge of sadness hitting that key; the project was one of the highlights of my summer.

Last year, when I read about the publication on Catherine Nash’s blog, I asked for a copy, and eagerly read it from cover to cover. Due in no small part to Catherine’s sharp, witty writing, the pieces were engaging and distinct, a window into the life stories of our local chefs. Even better: the piece benefits St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, one of the finest institutions dedicated to helping children and their parents cope with life-threatening diseases.

I felt like a kid in a candy store when I got to be involved in the publication this year. Sit down with some of my favorite chefs and talk to them about the creative process? Twist my arm!

From Corey Lee at the French Laundry to Cal Stamenov at Marinus in the Bernardus Lodge in Carmel to Xavier Solomon at The Ritz-Carlton in Half Moon Bay, every single person I sat down with was gracious and engaging.

One of my favorite moments occurred when I was chatting with Ron Siegel at The Dining Room (you know how much I love TDR; big balloon hearts everywhere!), and I got to ask him about how they made my favorite amuse – a perfectly poached quail egg perched atop a glass dish of wood smoke and garnished with brioche croutons and caviar – and he animatedly described the whole process. It was far more involved than I had guessed, and now I’m an even bigger fan, if that is even possible.

You can have a complimentary copy of this year’s edition if you’d like – just send an e-mail to info@sf-chefs.com by October 5 with your name and full mailing address, and you’ll get to read about what inspires these men and women in the kitchen, and what they do when they’re not slaving over a hot stove.

Fear not: your name and address will not be given away, sold or shared. Not for any reason, ever.

If you need a bit more convincing, here’s the full list of chefs included in this year’s edition:

• Acquerello – Suzette Gresham
• Aqua – Laurent Manrique
• Auberge du Soleil – Robert Curry
• Bernardus Lodge – Cal Stamenov      
• Boulevard – Nancy Oakes/Pam Mazzola
• Dry Creek Kitchen – Charlie Palmer/Mike Ellis
• Manresa – David Kinch
• Michael Mina – Michael Mina
• Myth – Sean O’Brien
• Piperade – Gerald Hirigoyen
• Quince – Michael Tusk
• Ritz-Carlton Half Moon Bay – Xavier Salomon
• Silks Mandarin Oriental – Joel Huff
• The Dining Room at the Ritz-Carlton (SF) – Ron Siegel
• The French Laundry – Corey Lee

Go ahead, ask for your own copy... 'cause I'm not parting with mine!

Of Garlic and Figs and Divine Dinner Parties

This is the last weekend in July, which can only mean one thing: the Gilroy Garlic Festival.

What? You’re not going? You don’t want to drive into the hot, garlic-scented valley on a one-lane highway rife with minivans with bumper stickers that read: “It’s Chic to Reek”?

Can’t say that I blame you, but honestly: everyone should go at least once. It’s a kick. The atmosphere is contagiously goofy, and the air smells so strongly of garlic that even if you don’t eat any (impossible during the festival weekend), you’ll smell like it for at least three days afterwards. I spoke to Andrea Froncillo yesterday, chef at The Stinking Rose; he’s on his way down to Gilroy today for three days of garlic madness. He’ll be judging the Garlic Cook-Off, and then taking the stage himself, cooking from The Stinking Rose Restaurant Cookbook.

He’ll be in his element; the man is a born performer. He loves the energy of the crowd. I’ve often thought that his restaurants should have counter seating, where he could cook for an audience; it's truly what inspires him.

Which brings me to my fig story.

A few years ago, Andrea invited me to a dinner party hosted by his business partner in a gorgeous home in Russian Hill. About two hours before dinner was supposed to start, Andrea drove to Whole Foods and made up his menu on the spot in the produce section. He didn’t give it a thought before the moment he walked into the store; that there would be ten or twelve hungry mouths to fill in a short time didn’t daunt him in the slightest. He bought whatever was fresh and in season and piqued his fancy. Arms loaded with bags, he proceeded to the house, where he chopped and stirred, moving leisurely until guests began to arrive. Then he really started cooking.

Walk a Mile in These Shoes

I was talking with a friend of mine a couple of days ago about my recent blog posts exploring the complex intersection between the slow-local-organic movement and the pressures and expectations inherent in most women’s lives.

“I’m curious as to why you chose that topic,” he said. “I mean, it isn’t hard for you to make it to the farmer’s market. And you don’t have kids. What gives?”

“Oh, I’m just a selfless advocate for women everywhere,” I replied breezily.

We both laughed, and then I gave him the truthful answer. The truth is that for many years I lived on the extreme end of the slow-local-organic spectrum. I’ve briefly alluded on this blog to the fact that I grew up on 13 acres in rural Oregon. For reasons both financial (we were, to put it bluntly, poor) and philosophical (my mother was firmly against any and all processed foods, pesticides, herbicides and sugar), my family grew, prepared and preserved most of our food.

When I write about the slow-local-organic movement, I’m really talking about a significant portion of my life.

The Feminist in My Kitchen (Part 2)

When I first began to wonder whether the slow-organic-local food movement is sustainable for and friendly to the larger community of women, I started to notice everything about it that wasn’t.

I started thinking about how we as women feel such tremendous pressure to stay svelte, balance our budgets, keep a journal, send birthday cards, raise brilliant children, work on our relationships and keep our pedicures fresh, and now we must also research, procure, and prepare food that is sustainably produced, locally grown, and in season.

It didn’t seem fair. It made me feel cranky.

Then I asked myself: why do I feel this way, and what is causing it? Over the course of a couple of weeks, this is what I came up with:

The System is Broken. It’s not the fault of the farmer’s market that I feel overstressed. Rather, the game itself is rigged. The workforce rewards people who are willing to put in ridiculous hours and disregard personal health and long-term wellbeing. It does not reward self-nourishment or play or rest. Even more insidious is the fact that our buy-more culture has lured us into a devil's bargain with debt. Even if we’re working at a job we love, it requires an insane juggling act to live a balanced life. That there aren’t enough hours to nourish ourselves properly, or that we have to make a choice between eating well and building our careers is just… craziness.

Convenience Has a Dark Side. Convenience has been our friend, but not a trustworthy one. We can put dinner on the table in 30 minutes or less, but those cans and jars are slipping us toxic additives and chemicals on the sly. Like the friend who keeps borrowing money but never pays it back, Convenience has become a liability. The fault lies with us: we haven’t set proper boundaries. We need to speak out, vote with our dollars, and support products that are healthy and safe.

The Feminist in My Kitchen

One day during the Pennywise Eat Local Challenge, as I was dashing between meetings and wondering how on earth I was going to create an evening meal composed of local ingredients within budget with almost no time to shop, this thought flashed through my head: this whole eat local concept is so not friendly for women who work.

I’m a woman who works, but I have an edge in that I work at home (most of the time), and can therefore  dash out to my local farmer’s market on a Thursday morning without having to get permission from the Boss. I can put beans on the stove to simmer in the mid-afternoon. I can flip through my cookbook collection when I need a break from the keyboard.  I have the luxury of choosing between my corner mega-grocer and other, healthier options.

My flexible schedule is no small advantage when it comes to putting locally grown meals on the table (heck – even meals on the table at all), a fact that becomes crystal clear on weeks when I suddenly have more projects than I can handle, and What To Make For Dinner is the very last thing on my mind.

If eating local is still a challenge for me, what about women who, voluntarily or not, log 8 to 10 hours a day, five or six days a week, in an office or hospital or courtroom? What about women who, in addition to working long hours and commuting back and forth, also have children at home who need love and affection and help with homework? What about women who, in addition to work and kids and a significant other, also think it might be nice to hit the gym two or three times a week? Or have a social life? Or read a book or take a judo class or become a better photographer?

How do those women get it all done?

How does the laundry get washed and folded? How do books get read and dental appointments made? How on earth do these same women have time to plan balanced meals, let alone meals composed of organic, in-season ingredients… grown locally?

I wonder. I wonder if the slow-organic-local food movement is truly sustainable for and friendly to the larger community of women.

I wonder if our little blogsphere sits here debating the provenance of our nectarines while the larger community of women – most of whom have no time for surfing blogs, let alone writing one – head out to work feeling more guilty than ever before, as the mountain of expectations and unattainable standards grows ever higher.

Can we call ourselves feminists (simply defined here as people who desire the equality of all women, everywhere) and still suggest that an ideal dinner consists of handmade ravioli and slow-simmered marinara from vine-ripened, hand-picked tomatoes and a salad composed of vegetables that (let’s be honest) are Not Available at Safeway?

The Best Meal in Morocco

Today's NYT article about communal ovens in Morocco brought back fond memories of my trip to Morocco in January, and especially of a meal we ate at a nondescript roadside stand on our way to Marrakech.

The stand was set behind a gas station, of all things. Imagine walking into a Chevron station in the middle of... say, Nevada... and instead of being greeted with sickly-pink hot dogs rotating inside a Plexiglas case, you find a butcher stand and a wood-burning oven, and people standing at the ready to cook your order as soon as you decide what you want.

We felt like we'd walked into an alternate universe. There we were, smack in the middle of the desert, tired and hungry, and minutes later we were sitting down to roasted lamb and hot, char-flecked bread, breathing in the heady scents of cumin and mint and hot, sharp peppers. To say that it was a restorative experience wouldn't do it justice.

I blogged about it then, but since I had so much fun going back through my pictures, I thought you might enjoy another peek as well.

P.S. I unwittingly had my camera on the wrong setting for most of the trip (grrr!), and many of the pictures came out grainy. Sigh. Guess that means I'll have to go back...?

Performance Anxiety Can Happen to Anyone

Wednesday’s New York Times article titled “Dinner At the Foodies’: Purslane and Anxiety” made me laugh out loud. 

I was especially amused at this quote from history professor Joshua Schreier:  “Saying ‘I got this olive oil from this specific region in Greece,’ is like talking about what kind of car you have. And people don’t want to be associated with the wrong kind of olive oil.”

Oh, Joshua. You don’t live in the Bay Area, do you? Here, we wouldn’t dream of bragging about olive oil from Greece. Instead, we’d bring out a bottle of olive oil pressed from trees just a few miles from our kitchen table, by someone who shops at the same farmers’ market that we do. Greece? Bah!

(Ok, that was sort of a joke, but I did find just such an olive oil last weekend. Don’t let me forget to write about it.)

I don’t tend to worry about the ingredients when I’m planning a dinner party; with so many wonderful resources close by, I am usually confident that my ingredients are top quality (though I do not, I confess, make my own tortillas or pickle my own ramps). No; my dinner party anxiety is of a different stripe. When I read Derrick’s post referencing the same article, I thought: what the hey.

Pull up a chair.

Dinner, Interrupted

To the Woman Seated Behind Us at AVA,

You don’t know me, but we both had dinner at AVA in San Anselmo on the same night in the very recent past.

I was so excited when I heard about AVA. Here was a restaurant attempting to interpret the concept of American Viticultural Area, usually defined in terms of wine, in an agricultural sense. When I found out that they source as many ingredients as possible from local farmers, and that they regularly shop at my favorite Marin County farmers market, I couldn’t wait to make a reservation.

As the hostess seated my man and I just inches from your table, I had the fleeting thought that you looked like a nice person, sitting there in your rose-toned brocade jacket. Grandmotherly, even. You must be in your late 60’s, so there’s a good chance you are a grandmother. We were close enough to eavesdrop on your conversation, but we were too absorbed in our menus to bother.

We felt a touch of worry as our first plates began to arrive. The grilled fava beans were delicious, and the house-smoked almonds were gobble-worthy, but the wedge of Point Reyes Pierce Point cheese was served stone cold, and our salads were just eh.

Then our entrees showed up, and we knew we were in the right place. The Moroccan had a juicy wedge of sirloin coated with a sticky-dark reduction, accompanied by a gratin of potatoes and cauliflower and  cheese that just screamed yum.

I chose the amberjack resting atop a feathery bed of shaved leeks and Meyer lemon, with fat spears of grilled asparagus on the side. We had just started to exchange stories about our day when we suddenly became aware of you.

Poor Planning Prevents Pristine Performance

I had every intention of acing the Penny-Wise Eat Local Challenge this week.  I had read through the preparatory stories and posts, and thought: how hard could it be to prepare a week’s worth of meals using only local ingredients for no more than $144? Easy-peasy.

Then the end of the week got busy, and we spent the weekend painting a room – glorious red stripes, mmm – and waxing the ceiling. Yes, the ceiling. Don’t ask; it didn’t turn out anything like it did on the HGTV episode that had inspired our arm-wrenching, neck-twisting adventure. Alas.

I thought about the Challenge. I did. I just didn’t get out and shop and, you know, make a plan.

So Monday morning rolled around, as they do. On Mondays I’m up at 5:45, in my car at 6:30, in the city by 7:00, and the morning goes so fast that I don’t usually get to eat. Yesterday was no different. By 12:30, I was starving.

I could have driven to Whole Foods for a local apple and a Saint Benoit yogurt, but it was out of my way, and I was really hungry, and so I dropped by Greens on my way to the bridge and stood in their take-out line for black bean chili over rice and cup of Moroccan chickpea soup.

When I got home, and took the first bite of black bean chili, I nearly spit it out. The grated cheese they had sprinkled over the top was moldy. Yech. But I was too hungry to throw it all away, and so I scraped off the top layer and ate the bottom half of beans and brown rice. The soup was better. But none of it was local. Or cheap.

My afternoon was a similar tornado – deadlines, e-mails that needed immediate response, new projects starting, a sweet-faced dog to walk – so that by the end of the day I was too exhausted to assemble the complex recipe I had intended. Instead, I changed into pajamas and opened up a bottle of delicious merlot from Oakville, local but not remotely within the budget, and made a 2-minute stir-fry of prawns and asparagus from Fat Belly Farms. And retired to my bed with a book.

And thus my first day of the challenge turned out much like the waxed ceiling: not even vaguely like the hoped-for vision.

Oh, but there are more days in the week. I’m not giving up yet.