The Dinner Files

When summer finally hit San Francisco we have found ourselves in need of cooling refreshment at our house. Because we have a miracle ever-abundant lemon tree in our yard, as well as a thriving rosemary bush, and my son loves nothing more than a soda pop and was having withdrawal from his Minnesota cabin séjour during which he probably had a pop every day (at home soda is a treat treat, not a common treat; he gets ginger ale when he’s sick, which isn’t often, and can have a soda when we have a party and the adults are all having cocktails, once in a great while I make root beer floats for dessert), I decided to make something sweet and fizzy. I made a simple syrup using lemon juice in place of water and infused it with lemon zest and rosemary, then mixed it with seltzer water to great acclaim.

The whole flavored-sugar-syrup-and-fizzy water creation has now become a bit of a staple. We’ve done experiments. Ginger, mint, basil, peppercorns, and more have been toyed with. Our favorite, hands down, is still the lemon and rosemary one we started with. Another batch sits in a pint jar in the fridge, ready for refreshing any one of us at a moment’s notice.

Rosemary Lemon Soda

A syrup of the zest from 1 lemon, 1 cup lemon juice, 1 cup sugar, and a 4-inch sprig of fresh rosemary was made in a medium saucepan and brought just to boil and then simmered for a few minutes. I let it cool and then fished the rosemary out of it, leaving the zest in there because who feels like cleaning a strainer in this heat?

Spoon a tablespoon or two into a glass, add club soda or sparkling water, stir vigorously, add ice, and feel the inner breeze. If you need more than a simple refresh, a shot of vodka doesn’t ruin this beverage in any way at all.

I was not one of those kids who begged for more maraschino cherries in my shirley temple. I didn’t even eat the cherry in my shirley temple. That florescent, almost transparent red freaked me out but good. And so it was.

Then I made some spiced brandied cherries. And I ate one. I cannot imagine the person who would eat one of those and not think of making a manhattan with them. Well, I actually can imagine such a person. I even know several of them, but you get my point. To eat one of these delights is, for me, to think of a manhattan.

So I softened my position on cherries in drinks, if but lightly.

Then this past week I have twice – twice mind you – put cherries where I had never put cherries before. It was like I hardly knew myself.

First I put them in what would have been a gin and tonic but which, by muddling a few cherries before shaking the gin and a squirt of lime juice with them before straining that over ice and adding some tonic to the whole thing, became something else entirely. Neither particularly sweet nor fruity, since the bitter tonic canceled that out; nor bitter and a bit tart like a gin and tonic because, well, there were muddled cherries sweetening the proceedings up a bit. It really was a whole new drink and my dad and I enjoyed them thoroughly while my mom, who likes not cherries nor gin nor tonic, made a face at us.

Then – and given my family’s slavish devotion to my dad’s master margarita recipe and generations-long disdain of flavored or fruity margaritas I can hardly believe I did this – I made a cherry margarita. Again, I muddled some cherries, added one shot of tequila and half as much lime juice, shook it all together, and strained it over ice. I left out the triple sec I would normally use because I didn’t want it getting too sweet. It didn’t. It got cherry.

If I’d thought ahead I would have made a coconut drink and some kind of blueberry cocktail and had a real theme for the holiday weekend for you. Enjoy the fireworks – I’ll be watching them from a boat in northern Minnesota with, if experience tells me anything, my hands held tightly over my son’s ears as his little hands hold my hands firmly in place.

I was outed recently. Outed as a strawberry hater. (That is a funny thing to write on this, the opening day of Pride weekend here in San Francisco – and yes, I know it has a longer official name that specifies the people who are proud, but to me it is simply Pride and it is tons of fun but oh my how it messes up traffic!)

People were over for brunch and someone had brought strawberries. I had, in fact planned that by asking her to bring fruit. It was late May in San Francisco and “fruit” almost directly translates into “strawberries” since they tend to be really good around then and no one is sick of them yet (the strawberry season here runs from April until the end of time, from what I can tell). By asking her to bring fruit, everyone could have strawberries but I wouldn’t have to deal with strawberries or make something with them that, being a hater, I wouldn’t end up eating.

Another friend mentioned my hatred and the cat was out of the bag. Man, do people like to gawk in amazement at someone who doesn’t like strawberries. I’ve mentioned my dislike here before, but people can’t process it. It makes no sense to them. I try to emphasize the positive for them by pointing out that it means that they can eat more of the strawberries before us. Sometimes that bright and shiny object works, sometimes it doesn’t.

You know what else I don’t like? Tropical fruit. Seriously. It all tastes perfumey and sweet and, basically, everything everyone else loves about it I don’t care for.

Except mangoes. I used to dislike mangoes, too. Or, rather, I assumed I disliked them because they seemed just like all that other mushy sweet stuff I didn’t like. I’m not sure I’d ever had one. Then I was invited to a Parisian librarian’s apartment for dinner and she served mango for dessert. It was offered as though manna from heaven and I like to represent the civilized side of Americans when I’m abroad, so I ate it. It was a sweltering day during a summer that was one giant heat wave (punctuated by the random metro bombing to keep everyone on their toes) and we were crammed around her tiny table in her tiny apartment decked out in Ikea furntiture which seemed terribly modern and cool since we didn’t have Ikea in the Bay Area yet and there were traditional non-deodorant-wearing French people involved. Let’s say that the aromatic nature of the mango was as welcome as its ability to be sweet and smooth and cooling. The mango, it made a good impression.

My dashing husband took us all to Hawaii for my birthday. We got rest, we got fun, we got shave ice. We also spent a whole lot of time together, the three of us, and it was delightful to remember how very much I like these two fellows who live in my house.

Oh, and we ate mangoes. Lots of them. Plain and in lassi form. Cut up a mango, put it in a blender, add some yogurt, squirt in some lime (or sour orange) juice. Whirl it up. Is it hot out? Add a handful of ice cubes.

Hey! Summer! Nice to see you! You seem reluctant, though. You’re not coming through San Francisco in full force the way you usually do in September. Come on in! Make yourself at home. Stay awhile before the rains and gray and fog settle in for the winter. Please?

It was *hot* in a chilled-bone-warming way briefly this weekend and refreshments were in much demand. We hadn’t had tinto de verano since last summer, so I mixed a couple up for my dashing husband and myself (Ernest had just the sparkling lemonade) while the three of us played a rousing game of Monopolgy Junior.

What is tinto de verano, you ask? Well, it’s what many (most?) people think sangria is. People seem to think that sangria is light little mixture of wine and fruit juice/pieces of fruit. Which it sort of is except for the fact that – traditionally anyway – sangria is made with wine and fruit and booze. In short, sangria is more alcoholic than wine, which surprises a lot of people. Tinto de verano (summer wine!), on the other hand, is red wine and lemon soda. In Spain it is sometimes made with 7-Up or Sprite (like a spritzer! hello 1976!), but more often with the same stuff  I like to use: sparkling lemonade. I do about half red wine and half sparkling lemonade (both room temperature) over a glass chock full of ice. That way it gets diluted a bit because – and take this as the warning it is – this stuff goes down like Kool-Aid.

Have you ever surprised someone? Have you ever flown to another city for no reason but to go to dinner and take a walk and shoot the shit? I did that yesterday. I flew to Portland in cahoots with a friend who lives there to surprise another friend who was coming into town (who promptly dubbed us wing-nuts). I highly recommend it. It’s ridiculous and impractical and absurd. And joyous and magical and life-affirming.

First we snarfed down take-out from Jarra’s Ethiopian Restaurant–an old favorite of ours from college that haunts our taste memories. It was just as good as ever. Just as good as we remember it. Maybe even better.

A few hours later we headed to Alberta Street Oyster Bar. Honestly? It wasn’t as good as when I was there two years ago and my poor hands are showing the effects of way too much salt in most of the dishes (ouch, my fingers hurt when I bend them). But we did slurp through a mess of plump Totten Inlet oysters with a brilliant cucumber-horseradish mignonette with glee and my cherry-infused bourbon Manhattan left nothing to be desired as I sipped through the welcome bits of ice floating on its dark, beaconing surface.

Before going to a gala dinner last night–where I was served a birdy plate of game hen leg, chicken breast, and shredded duck with truffled cabbage, sautéed green sticks that bore striking resemblance to string beans in all but flavor, and a circle of well-browned puff pastry (yes, all on one plate!)–I stopped by the lobby bar of The Greenbrier in a puffy cream dress and ordered myself a mint julep.

“Have you had one before?” asked the bartender.

“Not here,” I answered, thinking the fine establishment might see itself as a true source or purveyor of mint juleps.

“But you know what it is?” the bartender confirmed, “because the name is misleading, the drink really packs a punch.”

I assured him I knew what I was ordering (and he wouldn’t have yet another returned drink from a Yankee lady who tried to soak up local culture through booze but expected a mint, frothy drink instead of a tumbler of bourbon). My dress might have been fluffy, but I don’t like my drinks fussy.