The Dinner Files

No, I didn’t eat the crab live. But I did eat Dungeness crabs that, upon my request, were pulled live from a tank of seawater next to the ocean in which they once scavenged before being tied into a mesh bag, steamed over boiling seawater in a giant cinder-block stove, cleaned and cracked, and brought (still warm!) to a picnic table overlooking the water at which I sat with with friends who have known me since before I could legally drink alcohol. We got some steamed clams too.

The shells on the left are filled with “crab butter” – a mixture of the crab’s natural fat and seawater that comes out as the crab is cleaned. I’ve eaten a lot of Dungeness crab in my day. I don’t want to start any fights or anything, but I like crab more than lobster. A lot more. A bite or two of lobster and I’m all set. But crab? I could eat it all the live-long day. I had never had “crab butter” though. I am now fluctuating between joy at having discovered it and rage at all the crab I ate without it.

These crabs and clams and friends and beers were all enjoyed in the clear, bright sunshine of a glorious stretch of summer weather on the Oregon coast. As I tried to pick crab with a plastic fork and a toothpick (FYI, in my experience the best crab-picking utensil is a chopstick) and cut my fingers on the shells and got spritzed with crab juice whenever someone cracked a claw by pounding it with a beer bottle, I felt lucky.

As the sign near the tables stated: “This is not a restaurant. Clean up after yourself.”

Sure, they cook food for you which you eat there, but the sign is right: it isn’t a restaurant. It is a boat launch/marina with a stand where you could clean your catch and/or buy crabs, clams, and oysters to take home live or steamed. There are picnic tables next to the stand. Inside the little store is the usual assortment of convenience store items (including soft drinks, beer and wine), as well as paper cups with 4 tablespoons of butter in them in the fridge, a microwave, lemons, a cutting board next to the microwave, and a wide array of pirate- and crab-themed hats hanging from the ceiling.

If you want to melt some butter in the microwave and cut up a lemon and eat your steamed shellfish there, no one is going to stop you. But it’s not a restaurant.

We went twice. Feeling pretty clever the second time at having figured out the system. Feeling pretty clever until a couple arranged themselves at the table next to us with a rice cooker, a pan of some sort of kim chi-looking dish, plates, cloth napkins, and a full spectrum of seafood-eating utensils including, yes, chopsticks.

We were instantaneously turned into a humbling combination of amateurs (for not having brought the right stuff) and barbarians (for being forced to do things like crack the crab claws by banging on them with our beer bottles).

And with that we threw our shells, as the signs instructed, back into the water from which they came and headed home. Summer, for me at least, was officially over. I’m already making plans to go back to the Oregon coast; this time donned in old clothes, with a shell cracker and side dishes in hand.

Last week I dropped Ernest off at the day camp in town he goes to when we’re in Northern Minnesota. I had some errands to do in the bigger town of Brainerd and so ended up driving through Ironton, not something I do much. Boy am I glad I did because I saw an addition to the town since I last drove through – whenever that might have been. As you might guess from the picture above, it rather captured the eye. I can barely describe the extent to which this flame-covered building with its bright reds and oranges and yellows stands out in a small town in Minnesota lake country. The folks here are practical, utilitarian, pragmatic people. Energy must be conserved for the long winter that always looms in the background. Colors are muted, speech is reserved, and blending in is highly valued.

Upper midwest culture firmly embraces (and enforces) a no-tall-poppy policy. Garrison Keillor has documented it extensively. Don’t stand out. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Who do you think you are? It is an aspect of the region that has not always served yours truly very well. I know what it takes to stand out here. I know the snarky comments and dry-humored back-handed compliments those flames attract.

So perhaps you can imagine how happy those flames made me as I drove (blah) through to do errands (double blah) on a gray day (triple blah).

And when I saw that this extremely tall poppy houses Louie’s Bucket of Bones, a rib joint and smokehouse (custom smoking available!), I nearly fainted with pleasure. Stenciled lettering promotes the establishment’s ribs, chicken, and catfish, as well as tacos and lasagna. A little something for everyone, I suppose.

Over the weekend I sent my brother to pick up ribs, both St. Louie style and baby back. Both were, in their unique way, fabulous. The tender, unctuous baby backs were preferred by half our group and the dryer, chewier St. Louie by the other half, so peace was maintained as we gnawed our way through our order until we had, indeed, created a bucket of bones.

I recently went to TWO in the space formerly known as Hawthorne Lane. We were there for happy hour, trying to grab a dinner between various hectic schedules. We needed a place within a pretty small radius downtown that served food and cocktails at 5. TWO fit the bill. Bonus prize was their “5 for $5″ menu on offer this month. It’s pretty self-explanatory (or, really, just very well named): each week they feature five of their regular dishes sort of pared-down (I imagine fancy garnishes are removed, for example) for $5. We didn’t end up ordering any of them simply because there were things on the bar menu – warm pretzels, house-made lamb sausage in flakey pastry, various pizzettas – that sounded better to our crew, but the very possibility of such a deal excited the whole table. Correction: it excited the whole table except for Ernest. He was excited by 1) the aforementioned warm pretzels and 2) the root beer we let him order. “Mama,” he said, “this root beer is almost as good as in Minnesota.”

Along with the pizzas and sausages and cocktails we asked to be brought to our table, I ordered a salad that I couldn’t quite imagine how it would taste:

Shaved Brussels Sprout Salad
Pecorino Cheese and Marcona Almonds
Garlic and Chili Vinaigrette

I figured if it was good it would be really good. It was. The tender shaved sprouts were completley coated with chili and parmesan and the crunchy almonds were their perfect foil. So I made it last night. A little less cheese and dressing than the restaurant version, natch. And I remembered there being mint in the salad, which there was not at the restaurant but which there was in mine and it was fabulous. A fresh, bright note against the rich almonds and spicy chile flakes. Accomplished cooks out there can probably use what I’ve said about it so far to go forth and make their own versions. If you’d rather follow a recipe, I’ve posted the one I made last night over at Local Foods, where I’ve called it Spicy Brussels Sprouts Salad With Almonds and Mint.

My recent adventures in New Mexico and West Texas left me with a great many happy memories, including those of some fabulous meals. Yes, most of them involved chiles and plenty of cheese and meat, and I’ll be working on re-creating those soon. For now, however, I need some salads. And fattoush salad is on my mind. Why? Well, we had two excellent, if completely different, versions of it in Marfa, Texas.

Yes, two excellent if different versions of fattoush in Marfa, Texas. It’s a crazy place, Marfa.

The first one was at Cochineal, an amazing little place with a charming dining room and an even more compelling courtyard serving food I would happily pay to eat in San Francisco. The fattoush there was spare and, unlike any other version of the salad I’ve ever had, contained cauliflower.

The second was at Food Shark. Food Shark is a food truck that operates out of the old train station in Marfa, where there is also a farmers market on Saturdays.

Their fattoush was a bit more, um, Texan. Big, bold, filling. It had a crunchy, fresh falafel on top, a ton of well-oiled pita chips, and was drizzled within an inch of its life with tahini and yogurt sacues. It was the perfect lunch to re-vivify during the mid-day break of the Chinati Foundation tour.

My own version was inspired by both. I tossed romaine, peeled and seeded cucumber slices, chopped tomato, sliced red onion, plenty of chopped mint, and toasted pita pieces with a lemon garlic vinaigrette. I then topped it with feta, olives, and crushed toasted cumin seeds. I drizzled tahini on my dashing husband’s portion and garlicky yogurt on mine (Ernest perferred just lettuce and pita). We were out of pepperoncini, or I would have put a few on the side for good measure. Need more of a recipe? I’ve posted one at Local Foods.

I’ve now had green chile at every meal for two days straight. I’ve had it on a chile relleno (doubling up my green chile intake since it was a stuffed green chile covered with green chile) with eggs for breakfast at the just-as-good-as-promised Cafe Pasqual’s, cooked into whole grain flatbread from the Santa Fe farmers market, on another two chile rellenos at Tomasita’s, over huevos rancheros at Tesuque Village Market, and in a bowl and also drizzled into tacos at The Adobe Bar. I also used it as an answer as my dashing husband, my boisterous son, and I played 20 Questions while while hiking through beautiful, painfully arid Northern New Mexico mountains.

Isn’t that a great name for a restaurant? It lets you know you do not need a tie, for example. We waited a lllooonnnnnngggg time last night to eat our dinner there. While we waited I downed one of the best margaritas I’ve had in a long time along with bright and spicy salsa and smooth and flavorful guacamole, which all really hit the spot after a day of travel – first flying to Denver for the third time in 8 days (hello Concourse B!), then on to Albuquerque, then the drive up to Santa Fe. Why are we here? It’s spring break. We’ve never been. And we’re eventually going to make our way down to Marfa, Texas to see art and and lots of space and sky. Carlsbad Caverns, Roswell, and plenty of more space will occupy us on the way. And, of course, I’m hoping to eat plenty of chile-laced delights.

The Shed. It came highly recommended by locals. It did not disappoint. The best thing was some green chile stew, a cup of which my dashing husband and I shared to start. My red chile smothered enchiladas with a side of posole were pleasantly bitter from the chiles, which made the bits of onion taste sweet, and I ate the whole plate full of them, which is something I don’t usually do at restaurants.

I had the great pleasure of dining with Kent and Kevin Young and their families last night. We all headed to Thai House Express, where some plate sharing and some plate hogging occurred (I did not feel like sharing; I just wanted my silver noodle salad). Very Tall Cousin Sam joined us and ordered some crazy double noodle creation in a yellow curry sauce. Note to self: next time you go to Thai House Express order crazy double noodle creation in yellow curry sauce.

p.s. My mom was at dinner last night too. We both ordered the exact same thing we did one year and one day ago.

The city of Denver completely freaked out. Everything shut down. I guess, from what I heard and have seen in pictures, some areas really were slammed with snow, but in the city itself things didn’t seem so very bad. After my talk was postponed (I head back on Tuesday – that powerpoint presentation will be shown!), a friend and I decided to enjoy our Snow Day and go to the movies. That plan came to naught since the theaters – even the multiplex at the giant fancy mall – were closed. Luckily Domo, where I sipped hot brown rice tea

and chowed down on a tofu and vegetable soupy casserole dish called nabemono

was open for lunch. And Marco’s Coal-Fired Pizza was open for dinner. Marco is a madman, turning out the kind of delicious Napoletana pizza that makes me angry with its deliciousness and then having the gall to take that same mind-numbingly good dough and stuff it with nutella for a dessert pizza.

Yes, it sounds horribly horribly wrong. And yet it tastes so very very right. Insider tip: the man also concocts his own not-sweet limoncello. Ask for a glass if you get a chance.

Sadly, I did not make it out to the Grizzly Rose.

I’ve returned from the Oaxacan Coast. My, is it lovely there. Hot and lovely. After this cold cold winter and so far freezing spring, the hot sun and warm ocean felt mighty good.

You know what was just as good? I ate chilaquiles every morning. Every morning. I ate tortilla chips cooked in chile sauce for breakfast every morning. Saying it now, it sounds sort of wrong. It did not, however, seem at all wrong at the time. I have a theory: Even bad chilaquiles are good. I’ve proved it true in the past. I was happily unable to prove it true again; all the chilaquiles I had were delicious. Some had the green chile and tomatillo sauce:

Some had two sauces and came with a black bean filled pastry bull with dried chile horns:

Some were ordered, some were glopped out of a hotel breakfast buffet, some were purchased at an airport lunch counter. What they all had in common was a generous drizzle of crema (slightly thin and ever-so-drizzle-able Mexican sour cream), some grated salty Oaxacan cheese, and plenty of thinly sliced raw onions on top. Duly noted.

Ernest had a friend over for dinner (and sleep over!) last night. It was actually a playdate that started that morning and sort of morphed into a sleepover and, honestly, is still going strong up in Ernest’s room. Since I once completely traumatized this friend with a dinner I served – although he was terribly polite about it – I’m still currying favor with him and trying to convince him that the food writer’s house isn’t the worst place to eat in the whole wide world.

So I took the lads to El Metate to get tacos and horchata. I am winning him back, slowly but surely. His parents even reported recently that he mentioned the delicious “rice milk” we got one time. I, however, had had enough tacos recently, and went with the break-out order of flautas. I asked for them extra crispy and the fine folks at El Metate obliged. They top their flautas with guacamole, crema, and salsa fresca and it’s all quite pretty and with the bed of lettuce and modest size of the flautas, quite a reasonable dinner for something so crispy and crunchy.