Eating Out A Landmark

Actually, THE Landmark. You see, after we didn’t totally screw up during the premier of the Cooking With Pook segment on Central Valley Buzz! 4-6pm weekdays on channel 33.1 and webcast, (Like that artfully rammed in plug? Thought you would.) so we felt that we deserved a bit of a victory dance after our premier and dropped in for a bite. More about the mighty ‘Mark later.

Let’s talk about MEEEE! Oh my god! I cooked on TV! And it was a ton of fun! I got to make my pasta carbonara recipe. And you know that old saying about watched pots and boiling water? Multiply that by 10,000 when you’re doing your best not to look like a complete ass on TV! Oh my god, it took that pot of water damn near an hour to go from tap to boiling. But beyond that, it was all smoothies. The pancetta rendered nicely, the sauce came out an acceptable texture, the pasta wasn’t too bad. And it looked ok. Creamy pasta isn’t exactly going to jump off of your screen in brilliant HD. My real boner though, was off-camera. I didn’t make enough for the crew! There’s a small army of hungry interns who are looking to jump me. Lesson: bring more next week. Look maw! I is on the Tee Vee!

And on to dinner. We took a wander around the Tower after the show, so that I might annoy any who would hold still, with tales of my nouveau célébrité. After having my inflated head booted out of a few living rooms, the hunger was upon us. First I thought about the take out pizzas over at Karch’s, since I could also get it home to the camera I left there. But alas, it was after 9pm. So we settled on the all night happy hour at the Landmark and a sad lack of food pics.

I’m actually at The Landmark quite a bit. So I found it a little strange that this is the first time that it occurred to me to review more than a couple plates of appetizers during the Rogue. It’s really a very nice Basque restaurant, with a medium sized back patio that they lovingly heat in the winter and have misters up to help beat down the raging Fresno summers. Their back dining room is fairly large and nicely appointed. And most importantly, even if it’s raging at the bar and on the patio, you can still hear yourself think while you’re eating in the dining room. A big plus when the restaurant is also a popular night spot. And rather than clear out the tables for a dance floor, the kitchen stays open late so drinky pants can get their grub on and level out their buzz.

Menu stuff! And a gin and tonic, please. They’ve got a pretty wide menu, Basque style seafood dishes, lamb, beef, frogses. Even the terrifying escargots of snailness. But the spouse lady was down for some clamsian goodness for the appetizer. So, I chose the scalone, an apparent fusion of scallops and abalone (which I’ve never before seen on a menu for under $40), egg dipped and fried, similar to a calamari steak for my entree. The lady chose the shrimp scampi and we both went for the pasta alfredo as our side.

Their clams were pretty good. Only a couple were sporting the hated clam-sand-poop. Nothing sets you back as you’re mentally getting over the concept that you’re eating an entire animal, poop chute and all, than a nice, crown-damaging crunch to remind you that there’s an artfully stewed turd in that chewy little fellow. Doesn’t mean I didn’t finish ‘em and then dip some of their garlic bread in the butter, white wine, shallot and poop broth. Mmmmmm. And if you think that’s a little too gross, I’ll tell you a few tales of the dark side of sausages! To know what worcestershire sauce really is will make you faint dead away.

The salads were ok. Not much in the greens to get too excited about. My bleu cheese was fairly mild. Although the pickled beets on top were a fun touch that harkens back to the fancy salads of my youth, like the Lime Lite’s. Overall it wasn’t going to sink or float anything on it’s own. So we move on to our entrees. Both were hot and seemed to be fresh from the kitchen. There was a small delay, since our server was also handling the madhouse of the patio, so I was a bit worried. But he seemed to be well in synch with the kitchen and got our plates out within their tastiness tolerances.

I really liked the scalone! It was 3 medium sized, egg dipped and fried patties. Very similar to a calamari steak. But it’s all the difference when you bite into them. There is a much lighter texture than you get with squid, or even with scallops alone. And I finally understand the abalone obsession. When handled properly, they’re extremely tender and sweet. Absolutely perfect on their own, it’d be a sin to even add a squirt of lemon. Now I must find an abalone festival, that I might sate this heretofore unknown need.

The alfredo was fairly meh. It was certainly better than Lipton’s. But I think I may have had overly engorged standards by that point considering I had lunched on carbonara, destroyed the clam appetizer and already sampled the scalone. I was reaching the Danger-Full level. The clams had also done their damage to the spouse. But she bravely trooped her way through her shrimp scampi. I got a taste and really liked the flavor. Nice sized butterflied shrimp in a tasty garlic butter sauce with something new. Mushrooms. It makes complete sense now that I think of it, but they had to show me the truth of it. The shrimp themselves were a wee bit overcooked, but didn’t detract too much from the dish. Overall, we were really happy with dinner and our service. Not for the first time and most certainly not the last.

So, we’ve got ourselves a bit of a Tuesday spot on an awesome local TV station! I feel like I’m finally living out my dream of being a character in Weird Al’s movie “UHF”. I hope I get to jump out of a closet in a Channel 30 office and yell “Supplies!” while attacking their hired goons with mops during a clandestine mission to rescue Chuck’s abducted janitor, who will later go on to say some very regrettable things on stage in LA. With that fantasy in my head and a belly full of new and interesting seafood, I gotta say. Damn, it feels good to be a blogga!


-Pook

Eating Out Mr. Greenjeans

Okay, so he’s really hella dead. So it’d be more like eating old grandpa jerky. Gross right? So instead we’re going to take a cue from a friend of EOF Kattra and attempt a…oh god…I think I might have yarfed a little in my gob. A vegetarian recipe. Oh god! I’m sorry, I’ve gotta empty my sorrow into my porcelain Lord.

Ok! Upbeat again. So vegetarian right? Well crap, I guess I do have a bunch of farm fresh produce, I can turn out at least one semi vegetarian meal. But god damn it, I’m keeping my butter you bloody hippies! You can use your precious olive oil instead… Grumpily moving on.

Veg-gasm time!! We’re gonna make ourselves a tomato vegetable pasta soup with friggin barley! Cuz grains is good.

EOF Veg-gasm Tomater Veg Soup

1.5 pints canned or concassed tomatoes
2 cups water
2 table spoons unsalted butter
1 cup finely minced leeks
3 ribs celery chopped
4 medium carrots chopped
3 stalks of baby garlic minced (or 2 cloves)
6 fresh sage leaves ripped a new one by hand
1 table spoon dry oregano
1 table spoons fresh thyme
1 big pinch cayenne pepper
3 table spoons of violated parsley leaves
¼ cup barley
2 cups sliced zucchini (Italian sausage…SHHHH!!!)
2 bay leaves
¼ lb shell pasta
1 squeeze o’ lemon
Salt and pepper to taste (catching onto a theme here?)

Prep: Cut up shit like I said. You’re golden.



Firstly firstingham. You drop your butter in the soup pot, let it foam up a wee bit and add your minced leek. Cook until translucent and add your baby garlic. Cook for another minute, then add your carrots and celery and/or sundry hard, rigid veg. At the same time, have a food processor on standby and beat the living shit out of those tomatoes. Feel free to add half of your herbs and all of the parsley at this stage to be beaten into a horrible red slurry of yum. Hey, this is how the big boys make their tomato sauce. Keep up!

 So we’re beating our tomatoes for all the world to see. Then take your tomato whip and run it through a strainer. Get all the thyme twigs and machine missed tomato skins stained out, mash everything else past the wires and on top of your hot veg in the pot. Once all the tomatoes are mashed in, toss in your bay leaves and the remainder of your herbs and spices along with the barley and that squeezy lemon, then set to a simmer. Allow to slowly cook down for at least a half hour, adding water as necessary to maintain the consistency of the soup.

At this point sauté the “zucchini” in a little butter and dill. Once they’re just a little under done, toss the slices into the soup as well. For green zucchini, do it close to the end of cooking, for “meat” zucchini, much earlier. And for a more meaty taste, just add some fennel and paprika. Once the barley is al dente, add in the remainder of the water and the pasta and bring to a low simmer. Once the pasta is done, so is dinner!

So there you go. Eating Out Fresno turned out a vegetarian recipe with local ingredients and not so much as a whimper….ok more like a random substitution of zucchini for Italian sausage and some goat cheese on top. But what can I say? I love cylinders in my tomato and the randy smell of goat in my nose. All day.  Besides, zukes aren't in season yet.  But pigs totally are.

And with that we drift slowly off the cliff. With a sultry wave we bid you adieu, auf wiedersehen and who the hell stole my pants? Pants don’t go with soup! But an Irish soda bread with walnuts sure would.



-Pook

Eating Out Tubers and Shrooms

So spring is here and I have begun my seasonal plunder of the Vineyard Farmers Market. It’s still early in the season, so what these farmers lack in bounty they make up for in succulent tenderness. Sweet little tightly coiled bunches of baby romaine, tangy and sweet myer lemons, blood oranges. My money just evaporates every time I come here. It takes two trips to the car just so we’re not loaded down while we try to sip coffee. And naturally, I forget to bring my camera. So you’re stuck with what we brought home.

There were two major scores on the trip. The beloved ladies of Sun Smiling Farms offered their usual delicious array of mushrooms and some beautiful, young leeks. But, oh happy and special day! They have morels! Blow your truffles out your ass, morels rule the fungal world in my crystal castle! The comely lady is quite amused as I do my gangly-pudgy dance celebrating the extra fatness I shall be layering on for the sweltering summer to come. My other major delight was discovering that the veg folks on the northeast corner had Jerusalem artichokes! I have heard of sunchokes before, but have never worked with, or tasted them before. I’m giddy with delight at the prospect of working with a new and relatively rare (for Fresno) ingredient. Now, whatever shall we make with these beauties?

Glad you asked! Time for Sunday dinner. I’m an immediate gratification kinda fellow. So, we’re going to dive right into the middle of the market bounty and make all of the delicacies into a mess o’ vittles. Scouring the interweb for morel recipes is bizarre. Any ‘shroom hunter site pretty much offers 80 variation on fried morels, 1 cream sauce recipe and 1 soup recipe. The rest of the web offered morels and asparagus. How odd. You would think that such a wonderful mushroom would have more variation in it’s popular use. I guess fried highlights the flavor best. Screw that though, I want a brandy cream sauce with these bad boys. How I wish I could find green peppercorns in this town! But a good cook soldiers on. That’ll mean some steaks. Rib eyes look good. Ok, now onto the chokes. Hmmm, sautéed with sage and lemon? Nah. Oooooo! Sunchoke au gratin with ginger and garlic. Now that sounds delicious! And what’s this? Dilled horseradish red potato salad? Yes please. But what’s this crap about using a microwave? Screw that, I’ve got the idea, I can run with it from there.

Rib Eye Steaks with Morel Brandy Cream Sauce

2 med rib eye steaks
6oz morel mushrooms
1 tablespoon olive oil
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
¾ cup diced shallots
4 tablespoons brandy
1 cup cream
2 cups beef broth reduced by 2/3
2 tablespoons green peppercorns (if you can lay hands on these spicy little gems)


Prep: Soak your morels in salt water to wash off the grit and run off any potential hitch hikers. After the soak, rinse and dry on a paper towel. Prior to use, give a rough chop. I like mine fairly chunky. Put your beef broth on a low simmer to reduce. Add in a bay leave if you like. Give your shallots a dice and season your steaks with a little salt and pepper. 

Now, heat up your pan and add the olive oil and 2 tbl spoons of butter. Once the foam has settled, fry your steaks to taste, preferably medium rare. Once done, set aside and rest. Add 1 more tbl spoon of butter to the pan and then add in your shallots. I like to cook mine until they’re getting a bit glassy, around 5 minutes. At this point, add in the reduced beef stock and the brandy. Careful smokers! Booze evaporates. Keep that rockin Tom Selleck mustache in safety. Allow that to simmer a bit, then add in your morels (and peppercorns if you have them). Allow these to simmer until you start to smell the boozy brandy mellow and the mushroom smell starts to dominate. Now add in your cream and simmer until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon. Plate your steak, then top with morels scooped from the pan, then spoon sauce over the whole affair. Your dinner guest will hail you as a golden god of cream sauces. Next course! In reverse.


Sunchoke gratin

2 cups of med sliced sunchokes
2 table spoons butter
1 cup cream
1 & 1/2 teaspoons of corn starch
1 tsp minced garlic
2 tablespoons minced ginger
salt and pepper
1/2 cup crushed walnuts

Prep: Wash and slice your sunchokes, then slice them about 3/16ths of an inch thick.  Crush your walnuts to the desired texture.  Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees and prepare a roasting pan with a water bath

Heat up a sauce pan with some butter, add in your sunchokes, ginger, garlic, salt and pepper and simmer for about 10 minutes.  Mix corn starch with a little reserved cream and add to the pan and simmer for another 5 minutes or until thickened.  Spoon sunchokes and sauce into 2 buttered ramekins, top with walnuts and place in the water bath and bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes.  Allow to cool and enjoy.

The recipe worked spot on and was insanely delicious. The only variation I made was substituting the bread crumbs with crushed walnuts. OMFG*! (*Oh My Felicitous Goat) It was insanely good! I had no idea that Jerusalem artichokes would taste so much like sunflower seeds. It makes sense, since it’s a sunflower tuber. But amazingly delicious all the same. And it mixes so very well with the warm oily flavor of the toasted walnuts on top. I think next time I might grate a little nutmeg into the cream as well to add a little bit of a perfume to the flavor. Happy happy happy! And last but first…


Dilled Horseradish Potato Salad

2lb red potatoes cubed
½ cup diced shallots
1 cup mayonnaise
1 heaping tablespoon horseradish (We like it HOT baby!)
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
3 tablespoons dried dill
½ tsp cider vinegar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
Salt and pepper to taste

Prep: Wash and cube your potatoes. Boil until fork tender then rinse and cool. Dice shallots.


Take all of your wet ingredients and whisk together in a bowl large enough for your pertaters. Toss in your dill and shallots and mix. Then add in your chilled potatoes and toss thoroughly to combine. You can serve immediately, but the flavors will be more pronounced if allowed to rest overnight.

And that dear friends is, what I hope to be the first of many wonderful dishes made from fresh ingredients sold by Fresnans and from our own soils. This is only whetting my appetite for what bounties may come from the market as well as my own recently planted garden. Thumbs up to ole Maw Nature for kicking down some kick ass grub.

-Pook

Eating Out Comedy

So in a shift from our normal programming. I wound up scoring tickets to the LOL Comedy show at the Tower Theater this past Saturday. Don’t worry! I’ve got recipes backed up and ready to disgorge upon the starry fabric of the interweb. But about the only thing that wars with my love for food would be my love of yuk yuks.

But first, a story. About 15 years ago, I went to the Tower Theater with a girlypal and her family to see the wonder that was Howie Mandel. Things you do for love right? Anyhoo, rather than be able to judge the talents of famed Bobby’s World creator. I wound up just having to pity the poor soul. For, he knew not what he was wading into, this polite Canuck with poor crowd management skills. Fresno was very barky-outbursty at the time and his opening bits were peppered by random howls of “HOWIE!” for no apparent reason. Thinking he can get the better of the crowd, he turns to one of the bellowers and says “What?” assuming that attention equaled shame and therefore garnering silence. WRONGO IN THE NO-NO BUDDY! Without missing a beat the lady shrieks “Take a picture with my kid!”. And the fool buys it! She runs up and happily tells him that by the way…ain’t got no camera! Oh god, it’s all coming unraveled now Mandy-boy! Think quick! “Could I use someone’s camera so this lady will be quiet?” he asks in the same tone an explosive ordinance disposal guys use when the clock has hit 5 seconds. “Sure! If you take a picture with my kid too!!” Just when you think it can’t get any worse, Fresno steps up baby! The next hour was fascinating. I’ve never seen a man complete a set of light hearted jokes with a raging “FUCK ALL OF YOU!!!” in his eyes. After the show, the kids wanted to run up to him at his limo for autographs. I gently bring them back to heel with a simply spoken truth. “Kids, I don’t think Howie wants to talk to any Fresnans ever again. Just let him go.”

So with that nesting in the back of my mind, I opened up my e-mail to discover that I had won free tickets from the The Fresno Beehive (thanks again!), to check out the LOL Comedy show. The lineup is fairly new to me, but then I’m not exactly a walking encyclopedia of working comics. Which, also makes it kinda cool, since I really have no idea what to expect from these guys and no clue if they can handle a Fresno crowd.

The evening kicked off with the music of the Super Lucky Catz. A local group headed up by front man Robert Andrew Gushel-Barron. Described to me as a funk band, they challenged my idea of funk. When I think of funk I think P-funk, Soul Brother #1 James Brown, Bootsy Collins, Curtis Mayfield. Get down and get funky, funk! Super Lucky Catz’ style is a lot softer than I would have expected. That’s not to say that they aren’t good. Just the opposite. Everyone in the band was spot on in their performance. It’s just that deep inside me, I really wish that they would really unleash their bass player and keep that slap bass rolling, turn up the levels on their guitarist and really let him wail on those 4 guitars he has. To my uneducated ears, they’re a little more adult contemporary than funky. But still, a really good performance.

Oh yeah, isn’t this a comedy show? Finally, openers! The first comic out wasn’t on the bill and sadly, I have a memory like an alzheimer’s patient with a concussion. However, I do remember that his bit was actually rather funny. He had a riff on the “you might be a redneck” bit, but with the Fresno twist of “you might be a tweaker”. As well as a pretty good spread of meth themed humor and a couple character quick changes. First out of the gate was definitely a hit with crowd.

Up next was a local cat by the name of Feather Da’wyz. He had a more traditional comedy club style set, hitting various universal topics like ageing, penis size and the frustrations of dating. He owned his material very well and approached some pretty beat up topics with a fresh perspective and definitely got the laughs. He ends his bit with “The Cell Phone Song” in which he sings out 7 numbers and gets the crowd to sing along. Once you’ve done it 3 or 4 times, he lets you know that it’s actually his cell and to feel free to text him after the show to find out other spots he’ll be performing at. And you know, it worked. I’ll be happy to go check him out again, just to see the full spectrum of his material.

Quinn Dahle, a SoCal transplant from Minnesota is up next. Again, another polished comedy club act. He works the observational humor fairly well. And he REALLY skirted the dangerous edge in such a multicultural crowd. But damn it, he actually wrung a few bellows of laughter out of me before I realized I should be self conscious and shut the hell up. Gotta give him props for throwing down a bit of challenging comedy. For sure, a guy to keep an eye on. If he finds his groove you might be seeing a lot more of him.


At last, a break! Quick jaunt through the legions seeking a beer towards the doors for a smoke. So far, I have to say that I’m very pleased with the whole experience. The comedians have delivered actual comedy. And in general I’m actually somewhat shocked at the good behavior of the Fresno crowd. Sure, there are a couple gabblers and some shout outs to the comics. But the comics are comfortably in their element and my fellow show goers are having fun without being total jackasses. Go Fresno comedy crowd!

Headliner time! If you’re 30 years old or older and a Central Valley native that actually chilled with any Latino family, Rudy Moreno will absolutely kill. Maybe some of the younger kids with more old school households can get it, but as a farm kid from the outskirts of town many moons ago, his bits really hit home. Here is where you see a seasoned pro who has done his homework. Not only does he riff on themes from an old school Latino childhood upbringing contrasted against today’s modern snotty little so and so’s, but was able to pander to the crowd by tearing up the neighboring towns like Tulare and even picked on the poor portly security guard and used him as a sounding board throughout his set. It shows forethought and preparation for doing a good show here. It makes me feel good that the headliner REALLY wanted to give Fresno a performance we’d like. Top that off with actually being really funny, he really earned that top slot and did a fabulous job giving us the finale we wanted. Overall, a great show and easily worth the ticket price for 3+ hours of entertainment and comedy. And they served beer!

Oh. So since it’s a food blog, I’m required by internet law to talk about food in some capacity every post? Well, crap. Ok. We actually were pretty famished before the show, so we ducked into the mighty Tower Dog for a bite. My beloved rocked the California Dog, while I was trying to stuff down a Polish Dog like an anaconda sucking down a capybara. Every time I eat there I discover something else that makes me smile. This time it was my mouth telling me that they actually make their relish in some form of a fresh manner. I could be wrong though. Which is why I approached one of the men involved for an interview. Don’t get your merkin in a twist just yet. I’ve got a backlog of recipes I’ve got to spew all over the tummy of my dear bloggy- blog. But SOON™ we’ll give you a secretive peek into what makes these dogs my favorite.

-Pook

Eating Out Myself

And so we return, dear readers.  I have retreated to the Cave of Grumpiness, now that the Rogue Festival has come and gone.  Truly it was a grand two weeks for myself and many many others.  Shows were rocked, crowds were wowed and lots of new friends and acquaintances were made.  A hearty thank you to everyone who participated in the Rogue this year, from the organizers to the volunteers to the audiences themselves.

All that said, onto the foodings.  A strong lack of time and spare cash conspired to keep me from embracing as many Tower eateries as I would have liked.  But have no fear, I have every intention of Eating Out Tower and leaving her mewling and sloppy in my wake.  But until I can miracle up enough cash, we're going to focus on what we're Eating Out at home.

A favorite treat of mine is a dish I learned at the table of a disgraced mobster, who had been exiled from the home country for reasons unknown.  He was dating a rather promiscuous and somewhat foolish friend who had invited us up to his Hollywood Hills home for dinner.  So after some small talk about how he was Italian Special Forces, a former mining engineer, a single engine prop-plane pilot and what the current market prices of Bolivian booger sugar was, I came to the conclusion that he was the real deal and I had better buckle in, shut up and hold on.  And now, I'm afraid that my fiercly clenched sphincter was going to leave a spiral pattern in the seats of his redwood dining chairs.  But a dish was brought out that was so delicious that I was (foolishly) able to relax.  Such is the magic of pasta carbonara!

And then I find out that it's stupid easy to make!  The hardest part is finding pancetta, which is readily available at Sam's Italian Deli.  From there it's just a bit of planning and moxy.  So be not afraid!  And if you're too cheap for pancetta, you can easily substitute the same amount of bacon.  It's a little different, but still amazing.  So here's what you'll need.

1lb spaghetti (or linguini)
4 eggs (3 if they're large)
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 lb pancetta (sliced thick, 1/8th inch)
1/2 cup parmesan cheese
1/2 cup romano cheese (both grated)
fresh cracked pepper

Now, before some purist yells NUH UH!  THAT AIN'T HOW GRANDMA MAKES IT!  Well, you're right.  So go eat a dick.  We're making it this way this time.  I've done it in the past with only egg yolks.  Hella yum, but this is less of a pain in the ass.  So suck it.

First!  Give your pancetta a dice.  I like mine a bit chunky, so I keep it 1/8th inch cubes.  Then add it to a nice pre-heated pan, deep enough to take about a pound of pasta.  You'll find out why soon.  Now cook down the pancetta until you render the fat from it.  Unlike regular bacon, it'll start to look done long before it is.  Lower heat will help prevent burning.  But melt as much fat as you can out of the pancetta.  Once it's well done but not terribly crunchy, transfer it to a paper towel lined plate.  Drain the fat and reserve 2 tablespoons for later naughtyness.

Somewhere in all of this you should have already started the water for your pasta.  So, now would be the time for you to cook said pasta.  Because you'll be using the following 7 minutes to beat your eggs together with the cream.  Then toss your cheese in with the eggs.  Now, take your pancetta pan and put it back on medium heat with your reserved fat.  Once it's warm, your pasta should be done.

Now comes the planning.  You need to get your pasta quickly and safely drained and into the pan before it can significantly cool, since it's going to save you from an ignoble death via salmonella ridden undercooked eggs.  Thats right!  The hot pasta cooks the eggs!  So stop dawdling and get it in the pan!  Give it a quick toss in the hot fat, throw in the pancetta and then pour your egg/cheese/cream mixture over the top.  Cut the heat.  Here I find it easiest to use a fork and spoon to toss the pasta and egg mixture together.  It will quickly emulsify into a creamy, gooey, bacon ridden delight.  Sprinkle with cracked black pepper and you're good to go.  I don't use any extra salt as I find there is plenty coming from the cheese and pancetta.

Get this plated and shoved into your face asap!  As it cools that sauce will sieze, so this is a one shot, eat it as you make it kind of dish.  But I dare you, no I double platipus vagina dare you to be able to walk away from a plate with even a smidgen of this God-made-food left on it.  If food could be narcissistic, I could easily understand this dish wanting to fuck itself and forsake all others.

Make it.  Eat it.  Make other people eat it.  I will wait patiently for your thanks.

-Pook

Eaiting Out from Behind

Many apologies dear readers for the belated follow up post. I figure I had best finish up the weekend review with the Sunday post before the next weekend is already here! So we left off at Saturday night, after I had been hustled into the waiting limo by my security team. Wait…that never happened. I think it was actually my girlfriend telling my drunk behind to get the hell in the car. Yea, that makes more sense.


Which brings me to Sunday! You know, art is a wonderful thing. It gives you a wonderful rush as you experience it. But a little known fact is that art also has one hell of a hangover. Combine that with the regular boozy hangover and Sunday morning is not my friend. Grub is definitely in order if we’re going to make it through the day. And drinks of course.


And then I’m told that Livingstone’s serves breakfast. WHAT?? I’ve been getting face-down there for over a decade and a half! I didn’t even know that they were open before noon. Stone’s it is then! Lead on, my magical breakfast leprechauns!


We settle in to grab a spot out on the patio and discover that our server from yesterday is again, ready, willing and waiting…on us again. Hooray! Nothing like not having to explain why everyone in your breakfast party is a board certified weirdo. So we tuck into our menus, booze is ordered and we get to make the hard decisions.

Overall it’s a pretty decent breakfasty-brunchy kind of menu. And then I see it. Dare I? I mean, after the last time I did this in Tower I was afraid that I’d be assassinated and dumped into the waste oil dumpster behind the Peach Pit. But no. I must do this. For me, for you, for America! I’m ordering their eggs benedict.

They’re pretty busy, but our food comes out before the ice in my screwdriver has much of a chance to melt. So here is my moment of truth. They look pretty good. A tablemate comments that their hollandaise appears to be bottled, but I’m not 100% sure and forgot to ask. It’s got a little pepper and what appears to be fresh parsley in it. That sorta breaks the absolute artistry of the plate, but hardly a reason to be upset. A little poke at the eggs reveals that someone in the kitchen has actually learned how to poach something! They’re a little overdone for my taste, but again, no reason for me to cry. Underneath, there is a decent slice of canukian back bacon. It’s ok, mildly smoky and has that slight nitrate tang that comes with wet packed pork. The muffin base is again, decently good. Thick and sturdy enough to hold up through the meal. It didn’t bring much taste to the dish, but it didn’t take away from it either.

In general it was a happy medium between the perfection I experienced at Gilly’s and the culinary insult that I had at Irene’s. This is what I expect from a restaurant that serves eggs benedict but doesn’t call them a specialty. It was tasty, well cooked and priced in the same arena as their other breakfast plates. I don’t know if I would outright recommend the dish to a fellow fast-breaker, but I certainly wouldn’t try to wave anyone off of it.

Also, as a pre-PS. Mrs. Eating Out Fresno wanted to jump in here with her opinion of The Works omlette with Stone’s country potatoes. She was quite pleased with her kitchen sink in an egg blanket. It was bursting at the seams with…well, everything! Looked to be spinach, avocado, mushrooms, red bell peppers and I’d guess some sausage. Hard to tell with that riot of color popping out from the egg. But she felt that the real star was her country potatoes. Personally, I flipping despise onions. I consider them a culinarily vulgar ingredient. That said though, I must admit these were some of the most beautiful country potatoes I’ve ever seen. The potatoes are crispy and nicely browned, while the peppers and onions aren’t mushy and overcooked. But the flavors are nicely mixed in the potatoes, so it’s not that they cook them separately and mix before plating. I can only guess that the potatoes are par cooked then the remaining veg is added and fried together. I might hate ‘em, but I’m sure you’ll love them.


So as we close the door on last weekend and are looking for the keys to open up the next one, I’ve come to one strong conclusion. There is a good reason that Livingstone’s is one of the only eateries in the Tower district that has survived the test of time and still resembles itself. They’re consistent, they’re kind and they love their customers. Whether you’re there for a nice dinner or just stopping in to wet your whistle, Stone’s is there for you. And I’m overjoyed about that.



-Pook

A Tale of Cinnamon Buns and Spooge

I swear I have been trying to get into a position where I can have something non-snarky to say about local Fresno food. There IS great food out there. I’ve just been luckless and lazy in my culinary pursuits. And drunk. Very, very drunk.

And that brings us to The Cinnamon Roll Shoppe. Another long standing Fresno institution. They have been at their location on Fresno and Gettysburg as long as I can remember. Easily 30 years. And I have some very wonderful memories of stumbling into their lobby after a 10 or 12 hour drinking marathon to grab a hot nut-roll to stagger home with and devour before passing out, upright in my chair, with a nutty cinnamon sugar cascade running down my chin, like I died from a baker’s heroin overdose. Good memories of what was a great pastry.


Alas, my memories were to be betrayed in a most foul fashion. It was 8 in the morning and I was dragged unhappily out of my booze cocoon for an early morning adventure. In the midst of this, I realize that I’m actually awake and outside during the short period the Cinnamon Roll Shoppe is open and serving! Mmmm, hot buttery cinnamon roll with nuts baby! And so we duck in, that I might purchase my heart’s delight. And alas, he says that they’re out of nut rolls… How the hell? Do you have walnuts? Then throw some of the damn things on a regular cinnamon roll! Normally I’d say it, but this poor, portly, baker had that aura of praying for just the right excuse to throw himself into a running mixer, ending his cinnamon pain forever.


So, I settle for a regular non-nutty roll and proceed to drag it back to the cave to be devoured with extreme prejudice. It’s a good thing too. If I had tried to eat what I found in the box, in front of this semi-suicidal chef de patisserie, I’d have sent him into the bathroom to smother himself to death with the very dough that has destroyed his will to live. I didn’t want to be an accessory or anything.


I have eaten many cinnamon rolls from many sources. Sealed plastic bags from vending machines, kiosks in malls operated by slope browed teenagers, fabulously fresh baked at the county fair. But never in my life has a roll been this gut churningly disgusting.

How in the hell did they make the cinnamon and butter filling have the honest to god consistency of male ejaculate? And I mean for real real. This isn’t allegory. If you went to the sperm bank and picked up a six pack, then mixed it with sugar and cinnamon, you would have the quivering, gelatinous, stringy substance that drenched this poor piece of pastry. Still, I paid 3 dollars for this damn thing. I’ve got to try to get something in my roiling booze soaked guts. So I’ve little choice but to dive in, subconsciously hearing dozens of old gay friends laughing their asses off. It’s after two bites, when my friend can no longer hold in his howls of laughter, loudly declaring that, with my mustache a-drape with stringy, quivering brown goo, I appear like the victim of an unfortunate felching accident.

Ok, forget this. This isn’t food, this a gag. Like rubber dog doo. Or that god awful scene in Van Wilder with the éclairs. Barring the unlikely, but possible option that the baker was slathering the dough with his hate paste, that due to rising prices and falling profits, The Cinnamon Roll Shoppe has had to alter their recipe to include corn syrup or other, cheaper sweetener. Maybe even taking butter right out of the filling. It’s outright gross.


The bakery fresh cinnamon roll is supposed to be a little bready, with the wonderfully caramelized tops and hot, buttery, cinnamon sugar melted around the bottom. They’re not gooey, not covered in cream cheese frosting. Nuts. Pecans or walnuts. That’s the only allowable topping. When cinnamon rolls are ALL that you do, you simply must put out the best possible product. And believe me, I love the Cinnamon Roll Shoppe! That’s the very reason for my shock and disgust. I know beyond any shadow of a doubt that they know how to put out a higher quality product. If times are hard, I would rather pay more for a superlative product than pay the same for awful quality.


So take a note from the Pillsbury Dough Boy and cheer up fatty! Go to the store, buy some butter and some sugar and some cinnamon. Dig around in the back, find the old recipe, the old pans and if required, the old owner. But whatever you do, stop serving food that is awash in a slimy, viscous fluid that cannot be discerned from sperm in any way but odor. If you must bow to convention, then just make some damn icing and sell it on the side. But I beg you, for the health of your business and my own general wish to be able to say something nice about a beloved Fresno institution, get your shit together!


-Pook

Fresno Eats Out Your Town

Felicitations intrepid readers!  Eating Out Fresno has been on the road, deviously dodging the banality of Valentines Day.

I felt after the scathing review of Irene's eggs benedict, that I needed to look again at my source material.  Afterall, sometimes you have a randomly over exuberant reaction to a breakfast.  Like when you were a kid and stayed over at a friend's house.  For breakfast his mom gave you both bowls of Smurf Berries cereal.  And it was amazing!  I never knew until then what Blue tasted like.  And of course, I bugged and begged my mother to get some of this magical breakfast manna, only to discover the next morning that Blue tastes like playdough that had been teabagged by a coked out and flop-sweat covered Cookie Monster.

On to the experiment!  To keep the conditions as similar as possible, I replicated the environment of the previous experience by  drinking 12 beers before bed, getting less than 5 hours sleep, farting around for an hour by assaulting a pussy cat, then taking a nice and leisurely drive down from the Los Gatos Hills.

We arrived and parked.  Gilley's was naturally, busy with the Sunday breakfast crowd.  But we were seated before I could even finish having a smoke while we waited.  So far, so good.  I definately remember this as being the most coveted type of breakfast joint.  The one that is cozy, tight and efficient.  When you look at your waitress, you know that this is what she does.  Period.  This isn't where she is cooling her heels waiting for Hollywood to come calling or for her next play to make it big on Broadway.  She is the rarest of the rare.  She knows the menu firsthand and can read you well enough to make a sound recommendation that you'll most likely love rather that be satisfied with.  She can joke with you with a familiarity that refreshing and sometimes shocking.  Maybe 45 seconds tops of banter that makes you feel welcome and attended to.  An indispensible aspect of a superior dining experience.

With my steaming mug of life-juice I perused the menu, almost afraid that my beloved avocado benedict would have been rotated off.  But another beloved aspect of the perfect coffee shop is that their specials do change, but not often.  Maybe with the seasons of the food or with waning popularity of a dish.  If you love it, it will be there for you.  And when things seems to be a little routine, a new gem will pop onto the menu.  That wonderful mix of the unchangingly familiar and a little hint of chaotic newness.  Sometimes even a regular gets to make a sound suggestion for a dish that will almost always bear their name even 20 years later.  As delicious as some of the options look, I'm here on a voyage of self exploration.  So avocado eggs benedict and hash browns again for me!

We had a fairly diverse selection of orders amongst us.  Chicken and apple sausage skillet, omlet, ground beef scramble, a regular eggs benedict and my order.  The timing is good.  It's the kind of timing that speaks of a kitchen that knows what they're doing and are able to smoothly integrate their actions into a unified culinary gestalt.  The grill cook knows if the fry guy is struggling by instinct and is able to help him get back into the rhythm of bringing all of the parts of the dishes together at the right time, at the same time and done right the first time.  Exhibited by our five plates all coming out simulatenously and each one piping hot.  Nothing sat waiting around for anyone.  The fry station was ready to pull at the same time that the eggs were done poaching and the muffins were toasted, etc, etc.  And our very busy server was right there, with a loyal compatriot ready to ferry out our food as soon as it hit ceramic.  A hard assed drill seargent would be hard pressed to find fault in their effciency and esprit de corps.

So here we are at the magic moment.  The eyes are happy!  The sauce is gorgeous.  A pastel yellow blanket draping down from the poached eggs.  It's hard to describe properly how the hollandaise looked to me.  Can the color alone of a sauce look fluffy?  I don't know, but thats what I would call that shade of yellow.  Also, I was informed by our rightly prooud waitress that they make their hollandaise from scratch.  It is smooth, unbroken by spices or herbs or crumbs.  Almost like the sugar crust of a creme brulee thats just too beautiful to crack with your spoon.

The hell with that!  I'm stabbing into this baby!  Afterall, my main complaint above Irene's tacky bottled hollandaise, was the pathetic state of their poached eggs.  These had fluffy but well set whites.  I was happy with them, but using a standard of absolute perfection, they were maybe 5-10 seconds overdone.  Wah.  I then popped open the yolks to see what Santa left me.  Sure enough, hot golden yolk began to well out of the fork wound.  Once again on the nit-picking side, maybe 5 seconds over perfect.  There was a little solidifying around the edge of the yolk.  Double wah.  There was only one actual cosmetic gripe on my part.  The avocados at some point been allowed to oxidize a little bit.  One of the downsides of pre-prepping some ingredients.  And it might have grossed out a different person.  But I've been eating avocados since before Howard Hughes died naked, unshaven and surronded by milk bottles of his own urine of a massive codeine overdose.  A little cosmetic oxidation isn't going to affect the flavor.

And it didn't!  Despite their visual faults, the fruit was nicely ripe and still a little toothy.  And just like with the kitchen and the waitresses, the whole team was working together to create a dynamite flavor.  Everything came together in a crunchy, creamy, buttery, chewy and lighty smokey bite.  Each flavor stood out on it's own and blended together.  The ham that stands in the for usual Canadian bacon is a far better choice in my egotistical opinion.  Absolutely just as stellar as my memory told it would be.

So in light of that data, we're about ready to close out the experiment.  The prices at both were comparable.  Right around $10.  Their ambience is rather different, one being an honest to Jeebus coffee shop, the other a former cafe turned schizophrenic ice cream/sandwich shoppe/bistro/breakfast cafe.  Still, I think you can smoke outside, although the lack of ashtrays makes me dubious.  Comparing the wait staffs is no contest.  Still, I don't have anything bad to say about Irene's waitresses.  I got nothing but polite and attentive service from them.  However, it's like comparing a Jr. BMX champ to Matt Hoffman doing a rocket assisted 720 backflip jump onto an aircraft carrier from a landing jet fighter.  The ladies at Irene's plan to be doing a good job somewhere else in a year.  And good luck to them on their future endeavors.  But an experienced professional waitress, happy where she works and appreciative of her customers is a treasure.  If your entree is $5 or $50, it will get to your table cooked and assembled properly.  She will bitch at the kitchen long before your feelings have to get involved.  Those ladies are always tipped well by me.  And any other thinking person who likes to eat.  Thats why on their good days they can make $40/hr.  Because it's more than slinging slop for slobs.  Not that we're not all slobs bellying up to the trough to shovel poorly or ignorantly chosen grub into our ungrateful maws.  But she is a professional and is able to overlook that common truth in her vocation.  To her, feeding jackasses is no more offputting than pouring a glass of water.  Because she's gansta like that.

So, in conclusion to our experiment we see that all of the data points at the kitchen at Irene's being shit.  Cooking with it, on it, cooked by it.  In my mind's eye I picture 5 of those turd demons from Dogma with aprons and chef's hats squatting over plates and like evil magical peanut butter factories, the components of your dish slithering out of their benighted bowels.  Over or undercooked.  Extra of what you asked to be left out, none of what you asked for double.  Wrong meat, just enough of whatever you're allergic to, so that you must ruin your evening to dash home for the epipen.  Roaring and sputtering at purile potty humor and failed sexual innuendo.  Creatures that honestly believe that Waiting should be a mandatory training film and that Dane Cook's wit shall one day sunder the heavens, lifting them up and away from the drudgery of their jobs to a place where every day is a Raiders tailgate party.  These are the type of assholes that should have fire taken away from them.  There should be a brand of the back of their right hand, liken to the mark of the beast, so that all will know: This person is only allowed to operate a microwave and only if it is for their own consumption.  You would be shocked how many people work in kitchens and can't cook their way out of a lipton soup box.  But the worst danger are the ones who believe that they can.  Pity their friends and family, for they must eat hot wings that taste like burning diesel.  At both ends.

So dear friends, as we come to a close.  It is my wish for you all to find your own Gilley's.  An eatery, ANY eatery staffed by professionals.  Cheap or expensive or in between.  If you eat where people like their jobs, you will love your food.  It might be busy, but pros know how to get 'em in and get 'em out and keep them happy the whole way through.

Instead of wishing you good eating out, I shall wish you all professional eating out.  And I promise, I will soon get off my fat ass and find something nice to say about yummying down at some actual local Fresno locations.

Pook

PS-  I almost forgot about Gilley's tomatillo salsa!  Man oh man was that stuff tasty.  And bizarre.  It's almost got the consistancy of hummus, it's bright BRIGHT green, and it tastes really strongly of cumin.  I think there might be a little mint snuck in with the cilantro as well.  It's got a nice mellow heat.  You get a nice mellow mouth burn that is almost self extinguishing.  A little tangy too.  I could easily see myself slathering some home made tacos in that and nothing else.  Well, maybe a little queso fresco.  It's so good that they even sell jars of it to go.  Next trip I'm bringin me a jar home.

The Disappointment of Breakfast Infidelity

Irene's Cafe. It's a Tower anomaly. They've been there for years. Closing long before theres anything resembling a bar rush. Their prices are high and the menu isn't exactly what I'd call imaginative. And yet, Irene's has withstood the fickle eddies of time to remain open much longer than their original forebears Cafe Intermezzo.

And so we flash to an extremely hungover Sunday morning. It is suggested that we might offset the damage we've done to ourselves last night with a nice breakfast. When Irene's is suggested, I'm intrigued. I've been back in town for over 7 years now. And not one single thinking human I know has suggested such a thing. I was to learn that there are traditions for sound reasons.

As we arrive on the patio, my culinary spidey sense began to tingle. There is nothing "wrong" per se. Just an instinctual tingle this this breakfast isn't going to be the simple and yummy affair I'm hoping for. So we're greeted by our server, drink orders taken and promptly served. My hope meter is rising. Maybe I'm just a curmudgeonly grump who is improperly transposing his wounded liver's feelings on the day.

Looking through the menu, its everything I've seen on 100 different menus. Nothing interesting. Nothing unique. Well crap. But the last good breakfast we went out to together, I had a nice avocado eggs benedict. Know that a proper hollandaise sauce is a pain to make, not to mention the difficult of properly poaching eggs. I figure that this should be a nice challenge to test Irene's with. Afterall, it's on their menu, so it can't be that tough for them. Right?

And this friends, is why one should always listen to one's culinary spidey sense. Grinning in anticipation of the buttery, eggy goodness. Our lovely server hands out the plates. Quick taste of the hollandaise. Bottled. Bottled or just made wrong and then held for too long, its chunky and half broken. But hey, this stuff is hard to make, right? At least a nicely poached...hmmm. Last I checked, the poached egg's yoke isn't supposed to come out in one piece on your fork.

I don't know about you guys. But when I'm at a restaurant and I've ordered, it's like Christmas to me. Better than Christmas, since I get to explain exactly what I want. I wait in my seat like a child pretends to be fast asleep on Christmas Eve. Every exit from the kitchen like the prancing of 8 tiny reindeer on the roof, just hoping that the slender elf in the apron is coming to my table with holiday cheer. And when it arrives, you open up your kitchen given gift with your knife and fork. Only to find that Santa fucked up. BIG TIME. You told that jolly fat fucker exactly what you wanted. But no, you don't get what you had your heart set on. What you have spent the last 15-30 minutes fantasizing about. Just imagining you and your dish, hugging and giggling in a sunlit field of daisies. Only to have your idyllic scene snatched away by the hairy knuckled fist of a lazy cook or an inattentive server. Your meal has been soiled by unwashed lackeys who could care less for what you two were to share. They just want you in and out and paying for the heartbreak.

I am now, officially viewing these eggs benedict as if they had cheated on me at another table. Explaining how these poorly prepared ingredients were no longer fitting for my fantasy, I ask the kind and competent server to explain what poaching is to her compatriots in the back of the house. Slightly befuddled at my calling my breakfast a trollop, she promises to return with a rehabilitated, non-whore plate. Alas, I am skeptical.

Soiled doves, never again soar. And so it is with poached eggs in a befuddled kitchen. Same bottled sauce. Stab fork into cheating heart of the eggs....well, I can say this for certain. If one wanted to hide spit in someone's food. Hiding it in clear, raw, runny egg whites would be great camoflage. This leads to much more imaginative pictures running through my mind of other fluids that may be emitted by a cheating ex.

Yup, there goes my appetite.

Embarassed, as all cuckolds are, I sheepishly explain to our server that breakfast has not (much to my chagrin) changed her ways and that I'm breaking up with eggs benedict. She offers me her apologies for hooking us up. I tell her that it was probably all me, as my tablemates are having very functional relationships with their breakfasts.

But hey, at least I've still got that magic memory of a one-morning stand at Gilly's with those gorgeous avocado eggs benedict. Everything about her was fresh, warm and yielding. From her moist and slightly toasted english muffin, to her lightly smoked and fried pork loin. Ripe and velvety avocado. And her egg, oh LORDY her eggs. You can't pay money for eggs like this. These eggs are a product of God's artistry and good breeding. Tenderly cared for. Done to perfection. The outsides firm, but fluffy. Their golden centers, molten with loving sunshine. And lastly, she is draped in a blanket of pastel yellow. Creamy, hot, with an astounding bite of butter than melds into all of her flavors.

That, my dear Irene's eggs benedict, is how you please a man!

Greetings!



Welcome to the inagural post of Eating Out Fresno. Rather than patting myself on the back and glad handing with empty platitudes and vague promises aimed at the future, lets get on with the blogging!


I figure for a first post we should get down to the essence of what food is. Real food. It's that one special thing that just hits the spot. Like there was an aching, empty, missing part of yourself that you didn't even know was gone. Until, that is...when you look down at an empty plate and feel a warm torpid satisfaction spread from your brain down to your toes. Evolutionary chemical factories sending you a wonderful endorphine cookie for a meal well chosen.


Whatever that item might be at that special time, it becomes the pinnacle of haute cuisine for that person on that day. And so, I would like to share one of those special moments.

It's 5:30 in the morning. I'm at 6,500' of elevation and 100 miles from civilization. I'm 6 hours into an 18 hour drunk and I've got the Hunger. We've got cookie and chips and sandwich fix'ins. But, HELL NO! I'm the Brillat Savarin of the Sierra! Nothing so simple as being crosseyed drunk is going to keep me from eating like a king in the wilderness.

So, trying to stumble ever so quietly so as not to awaken my snoozing camp mates, I dig into the camp boxes and ice chests to ferret out the raw materials of inspiration. Bacon, potatoes and a small handful of seasonings. What more could the inebriated royal on the go desire in a meal?

Well, a normal working knife for one. The meaty grip on the knock off multi tool found lying on the camp table was neither sharp, nor particularly ergonomic. The world can be so tedious at times. But I forge ahead, hacking the bacon to fit the pan and get it to sizzling.

Once the swine is to my liking, I've got this great convenient cooking grease all hot and ready to go.

So the potatoes, cubed as if they'd been hacked at by an arthritic with rickets, hop in for a sizzle. Add a little thyme, sage, garlic salt and pepper, toss them a bit and then slap the lid on. Remember, we're fairly high up. So cooking them taters takes a bit. About 2 more beers.

And now comes the magic time. Bacon is chopped into bite sized pieces and tossed with the potatoes. And voila! Hands down the the most filling and satisfying breakfast to be had in all the kingdom. A perfect hyphen. Separating a night of carousing in natural hot springs with fur bearing hippies of many stripes while sipping away at Newcastles kept chilled by the 40 degree temperatures outside of the volcanically heated doo-doo scented waters. And a hazy afternoon involving cross dressing, drinking questionable yellow fluids and many other disturbing and unprintable antics.

And so I leave you with the last thing I remember clearly. A warm fire on a crisp morning, the warm fuzzy of the perfect meal and the pants I lost later that day.

-Pook