Drunk Goat

So yesterday evening, guess what Rett and I end up doing? Shocking, I know, but we went out to eat. (Insert *gasp* here. Or maybe not so much. Whatever.) Anyway, there was quite an interesting item on the specials menu at Amalfi's: drunk goat.

I have no clue how the goat was prepared or anything like that, because I wasn’t really paying attention to the waitress’s attempt at salesmanship. I couldn’t get past the drunk part. Really, who’d want to get a goat drunk? And who performs this lovely task—does the boy goat get the girl goat drunk (on purpose), or do the Mexicans way back in the kitchen get to do the job? (I’m sure they make the goat share the bottle.)

Oh, and I have one more question: what does a drunk goat taste like? I imagine a party, a huge brawling bash, so frickin’ gigantic that the only place large enough to contain all the people is a rambling farm yard. Guests congregate in the barn. Old hay lines the floor, and although the livestock have been removed so as not to be disturbed by the obnoxious semi-conscious people stumbling around their straw beds, the place still smells livestock-y. People get drunk. People spill their $5.99 per bottle Merlot. Cheap wine mingles with the barnyard floor.

And that, my dear readers, is the taste of drunk goat.

Whatever

Apparently, I have forgotten my blog. Well, not really, but a lot has transpired over the past year. Okay, I promise I'll get back to it. Really. Just not at the moment. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week? I have a back log of reviews, for sure. Robert's turning red in the face at my neglect, he's totally up my ass (well, not literally, that'd be gross, you know what I mean). Anyway. Stayed tuned and whatnot. I promise.

Joining Technorati

Okay, so I have to cut and paste this code into my blog in order to join Technorati. What the &*#@ is Technorati, you ask? It's a site where all these blogs are jammed together to get more exposure and whatnot. So, here goes ...


Technorati Profile

APPARENTLY, JAMES BEARD FORGOT HIS WALKING SHOES ...

So, I just visited Chicago. More specifically, I was in Chicago for Wine Spectator's Grand Tour tasting. I mean, really, how could I not? For $200 per ticket, I got to taste all the major Grand Crus of France (uh, yeah, Parker is totally right, particularly on his 100-point scoring of Chateau Margaux), plus I tasted the best Champagnes, sparking wines (yes, there is a difference), and anything else you can imagine (Penfolds, Dow's, M. Chapoutier, yadayadayada). Not a spitting night, for sure. All told, FoodDude calculated a total consumption of over $2K worth of vino. For $200. Uh, yeah. Gotta love that.

But anyway, let's get to the real reason of my review, and that is VTK (Vong's Thai Kitchen).

So, the FoodDude and I are in our hotel room, nursing quite wünderbar vino hangovers. As we're watching the news, we see this huge announcement about Frontera, a local Chicago restaurant that just won the James Beard award for the best restaurant in the U.S. (apparently Rick Bayless totally knows his stuff). Awesome, we think (but we don't say out loud, as any speech would've been too loud at that point). So anyway. Awesome, we think. We're here, in Chicago, so we might as well check it out.

After a few aspirin, we head over to Frontera for a Mexican lunch. The place is quite cool, for sure. Awesome décor, great service, good food, unique cocktails. (And the old Mexican stand-by, a.k.a. the margarita, seems to be concocted with double-strong intensity—either that or I'm double weak. I gave mine to the FoodDude, since he can drink a frickin' bull under the table, and I'm talking a bull with really large-esque balls and such. But anyway.)

Frontera is quite good, and we can see why it won the prestigious James Beard award. We totally understand it until the next night, that is—because the next night, we head down just a few tiny blocks, to West Hubbard Street, where we stumble upon an interesting Thai place simply called VTK.

Actually, there was no stumbling involved. A few hours earlier, we'd walked by VTK during the lunch rush, where diners were seated outside enjoying the 70-degree sun. Their food looked utterly phenomenal, even to a food-challenged individual such as myself (oh yes, I totally wanted to eat the stuff, but I was perpetually fearified and terrified and horrified). FoodDude had to check it out (drat his attraction to calories), so dinner at VTK was imminent.

I don't know how many calories I consumed that evening and quite honestly, I don't care. I didn't care then, and fuck it—I don't care now. It was worth it, every last fat globule. I hadn't even worked out for two days—no cardio, no weights, not even wimpy yoga! But it was still worth it. For sure.

I could babble on about the phenomenal service, the awesome décor (love those trippy lights that look like edamame with one pea stuck in the middle, and the ceiling fans that aren't actually ceiling fans, since they're stragically arranged on posts sprouting from the floor like in a trippy Mary Poppins scene or something). However, we're all busy people, so I'll get down to the basics:

EAT AT VTK!

JAMES BEARD MISSED OUT!

BEST FRICKIN' MEAL I'VE HAD IN … WELL, DATING BACK TO PRE-ED DAYS, FOR SURE!

It doesn't matter what you eat. Try the 3-Spice Tea-Smoked Duck with its succulent richness, it's smoky depth, it's elegance and bold audacity; eat the roasted Alaskan halibut with shredded coconut and Granny Smith apple salad (please—if you order only one thing on the menu—ORDER THIS!). The classic spicy red curry chicken with snow peas, peppers, and pineapple … miso-glazed salmon … oh, and I haven't even mentioned the cocktails yet.

I have never, never, never tasted anything like the Lychee Bomb. OMG. OMG. OMG. It was that fantastically good. Okay, so you have sake. Duh, right? Because, after all, this is a Thai restaurant. But wait! The pear sake is blended with lychee nuts (like, whole ones—VTK totally doesn't skimp, for sure!) and spicy, spicy, spicy herbs (an entire Thai red pepper mingled with the cilantro). What a kick! Hot and sweet, refreshing and invigorating… there's no real way to explain the experience of this cocktail, you just have to try it for yourself.

And for dessert? Get the warm passion fruit soufflé, for sure. Holy F&^%ing Zeus, did I just say dessert? Yeah. Not only did I say it, but that night I actually ate it. Did I think about the calories? Yep. Constantly. But I tried not let my brain get in the way of the pleasurable experience of this soft fluff of passion fruit, the warmth in the middle intermingling with the cold fruity sorbet placed on top. The soufflé was cooked to perfection—not too baked (yes, it can be a bad thing to be too baked), not too mushy. Perfect.

Perfect.

I (almost) forgot about fat and calories for an entire night. That in itself was worth the experience.

So when in Chicago, forgot Mr. Beard. Go for VTK.

TO SCREW OR NOT TO SCREW:

That is the Question

Once upon a time, it was quite simple. There was no debate, no question: if you were good, reputable, upstanding, you did not screw.

Now the times, they’re a-changin’. Everywhere, all across the globe, there’s a hell of a lot of screwing going on, and it’s not just for the cheap any longer.

*PAUSE TIME!* Yes, in case you’re still in the dark, I’m talking WINE here. Geesh. What did your twisted little brain assume I was talking about? Did you actually think I’d write an article about … well, maybe I would. But not this time, so get your mind back where it belongs already. We’re into the screwtop versus cork debate here, and the grand question is: what’s up with these corkless $150 bottles of wine (think: PlumpJack) and honestly, what’s the big deal?

Well, it’s all about the TCA (that’s TCA, not THC – totally different compound, peoples). You don’t need to remember TCA’s official name, 2,4,6-trichloranisole, although you may be quizzed on the spelling at the end of this article. All you really need to know at the moment is that TCA is bad, whereas THC is … well, yeah. There’s a huge difference, obviously.

So anyway. What is TCA? Found in “corked” wines (wines with a bad cork), TCA forms when chlorine, molds, and phenols do a little jig with each other. In higher quantities, the result is a horrid, awful, dreadful flavor that’ll instantly tell you – uh, yeah, this wine’s gone bad. If your vino tastes like your grandma’s attic, it’s likely “corked.” Think dusty old papers, wet cardboard boxes where the attic ceiling leaks, musty oak furniture too long exposed to the unreliable attic elements – you know, all that lovely decaying stuff. And often the nose of this corky liquid smells like … well, actually, your grandma. No offense to the poor little old lady (and not that I’ve actually smelled her, I’m generalizing here), but you know. It’s not a good thing, and quite obvious.

So how do you avoid a “corked” wine? Ya screw. Ah, but if it were only that simple, everyone would be screwing. Such is not life, however. As with most things, there’s a positive and a negative. You decide.

Screwing Can Be Divine:
Think of screwcaps like a condom – Risk Reduction! So go ahead, screw. It’s okay. The major stigmata of screwcaps is visual rather than practical; cork is tradition, so it holds more clout when it comes to the expensive wines. If you’re screwing, it’s assumed you’re cheap. Some fine vintages are afraid their entire reputation and culture will be shot to hell if they start randomly screwing, but the audacity of PlumpJack proved otherwise when they used screwtops for their $150 Cabernet Sauvignon Oakville Reserve (’97 was the first vintage). Actually, they bottled 282 cases, half with a screwcap and half with a cork. Which was better? Most people report the wine tasting the same, screw or cork. Unless, of course, you happened to get a “corky” bottle. Then … well, we’re back to grandma.

Sometimes Screwing Just Doesn’t Satisfy:
There’s nothing like that lovely pop. Actually, the entire procedure is quite fun. Cutting the foil, spiraling the worm down, down, down into the pliable (hopefully) depths of a smooth cork, pulling out the cork to discover what lovely artwork may be etched on the sides. With a screwtop, you just twist. Makes a kinda crunching sound, which is okay for soda or even something in a jug, but not so much for fine wine.

*

Screwing isn’t new. The screwcap was patented in 1889 by Dan Rylands of the UK, and in the 1930s, the University of California Davis experimented with screwtops – but they didn’t reach debatable proportions until about ten years ago. Australian and New Zealanders are already experts in screwing; they’ve been at it since producers from the Clare Valley region of Australia decided to bottle all of their 2000 vintage with screwcaps. In April of 2005 Belinda Jackson, the Competition Director for the Liquorland International Top 100 Wine Competition in New Zealand, made a move to reduce the number of bottles required for judging if they were sealed with screwcaps. She stated, "There is also good news for producers who use screwcaps. This year the entry requirement has dropped from four 750ml bottles to three for those sealed with a screwcap. An extra bottle has always been required in case we have a corked wine, but if the wine is sealed with a screwcap then it eliminates the problem.” This rule is now commonplace for all wine competitions in New Zealand, which is huge news in the wine biz, where “corked” wines during competition are a continuing dilemma. At the California Wine Experience in 2005, one winery reported 13 of its 72 bottles were grandma-esque because of the “corked” problem. In case you’re math impaired, that’s 18 percent. Um, can anyone say nightmare? That’s an unusually high stat, though – current estimates put “corked” wine at between 2 to 5%. I’ve personally experienced an 8% “corked” rate, and as my extensive wine journal will show, that’s a bit more grandma than I care to deal with.

One of the biggest arguments in favor of corks is the issue of ageing. Brian Croser, a high-profile Australian winemaker, claimed that after he evaluated screwtop reds aged for about twenty years, he found them to be flat and tinny. However, most experts agree that when it comes to the actual taste of wine, to screw or not to screw really doesn’t make much of a difference if you’re not ageing the wine for an extended period of time. You can have awesome bottles of screwtop wines, flat cork-sealed vintages, and vica versa. It’s like Jerry Seinfeld said about fruit – totally a gamble. The seal makes a difference only in the quality of the seal itself, and reliable screwcaps may actually protect wine better than cork if you’re drinking the wine immediately. However, let me clarify; when I say immediately, I don’t (necessarily) mean you have to dash home from the wine store and crack open that bottle before your feet hit the front steps. (Or worse yet, in the car. We’re all guilty, so just admit it already.) I’m talking a few years of storage – any longer than that, and take the risk with cork. Why? Because of puberty. Maturation. Wedding nuptials.

Micro-oxidation happens when tiny amounts of air in corks mingle and mix and cavort with the wine over time, like a couple married beyond the initial honeymoon period. Some experts claim that alternatives such as the screwcap don’t allow this tiny yet important air into the wine: a variety of studies have shown that screwtops are so efficient in keeping air out that they may actually hold back the wine’s maturation over time. Sorta like a marriage where one partner is constantly on the road, which doesn’t allow the couple to move beyond that honeymoon period (and, potentially, get sick of each other).

For now, we obviously can’t choose which winemakers screw and which don’t. So what do we do from here? Well, let’s try the obvious – buy wine based on what you like, not necessarily based on closure. When given a choice, though, it might be a good idea to follow the advice of Kevin Zraly, founder of the Windows on the World Wine School: if you’re going to drink a wine within five years, get a screw if you can. If you’re the hoarding type, go for cork – but be forewarned! The longer you keep a wine, the greater your chances of corkage. If you’re going to keep the bottle for an extended length of time (oh, the self-restraint!) you’ll want to find a professional who can re-cork the wine after about 25 to 30 years. Or, um, here’s an original thought – drink it already! Otherwise, corkage is a distinct possibility. It’d totally suck to sit on a bottle for 30 years of anticipation and drooling need, only to open the bottle and have it smell like grandma’s attic. Ug.

So that’s the way things are, at least for now. But the times are still a-changin’, and more satisfying screws certainly appear to a part of our future.

THE ANOREXIC FOOD WRITER FONDLES MARBLE AT PERBACCO

A new restaurant just opened in San Francisco. Uh, right, I know what you're asking—when does a new restaurant not open in SF? But this one has been hatched by Staffan Terje and Umberto Gibin. Yeah, so what? Again, I can read your freakin’ thoughts. I mean really, who are these people anyway, and what’s the big deal? Well, good ol’ Staffan was executive chef at Scala’s Bistro, and Umberto has a bizarre name. Actually, they both have bizarre names. But really, Umberto was managing partner at Poggio in Sausalito. So what, did I hear you say? ‘Cause that’s totally what I said, for sure. Neither of those places ring a clanging gigantic bell or anything, it’s not like they were on reality T.V. or something, but my editor totally insisted I do a review, so what freakin’ choice did I have? He seems to think this partnership is hot or something, so whatever.

Okay. PERBACCO seats like 160 people, so it’s a decently –sized Italian place (northern Piedmont-esque, for sure). As I walk in, I’m instantly seized with a hideous gladness that Mr. Editor Whipple Sir is such a clueless food snob because look (insert joy and rapture and butterfly chest flutterings here), a marble-tiled floor! Marble is glorious. It’s lovely. Luscious, and gracious and gorgeous and wünderbar. I’d like my entire studio apartment (both rooms!) to be done in marble but alas, that may be a bit unrealistic.

Okay, whatever. So anyway, back to the interior of Perbacco. Not only is there heaps-a tons-a lovely gorgeous marble (slight exaggeration inserted here), but also exposed brick. Really, total ideas for my apartment, although I don’t think Mr. Toaster-Headed Schmuck, who is my landlord, would go for it.

It’s like old world Italy has met with modern sleek in here. So cool, and I’ve only made it as far as the glorious drinks section (I often don’t make it past the bar, but whatever). As I’m seated, I see that the décor carries on into the higher-calorie consuming portion of the building. Both ground level and mezzanine encompass the dining area. Check out those awesome horizontal windows! But I could never fit those in the tiny studio thing I so lovingly call an apartment (even though the ceilings here are really low). The upholstered mahogany banquette seating matches the dark wood seats of the chairs, but the to-be-expected white tablecloths are a bit disappointing, if elegant and appropriate (I’d just like to see something with a bit more pizzazz and spark but whatever, it’s still good).

Food is just fine. Yes, my app really is the warm pig’s head terrine with pickled shallots and mustard vinaigrette (tangy tangy, oh so tangy). It's grand, really! At least for someone who’s not allergic to food. The Atlantic cod is my entrée, crisp-skinned and not too terribly calorie-laden (I hope). The pepperoncini braised potatoes, however, are a different matter. Quite tasty, but I only nibble since I am aware that an entire mouthful would be like, 150 calories. Of course, I may be exaggerating a bit, I do have that tendency. After all, I am paranoid. Plus, I’ve been told I need to eat more frickin’ taters because apparantly I have legs like a flamingo’s, but whatever.

As part of my stupid job, I’m expected to order dessert, which is prepared (I'm sure quite lovingly) by Tim Nugent, recently of Café Rouge in Berkeley (never been there, so don’t ask). It’s probably great, I just can’t remember. Mental block or something. Or perhaps too much Italian wine has been involved. The 2003 Moccagatta Barbera d'Alba is my choice for the evening. I know, I know – red with fish, how utterly inappropriate! But there are no more rules in the wine world, remember? And it’s grand wünderbar stuff, let me tell ya!

Oh, yeah, and there’s private dining areas too, but I didn’t get that. Not in the Ellements budget or whatever.

SUMMARY: Kinda rustic (awesome exposed brick), kinda urban (cool marble), kinda business but definitely a fantabulous atmosphere (and after all, we are in the financial district so business is to be expected, duh!). The food is great, as far as food goes. But really, who I am to judge culinary indulgences? Just a food writer, that’s all. I am not your taste buds, so go and judge for yourself. Leave me out of it.

Financial District/Union Square

230 California St. (btwn. Front and Battery Sts.)

San Francisco, CA

Phone: 415-955-0663Fax: 415-955-0676

THE ANOREXIC FOOD WRITER SPEAKS EASY

Yep. That’s me. The Anorexic Food Writer.

Now, first let me urge you not to get all politically correct, put-out, pissed-off, whatever. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not advocating eating disorders. I’m not bragging about my condition or whatever you want to call it, nor am I proud of the fact that my boyfriend calls me the “Missing Olsen Triplet” and cringes every time his culinary co-workers shout at him, “Feed that girl a cheeseburger!”

Not at all.

So why am I a food writer? Because I love food. Why am I anorexic? Because I’m fucked up. Oh, and because I love food. Did I mention that already? But hey, at least I can admit it, which is quite apparently a step in the right direction.

So, with all that proper stuff taken care of, let’s get on with it. The Anorexic Food Writer on the Prowl.

Next culinary stop: Enigma (I still say that’s a stupid name for a restaurant, but whatever).

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Jackets aren’t officially required at this fine dining establishment in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, but bare arms are certainly frowned upon. Of course, being of the feminine variety of human, I don’t have to worry about that. A lovely black-sequined Shelli Segal dress and matching scarf (sheer, luxurious, wide enough for me to spread over my arms in a shawl-esque sort of arrangement so really, my arms aren’t bare after all), Kenneth Cole heels with this lovely little bow sorta thing on the side, and I’m good to go.

Of course, again being of the feminine variety, I love any excuse to dress nice and dress up and … well, you know. All that fab stuff. I should never have bought the Shelli, it was way to expensive for my minor budget, but what’s done is done so now I’m obligated to wear it (which, after all, was the frickin’ point in the first place).

So I walk into Enigma in all my finery, with my boyfriend at my side. My God, he’s a lovely example of the male variety of human. Like a Ken doll, except not so cheesy. Or plastic. Hair the honey golden brown of McGillicuddy’s Fireball cinnamon whisky, the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen (well, not as green as my Kitty’s but pretty damn close, which is kinda weird), a lovely natural tan because after all, he is a surfer boy. I just wish he was a bit more muscular. He isn’t fat by any means, slim and young, but a workout regime of heavy weights would so totally add to the gorgeousness of his six foot two physique …

But wait. I’m supposed to be reviewing the restaurant, not the man. Oh yeah, nearly forgot that. Okay. So.

Interior-wise, Enigma is really unique and cool and all that good stuff. Think speakeasy. Actually it was, way back in Al Capone days (although I don’t think Al actually ate here). In order to get to the restaurant, you have to climb down a flight of cobblestone steps (very precarious in the Kenneth Coles), nearly like a London hideaway apartment. Down, down, down, into the cave that is Enigma.

God, maybe the restaurant is aptly named after all.

It really is a cave. Rounded ceilings, all stone. Stone floors. Tables where you’d never expect them, tucked-away little rooms in odd but cool places. Perfect hiding spots for those Prohibition alcoholics.

Unfortunately, I’ve just used up all the positive points of Enigma. If you dine for ambience, this is your place. If you dine for culinary diversion, to experience creative and thoughtful and eye-appealing dishes, you’ll have to go someplace else. Try Café Miranda in Rockland, for example.
French onion soup with gobs of Swiss and an abundance of floating croutons … cedar grilled salmon on a bed of rice pilaf with honey-buttered carrots … skirt steak with shallot sauce …You can find them anywhere.

Those items, plus a few more standards, are all that comprise Enigma’s menu.

Wait, I’ve just come up with something else to be positive about. The wine list is exceptional – I’m talking an award winning huge sorta thing. It just sucks that there’s no exceptional food to pair with the Laboure-Roi Burgundy or Louis Jadot Pouilly Fuisse or Joseph Phelps Insignia.
Actually, for me, it doesn’t suck. I love this place. It’s easy for me to get away with eating very little here. Definitely not much temptation.

Must not submit to Robert. Rewrite!

Oh, and by the way, in case you're wondering--the photo isn't Enigma. I don't have a photo of Enigma, but I had to add something, ya know? So that's The Cave at Mt. Washington Hotel in the White Mountains of NH--another cool similar restaurant/bar but with a vastly improved menu ... well, I'll write that review later.