Bon Vivette

When I am really homesick I crave Mexican food. When I have PMS, I would kill for a burrito from San Francisco Taqueria or Taqueria Can Cun. This same feeling would come over me when I lived in Japan years ago, but at least in Japan I had an option. The Hard Rock Cafe Osaka served great tacos, fajitas (yes, that is Tex-Mex and not officially Mexican, but it'll do in a pinch), and margaritas -- which were a 'welcome' respite from the fabulous udon, ramen, sushi, gyozas, and domburi that we normally feasted on.

The only Mexican food I can get around these parts either comes from a fast food joint called Chiquitas or an El Paso Dinner Kit. I once actually cried in a Chiquitos because it was so bad, and not bad in a good way, like Taco Time (similar to Taco Bell, but only seemingly found in little towns in Oregon). I had ordered the enchiladas, which is usually a good bet in any family-run Mexican restaurant or chain resto such as Chevys. This was so not the case in Chiquitas Bristol.

The enchilada itself was made with a flour tortilla -- something I had never seen before, and that seemed so wrong. A flour tortilla has its place, but that's not wrapping itself around my meat and calling itself an enchilada. Maybe they do that in Northern Mexico where wheat is more prevelant, and I will happily stand corrected, but an enchilada should be made with a corn tortilla (flash cooked in an inch of oil to make them tender). After the ghastly tortilla issue, I can barely bring myself to describe the sauce. I think it was ketchup or a whizzed Italian ragu ... but it was definitely not an enchilada sauce.

An enchilada sauce should be made with chili -- be that reconstituted dried chilis, chili adobo, or chili powder. But in some way chili must factor into the sauce. Sadly, Chiquitos did not get the memo.

Here is my rough and ready enchilada sauce recipe:

Few tablespoons of oil
Two heaping tablespoons of flour
Four super heaping tablespoons of chili powder
Two heaping tablespoons of ground cumin
One heaping tablespoon of smokey paprika
Two tablespoons of dried oregano
Two tablespoons of garlic powder (cheaty, cheat, cheat)
One tablespoon of cocoa powder
One tablespoon of salt
Ground pepper to taste
One large yellow onion, diced
Two cans of tomatoes, either chopped or sauce

Mix the dry ingredients together. Heat oil. Cook the dry ingredients in the oil to cook off the flour taste. Add diced onions. Sautee until onions are tender. Add tin tomatoes. Cook for about forty minutes or an hour -- or until sauce is thick and the dried spice flavor has cooked off. I adjust mine for heat and taste at this point. I usually add more salt and cumin ... and I add a can of chili in adobo (that can make it too spicey for some, but it adds a real smokey undertone). Cool the entire thing and then whiz in a blender or use an immersion blender -- thin with some water if necessary. It should be the consistency of vichycoise -- thick enough so that it clings to the tortillas, but does not overwhelm the filling.

Chiquitos continued to let me down with their boil-in-the-bag Uncle Ben's rice and so-called "pico de gallo." All in all, the entire thing brought tears to my eyes ... and I hadn't even sampled the Cuervo [trade mark] Gold Margaritas.

I married an English Jew -- two of my fetishes wrapped up in a short, blond, blue-eyed, hairy, Polish-sailor looking package. With a cute accent.

Because he's from the Chosen people, the boy eats all the weird bits of the meat - sometimes directly from the chicken - even before you can make gravy with it. Waste not, want not. So, the boy likes liver. All kinds, from a nice foie gras to a crude chicken liver pate - he likes it. Once, on a quick excursion to Bath, he even ate liver twice in one meal ... a chicken liver starter followed by a sheep liver main.

I like the foie gras and the pates of this world -- but pure liver reminds me of choking down liver cutlets with copious amounts of Heinz ketchup from my childhood. Although my mother is one of the best cooks in the world, she has a propensity to overcook meat (for fear of poisoning us all), and liver is not one of those meats that can even be slightly overcooked -- hence, my apprehension when Joe brought home a massive liver and plopped it out on the cutting board.

Because we're close to the West Country here in Bristol, the liver is from sheep -- it's actually much harder to get cow's liver ... and then they call it "OX" liver. We just found an ox liver connection, down at the Slow Food Market held in the old part of town on the first Sunday of the month. I've lived in Bristol for 18 months now, but it took a San Franciscan coming to visit to get me to the market (I have been a regular at the Wednesday Farmer's Market and had been pretty disappointed with the offerings ... so had never managed to alter my usual Sunday routine ... which entails Joe bringing me tea and the Observer in bed). But I was pleasantly surprised by the Slow Food market. There were lots of local artisanally produced products -- gorgeous strong cheddar, ciders, and meats raised in Devon and Somerset, and a strong showing of farmer's produce.

Joe's preferred method of cooking liver and onions includes serious lashings of gravy -- a lovely gravy made with said onions, bacon, and mushrooms. Last night we had it served on mashed potatoes. It was our first meal in awhile that didn't include zucchini. It was also raining yesterday -- my own personal raincloud had found me again and seemed to be pouring all over the West Country.

For the last couple of weeks we've been awash in zucchini and potatoes from our backyard garden. So far, I've made zucchini bread, zucchini soup, zucchini burritos, roasted zucchini, pan-fried zucchini, and stuffed-zucchini flowers. The potatoes are much easier to deal with -- them, we boil in salted water, drain, and simply add a dollop of butter to. They are gorgeous.

In hono[u]r of Joe's son coming to visit (we did it for the other one who came a few weeks ago, and it's quid pro quo with the offspring), and there being one dry day out of nine, we're putting a can of beer up the bum of a chicken and roasting it on the barbecue.

Joe is the master of roasting -- whether it's on the barbecue, in the electric oven, or in the Aga -- he can do it all, and do it well. After having the Aga hooked up, we did a lot of English roast dinners. We roasted beef tenderloin, lamb shanks, pig shoulder, and lots and lots of chicken. One night, we even had a chicken roast off -- one chicken done on the rotissary in the electric oven and one chicken done in the Aga. They both came out succulent, moist, and flavo[u]rful and heavily laden with wafts of thyme and/or rosemary. I preferred the Aga-cooked chicken -- but I'm slightly partial to anything that comes out of that beast. Joe also cooks wonderfully on the barbecue -- and this is proven once again by our latest party trick: The beer-can-up-the-bum chicken.

First we rub the insides of the chicken with a little sea salt and pepper. Then I mash garlic cloves, thyme, lemon zest with butter in the mortar and pestle, and massage it under the skin and against the breasts of the chicken. Next, we open a beer, and drink half – then stuff the opening of the can with rosemary. The entire can goes up the back side of the chicken, and the entire thing goes into a roasting pan – balancing on a tripod of chicken legs and can. Tuck the wings behind the back like the chicken is kicking back.

The barbecue should be heated to 400 degrees. Cook at 400 for 20 minutes, then reduce to 375/350 for about an hour … use a thermometer if you’re not sure if it’s cooked. Wrap the bird in foil, and then carefully pull the can out (I love to make a gravy with the hot beer that’s left in the can) – wait ten minutes and then ENJOY. The bird will be incredibly moist – and all of your friends will be well impressed that you roasted such a moist bird on the barbecue.

We served said chicken with grilled zucchini and boiled potatoes.

I am a bad, bad blogger.

The truth of the matter (aside from my laziness), is that we've been working flat out on our kitchen since returning from the States. We got home on a Thursday, and the kitchen units were delivered on the Monday. That left one day for debilitating jet lag ... and then it was paint, paint, paint. And design the lighting. And receive the appliances. The list goes on. It was mayhem.

I've been in Bristol for just over a week now. And I've already made a foray to France.

The H and I went on Friday to see his boys – it was the Easter ‘bank holiday,’ so he had a few days off work. We took the morning ferry over – which takes about six hours and goes from Plymouth to Roscoff – and then stopped in Morlaix for dinner. We ambled about the picturesque French town looking for a spot to eat, but we were slightly too early for a real dinner and in that French way, had hit a ‘shuttered’ time. We finally walked to a square that The H had remembered from his earlier travels to visit The Boys, and found a charming little pizzeria. Of course, it was empty and dead silent, and the patron was in back smoking a cigarette – but it looked promising nonetheless. I had a merguez pizza (because I just can’t get enough of those spicy Moroccan sausages) and the H had an escalope a la Normandie – which turned out to be filet of pork in creamy mushroom sauce. My pizza arrived, wood-fired, thin, and as crispy as a good Delfina pizza, and large enough to cover my large dinner plate twice over – it hung off the edges, like a floppy beret, and I could barely eat half of it – but it did make a nice cold pizza snack the next day, I can assure you. The H’s meal was far better than the dinner we had eaten last time in Morlaix under the recommendation of the Brit expat community. Just goes to show, sometimes the random pizzeria off the hidden square, with the smoking patron ashing on the floor, is the best choice of all.

Two unusual events happened while we were in France. First, we bought 15 cases of methode champagnoise for the wedding, and second, we saw Public Enemy perform.

First -- the wine. As a member of an EU country, the H is allowed to bring in as much wine sans duty as he wants – as long as it’s for “personal use.” This can include parties, dinners, etc. The H’s ex and her husband recommended a local cav that a friend of theirs – a French wine snob – frequented. Sounded like a good bet – and it turned out to be a true winner. The gentleman, with the help of the H’s sons and their French-speaking ability, grocked us very quickly – we wanted good quality, reasonably priced wine, but didn’t care what appellation it was from, as long as it was quaffable – and was under five Euros a bottle. He directed us to a sparkling wine that was perfect – not too dry, not too sweet, but had great body, and beautiful bubbles. He said that for a true champagne, one adds on 10 euros just for the name, but that so many other bubblies were more drinkable, but without the distinction of being from the appropriate region. After a few sips, and a vigorous nodding of our heads that this would do just fine (and at under 5 euro a bottle, or just around three pounds – or about 2.50 U.S., it was magnificent!), the owner of the cav topped us off with a little cassis in our glasses – turning our bubbly into kir royales – mind you, it was only about 1 p.m. and I don’t think any of us had eaten anything aside from cold pizza and yesterday’s hot cross buns (although they were toasted and buttered up). After choosing the bubbly (the first one offered), I had a more difficult time with the roses and the reds. The first rose he offered smelled of peaches and tasted like jammy strawberries – it was as if someone had distilled the wine through a sieve of tante Maries’ strawberry preserves. Colder, it might have been better. The second rose was dry and lacking in body or character – but felt like it would be very drinkable on a hot June day (fingers crossed). Sensing my consternation, The H suggested that I get a case of each – yet, I wanted to try some more (rose wines being my drink of choice in the summer), but I felt that I was pushing the cav owner to his limits (and he said the others that he had on offer fell into similar taste profiles – at least with my limited French skills, I think that’s what he said), so I went with the H and got a case of each. Then I asked for a rouge vin du table, hopefully a cotes du rhone – a syrah or a pinot noir – something that would be good with barbecued lamb. The owner uncorked a bottle of red from some region I’d never heard of, but again it was about three Euros a bottle – and tasted fantastic for that price point. We went with a couple cases of that. For the white, I didn’t even bother trying it – it was a viognier, which would be perfect for the day, and so we got a case of that as well. The cav owner suggested a chardonnay, but frightened away by thoughts of overly-oaked California chardonnays, I didn’t buy a case, but we did buy two individual bottles to go with the Fish and Chips dinner planned for later – and of course, it was great – and I wished that I had gotten a case of it as well (in the least, so that Jessica could have a ready supply of wine while she’s here). We also purchased a cassis to make kir royales, and a framboise for the cake. The owner of the cav totaled everything up (twenty cases of wine!), boxed up all the bottles from which we had sampled for us to take away, and then took another ten percent off the top! It was the deal of a lifetime – 120 bottles of wine for around 200 U.S. Incroyable! We drove back to the ferme, slightly rosy cheeked (me), and happy (all, I believe).

As for Public Enemy – let’s just say it too was incroyable!

As I write this on a beautiful winter's day in lovely San Francisco, I wonder if I'm mad. The cherry trees in Japantown are blooming, the sun is setting later -- and casting a lovely pink glow over Twin Peaks, and the scent of carnitas (my ode to those California boys: The Eagles) is wafting through the still Mission air. I know that I will come to love and cherish so many things similarly in Eng-a-land. I already love sitting in a pub nursing a pint of lager -- reading the Guardian. I love their tele more than ours. I love TopShop and Indian food. I love drinking endless cups of tea with the H. I adore how everyone from the local tea shop to the deli to the posh resto wants you to know where they sourced their ingredients ... almost going as far as to name the Guernsey who supplied the milk. And I know definitively that I will write in a few months of the things that drive me mad about England – just as I complain about the homeless problem, the drug dealing, and the graffiti here on York Street – but for now, I’m going to enjoy my last few months of San Francisco as I haven’t in years.

As I'm leaving for the land of cow in just four days, I thought I would pay a little respect to my old friend the pig. And I had a nice Jewish boy over for dinner, so what better way to celebrate than by making Pork: Three Ways. Originally Chrisopher's recipe, I changed it up a bit, but kept the integrity of serving pork, inside pork, wrapped in pork. I sweated some onions and garlic in olive oil, added rosemary and thyme, some salt and pepper, and a little grate of fresh nutmeg -- then cooked off the pork sausage until it was still moist, but browned. I filleted two pork loins and pounded out the ridges to make nice little pork templates -- these I wrapped around the sauteed pork sausage -- much like a sushi roll, pulling back tightly on the pork loin to make a tight tube of yummy pork bits up the center. I smeared the outside with a little salt, pepper, and olive oil and then a nice coat of mustard mixed with honey. For the piece de resistance -- and the third item of porkiness, I wrapped the loins in pounded bacon strips. I laid the two loins tip to tail in a Le Creuset roaster and surrounded the lot with apple chunks and chopped onions. I pushed sprigs of thyme in between and around it all. I roasted the loins in a 325 degree oven for about half an hour and then served them with mashed potatoes and green beans with carmelized shallots. It was an ode to the pig. Come Tuesday, I'm off to Buenos Aires, Argentina -- land of steaks and malbec. Adios! ...for now.