Homemade Peruvian empanadas

Studio Gourmet in San Francisco

Studio Gourmet was another success on Tuesday with Chef Mark Dommen from Michelin-rated One Market Restaurant in downtown San Francisco.  


During an in-depth interview, the Napa-based chef spoke candidly about his life growing up in the rural countryside of northern California and starting his "farm-to-table" mantra early on. From starting out at jobs like dish-washing during school summer breaks and a minimum wage internship at Hubert Keller's Fleur de Lys, Dommen went on to graduate from the California Culinary Academy and has since traveled around the world to cook, including Switzerland, where he owns a dual-citizenship. Now the Executive Chef and Partner at San Francisco's One Market Restaurant with over 20 years of cooking experience, Dommen has mastered contemporary, seasonal and fresh American fare, and stresses the importance of always taking care of his staff. 


On the menu Tuesday night was a deeeelicious bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin stacked on a sautéed apple slice with a dandelion and mustard green persillade, followed by baked (not fried) Dungeness crab cakes. 







Left: Brad Lev, Host and Founder of Studio Gourmet; Right: Chef Mark Dommenfrom One Market Restaurant

For all you foodies out there, here's something you might not know: Dommen was voted one of the "Hottest Chefs in the Bay" by SF Eater. Atta boy, Mark.


For the next Studio Gourmet event, visit http://www.studiogourmetsf.com/.

Meditative practices. And eating.

This is one of my favorite poems of all time:

The Orange

by Benjamin Rosenbaum

An orange ruled the world.

It was an unexpected thing, the temporary abdication of Heavenly Providence, entrusting the whole matter to a simple orange.

The orange, in a grove in Florida, humbly accepted the honor. The other oranges, the birds, and the men in their tractors wept with joy; the tractors' motors rumbled hymns of praise.

Airplane pilots passing over would circle the grove and tell their passengers, "Below us is the grove where the orange who rules the world grows on a simple branch." And the passengers would be silent with awe.

The governor of Florida declared every day a holiday. On summer afternoons the Dalai Lama would come to the grove and sit with the orange, and talk about life.

When the time came for the orange to be picked, none of the migrant workers would do it: they went on strike. The foremen wept. The other oranges swore they would turn sour. But the orange who ruled the world said, "No, my friends; it is time."

Finally a man from Chicago, with a heart as windy and cold as Lake Michigan in wintertime, was brought in. He put down his briefcase, climbed up on a ladder, and picked the orange. The birds were silent and the clouds had gone away. The orange thanked the man from Chicago.

They say that when the orange went through the national produce processing and distribution system, certain machines turned to gold, truck drivers had epiphanies, aging rural store managers called their estranged lesbian daughters on Wall Street and all was forgiven.

I bought the orange who ruled the world for 39 cents at Safeway three days ago, and for three days he sat in my fruit basket and was my teacher. Today, he told me, "it is time," and I ate him.

Now we are on our own again.



.

The beginning of a love affair (with gelato)

Lesson #13: Always be the first to act. Also, you need to live in Florence.

I single-handedly organized a week-long trip to Italy with a group of friends for fall break. I mean, sorry to toot my own horn for a minute, but it was a pretty incredible trip (minus a few minor setbacks, like the dangers of long island ice tea and being indefinitely banned from a hostel after the humiliation of getting caught sneaking one extra person into our room, etc.). I ate enough pizzas over the course of the vacation to…well, I don’t even really want to think about that. New Year’s resolution: DIET.

Here is a sparknote’s list of the highlights:

PISA -

Leaning tower (equipped with the ultimate tourist picture)



Cemetery (where members of the Medicci family were/are buried)

Gelato

FLORENCE –

Ponte Vecchio




Strolling through the Bobili gardens







Galleria Uffizi – “Birth of Venus”

Duomo (the 13th century Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore is the historical center of Florence, known for its impressive architecture and elaborate facade. I was too broke to climb to the top, though)





Academia - Michelangelo’s “David” (illegaly snuck a picture)

Secret bakery and an impromptu slumber party…at Danny Kahle’s host mother’s house?




Gelato (I learned what real gelato is here, thanks to GROM)



Champagne at sunset on the top steps of Piazzale Michelangelo






(*Note - this makes the list of top 5 abroad moments, trailing just behind riding bikes in Amsterdam and climbing the top of the Arc de Triomphe at night with Anton, followed by the above secret bakery/slumber party and the last three hours of the Oktoberfest weekend huddled at a table outside Hofbrau with the Maples crew + Michaela).

ROME –

Throwing a coin into the Trevi fountain (Alex, get ready for half of your gift :)



Spanish steps and the Berlin wall exposition

St. Peter’s Basilica

Vatican and the Sistine Chapel (where a guard caught Divya sneaking a picture of Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam” on the ceiling, which was breathtaking, I might add)



Pantheon (where I listened to a beautiful choir and learned the history behind the red, green, and white of Margherita pizza)

Coliseum and the Ancient city (one word: awesome)




Did I mention gelato?

Taking Breath

Lesson #9: Embracing the risks and rewards of the world's unknowns--the ones so easily forgotten by the comfortable soul--requires little more than a backpack, sturdy shoes, and some extra pens and paper for the road.

____

"Taking Breath" was published in the Santa Clara Review, Fall/Winter 2010

____

Brianne and I arrived at the St. Denis metro in the 2nd arrondissement at 9pm Monday night, after I had eaten with my host family and decided against studying. I often, if not always, find good use out of the "you only live in Paris once" excuse when needing to justify lack of academic motivation. This night was no different.

Brianne, a fellow student from Virginia and my newfound travel companion and adventure seeker, met Adam a few nights prior at a bar in London. Adam, an American vagabond in his late 20s, was meeting us for some company. For what specific purpose this group of people was meeting at the St. Denis metro in the 2nd arrondissement at 9pm on Monday was beyond my knowledge.

She waved her hand through the air, and I turned to see a tall, burly man with wavy blond hair and blue eyes approaching us, grinning eagerly. Without hesitation, this man dove towards my face. His lips met my cheeks suddenly, almost knocking me over. He pulled back and grabbed me by the shoulders, arms outstretched, and boasted "Enchanté!" which loosely translates to "Hello, my name is Adam. And you must be Rachel! Pleased to meet you, Rachel." I thought for a moment that I had met this tall burly man before, perhaps in a previous life, and we were becoming reacquainted after many years of separation.

"This is such a great part of town. You've got to look around when you have the time." We followed him. "That right there is the Arc de la Porte Saint-Denis, built by Louis XIV to commemorate his military victories." He spoke with his hands and his knees and his chest.

Adam, I learned, is a Chicago native and has been living in Paris for eighteen months as an English-speaking bike tour guide. I have always wanted to take a bike tour with a bike tour guide, but did not insinuate that he issue me a personal invitation, as I speculated that Adam would not have appreciated such boldness so prematurely in our relationship.

He led us down various streets until we were interrupted by a perpendicular dark alley lined with prostitutes. "Don't take pictures. They can get aggressive." We followed him. This was the street of his apartment, which I then learned was our destination. My imagination stirred boundlessly and I could only think of the movie Taken and how I was about to be, in fact, taken. My apprehension grew as Brianne and I were led up eight flights of a narrow spiral stair case, and on the way passed a section blocked off by caution tape with a sign that translated as “undergoing investigation.” If we were going to be killed, I thought, which at this point seemed likely, I suppose the very top floor of an old apartment building on a prostitute street is the best place to do it. Brianne chattered casually with her new friend who had not stopped speaking with his hands. I was planning my escape.

The door creaked open to reveal a 2-bedroom flat dimly lit by hundreds of small white candles, jazz music lingering in the musty air. Another young gentleman sitting comfortably on a leather couch rose to greet us. He did not lunge at me with his mouth, which I was thankful for. He offered us slices of a rustic baguette with Camembert and poured 4 glasses of red wine. Adam retreated to the kitchen, and Brianne and I sat and talked with the new man whom I believe was very nervous, as he stuttered frequently. Mitch was currently studying in Paris at an institute for technology and architecture and living a few blocks up the street. We sipped wine slowly, letting the record player occupy gaps of silence, and he began to point out and explain the artwork scattered on the walls, which I had not noticed until this point.

A blonde head appeared.

“How do you guys feel about chopsticks?”

“What're we having?” Mitch chimed from his position on the couch. I was only waiting to hear a response along the lines of, "our guests," but the sizzling of a frying pan had drowned out Adam's ability to hear the question.

“Adam is an artist and this, this one is a painting of a woman with her left leg crossed ninety degrees across her right, but most people, when they see this one, think she is riding a camel. This was one of his first paintings. These are views from various places in the city—like that, obviously, is Sacre Coeur. See Montparnasse in the background? And this one I think is in the 14th. And this one here, this is an imitation of Van Gogh’s famous piece, but I forget the name.” Starry night, I thought. That one, I admit, was very good.

I began to smell aromas of Thai cuisine and my mouth watered.

The hundreds of vanilla scented candles, I found, were a gift from Adam’s mother that had resurfaced while cleaning out boxes, and were not intended for any specific purpose tonight other than getting use out of hundreds of unused vanilla scented candles. I quite enjoyed them.

We emptied the three bottles of wine that lay before us, our hosts assuring the ladies’ glasses were never short of half full, and finished two jazz records. Mitch brought out another loaf of bread, accompanied this time by a saucer of salted oil and vinegar. Moments later, a plate hot with steam was slid in front of my view—a well-portioned chicken dish liberally marinated in an orange tangy sauce (a recipe Adam had brought back from Bangkok) neighbored by seasoned potatoes, peppers, grilled onions, and tomatoes. And chopsticks. It must have been near 11pm when we began to feast, laughing and gulping and trading and pointing.

Brianne encouraged Adam to tell stories of his travels—the ones he had shared during their first encounter at the London bar when they spoke for hours over cocktails. The ones that had aroused in her the enduring fascination that gave us reason to be sitting and eating Thai food in the travelling man's apartment on a late Monday night in the 2nd arrondissment in the first place. And so he did share stories of his travels, and how he has known the corners of the world with his own eyes and ears and feet. He told us how he lived in Morocco with a man who worked as a fisherman trader and spent months perfecting the art of Italian cuisine at a cooking school in Rome. He shared stories in the most amusing way, often with his hand rested on his chest to control the frequent bursts of laughter, hunched over his knees, pulling us in closer. He told us about his nights dancing in Spain (he enjoys the company of Spaniards out of any other people), meditating in Bali and countries lining the eastern coast of South America, and how he learned to speak Chinese in Shanghai. He used his tongue to push mangled chicken to the side of this mouth and spoke in between gulps about his loathing for Australians, helping the helpless in Iran, feeling the sand of the Sahara between his toes, stories about couch surfing, dumpster-diving, and Parisian bike tour guiding…

My legs had turned numb when I realized I was sitting on the edge of my seat.

He told us, finally, about his plans to leave Paris—a city he has fallen in love with—and how he recently bought a one-way train ticket to Germany where he plans to rent a 5-bed room apartment in Berlin, to which he plans to invite anybody and everybody to join him and do art. And he left it at that and continued chewing.

Yes, I am safe with you, Adam. And now it is all clear to me.

I will come with you to Germany, Adam, and I will live with you. I will live in Berlin in your apartment and we will transform it into a studio and we will do art and invite others to do art. We’ll set easels up in various rooms and maybe we’ll cover the floors with tarp or maybe we won’t care enough. Some will draw and many will sculpt and music! Oh, we’ll have music. Guitars and saxophones and a piano—I will play the piano. We will spend our days there and let the light from the windows flood the white walls and I will write and you will paint and we will learn from each other. And perhaps people will come to the studio art apartment and want to live there with us and we will let them. And when everyone is done with their art I will tell you of the times when I thought I knew things and you will tell us of your weeks in Greece and Holland and Dubai and we will laugh about the seriousness that poisons human thought. And then we will admire our art and eat day old bread and cheese and maybe you can cook Bangkok orange chicken if you’re not feeling too tired and we’ll always have one extra wine bottle in the cabinet and we will live there until we don’t want to live there anymore.

I had dropped one of my chopsticks. Brianne kicked my foot and I looked up to see empty plates and the American traveling men perched on the balcony clutching glasses, waving at us to join. My chest heaved. I hadn’t been breathing until now.

The taste of pleasure.

Last Friday, I found myself among an overwhelming herd of people--a colorful blend of eager tourists, locals, spectators of all ages, and connoisseurs of nearly every ethnicity. Grandmothers, sons, uncles, nieces, friends, lovers, infants, French, Americans, Belgians, Chinese, Japanese, Russians, Moroccans, Algerians, British, Germans…

We waited together, stifling our anticipation--my excitement equaled by the 4-year-old standing at my side, who stood on her tip toes, neck protruding, gripping tightly to my leg—until we were finally assembled under one roof, united by one thing, and one thing only:

Chocolate.

Yes, chocolate.

Paris’s Porte de Versailles Expo recently hosted the 15th annual Salon du Chocolat, a festival celebrating one of earth's greatest (and most delicious) creations. Paris, one out of only SIX major cities worldwide to put on this chocolaty production, attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors each year, who all come to witness and enjoy the marriage between innovative cuisine, creative artistic expression, and shameless gluttony.

For a 12 Euro entry fee, the public could explore the two-story, 14,000 square meter arena lined end to end with hundreds of booths overflowing with specialty chocolate from top chefs from select European regions, along with recipe demonstrations and an educational timeline of the manufacturing process from the cultivation of cacao beans to the distribution of candy bars on store shelves.


They even had a musical performance. But that was nothing compared to the fashion show of chocolate dresses.

The most important part of all this, and one of the main motivating factors in my attendance of this festival, was the FREE SAMPLES. Samples tended to every palate, spanning along the entire spectrum of the sweet tooth's imagination. Some of the ones I tried ranged from the more mainstream treats--fudge, ice cream, truffles, éclairs, and fondue--to the more experimental creations: chocolate covered jelly beans, chocolate liqueur, etc. *Note to self--chocolate is good and liqueur is good. But the combination of the two is a disatrous mix. Chocolate covered jelly beans, on the other hand...magical.

Despite the inevitable stomach cramps, it was quite the experience--a true chocolate lover's paradise. Which gives me even more reason to believe that Paris knew I was coming.


Lesson #8: Your soul loves chocolate.

Will power.

Weekend mornings are lazy mornings. Everybody knows this. The pace is slow, the motivation is thin and weak, the sweats and slippers remain on, homework may or may not be accomplished, and sense of time is distorted-- nothing really "begins."

But this particular Saturday morning began differently, when Bridget burst frantically into my room to wake me up with an urgent message:

"I had a dream."

That's wonderful, Bridget. I'm in the middle of one. Goodnight for 3 more hours.

"No, no. You don't understand. Wake up."

In my delerious sleep rationality, I absolutely could not arrive at any line of reasoning whatsoever that would influence me to abandon my warm haven of pillows and blankets. What on earth, then, Bridget, could be so important?

"Ranch dressing."


...


I am showered and dressed within 15 minutes.

Despite its apparent initial triviality, to even sleepy Rachel, this is a serious issue that deserves undivided attention. Evidently, a significantly large sector of our lives has been lacking--the sector being, of course, comfort food (also referred to by us as "medicinal" food. Including, for example, iced coffee). This sector had gone relatively unnoticed until this particular morning, when the Ranch Dressing dream was elaborated in finger-licking detail.

So, since it is our personal duty to actively pursue what we want in life, our weekend morning had thus begun, and had begun with one single mission: find us some Hidden Valley.

This is not an easy task in Paris, France. As many will know, typical American food (peanut butter, Easymac, oreos, etc.) is not appreciated by the French. But what the French don't know is the power of the will. And, as the proverb suggests, where there is a will, there is a way to the American food store.

After 45 minutes of frantic and intensive internet and travel guide research, we armed ourselves with reassuring comfort and the giddiness of 5-year-olds. We know the store. We know the Metro stop. We're going to be eating Ranch dressing today.

Two hours later, we found ourselves as close to perfection as perfection can get--with two bottles of wine and two large, liberally Ranch-drenched Italian pizzas, seated picnic-style watching Le Tour Eiffel illuminate the darkening night sky.

Which leads me to another educational life experience.

Lesson #7: Don't take the little things for granted.

Ou est le Starbucks?

I am in France.

This means I am in a country with a world-renowned museum, cathedral, or monument on nearly every street corner.

Even more, I am in Paris.

This means I am in a city with more light, more love, more taste, more hair, more smells and sounds, and more people than anywhere I've ever been before. Bustling with rich history, diverse culture, and alluring, mysterious beauty, Paris, France is truly one of the greatest places in the world (and that's not just my opinion. It's fact).

Despite the grandeur, the wonder and awe, and the countless unimaginable experiences I've had thus far, it is only natural that I, Rachel, begin my travel journal with my favorite (and arguably the most important) topic.

Food.

When I initially declared my decision to study abroad in France, nearly everyone I knew expressed serious concern for my health.

“Rachel, have you ever eaten a French meal?” Followed by, “What on earth are you going to do?”

My overwhelming response:

“No. And that is a very good question.”

In between visits to the Musee d'Orsay, Le Jardin du Luxembourg, and le Sacre Coeur a Montmarte, I often find myself wondering to what lengths I would go for a Chipotle burrito.

I can tell you with confidence that it’s not as far as I'd go for a Peet's large iced lowfat latte machiatto with 2 Splendas and a dash of half n half. To go, please.

Speaking of iced coffee, there is none in Paris, France. Speaking of “to go” coffee, there is none of that either. This, needless to be said, has been a serious obstacle in my daily routine.
As hard as I have tried to fully immerse myself into French culture and blend in as a true Parisienne, at around 1pm on Monday the 14th, a whole 9 days into my 4 month trip, I found myself doing homework and listening to my pink iPod in a booth at Starbucks. And yes, that large iced latte was heavenly.

But despite my minor slip back into American comfort, I have done quite well so far. I sip hot, black espresso out of tiny tea cups at the street cafes in my boots and peacoat, gossiping with close friends while watching passersby, and can’t help but think, Ahhh life is good.

After living in Paris for about 2 weeks now, my eating habits have already significantly changed. From growing up on homecooked meals by my mother, whose motto is, "Most people eat to live. I live to eat," to living in a dorm about 200 yards from my university's cafeteria, I am conditioned to having plentiful amounts of food readily available at all hours of the day, everyday.

When I sat down for my first French dinner at my homestay and saw the first course (which I thought was the entire meal), I thought seriously to myself,

"Oh my God. I'm going to starve."

Beatrice, my host mother, cooks simple, heathly, traditional French 4-course meals. For dinner, which I eat at home nearly every night, we typically start with a small vegetable dish--a fresh tomato or mushroom salad, or dark leafy greens dressed tossed in a light vinaigrette. Last night we each ate an entire avocado...with a spoon. Then she clears the table and brings out the main course--either beef and seasoned potatoes, a baked tomato and cheese tart, or an egg and ham quishe, etc. Then she clears the table again and brings out a baguette, an assortment of cow, goat, and sheep cheese from northern, western, and eastern france, and a variety of "pates" or spreads--usually either a type of mustard or a green olive, garlic, and onion spread, or sometimes a mysterious brown substance that looks like a thin block of butter.

*To note, it is respectful and polite to try everything your host mother puts in front of you. If you don't like it, you don't have to continue eating it. Also, you must clear every morsel of food and sauce on your plate. What do you think all that bread is for?

Upon seeing this particular pate for the first time, I hesitantly spread it over my sliced bread as I eyed Bridget curiously. As I lifted it to my mouth I asked, "qu'est-ce c'est?" Immediately after the bite entered my mouth and I began to chew, Beatrice timely responded, in English,

"Ground up liver."

Our eyes locked and I tried with every ounce of my politeness not to spew the mangled liver and bread out of my mouth and onto the table and throw my arms up in disgust.

I swallowed with a smile, and continued eating everything but the mysterious brown substance that looks like a thin block of butter, that I now knew and will forever know is an animal's organ.

These are the types of things you learn when you live in Paris, France.

And finally, dessert. We'll have either yogurt, a fruit salad with fraises, framboises, and peches (strawberries, raspberries, and peaches), or some sort of pastry.

So although in the United States the French have a reputation of eating very small portions and of eating very gross things (i.e. snails, or liver), it seems to me that this perception is not entirely accurate. They don't normally eat gross things and though they don't eat as frequently as we, when they do eat, they eat A LOT. Which for me, feels just like home.

Except for breakfast. In the States, it is not uncommon that approximately 30 minutes after waking up, I've already devoured a three-egg omlette, bacon, a bagel and cream cheese, and a large iced coffee. In Paris, continental breakfasts are slightly lighter.

I'm still learning to adjust on this one.

Despite my intitial pre-judgments and skepticism, indulging in authentic french cuisine is not only healthy and delicious, but also teaches me to learn to appreciate the taste and quality of simple foods. In fact, in Europe, France is known for its unique gastronomical culture. To the rest of Europe, and to me, the French seem to have perfected just that: "the art and science of good eating."

In case you were wondering, yes, i do eat the notorious baguette sandwhiches and pastries. Frequently.

And let me tell you, nutella crepes taste a whole lot better when you're walking along the Seine.