Old school jam

The Food Crusader shuns modernity and revives an antique French recipe for strawberry jam. Pectin? What's pectin?

Natural. Organic. Whole. Local. Seasonal. Unfiltered. Raw. These are among the buzzwords that get food connoisseurs excited, because they signal a consciousness behind a food's provenance that resonates with their own. As consumers, we've grown to equate slower processes and more laborious means with superior quality and healthfulness, as pure substitutes for modern methods of cheating with food production.

But each individual's perspective on the food world is informed by a different agenda. We conscientious consumers of food are a fragmented community. We all have our own reasons for seeking out grass-fed beef instead of grain-fed, or raw milk cheese instead of pasteurized, or dry-farmed tomatoes over the Safeway variety. But not all of us are lost in misty-eyed longings for some mythical agrarian past. We just want good food without weird chemical potions mixed into it.

Fortunately, the movement towards improving our food supply has expanded past the point of being a niche for evangelical hippies. Local, organically grown wholesome food has long since become mainstream, and no longer requires buying into a dramatic sandal-wearing lifestyle change. Choices are now abundant, and we're no longer limited to remote ethnic markets or "health food stores" if we're looking for non-iodized sea salt or some decent muesli.

But these efforts are actually regressive. There is a growing understanding that sometime in the early-to-mid-20th century, something went terribly terribly wrong, and now there's an urge to return our food production methods to their original states, before the Industrial Revolution had begun to bang on the pantry door. Regress on!

Jam

Making jam seems like a very natural activity. Berries, sugar, and pectin. It's wholesome, and it's an easy prepared food item to make at home. If you can eat jam, you can make jam. It ain't hard, and like most good food, it's simple.

Let's look at those ingredients. Okay, I trust my little strawberries; they're from the farmers market and I know where they were grown. Check. I mostly trust my sugar, from the bulk bin and from Spreckel's, and I don't have any problems with the ol' refined white. What's next? Pectin. Hmm..Extracted pectin didn't exist until 1825, and didn't really get popular until the 1900s. Originally it was extracted by cooking apple pomace to release the good gelatinous stuff, then used to augment the gelling action for less pectin-rich fruits. This seems fine - it's minimal processing. But my 2007 pectin has some weird unpronouncables on it. Not going in my jam, thankyouverymuch.

My edition of the Larousse Gastronomique is old. It's one of the earlier English translations, and came from a time when high-fructose corn syrup, aka The Devil's Essence, wasn't an evil to be avoided; it hadn't yet been conceived. There isn't a single ingredient in this monster tome that isn't picked from the ground, taken from the water, or slaughtered within miles of the kitchen. This is the real deal: honest-to-goodness bullshit-free culinary wizardry. Every chef was an Alice Waters because there was no other way to be.

Here's what they say about making some jam --

Jams and jellies, Confitures, gelées -- A preparation of fruit for which the legal definition in France is as follows: "Products consituted solely of refined or crystallized sugar and fresh fruits or juice of fresh fruits, or preserved in some way other than by drying' (decree of 25th September, 1925). They must contain a maximum of 40 per cent moisture, and in consequence hold 60 per cent of dry extract, or which 55 per cent must be sugar. (Fruit already contains 5 to 7 per cent dry extract.)

Strawberry jam. Confiture de fraises - 2 pounds (1 kilo) strawberries (net weight); 3 cups (750 grams) sugar, 1/2 cup (1 decilitre) water.
Put the sugar in a pan with the water; let it dissolve and cook to the ball staage (240 F), taking care to skim well.
Put the strawberries, stalks removed, in the sugar. Keep the pan on the side of the fire for a few minutes.
When the juice from the strawberries has thinned the sugar to a syrupy consistency, drain the fruit through a silk strainer.
Cook the syrup again in the pan until it reaches 240F once more.
Put the strawberries back in the pan and cook for 5 or 6 minutes, just to the point at which the jam reaches the jelling stage (220F). Finish in the usual way.

I took the authentic route and followed the recipe to a tee, except for the silk strainer part. And, after 1kg of carefully halved and weighed strawberries joined some carefully measured sugar and water, an old-school strawberry jam emerged, and filled six canning jars with loveliness, now nestled away in the cellar. On thing to note about our antique recipe - without added pectin, it's a tad less gelled than the store-bought factory varieties, or even the otherwise natural ones. It's by no means runny, but we're drawing upon the natural pectin in the strawberries alone, which isn't a lot. Personally, I have no problem with jam that drips a little as it spreads over my morning toast. If I want something stiffer next time, I'll just whip up some apple pomace and make my own pectin to mix in. Stay tuned.

Pizza Oh No!

Oh hells no.

This is an offense to anything cooked with care. If one can taste the love in food prepared with love, then this is surely tainted with the foul dripping hatred that embues all fast-and-nasty econo-fuel food.

Pizzacono. That is the name of this beastly food 'innovation', this unloved child born of a forced mating between pizza and an ice cream cone. It's pizza in a... cono. I only hope that its corporate caretakers realize the folly of their ways before this abomination gets released on the public.

Alright. I should clarify my ranting. I don't take issue with the shape of the thing. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with building a cone-shaped slice of pizza. Make a pizza shaped like Britney - I really don't care. Weird does not necessarily equate wrong...

I take issue with this because the problems we have with obesity and diet-related health issues are deeper than the simple issues of processed ingredients, preservatives or portion sizes. They have to do with our attitudes about what role food should play in our lives, and those attitudes have been corrupted. For most of human existence, (and for much of the 'developing' world today), food was an expensive and often scarce asset, and when we got our hands on it, we made damned sure to get the most nutritive value and pleasure out of it, taking attentive care to prepare each morsel with respect, in turn showing respect for those who would eat it.

Modern economies and food production systems have provided us with new alternatives, and the preciousness with which we regarded our food in the past is no longer a necessity for most of us. Food is cheap, plentiful, and as a result, mostly relegated to bothersome fueling sessions, conducted during other 'important' activities, like driving. The grab-and-go lifestyle is fast, it's convenient, and it allows us to get on with our busy schedules with minimal distraction. And it's killing us. Here's some of the crazed encouragement for this attitude being spouted by the Coneheads:

The Cones could be filled with almost any food or dessert, enabling consumer to eat a delicious, satisfying meal while talking on the phone, driving a car, or walking down the street. The Cones will reinvent the experience of eating on the go by enabling people to enjoy the food they love wherever they choose to.

Oh boy! I can enjoy the food I love while talking on the phone and driving a car on my way to the pharmacy to pick up my Orlistat refill! Think of all the time I'll save!

Slow the hell down. Cook something for dinner. You are not so busy that you absolutely need to scarf down convenience food for lunch. Make yourself a damned sandwich the night before, and make it with fresh tasty things you like to eat, so that lunch the next day is an enjoyable break.

Stop the car. Put down the pizzacono. And walk away, slowly.

Smoky smoky taco goodness

When I first moved to California, I envisioned spending weekends on little driving excursions down the coast, with stops along the highway for tasty fish tacos at roadside stands.

These dreams I had were never based upon any real experience. There was no defining moment during a vacation to the West Coast when, awestruck, I realized the import of a tortilla-and-fish combination greater than the sum of its parts. I just kinda imagined it would be the sort of thing I'd find when I moved out to the left coast.

And I was wrong.

I moved to San Francisco, which, despite being just about my favorite place in the whole wide world, is not the sort of place from which these warmer-weather Southern California morsels derive. It's a culinary mecca, and there's more obscenely high-quality food being grown and prepared per capita than anywhere else I've seen, but the fog and the cool air on the Bay hasn't lent itself to inspired fish tacos.

The trick, it seems, is to drive farther south.

On the well-informed suggestion of a friend whose family's winery is nearby, the Princess and I stopped at Ruddell's Smokehouse in Cayucos, California, where we were told that good fish tacos would await us. We found the place crowded (good sign) and were told that tacos were taking around 15 minutes (perfectly understandable). I plopped down my money and sat on the seawall across the street to do some people watching while our tacos got born.

Forty-five minutes later, we were famished and without a taco. It's a good thing we were on vacation, or our patience might have turned to irritation, but thankfully, we got the foil-wrapped present and marched down to the sand to sit near the water and consume it.

This was the mythical fish taco I'd had my unfounded dreams about! Wow. The taste of Ruddell's smoked albacore is entirely unique. Wrap it in a warm tortilla with apples (yes, apples...it works) lettuce, tomato, and a cumin-mayonnaise dressing, and it magically becomes that California beach food that I dreamed about. Bring a flexible time schedule and an appetite, and order more than one.

Iraqi food on its way

I spotted a sign above a shopfront at 682 Haight Street that's promising to bring Iraqi cuisine to San Francisco.

I'm certainly intrigued by this. Iraqi food hasn't really shown up on the American food radar yet. But as is common when one country invades another, culinary entrepreneurship is one of the rare positive cultural exchanges that results (witness Britain and India, Holland and Indonesia, etc). So perhaps we're on the cusp of a wave of Iraqi restaurants in the US? I'll bite.

The photo above is my horrendously low-quality cameraphone snap of the new spot. This is what happens when I'm caught out in public without my requisite photography crew...

Baghdad Nights claims to be "First Time Iraqi Cuisine", and for me it will be. It's interesting to note that Yaya, San Francisco's only apparent Iraqi restaurant, closed for good just a couple of weeks ago. But Stett Holbrook over at Metroactive did research and found that Baghdad Nights has been preceded by a few Silicon Valley outposts already.

I know and love my Middle Eastern food already, from Persian to Turkish to delicious delicious Greek-Middle Eastern hodge-podge, so I can't wait to try the Iraqi take on a koobideh kebab.

Gustofino, will I love you?

On my morning train commute into downtown San Francisco last week, I spotted a sign in the window of an empty shop that caught my attention. I noticed this one because of the Blue Bottle Coffee logo placed near the big poster in their window.

Seriously? Blue Bottle? On my way to work? Oh boy oh boy oh boy. This is worth some investigation. Blue Bottle is an elusive creature, hard to track down, even at their little stand in a Hayes Valley garage or during their brief appearances at the money-flinging festival known as the Ferry Building Farmers Market. It never appears in retail stores, and it takes four hundred years for them to brew a drink when they are open, but it's damned good coffee. Huge attention to roasting and brewing process, and their beans won't get sold if they've been roasted longer than 48 hours ago. There's clearly an obsessive person running the show for them, and I like it like that.

Alright, my detective hat is on. I want to learn more about this mysterious Gustofino newcomer, this supposed purveyor of my favorite coffee ever. And because I'm so nice, I've transcribed their sign for you, as it currently appears on Church Street, just south of Market Street, in San Francisco. Here it is:

Matt Rutledge, along with his mother Lynn Rutledge, are bringing their fine foods to Church Street in the form of a new Specialty Market & Café. Gustofino, Italian for fine taste, is serving home-style Hot Foods, Salads, Sandwiches and Desserts as well as Espresso Beverages and Wine by the glass. In addition to prepared foods the store plays host to a selection of imported and local Specialty Foods and Fine Wine. Inspired by the markets and wine bars that Matt worked at in Florence, Italy as well as the Italian delicatessen that Lynn owned in Santa Cruz County, the new business will be a market and café that offers both gourmet to-go as well as in-house dining centered around an open kitchen. Matt and Lynn's purpose for the new market is simple: Provide an unparalleled experience of fine taste for everyone.

The sign tells us a few things. They'll have prepared foods and some fancy-pants grocery items, as well as dining around an open kitchen. This model seems to resemble Boulette's Larder at the Ferry Building, where takeaway food is served alongside full table service. But Boulette's works well because of the spendy Ferry Building crowd. It wouldn't be able to keep the beignets and salmon-three-way lunch plates flowing in a spot across Market Street from Safeway, where our Gustofino friends are setting up camp. So maybe it's more of an AG Ferrari or Bi-Rite competitor; casual, full-on gourmet, and not bank-breakingly expensive.

All I know is that these Rutledge people apparently have some food cred from prior experience in Santa Cruz and Florence, and that they have an overactive penchant for capitalization. I'm curious for more.

I'll keep snooping for more details...

Old people make better tortillas

When seeking out good food in unexpected places, old people are a good sign. Just as a preponderance of Chinese patrons is a solid endorsement of a good Chinese restaurant, or as a dirty roadside truck stop can be revealed to be an unexpected gem by its crowd of actual truck drivers, it's generally a safe bet that old people are an indicator of something being done right.

Old people are all immigrants from the past. And this place they came from had different rules, different customs, and different food. Before a certain time in the past, food simply couldn't help but be properly made, because the Atomic Age hadn't yet given us high fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated fats, shelf stabilizers and additives. The only prepared foods with a shelf life was in Ball jars, sequestered there by heat and pressure, not polysyllabic E-numbered potions cooked up by The Food Industry. You couldn't cheat in the old school.

The man pushing the cart loaded with Maseca bags into the side door at La Super Rica looked like he'd been alive to witness the invention of the tortilla. His posture forced him to peer at his toes as he pushed the cart into the kitchen, where comparatively young women in their 60s transformed the masa into tortillas. There's a reason that Julia Child named this Santa Barbara taqueria her favorite in the country. Real tortillas are a sign that things are being done the old way, and like most simple things in life, they're not as simple as they seem.

For the first part of my life, my entire frame of tortilla reference had been based upon a shopping-mall Santa Claus version of the real thing, the plastic-wrapped supermarket pseudo-tillas. When I had my first tortilla that had been a naïve pliable ball of masa five minutes previously, I knew I was tugging on the beard of something sublime. Alton Brown devoted an episode of Good Eats to tortillas. He explained how corn masa needs to be nixtamalized in order to release the nutritive potential, and went through the process of making his tortillas using a press and cooking them on a griddle. A great primer, but somehow, his tortillas didn't turn out quite right...the edges broke too easily, and the texture seemed a little too dry and flaky. Perhaps they're really hard to make? Or perhaps Alton isn't old enough? I don't blame him; it's not his fault he isn't a little old Mexican lady.

These old people know what they're doing. My tacos were beguilingly simple, just a pile of meat on an ethereal tortilla, with salsas available to accompany them. The tortilla loosely grasping the marinated pork was soft but slightly al dente. It was still warm from its birth on the griddle, and was never intended to survive long enough to cool down. This tortilla will not be reheated. It didn't even exist when the meat now inside it was cooked, and it quickly disappeared into my mouth.