While sitting shiva after my Grandma Doris's funeral, my mother finally asked my grandfather a question that had been plaguing her since she was a child.  After all, she has three older bothers, the youngest of whom is seven years her senior.  

"Dad, was I an accident?"

"No - your mother planned you."

"Well...how about you?"

"Me?  I was drunk."  

Poppy Harold had many gems in his day - some slightly racist (merely a product of the times, I'm sure), and others as direct and straightforward as, "That son of a bitch rat bastard stole my laundry."  Yet of all quips, puns and sayings, the one that stuck with me the most was one I didn't hear until just yesterday.  My uncle vividly recalled sitting at the kitchen table as a child, stressing out over a major exam he had the next day.  Poppy Harold, simply turned to him and said, "Just do the best you can do: that's all anyone can ever ask of you."

On Sunday, my grandfather, Harold Hills, passed away.

The man was 91 years old, and lived one hell of a life - perhaps even two!  On what we presumed to be his death bed, we told him he could have whatever he wanted to eat: anything at all. 

"Moo shu shrimp and hot and sour soup with lots of spicy mustard."

...AND THE MAN LIVED FOR ANOTHER MONTH! 

Lately, I feel as though I haven't always been putting my best foot forward: slacking on posting regularly, not responding to emails in a timely manner, and becoming lazier with my photographs.  People become busy, tired, social.  Life gets in the way.   

But I refuse to accept that as an excuse any longer.  Yesterday, I finally took an active role in changing all of that.  I had the opportunity to shoot with one of my favorite photographers, Sonya Yu, as she taught me invaluable tips and tricks of the trade.  She taught be to become more cognizant of my surroundings, and how to look at subjects differently through the lens of a camera.  She taught me about the importance of light, and how to recognize its power, its presence, and its beauty.  She taught me shoot, and shoot, and shoot some more, to be comfortable with failure, and to use it as a learning opportunity for the next reel.  

So, this is my pledge: my resolution to be better, to try harder and to work my ass off every single day.  The only variable in the equation of life over which we have control is our level of effort: beyond that, we are at the mercy of a million other factors.  I'll almost certainly fail, and I may even succeed, but when I am positive that I've given 110%, the outcome is out of my hands and I've done all that I can do.

After all, that's all anyone can ever ask of you.

Nosh on,
Josh

I rarely set foot in grocery stores anymore: I find them to be cold, irritating, and fake.

Unnatural. 

A vast majority of my home-cooked meals are made with produce from farmers' markets.  Spring has sprung, and as I peruse the aisles lined with vendors, I become giddy with excitement spotting asparagus in season, strawberries adding vibrant red hues to the lineup, and gladly welcoming the first peaches and blueberries popping in to say hello. 

During any given week, there are between 25 and 30 markets from which I can purchase local, seasonal, organic goods from farmers who bring their crops to my city.   Not to mention that as I shop,  I am able to physically shake the hand of the man or woman who, just days or hours prior, plucked my carrots from the ground and cut my kale straight from the plant.  I can listen to live music, watch cooking demonstrations, enjoy my choice of hot food and buy flowers just because I can.

From Mission Mercado to the Upper Haight, and the Castro to Fort Mason, every neighborhood has a home for those who appreciate the importance of such high quality ingredients and who care about supporting their local communities.  But if it weren't for one market in particular, none of this would be possible.  An integral reason we are able to enjoy such luxuries due is thanks in no small part to, "The Grandaddy of them All," the pioneer market in San Francisco: The Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market.

Until recently, I failed to grasp just how fortunate I am to have this tremendous bounty at my fingertips each and every day.   I simply assumed that markets had always been a standard part of San Franciscan life: never really thinking twice.  Yet as it turns out, when the market debuted in September of 1992, it was only billed as a temporary offering after the freeway running across the Ferry Building was damaged in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake.  However, thanks to the outpouring of chefs who now had easier access to some of the finest, freshest ingredients around, the market's popularity grew exponentially, people clamored for more, and simply everyone demanded that it become a staple each and every week, thus providing the impetus for what we expect, and often times take for granted, today.   

In two weeks, Cuesa is celebrating its 20th Anniversary with two birthday bashes: Wednesday, May 15th with Spring Cocktails and Saturday, May 18th with four types of strawberry shortcake, including this one from Francis Ang of The Fifth Floor:

Cuesa is much more than a market organizer.  They are committed to sustainability in both the vendors they choose and they phenomenal programs they run.  Their "Schoolyard to Market" initiative is a youth development, entrepreneurship, and gardening program that allows students to grow vegetables at their own schools and sell at the market.  "Foodwise Kids" targets a younger demographic, children grades 1-5, and introduces them to the items available and facilitates a cooking class with the ingredients they had just purchased.  Lectures, farm tours and "Discovery Stations," are also available adults year round.  

So swing by and wish Cuesa a Happy Birthday, thank a volunteer for keeping the markets friendly and clean, and take a moment to wonder what life would be like without that first market down at Ferry Plaza 20 years ago. 

Nosh on,
Josh

"Sweet" is hardly the first word that comes to mind when talking about the Tenderloin.  But for the past three years, David Williams has been changing all of that, one sweet treat at a time. 

Healthcare professional turned graphic designer by trade (because that's a normal progression), David fell victim to the economic downturn in 2008.  Looking for that next step, he, "simply had a craving for caramels," and four months home experimentation led him to develop some killer recipes he felt proud to share.  When his two close friends started The Perish Trust, David's first opportunity to showcase his new creations presented itself at the opening party.  

People clamored for the candies, asking where they could buy more, and David thought more seriously about opening a spot of his own.  Having lived in the Tenderloin for a spell, he watched a "For Rent" sign hang for more than five months before he contacted the landlord, who loved his concept, and pulled the trigger.

At any given time, David has about four different caramels, each of which has a fun little tounge-and-cheek story behind it.  The "Party Girl" is named for both an old painting of a woman he found and restored as well as for a friend in Reno who sends along party mix every Christmas.  Studded with toasted pecans, coconut, corn and oat cereal and pretzel bits, this caramel sits atop a smoked sea-salted dark chocolate base for the best-of-both-worlds sweet and salty combo.  The Brothers Not Lovers caramel is an ode to his close friends and Sightglass Coffee's Justin and Jerad Morrison, who were often confused as a couple instead of siblings, and contains the company's Owl's Howl infused inside.  As for the 3rd Nut Caramel, David just had trouble deciding on the third nut to use. 

Bread pudding is always on the menu, and was a no-brainer as an homage to his New Orleans roots.  Still using his mothers secret recipe, he tweaks the flavors based on the season.  When nothing is really shining, he falls back on his staples like banana salted caramel or bourbon chocolate chip, served warm from the oven, and smothered with a rich sauce and loaded with nuts.

As for the name? It has absolutely nothing to do with the Tenderloin tenants - that part was just a (somewhat happy?) accident.  David's nickname is Hooker, which evolved, oddly enough, because he used to call his friends hookers when shooting pool.  Thus, he became "Hooker Dave," until people just dropped his real name.  

I won't try and sugarcoat it - the TL is still somewhat sketchy with its share of crazies.  In fact, while chatting with Hook, there was a man doing his version of parkour (a.k.a. - jumping and spinning from the street to the curb...continuously).  But Hooker makes a great point by virtue of his success - when things seem at their worst, remember that we each have the power to actively make a difference in our own lives and in the lives of those around us by following our passions.  They radiate onto others, and can turn even the most uncertain futures (or neighborhoods) into something special. 

Trust me, brave the 'hood during daylight hours, snag a sweet treat, and get "hooked" on these mind-blowing caramels.  

After all, there are certainly worse addictions to have in the Tenderloin.

Nosh on,
Josh

Ten months.  It had been ten months since we had shown our families around San Francisco, taken them to Local Mission Eatery, and cycled across the Golden Gate Bridge.  It had been ten months since we had tried to redeem the certificate we were gifted as a an incredibly generous gesture of gratitude. Finally on Monday, after ten months, we landed our reservation at The French Laundry.

Monday was also the day that tragedy struck the Boston Marathon.

I awoke that morning giddy with anticipation of what was to be one of the greatest dining experiences of my life.  In an instant, that feeling was ripped away and replaced with gut-wrenching horror.  See, from the prospective of a marathon runner, there is no better feeling than seeing your family at the finish line, cheering your name with smiles 26.2 miles wide.  To think that someone was determined to take that away from me and every other racer made me physically sick to my stomach.  Paralyzed with fear for my sister, my friends, and people I didn't even know but for whom my heart broke regardless, I spent the rest of the day in bed, teetering between sadness and anger, refreshing my Twitter feed and listening to news for so much as an inkling of good news. 

Mere hours after the incident, we arrived at The French Laundry to a symbol of respect and honor:

Because emotion plays such a vital role in the meals we consume, I was nervous that this gift that was given to me - meant to be enjoyed and savored - may have been tarnished in some way: that I would not have been able to fully appreciate the experience to the fullest.  Yet as I walked through the cottage-like doors to the very pristine dining room I had only dreamed of, a sense of calm overtook me under the wings of our server Angela and our sommelier Patrick (visiting from New York's PerSe).  For the next three hours, I was able to forget - or at least, push away - all of the bad in the world and simply enjoy an incredible meal with stellar people.

And that is what dining among friends can be: a way to exist in the moment and be cognizant of the food we have, the company we keep, and the ability to enjoy experiences such as these.  I am so fortunate for the opportunities in my life, and Monday made me realize that fact perhaps more-so than ever before.  The dichotomy of the horrific morning counterbalanced by gorgeous evening - both unforgettable in their own respects - made me take a step back and truly appreciate the beauty of food, family and friends. 

We must move on, but never forget. We must live our lives normally, but as we do, occasionally take the time to recognize and be thankful for all that surrounds us.

Whether you dine at The French Laundry, your local coffee shop, an In-N-Out or in your mother's kitchen, be sure to thank someone involved for all that they do, because at any instant, it can all be taken away.

Nosh on,
Josh

It's no secret that NoPa is exploding on the food front - both a blessing and a curse.

With great popularity inevitably comes longer waits and increased hassle: a rigidity that gives our once fluid, leisurely morning brunch unnecessary weekend structure.  The neighborhood's namesake restaurant sees lines around the corner come Sunday morning and patrons of The Mill mill about awaiting their tasty toasts.  

Luckily, all hope for a relaxing weekend meal is not lost just yet.

Having been graced with tremendously glorious weather and the company of out-of-town guests from chilly Chicago, I decided to put my professional picnicking skills to good use, take advantage of my up-and-coming surroundings, and show off my new and improved, four-step process for a successful Sunday sit-down in the park.  

Step 1 - Peruse the farmers' market at Grove and Divisadero for fresh, easily sharable fruits like strawberries and oranges.

Step 2 - Stroll back down Divis and enter the spacious, welcoming new Bi-Rite location for sandwiches, salads, and your bottled beverage of choice. 

Step 3 - Head one block east to Alamo Square Park, plop down your finest picnic blanket (or that spare bed sheet you just so happened to have lying around from college), and unload your bounty.

Step 4 - Wrangle up a few close friends and remember why you wanted to picnic in the first place: to enjoy your company, both old and new.  To soak up the sun and breath in the picturesque city that surrounds you.  To be able to bring your dog along for the day and watch him frolic through the grass and make acquaintances when he isn't begging for food.  To have the freedom to kick off your shoes and run around - just because you can.  To look at the Painted Ladies and blast the theme song from Full House (not that anyone really does that).

We totally did that.

To break away from the formality, and from the lines in which we find ourselves standing both for food, and sometimes, in life. 

Nosh on,
Josh

Contrary to popular belief, I do in fact have hobbies other than food.  I grew up playing every sport I could, majored in sport management, and competed in collegiate ultimate frisbee for three years at Michigan - not the hippie kind, but the, "We-were-all-athletes-in-high-school-and-want-to-stay-active-and-competitive-but-aren't-good-enough-to-play-at-the-NCAA-level" kind.  Joining that team was one of the best decisions I have ever made: it resulted in my traveling, staying fit, and meeting my three best friends.   

When I moved out here straight after college, I sought out a league in which to play with the hopes of meeting a similar group of people and starting my new life with fun new friends.  After the first game at the chilly, windy fields of Golden Gate Park, fellow teammates and competitors alike asked the same question:

"Going to the bar?"

One of my favorite parts of this league is the post-game bonding. Everyone, regardless of team, heads over to the Little Shamrock on 9th and Irving for a few pints.  As an added bonus, they allow you to bring food into the bar and since I hadn't yet eaten at the Sunset's Nopalito, the timing seemed ideal for a visit. 

Lindsay behind the bar walked me through my to-go order and steered me toward the Picadita con Suadero y Chorizo as an appetizer, while local patron and Sunset native John could not speak highly enough about the Birria Tradicional.

Sold.
 
Packaged perfectly and ready to devour, each aspect of my dinner was compartmentalized to preserve each food's flavor, temperature and texture. I dug first into the Picadita where black beans, braised beef brisket and chorizo sat atop a thick, round, pastry-like tortilla.  Spicy and filling, I could have eaten this alone and been just fine.  

But...I also ordered the Birria.

The short ribs fell off of the bone as I plucked them from the rich, complex, not-too-spicy sauce in which they swam and mixed them with the accompanying rice, salsa and a spritz of lime to stuff in my warm corn tortilla. But after the beers and the Picadito, I could only manage one.

Thought the leftovers made for a fantastic breakfast taco.

To Lindsay and John, thank you for your killer recommendations!

Nosh on,
Josh

When I was a kid, my family always kept kosher for Passover: brei for breakfast, sandwiches on matzoh for lunch, and burgers sans buns for dinner.

We simply ignored the fact that our morning matzoh brei had bacon, ham and swiss were tucked between our oversized crackers at lunch, and the patties were in fact double cheeseburgers. It's no wonder that today I continue that tradition in full force:

...and by day four, it becomes necessary to find other ways to palate the cardboard tasting squares:

We followed the "holiday" never ate leavened goods, but the traditional kosher aspect stopped when my grandfather, a kosher butcher, passed away.  For me, the many ancient rules of kashrut were created at a time when such measures were necessary, but today no longer seem relevant: the same logic applies for the eighth night of Passover. 

In Israel, Passover lasts for seven nights.  However, when Jews spread to the diaspora it was often unclear as to when the sun set in the holy land, so the rabbis determined that those outside of the holy land tack on an extra night: essentially, "Just in case."

Thanks to the wonders of technology, the weather channel, and text messages I know precisely what time the sun sets in Israel, thus I keep Passover for seven nights, and when my good friend Nefaur invited me to celebrate his birthday on said evening at Ad Hoc for fried chicken dinner night, I was pleased to oblige. 

Ready to dominate every wheat and grain product in sight, I was at first disappointed with the salad, but once I took a bite of the extremely well-seasoned lettuce surrounded by southern additions like chickpeas and pickles, all was forgiven.  The fried chicken certainly lived up to its reputation - not only for the incredibly crisp, crunchy coating, but more-so for the impossibly moist chicken itself that melted away with the chicken skin in my mouth.  Probably the least kosher aspect of the meal found creamy, cheesy grits as the bed for tender, juicy shrimp.  I wanted more tartness and acidity on the seascape: a cow/goat cheese served alongside butter toast with hazelnuts, apples and arugula.

But hell, it had bread. 

For the caliber of food served at Ad Hoc, it skyrockets on my list.  Solid execution of the staples, inventive twists, gigantic, family-style portions and a homey vibe made this the perfect night to celebrate a birthday the end of Passover.

Nosh on,
Josh

P.S. - The vanilla panna cotta topped with strawberries and accompanied by cinnamon shortbread cookies was the damn best I've ever had: a deep, rich vanilla custard that had an almost cheesecake-esq flavor, sweet macerated strawberries and butter shortbread left my sweet tooth beyond satisfied, though with no decent picture to share. 

My good friend Harlan introduced me to a concept called, "The Bonus."  

The idea is simple enough: on a long trip, each person brings along a little surprise to reveal at a time of his or her choosing.  It can presented after an arduous hike when the group needs a boost, or during a joyous moment to exponentially  increase the euphoria.  The bonus can be anything, from board games though food is generally the most well-received.

Having been in Vegas before my camping adventures in the Mojave National Preserve and Joshua Tree National Park, I decided to pack a little bonus for myself at Bouchon Bakery in The Venetian hotel.  Sure, it sort of defeats the purpose, but the hope was to bury it somewhere deep in my pack, forget it was there, and stumble upon it just as the taste dehydrated food on which I was about to live became unbearable.

It lasted fewer than six hours.

But here's where it gets really fun.  The woman behind the counter met me with a bubbly personality that nearly matched my own: a rare occurrence.  We chatted for a bit, and she helped me pick my pastries.  In addition to my sandwich, I wanted to grab a macaron, but had an internal struggle between flavors: coffee or pistachio?  Coffee is my go-to flavor for nearly anything, but pistachio is just downright classic. Ultimately, I caved on my standard, rushed off to my car to start the drive, and was immediately met with buyer's remorse.  

Pistachio - the one that got away.

But as I un-crinkled the paper a few days later for my mid-morning snack...

SHE BONUSED MY BONUS!

In my haste to begin my journey, I never felt the weight of the extra cookie, and the whole concept of the bonus was reborn.  There was no way she could have possibly known what she was doing, making my pistachio macaron that much sweeter. 

So, while she'll probably never read this: thank you, woman-behind-the-counter-at-Bouchon-Bakery-in-Vegas, for slipping an extra bonus into my bag.  You made me smile and you made my day, more than I think you realized.

Nosh on,
Josh