I've been dining out a lot lately.
 
Like, A LOT.

Perhaps not “Michael Bauer” a lot, nor “The Dapper Diner” a lot, but given that I rarely purchase clothes, electronics…anything, really…all of my disposable income has to go somewhere, and I choose food.  

Like, A LOT of food.

Over the past year and a half, I’ve made my way through handfuls of pop-ups, dozens of food trucks, and countless restaurants.  I’ve eaten some of the best meals of my life, experienced flavors and textures I never knew existed, and met some incredibly talented and friendly people.

Yet as much as I’ve gained from my culinary excursions – appreciation, knowledge, weight – I lost something along the way. Something so central to who I am as a person today.  Something I failed to realize was even gone.  I lost my first true love.

My love for baking.

The coarse grit of flour and butter on my fingers from rubbing together a biscuit dough; the whimsical whirr of my KitchenAid beating cheeses, eggs and sugar into a luscious, creamy base that will soon blossom into a light and airy cheesecake; my heart rising and falling with each successful or failed soufflé; the kitchen littered with paper towels, as if each had just barely missed some universal waste basket.  

All forgotten in what now seemed like a mere distant memory.

The two of us go way, way back – to about eleventh grade, when I fell in love with the process of making something greater than the sum of its parts.  For me, baking is science, baking is magic, baking is transforming food into something it isn’t, into something it shouldn’t be able to be, yet in spite, becomes.

Sadly, our love affair quickly fizzled to the back burner as my quest to conquer the impossible task of experiencing each and every establishment in San Francisco moved to the front of house.  Going out more left less time for dinner parties, less time in my own kitchen, less room in my stomach.

But as oft happens with old lovers, the spark ignited instantaneously when the opportunity arose not once, but twice to return to my long lost companion.  

First, a “Friendsgiving” party hosted by dear friends of mine – an orphan Thanksgiving of sorts for those in need of the warmth and comfort of turkey, stuffing, and an extra notch in the belt buckle.  Having not made any dessert from my recently acquired Blue Bottle book, I was inspired to adapt Caitlin's Stout Coffee Cake into a Pumpkin, Chocolate-Stout Coffee Cake, embracing the season.

The smell emanating from my kitchen was divine – a sensation I had all but forgotten over the past few months.  Though as my timer wound down and I anxiously opened the oven door, I immediately noticed something was awry.  The recipe made a decent amount of pecan caraway streusel - so much so that I believed it to be extra, and didn't read too much into the line in the book that read, "I'm an advocate of putting streusel on anything."

My mistake.

I used about half of the mixture to top the cake.  Though in all fairness, it turned out to be a beautiful, deliciously neat sort of mistake as the cake uniformly enveloped the crumbly topping from the outside in, so that a bull’s eye of streusel remained.

The second opportunity arose from an Instagram-turned-actual friendship, through which I was invited to share my signature cheesecake alongside her weekly pie.  My quest for Oreos at corner stores about the neighborhood proved futile, so I had to settle for Newman-Os.

Never settle for Newman-Os.

While not terrible, the difference was...noticeable.  Luckily, I had brought a successful backup flavor (pumpkin pecan graham), and as I served, left, and peered eagerly over my shoulder to catch so much as a glimpse of the reactions from that initial bite, I realized that there were two extraordinarily different motivations for my affair with baking.

Initially, there is the actual consumption of the finished product.  Watching even just few people close their eyes, hearing to the occasional, “Mmm,” nodding as they close their lips around each morsel, savoring – is both heartwarming and humbling as they indulge in my craft.

Yes, I’m still talking about baking – stay with me. 

Then, I rewind to the kitchen and reflect: the mere collection of ingredients sending shivers down my spine; the hours spent whipping, beating (still baking…), folding, mixing and measuring, and realize I love nothing more than the process itself: the feeling the coarse grit of butter and flower on my fingers and the whimsical whirr of my KitchenAid...

For so many months I have put my stomach in the hands of others…so to speak. Yet these two small gatherings afforded me the opportunity to rekindle what I once thought lost.  

Inspired, I baked thrice that week – adding an attempt to tackle the incensing, elusive challenge of biscuit perfection, simply because I could.  Simply because I remembered that no matter how many missteps I made in our relationship, I knew that if I made a concerted effort to learn from every moment, I could never be burned enough to stray too far away from her.

At that precise moment I knew: we were back together at long last. 

I fell in love all over again.

Nosh on,
Josh

Strolling through the neighborhood on a Sunday a few months back, I read a sign that simply stated, “SELLING OFF OLD CHINA, GLASS, POTS, PANS AND MORE!!!”

This was it: my big chance. For years I have yearned to fill my home with restaurant-quality paraphernalia.  Just the practical stuff – an industrial stand mixer, ice bins, counter-top convection ovens, deep fryers - and restaurant closings were the perfect opportunity to snag one or all of these at a huge discount (insert “Jews are cheap” joke).

Eagerly, I made my way to the former Paul K. space to assess the bounty that surely awaited my arrival.  Instead, I was met by the picked-over remnants of the day prior.  All that lay before me were the outcasts of the culinary tool spectrum - creamers, plastic pitchers, a toothpick holder.

That is, until I set my eyes on her.  She was gorgeous, slender and looked like she could pull about three at a time.  A little used and WAY out of my league.

Just how I like ‘em. 

The new owner intended to have coffee service, but just couldn’t find the space for it and only wanted to get his money back.  For a measly $1,200, this professional-grade espresso machine could sit in my very own kitchen.  I envisioned myself grinding, tamping and pulling perfect shots on my new Rolls Royce of a coffee machine as I mastered the art of latte…art.  After chatting off the ear of the man behind the counter, I left empty-handed to ponder the potential of my caffeinated future.

My internal debate lasted approximately the length of my walk home, until some semblance of rationality struck me and I reluctantly sent an apology tweet that I would not be going home with my love.  He told me not to worry, and extended an open invitation to stop by for a meal.

Glowing reviews and a few months of Twitter-talk passed, I finally took him up on the offer and landed myself a reservation at Rich Table with a few friends.  Our order of thick-cut fennel levain with perfectly room temperature, salted, cultured butter arrived from none other than Chef Evan himself, the very same man whose espresso machine I turned down weeks earlier.  Expressing joy with a smile from ear to ear that I had finally made the pilgrimage, Chef welcomed us with open arms, conversed for a few moments, and set back to the kitchen.

A barrage of starters followed: sardine chips, corn fritters and plancha bread with squash blossoms. 

Fun and playful, the sliced potatoes had slits through which the tiny, salty fish were woven and deep-fried to a crispy, crunchy golden brown.  Served with a spicy and tangy horseradish cream, these bites covered all textural and flavor bases, and should not be missed under any circumstances. The corn fritters (which vary based on season, and are currently squash fritters with kohlrabi and coffee), were killer – creamy corn filling dotted encased within a crisp shell and topped with nutritional yeast and salsa verde. These nuggets continue to improve ever time I dine there.  The plancha bread, while decent enough, just didn’t do it for me: too much bread and too few toppings.

I could not resist the “Popcorn Soup,” which sounded as oddly delicious as it tasted.  Warm, buttery, and laden with chunks of popped kernels, the puréed movie snack was elevated to higher ground, and easily replaced my go-to Bunch-A-Crunch as my cinematic snack of choice.  Rich Table also shines in its ability to extract the essence of even the simplest ingredients, while still adding an unexpected twist, as they did with the roasted beets, burrata, buckwheat and sprouting greens.

We moved on to our pastas, which we chose to be our main courses.  It’s quite difficult to impress me with a pasta dish.  Sure, fresh, hand-rolled noodles are superior to dried, homemade sauces can be tasty, and there is an art to finding the ideal shape/consistencies balance between the two.  But at the end of the day I’ve never had a noodle and sauce combination that blew me away. 

Until the duck lasagna. 

To this day, it haunts my dreams in the best of ways: perfectly cooked sheets of lasagna, braised duck so intensely ducky, an ever-so-delicate béchamel and thin sliced rounds of Santa Rosa plums.  The deck-of-cards-sized portion was ideal for such a rich dish, and left me more satisfied than that espresso machine ever could.

In addition to the incredible amount of food we ordered, Chef Evan sent out another dish, just for kicks - as he did on my second appearance a few weeks later.  He even used us a guinea pigs to test out a dish with which he was playing, and currently resides on the menu: tagliatelle with pork bolognaise, apples and almonds: a heavenly combination. 

Often, we think of an extra plate as an apologetic gesture to right a restaurant’s wrong.  Yet there is something to be said for gifting – be it a dish, a compliment, a gesture – simply because.  No reason, no rhyme, no expectation.  The sort of nod reserved for family and close friends for whom you would go out of your way.    

It goes a long way.

Evan’s wife, Sarah, does double duty with the additional role of pastry chef, and does not disappoint.  Grilled olive oil cake with strawberries and cream cheese ice cream screams a summer picnic, the mint chocolate cream with milk ice cream and chocolate cookies was described as, "Christmas in a dessert," (whatever that tastes like...) and the almond cake of sorts with yogurt mousse and marmalade pin-pointed a deconstructed cheesecake.  

All were hits.

I've been to Rich Table a mere three times now, and while I go for the simultaneously approachable and complex, incredibly well-thought out food (and cocktails, but that's an entirely separate post), something else pulls me back in, something less tangible.  I stay for the overwhelming sense of family I feel when I arrive. Despite crowds, lines, and dishes that need to be served, Chef Evan will always take the time to swing by your table and chat - maybe about the food, maybe about the experience, or maybe about nothing at all.  At Rich Table, you dine in a relaxing, care-free environment in which it is clearly evident that the entire staff is passionate about not only the food that arrives at the table, but the people sitting at it as well.  

There will always be chefs who make stellar food, and the bar will continue to rise.  But not everyone has the time or inclination to treat you like a family member from the get-go.

That is why I come back.

Nosh on,
Josh