Traveling with chefs is a treat.

Not only to you eat extraordinarily well, but you also get invited along on neat adventures like mushroom foraging up north on random weekends.

One such impromptu invitation presented itself, and I made a last-minute decision to join some good friends of mine on their quest to find fungi. 

A two and a half hour late night drive up US1 dropped me off at our Airbnb house high atop the hills of Jenner, CA, where I was greeted by the group that had already arrived. We quickly caught up on recent goings-on before we all made our way to bed in preparation for the next day’s hike.

The following morning, I awoke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting toward my room. Assuming that the chefs had already begun breakfast (and my lazy ass hadn’t even woken…), I moseyed along into the kitchen, only to find our Airbnb host “mother” setting up to make a meal for us.

“I’ll bet people never cook for you all!”

(Clearly, this was not the time to correct her on the technicalities of my own profession, but far be it from me to correct her).

Bacon, eggs, waffles and a gorgeous fruit salad quickly adorned the table before us. She even took my passing suggestion to try adding bacon to the waffle mix before the iron lid was closed. 

And our Jewish Airbnb mom loved it.

The relaxed, grateful and satisfied looks on the faces of my friends made me realize just what a treat this was. Day-in and day-out, these chefs cook for others and are so rarely afforded the opportunity to sit and enjoy for themselves the experience they offer to so many, and that so many of us take for granted.

The gift of providing a meal, whether it is from a chef, a parent, or an Airbnb host, is one to appreciate each and every time. So tonight, consider cooking for someone else. You never know what meaning it will carry.


Nosh on,
Josh

Yesterday, I went to Argentina. 

Twice. 

With a total of 31 elementary school boys.

I recently joined the staff of La Petite Cuillere, an after-school program currently offered at the Town School in San Francisco. On Mondays and Tuesdays, founder Sandy Marie and her little "sous chefs" travel to a new country (stamped passports and all!) and explore not only the culinary aspects of the region, but the history, geography, and culture as well.

On the menu was a simple empanada - but from this seemingly innocent snack, we were able to introduce these young, budding cooks to new flavors and spices like cumin and paprika, all the while discussing topics from gauchos and the thriving Argentinian beef industry to the origins of salt. Rolling the dough, chopping the vegetables and crimping edges with the tines of their forks, each student took an active role in producing his pastry pocket. 

However, education does not cease with the cooking of the meal. Once each student dropped his creation off to be fried, he took a seat at the properly set community table, linen and all, to discuss table manners, enjoy their finished products, and review what they had learned over the previous 60 minutes. 

I believe that one of the best ways for children to learn is to, "hide the vegetables," or trick them into thinking they aren't actually learning in the most conventional sense. At La Petite, the veggies are quite literally masked by the food itself, a concept so simple, so obvious, that it just works. Not only are these young boys learning to cook at an early age, but they are doing so while garnering other valuable knowledge and skills, without fear of stigma, and with a confidence that will last a lifetime. 

Food can be a powerful tool when used correctly - and these early risers are the proof. 

In life, timing is everything. 

Friday was my final day at Positive Coaching Alliance, as I officially left my desk job behind in pursuit of a more personally fulfilling career. It just so happend that on Sunday, Marla Bakery simultaneously embarked upon its new chapter with a pop-up brunch at Firehouse 8 - a more than fortuitous happenstance for both my morale as well as my stomach. 

New beginnings are exciting and nerve-wracking, leaving me a bit wary. Needing a comforting meal to ease my tension, I opted for the two most soul-warming items on the menu. The chicken pot pie was packed with chunks of veggies and meat, encased in the flakiest crust that seemingly shattered beneath the mere mention of my fork. And who could pass up bread pudding from the woman who reinvented the concept at Nopa? Creamy, custardy, decadent, piping hot and topped with bright candied orange peel, I felt as though I were being hugged from the inside out. One of the most satisfying meals in a long, long while: Marla Bakery is going places. 

To me, that meal meant far more than a delicious brunch. That meal signified my sendoff on a new adventure riddled with the unknown.  

Today will be my first day of funemployment, but the knowledge that I'm not alone in my quest for a new beginning brings with it a certain sense of calm, quiet confidence.

Somehow, Marla Bakery knew as well as I did that "thyming" really is everything: the final taste in my mouth as I left was of a candied clementine and thyme soda.  

A perfect, refreshing end to a perfect, refreshing beginning. 


Follow Marla Bakery (@MarlaBakery) on Twitter and Instagram, and be sure to check out its weekly pop-up brunches at Firehouse 8 (1648 Pacific Ave.)

Breakfast hasn’t always been my favorite meal.

Far from it, actually.

Once upon a time my mother would implore me to grab something – a Pop Tart, a Toaster Strudel, a cereal bar, ANYTHING – before I scampered down the stairs, out the door, and down the street with just enough time to play a round of hacky sack and catch the bus to school.  On occasion, I would reluctantly pocket a pre-packaged meal, but more often than not I’d decline.  I simply wasn’t hungry, and if I was, there were more pressing issues at hand.

Like hacky sack…ing.

I’m not quite sure when the switch flipped, but by junior year of college my buddies and I were ceremoniously indulging in, “Big Breakfast” daily, a morning ritual during which we feasted and consumed between one-third and one-half of our daily calories. Not in junk food, but in well-thought out, well-prepared, well-rounded meals. 

Each morning, I savored my bacon frying, listening to it pop and sizzle in its own fat.  I relished thinking through my morning egg preparation: scrambled? Over easy? Poached if I was really feeling fancy?  Sometimes, on those bitter cold mornings in Ann Arbor, a carefully prepared bowl of steel cut oats with fruits, jams and nuts was just the ticket.

No matter the dish, the morning was mine.

When I started my real-person job in Mountain View, that routine was put on hold and I fell back into old habits.  With a desire to get an early jump on traffic, and no real kitchen in which to cook at work, I was confined to a life of preparing a four-serving frittata on Sunday and relying on the microwave to salvage the portions throughout the week.  A slightly elevated version of my former “grab-and-go” days.

Next, I purchased an electric, flattop griddle for my office, so that I had some flexibility to create.  While I had part of my morning back, the time no longer seemed mine.  Hastily throwing together a French press of coffee, rushed to cook, eat and begin the workday made the peaceful act of starting my day just another box to tick. 

Don’t get me wrong, I still made some fabulous meals (if I do say so myself): breakfast tacos, pumpkin pancakes, toad-in-the-hole, and even some epic granola and yogurt bowls. 

Still, I felt limited.  So after months of my makeshift kitchen, I’ve decided to wake up an hour earlier and take back the time as my own. 

If the want is valuable enough, the minutes will always reveal themselves to make it come to fruition.

Some people meditate, others exercise.  I choose to make my coffee in a Chemex, slowly pouring my 202F water atop coarsely ground beans over the course of precisely three minutes and fifteen seconds.  The aroma wafts upward as the grinds bloom; liquid drips downward like grains of sand in an hourglass, counting down the minutes until “me” time is over, and I’m at the mercy of the rest of the world.

But for those precious few moments, I am alone with me.

Nosh on,
 Josh

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