July 2005 Archives

I had the sort of Sunday in the city I'd imagined before. It started with meeting friend Rebecca and her friends for brunch: a few rounds of mimosas, chocolate chip and strawberry pancakes, and, just to give it all a touch of class, a box of Krispy Kreme doughnut holes I stopped for in Daly City. The fresh baked light was on! Glyn, who grew up in Dublin, had his very first one, and was able to see it proofing and floating along happily in the oil stream through the waterfall of sugar. It was very special.

We stopped at Cafe Organica on Grove Street, which was closing for the day but welcomed us in anyway. Rebecca told me this morning about her incredible, to-die-for, brilliant coffee made with mandarin juice and brown sugar. I wanted it. "Eton," she said to the tall, slim guy behind the counter, "this is um-" "Tejal," I reminded her, "almost like Bagel." And please, if you know of a better word to guide people with the pronunciation of my name, please, contact me. "Tejal. And this is Eton. He makes fabulous coffee."

Eton went on to explain that he was promoting coffee as a culinary art and livable wages for baristas, and I found myself agreeing with him passionately. Behind us, the multi coloured computers played scenes from an international Barista competition for which there were no rules other than: the drink must be espresso based and contain no alcohol. Eton made my caffeine headache fade into the batik printed background--and I didn't even have my coffee yet.

I told him to make me whatever he liked, obviously. So Eton peeled a lime and ground some beans, steamed the milk with the zest, and poured brown sugar into the espresso grounds. Then he pulled the shot--a cubano, he called it--poured the milk and foam over and sprinkled sugar that he bruleed with a torch. As if I wasn't already swooning, he pulled out the blowtorch. The crust held for at least five minutes, as thin and breakable as a proper brulee. And then he made individualized drinks for Glyn and Rebecca--one with blackberry syrup, the other plain, with soy milk--while I ogled.

I leaned against the random collection of books and magazines and broke the crispy layer with my spoon. It was delicious--a little cloud of slightly citrusy foam and a crisp of caramelized sugar. And when the foam was almost gone, I sipped the excellent coffee underneath through a rim of brown sugar, turning the glass like a margarita. We were the only people in the shop, and Eton was now sitting in a chair playing the cello with two others, one on flute, the other on piano. They played beautifully, stopping to critique each other with a classical music vocabulary far beyond me. I sipped quietly and planned a return visit, imagining desserts made with the same technique, the possibilities limited somewhat by the fact that Glyn's blowtorch was replaced with a small letter informing him it had to be removed for safety reasons somewhere between our long journey from London to San Francisco. It wasn't charged, honest.

Cafe Organica (Go!)
562 Central Avenue
at Grove Street
San Francisco, CA 94117

If you turn left on Highway 1 into Pescadero, right after the Gothic pocket of crab filled, rocky tide pools, and follow the wooden signs in the shape of a girl with a goat, you will reach Harley Farms. At work, we use this small goat dairy's fromage blanc, a very fresh and goaty cheese, to make a sorbet served with a peach cobbler. Will delivers the cheese to our kitchen, and he was working the day we went to the farm.

He apologized for not being able to give us a tour, because we didn't call to make an appointment, but then opened the gate to let us play with the tiny, sleepy kids born the night before. Some were nuzzling up to their mothers, some were sleeping in the sunshine, and a few curious ones came over to play. Their fur was clean and soft, and they smelled milky. "Check their butts," Will warned, "before you pick them up." He pointed to the most adorable white kid, nibbling and tugging at Glyn's long sheepskin coat. His bottom was indeed quite filthy. The sleepy goats were friendly, affectionate even, and their mothers seemed not the least bit bothered by these two strangers running around making silly faces and noises.

Harley Farms Goat Dairy
205 North Street, PO Box 173, Pescadero, CA 94060

1-650-879-0480

When I was about seven, I tried very hard to lose myself in my home in Northwest London, in my mother's walk-in closet. It was the hanging garden of beige ensembles, sequined silver and gold shoes, and beaded crepe silk saris that came undone in a thousand folds of flashing gold. But I was after more. I had read (and books always told the truth) that if I waited another minute or so, the wall would give in to a slip of time and dimension, and I would step into a magical snow dusted universe where a tiny man with the body of a mountain goat would offer me a high tea in his cozy cottage.

But I had been cheated, for in the darkness at the end of the wardrobe, there were no scones with clotted cream, no steaming tiny cups poured by Mr. Tumnus. There was nothing but unyielding white wall, early bought Christmas presents, and a sickening mix of perfumes. Had you been there that evening, you would have seen me slam the chronicles and run to my room, slam my Garbage Pail Kids stickered door with all my force, and cry angrily at the false advertisement. Books lie. As do restaurant reviews, carefully shaped by PR.

Fifteen years later I moved to San Francisco where I read a series of reviews--the hero, one Michael Mina. The reviews were fantastic, and I found myself day dreaming about one of those meals. You know the ones. I'd been working in a kitchen for the past two months, dressing each day as a human marshmellow, coming home with the smell of food caught in my skin, and my hair stuck to my neck with a thin film of sweat and caramel. My days off I spent shopping for more food and cooking into the mornings. I wanted, no, needed, one of those meals where the food, service and decor leave me feeling tipsy with delight. And so, I entered the white and beige room of the Westin, St. Frances and waited for the walls to give in.