Tag: restaurants

Wine Talk: Meet La Toque’s Richard Matuszczak

One of the many great things about living in Los Angeles is that I am now much closer to Napa and Sonoma — not to mention Santa Barbara — and the wines and wineries there.

And the food. There are some outstanding restaurants in the Napa Valley, and the latest Wine Talk’s subject oversees the wine program at one of them, La Toque. Angela and I dined there on our honeymoon back in October, and we will most definitely return for another meal.

The milk-fed veal chop at La Toque (Megan Menicucci photo)

Richard Matuszczak poured some excellent wines for us during our evening at La Toque, including a Seavey Caravina. His selections paired beautifully with our courses, which included pork belly, shrimp, and mushrooms.

Matuszczak’s Wine Talk includes his take on Caravina, and some other great bottles, so give it a read, and make a reservation at La Toque.

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A Texas White Blend for Your Table
A Pinot Noir Full of Flavor
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Underbelly Veteran Goes for Grenache
A Man of Letters and Wine
Ms. Champagne Wants a Nebuchadnezzar
The Wine Artist Goes for Chardonnay
This American Loves Spain and Its Wines
Houston’s Wine Whisperer Has a Soft Touch
Blackberry Farm’s Somm Pours in Splendor
Mr. Pinot Noir: Donald Patz of Patz & Hall
A Cork Dork Wants to Spend More Time in Tuscany
Sommelier Turned Restaurateur Daringly Goes Greek
Texas Master Sommelier Debunks Wine Geeks
A Bottle From Gigondas Changed This Houston Man’s Life

Oil Man Falls in Love, and the Rest is Good-Taste History
Ryan Cooper of Camerata is a Riesling Man
Mixing It Up With Jeremy Parzen, an Ambassador of Italy
Sommelier at One of Houston’s Top Wine Bars Loves Underdogs

Of Duck, Brisket Tacos, and a Good Sauvignon Blanc (Plus a Fine Bartender Makes a Good Cocktail)

I like duck. I like to eat it, and I like to cook it. I like to confit it. I love the legs and the breast. I love it all — duck feet and beaks in Hong Kong as well. (During one of my residences in Paris, the grocery store near my apartment sold a wonderful confit de canard in the refrigerated section, two pieces for, as I recollect, five or so euros. Ahh, we’ll always have Paris … )

A week or so ago, I had a very good plate of duck confit in Houston, at Toulouse, a restaurant whose Dallas location (the original one in the two-location mini-chain) was once one of Angela’s favorites. Here’s my take on that duck, and the rest of the meal. The lentils were excellent, by the way.

You like tacos? Yes, don’t we all. Texas is home to its fair share of them, and you would have to eat at a different place daily for years to get to all of them. A new restaurant in Houston is serving a great brisket taco at the moment, and I ordered it last week. I recommend you try one or several. Read about it and see it here.

Now to some wine. I not long ago opened a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a 2016 Sauvignon Blanc from Ehlers Estate, and was, in a word, refreshed. It was clean and crisp, it was balanced impeccably, and it was oh so good with the chicken I had cooked. So good it was that I’m going to open another bottle this weekend. Read about it here.

Finally, as I write this, it’s cocktail time. A good bartender I know, who works at one of my favorite restaurants in Houston, this week accepted the challenge of creating a cocktail that included Ancho Reyes Verde, a rather spicy liqueur made of poblano chilis. She did quite well, and if you want to watch her make it, see this.

Eat well, and with people you love.

When You Find Yourself in Sorrento Wanting To Eat Well

Your car arrives around 7:30, and it’s taking you to dinner. You’ve been invited by a famous resident of Sorrento, Giuseppe “Peppe” Fiorentino. You don’t know where you are going, and it doesn’t matter, because Peppe knows his city and its restaurants as no one else does. You are confident that you’ll dine well.

The driver guides the Fiat up a hill, past a man walking a boxer and a woman pushing a stroller. The air is warm, the sun’s light muted; a light breeze pushes a lemon tree’s leaves to and fro. You are hungry. The car pulls to a stop in a small parking lot, and the driver motions you toward a path, a walkway under an archway of magnolia and orange and lemon trees. To your right, a fenced area containing goats and chickens and ducks. You stop to look at the kids and their mother, then continue down the path, at the end of which you see a sign. You are at Ristorante “Da Filippo”.

Peppe comes here often, is like family to the owners, a family themselves. Two daughters of the owner oversee the floor, bringing bottles of wine and glasses of beer to the tables. You walk inside, mention Peppe’s name, and a waiter points to a table occupied by a man and a woman; they seem to be waiting on someone — Peppe had told you on the phone the night before that friends of his, a couple from Mexico City, would be joining us for dinner. I walked to the table and introduced myself to Salvador and Luisa, who told me they were the first to arrive. We poured some prosecco and I learned that they had been coming to the city for years, perhaps 30, and were now looking for a home to purchase in Sorrento. They had met Peppe and his wife, Marina, on one of their first trips to the Amalfi Coast, and became fast friends.

Ten or so minutes went by, and then came Peppe, gregarious and smiling. He stopped to speak to one of the daughters, gave her a hug, then joined us at the head of the table, eyes alit, his smile knowing and open. Ciro, our waiter, came to stand at his side, and the two discussed wine, deciding on a Falanghina, one made not in a “business” winery but at someone’s home. The bottle, when it arrived, bore no label. What was in the bottle was honest, open, crisp, straw in color, a wine that, I would soon decide, paired oh so well with the seafood that came our way. (I first met Peppe in 2016 in Houston, was introduced to him by Tony Vallone — the two men have been friends for decades.)

We were soon joined by Marina and Peppe’s sister. Marina sat next to me, and Peppe was to my right; she was born in the north of England, to an Italian mother and an English father, and she’s as friendly and warm as her husband. I was sitting with genuine, unpretentious people, in their home, and it felt good.

The food began coming from the kitchen: baby octopus followed by calamari and lightly fried sardines caught, as conveyed to me by Ciro, “but a few hours ago.” Crisp, delicate breading on all, the taste of the sea abundant and stark, the frying method astute and learned. (Authenticity cannot be faked; overcooked seafood is not a thing of beauty.) Next, an eggplant Parmigiana, with cheese redolent of tame oak smoke, and eggplant slices slightly tangy, enrobed in a tomato sauce of a hearty richness. Slicing into it released the cheese, which slowly mingled with the sauce. The waiter had served the squares from a large platter, and the table grew quiet as we ate.

Salvador and his habanero powder

Salvador and his habanero powder

The conversation quickly resumed, however, and I asked Salvador what he had sprinkled on his eggplant dish. He was holding a small bottle of what looked to be some sort of powder. It was habanero powder, one that he made by drying the peppers in the sun.

“I leave them outside in the day for two to three weeks, bringing them in at night to keep the moisture away , then I run them through spice grinder,” he told me. I tasted it, and wished he had a jar to sell me. It was full of habanero flavor, and a small shake of it on the eggplant was wonderful. Heat, richness, sun. I’m going to make my own.

Ciro then brought a beautiful oval tray of risotto to the table … the saffron color shone, and assembled around the rice a multitude of vongole, small, shells open, ready for us. These clams were full of flavor, briny, tender, but with a bite, and the risotto was al dente and moist, and a mouthful containing the green beans and tomatoes with the clams and risotto was enough to produce a sigh, a contended sigh.

Risotto and clams, a match made in heaven.

Marina told me how she met Peppe — she had moved to Italy to work in the tourism industry when she was a young woman, where their paths crossed. They dated, and have been together ever since, 40-plus years. As we were talking, Peppe’s niece came in, pushing Paolo in a stroller … three-week-old Paolo, Peppe’s first and only nephew, and though it seemed not possible, his eyes grew even livelier at the sight of the black-haired boy. The family was complete.

Ciro consulted with Peppe about the next course; fish was the decision, and we continued drinking our Falanghina. I discovered that Salvador was the founder and creator of Salvador’s Margarita — he sold the brand a few years back, and is officially retired. (He and his wife travel often, and Salvador, who owned a number of restaurants during his career, cooks often for friends and family.)

To the cod: two large filets, cooked with delicacy and covered with a mixture of crisp and spicy bread crumbs and olive oil (the filets were passed under the broiler for a minute or two at the end of cooking). Buttery in the mouth, moist, a proper main course. Ciro served us, and the meal proceeded.

The cod arrives at the table.

Paolo was “kidnapped” by one of the waitresses, who walked him around the restaurant, stopping by tables and talking with guests. We discussed dessert, Donald Trump, and wine, deciding on cheese and a sweet red wine from the area. A Parmigiano-Reggiano, aged for 36 months, was the star, and a Caciottina canestrata di Sorrento an ample mate. Glasses clinked, the evening grew late, and it was time for Paolo to get to his crib. We lingered over the cheese and wine; meanwhile, the tables around us, now full, were full of laughter and conversation. It was a beautiful Friday evening in Sorrento.

A meal must always end … but only in that way can another begin.

Did you say you were pondering a trip to the Amalfi Coast? If you go, make sure to put an evening at Ristorante “Da Filippo” on your itinerary — tell them Peppe and James sent you.

Dinner with a grand man of Sorrento: Giuseppe “Peppe” Fiorentino

An Italian winter’s tale of grace

I was in Florence for a few days, a stopover of sorts before I traveled on to Umbria. I was staying at the Hotel Hermes, hosted by Patricia Baglioni, the wonderful woman who owns the small hotel. She steered me toward her favorite places in the city, restaurants and otherwise, and told me some fine stories about her childhood in Texas and Mexico and coming to Italy to study and falling in love with an Italian man whose family owned hotels. He sadly died a while ago, too young, but not before they had a marriage full of adventure and travel and great meals. (Her husband was a hunter, and she showed me some photographs of him with wild boar and pheasant and deer, all of which ended up on their family table.)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes, and a guest. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

It was in the middle of December, and Florence was beautiful. Florence is always beautiful. It was to be my final day in the city, and the next morning, the 17th, I would depart for Umbria and Brigolante, the agriturismo near Assisi that Angela and I would use as home base for the winter holiday season. I went for a walk along the river after breakfast, over the bridge and up toward the Uffizi. For lunch I had coniglio fritto at Al Tranvai, a small place I had read about in Saveur. If you are in Florence you must go, and please order the rabbit. I spent the afternoon wandering, no destination in mind, and ended up at a bar run by an American, a guy who had fallen in love with the city when he and his girlfriend had passed through two years earlier. He told me she had left him to return to California. He thought about her rarely, he said.

Rabbit and zucchini at Tranvai.

Rabbit and zucchini at Al Tranvai.

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the bottom right corner of image and you'll see a perfect piece of beef.)

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the middle-right section of the image and you’ll see a perfect piece of beef.)

For dinner I went to Trattoria Sostanza, and, of course, had a bistecca. (I will revisit Sostanza, both corporeally and on Mise en place. It is deserving of that, and more.) Communal tables, two seatings nightly, excellent food. I had a view of the kitchen, and my steak was cooked semi-vertically on a grate over charcoal. It is in the top 5 on my best steak list. After dinner I walked along the river and admired the duomo, thinking of Dante and Beatrice.

I was excited about my drive to Umbria, and after a late breakfast at the hotel headed to the rental agency to pick up my Fiat. As I walked past the window of the German shoemaker snowflakes began to fall, wispy flakes that melted as soon as they landed on the street. I ambled along, not quite wanting to leave Florence behind. I stopped at several food stores along the way, and decided to have an early lunch: fried squash blossoms, a few slices of ham, and a half-bottle of Montepulciano.

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

While I sat eating the blossoms at a table covered in butcher paper the snow grew heavier, the sky darker. The thin slices of ham melted on my tongue and the red wine warmed me. People rushed along the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. I bought a few tins of pâté and some sausages and cheese for the trip, then continued on to the rental agency.

The car, a white Fiat 500, was small, but just big enough for Angela and me and a bag or two. I drove the short distance back to the hotel and loaded my things, bid farewell to Patricia, then took off toward the river. It was snowing heavily, but I had no worries, and entered the traffic stream, the radio playing a Count Basie number.

Five minutes later it all came down. Snow mixed with ice, heavy. The little car’s windshield wipers struggled to keep up, and the traffic came to a standstill. I endured at least an hour moving at a crawl. We were headed up an incline, toward the autostrada, out of the city, but nature had something else in mind: by the dozens, cars began pulling to the side of the road, unable to make it up the hill. The snow grew heavier, and I thought to myself that I was glad I had brought my hiking boots. I parked my car in the best location possible, its nose still jutting into the street. I, along with other drivers and passengers, emerged into the icy early afternoon.

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I began walking down the narrow, icy street and saw cars parked on both sides of it, two wheels on the sidewalks, two on the one-way thoroughfare. The neighborhood in which I interrupted my journey was just outside one of Florence’s old gates, and as I walked down the hill toward the massive structure I began thinking about where I would spend the night. My first thought was to phone Patricia at the hotel, but when I took my iPhone from my pocket I discovered I had no credit remaining. I kept walking and soon saw a restaurant to my right; it was closed, but lights were on in the dining room and I saw a man in a chef’s jacket standing behind the bar. I knocked on the door and he motioned for me to come in; he was on the phone, and pointed to a bar stool. As I approached him I noticed a group of people sitting at a large table at the rear of the restaurant and realized I had interrupted family meal.

A family meal in a warm place.

A family meal in a warm place.

I sat and looked at the wines on the bar, and a minute or so later my host put down the phone. We shook hands, and he said his name was Paulo. He mentioned the ice storm, and I told him I was stuck, had been forced to park my car on the side of the road, and that I was looking for a place to spend the night. I asked if I might use his phone, but he had another idea: he began calling friends who lived in the neighborhood, asking if anyone could put me up for the evening. I tried to stop him, to tell him I would call back to the hotel in which I had been staying, but he ignored me. After a few calls he put the phone down and smiled, offering me a glass of wine. “Don’t worry, a friend has a bed and breakfast one street over, and he has a free room. He told me I could have it for 35 euros.” Perfect, I said, and we toasted the weather.

He then asked me to follow him, and we walked toward the kitchen, stopping at the occupied table. He introduced me to his father and mother, and some of his employees. His father, who had the year before handed over the kitchen to Paulo, had worked in a restaurant since he was 17, and had opened his own, this one, 15 years earlier. I shook hands with everyone and admired the food on their plates, refusing an offer to eat with them … they had already done enough.

Paulo wrote an address down, then told me that I should come back that evening for dinner. How could I refuse? I was reluctant to leave the warm restaurant, but wanted to find my room before it grew dark. I walked back up the hill to the car and retrieved a few things, then followed the directions Paulo had given me.

It was indeed one street over, one snow-filled street. I saw the number and rang the bell, and was met by a man in his 20’s, who welcomed me in and showed me the room. It was wonderfully decorated, warm, large bed, tasteful fabrics – dark green and an interesting shade of red. He told me his mother and he owned the building and that they were glad to do a favor for Paulo. He seemed to be in a hurry, so I thanked him and walked him to the door. I opened my Mac and found an email from Patricia; she wanted to make sure I was safe, and I told her my tale. She laughed and made me promise to stay at Hotel Hermes when I next was in Florence.

I put my bag away and saw a bottle of wine on the table near the window, poured myself a glass, and sat down, watching the snow fall. (The image of that snow at that moment is in my mind still, and when I wish to evoke a feeling of peace I can conjure it up. I see the snow fall, watch it accumulate on the balcony rail outside the window, silently.)

My room with a snowy view.

My room with a snowy view.

After enjoying another glass of wine I showered, then traced my steps back to the restaurant, which was full of people. Paulo had reserved a place for me at a table along the wall, and I sat, enjoying a perfect view of the entire room. The barstools were occupied, and all but one table was full. I ordered some prosecco and looked at the menu, my eyes landing immediately on wild boar, one of my favorite proteins. They were serving Cinghiale al Ginepro, and I ordered it. A leg of a fine animal ­– Paulo told me they had marinated it in red wine – that had once roamed woods not far from Florence. I was deciding on a first course when a waiter came out with a bowl of pasta and set it before me. I looked down and saw truffles. Tartufo. White truffles, alba madonna. Shaved truffles on top of thin, wide noodles, in a rich sauce that tasted of olive oil and shallots. I lowered my head over the dish and inhaled, and tears came to my eyes.

Those tears were not caused by sadness or tiredness, but were provoked by a profound sense of gratitude, a feeling that was almost holy, sacred. I was sitting among strangers, in a warm restaurant whose chef had housed and fed me. That morning I had checked out of a hotel whose owner, concerned about me in the ice storm, called to make sure I was safe, a woman with whom I still correspond and will surely see next time I am in Firenze. I drank and I ate, and thought of nothing else.

Yes, the truffles and pasta were sublime, as truffles almost always are. The wild boar I remember still: gamy (as I like it), rich, perfectly cooked. But on that evening in Florence, as the snow fell and I sat at an unfamiliar though perfect table surrounded by happy people talking and enjoying their food and wine, I was the recipient of kindnesses that outshone even the finest truffle.

Arrival at Amador: long days, great food, and a Spanish triumph

I’m here, in Mannheim, working at Restaurant Amador. I arrived shortly before Spain played Italy in the Euro 2012 final. I was hoping Germany was going to be in that final, and I planned my flight so that it would fall on a day of no Euro matches. That Sunday, the 2nd of July, the restaurant held an “open house” event, and about 300 people attended. We roasted a pig, and the guests enjoyed some fine pork, among many other things.

The star of the show

The star of the show

My first day in the kitchen was Saturday, July 1. I worked hard – everyone in this kitchen works hard – and long. Harder and longer than I have in a while. I’m not complaining, just remarking that 15-hour days are long days.

Everything in its place

Everything in its place

Days that long contain plenty of time to peel parsnips for stock, to chop garlic and shallots, to shell and clean beautiful crabs, removing all of the yellow and reddish tissue and leaving behind nothing but briny white meat. Plenty of time to clean and scrub floors and counters and walls and ovens. Enough time to get to know the cooks in the kitchen, from whom I am learning a lot.

On the evening of the open house, after all the guests had gone, we set up a projector and watched Spain decimate Italy, watched the Spaniards show the rest of the world how to play football. We sat in the restaurant, eating beautiful steak, drinking some good wine, tired from the day’s work but happy. (Except for the Italian supporters; they were upset.)

Spanish flags aplenty in the Amador dining room

Spanish flags aplenty in the Amador dining room

As I watched the match and sipped a dry Spanish white, I thought to myself: I am in a three-star restaurant, watching the final match of the European Championships. I just finished a long day working in a great kitchen, a kitchen full of great equipment and ingredients. Some of my colleagues had just dried off from swimming in the pool on the restaurant’s grounds after their long days and were sitting near me, eating and watching the match.

A restaurant with a view

A restaurant with a view

I was tired, and I was just a little jet-lagged. But I was where I wanted to be.

It has only just begun, and I am loving it.

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