Category: Uncategorized (Page 15 of 19)

Percebes, and We Were Late for Lunch at Asador Etxebarri

Inside this building an inspired master presides over a fine kitchen.

Inside this building an inspired master presides over a fine kitchen.

Food and cooking (and culinary subjects in general) constitute a large part of my reading diet. Magazines, food sections, web sites, books … all are fair game. In a recent issue of The New York Times I came across this piece, about something that was part of a meal that holds a place among my all-time favorite meals: percebes. 

Asador Etxebarri was the place, and we were on our way to San Sebastián, having left Barcelona that morning. Colby and Kim were in one car, and Angela and I in another. We were equipped with a GPS unit, so were not worried about making it to our lunch on time. That turned out to be misplaced confidence, because the name of the village in which Asador Etxebarri is similar to another village in the region, and the latter is the one our BMW’s GPS unit selected. We should have insisted on a Mercedes. (Editor’s note: A reliable source insisted that I include the following statement: “And I should have just paid attention to my driving and followed Kim, who was piloting the car ahead. In addition, I should have not argued with Angela when she expressed little faith in my sense of direction.”)

We arrived at the village early and waited on Colby and Kim – our favorite traveling companions – who were on their way to the “right” village. We ordered some wine and sat in the sun in an old square, watching schoolchildren play and dogs chase one another. Colby and Kim never arrived. We called them. They were at the restaurant. We were not. And we were going to be late.

What to do? Well, what we did was walk at a brisk pace to the car while Colby asked if it was possible for our lunch to be delayed, to allow us time to arrive. The manager assented. Kindly. I then attempted to program the village’s name into the GPS system, but it was not cooperating. We called Colby, told him of our dilemma, and he was informed that a young American was staging in Extebarri’s kitchen. The young cook came to the phone and gave directions to Angela, who then relayed them to me.

Traffic was heavy, lots of trucks – we were driving through a semi-industrial area. Hungry, expectant, we drove for about 40 minutes, ending up in a small and beautiful village. The village we thought we were in hours ago. We parked, walked a short distance to the restaurant, and, it turned out, nirvana.

Colby Walton, who was very happy to see us.

Colby Walton, who was very happy to see us.

Colby and Kim were happy to see us, Colby nursing a … was it a Campari? The dining room, upstairs, was sunny, spare, welcoming. The staff welcomed us, laughing a little.

We joined the punctual ones at our table and I was given the wine list; the waiter was aware of our mishap and intuited that I would want wine. A Txakoli is what I ordered. A bottle, which the four of us drank while we looked at the menu.

A menu for the ages.

A menu for the ages.

For those who know nothing of Asador Etxebarri, I have two words for you: Wood and Smoke. Victor Arguinzoniz is the man behind that pairing, and he uses them both to create  beauty. Take a look at the menu shown above and you will see that he grills everything, a method of cooking that imparts flavors of the different varieties of wood his staff collects from the area, including oak and vine cuttings. (He even created a special “cooker” in which he smokes caviar.)

Victor Arguinzoniz and I tour his kitchen.

Victor Arguinzoniz was a gracious host, and I loved his kitchen. (The pulleys behind us are part of his grilling regimen.)

Our meal began, and it was a highlight of our eating tour that trip, which included El Celler de Can Roca, Mugaritz, Akelare, and Arzak, among others. The percebes followed a smoked goat butter, a smoky and creamy opening course that I can taste even today, a few years later. Grilled peas, anchovies, egg followed. And one of the best pieces of beef that man ever cooked. (I asked for the bone, and we took it to the apartment we were renting in San Sebastián; I later trimmed it of all remaining meat and fat and used it in a ragù.) (The photos that follow take you on a brief tour of our tasting menu. Enjoy.)

Colby, Kim, Angela and I spent three or four hours in Asador Etxebarri, and could have spent far more. After our lunch we took a short walk around the restaurant’s environs, admiring the green landscape, the quiet, and gained some insight about how geography and surroundings affect the way one cooks. But we had an appointment in San Sebastián, so once again hit the road and headed to the coast. Much awaited us.

A restaurant with a view.

A restaurant with a view.

Percebes, before the tasting.

Percebes, before the tasting.

The meat. The wonder.

The meat. The wonder.

A chef smiles.

A chef smiles.

Cheese flan

Cheese flan

Palomos prawns

Palomos prawns

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Grilled peas

Grilled peas

The place in which it happens.

The place in which it happens.

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Egg and mushroom

Egg and mushroom

Baby octopus

Baby octopus

If you like beef, this it is.

If you like beef, this it is.

An environment in which to create beauty on the plate.

An environment in which to create beauty on the plate.

Smoked goat butter

Smoked goat butter

Sea cucumber

Sea cucumber

Here's the wood that produces the smoke.

Here’s the wood that produces the smoke.

Plates of the day: A Gem Named Giacomo’s

There are a few restaurants in Houston to which I return again and again, because they are serving food that is good, and honest, and selling it at prices that are fair. One is named Giacomo’s, and it is owned by Lynette Hawkins, who has been in the business a long time and knows what she is doing.

I had lunch at Giacomo’s today with a friend who had never been there, and I knew that he would love the Swiss chard ravioli; it is one of my favorite dishes in Houston, and reminds me of the malfatti (also with Swiss chard and ricotta) served at Al Di La. (I ate those malfatti on a weekly basis at that little place in Park Slope, followed by rabbit and polenta.)

Today I ordered something I had never had at Giacomo’s: mozzarella in carrozza. The menu describes them as “little fried mozzarella sandwiches, anchovy caper sauce.” Two small sandwiches come in a bowl, the bread caressed by a delicate and very authentic sauce, a sauce so good that I would surely have no problem drinking a cup of it. The bread is slightly crisp, and though I wish it and the cheese had been a bit warmer, I can’t wait to introduce these things to Angela.

These little things and their anchovy-caper sauce are now at the top of my Houston food list.

These little things and their anchovy-caper sauce are now at the top of my Houston food list.

If you like cheese, anchovies, capers and crisp bread, order this.

If you like cheese, anchovies, capers and crisp bread, order this.

I convinced Jack to try the tortelli di bietola (ravioli stuffed with Swiss chard, ricotta, goat cheese, sage butter sauce). Again, this is one of my favorite dishes in Houston; I have eaten a lot of pasta around the world, and this plate at Giacomo’s stands up to the best of them. Paper-thin ravioli filled with a mixture of cheeses and chard, nestled on a plate in a rich sauce. It is perfection, simplicity at its best. Jack concurred.

My favorite pasta dish in Houston.

My favorite pasta dish in Houston.

While Jack was discovering Hawkins’ ravioli, I began eating my gnocchi. I have had this dish before at Giacomo’s, and this time it seemed especially good, mainly because the mushrooms possessed a pronounced funky, earthy flavor, something missing during a previous visit. The sauce – cream and gorgonzola – is always wonderful, not too thick, not too thin, and the potato gnocchi are obviously made and cooked by someone who understands the process.

Gnocchi di funghi at Giacomo's is rich, decadent and earthy, full of funky cremini mushrooms.

Gnocchi di funghi at Giacomo’s is rich, decadent and earthy, full of funky cremini mushrooms.

Giacomo’s is a gem, really. No pretension, congenial and adept staff, and an owner who knows her stuff. Plus, they sell wine by the quartino and have a good and value-priced list. Haven’t been? Correct that oversight soon.

The Derby, One Year On

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This exact time last year Angela and I were in Louisville, for the Derby, enjoying a great breakfast of grits and bacon and eggs in a little bed and breakfast in Indiana, just over the Kentucky border and about 10 miles from Churchill Downs. We were not alone. In addition to the promised ghosts – which the proprietor told us existed but whom I never saw – we were there with Colby and Kim and David and Nicole and Zack and Susan and Michael, an eccentric and lively crew if ever there was one. (Come to think of it, I know why the ghosts stayed in their closets.)

The weekend began with food and drink and ended the same way; when Angela and I spend time with Colby and Kim that is the order of the day, whether it be Spain or Dallas or Austin. I wagered $50 or so on the horses, failing to add to my holdings, and made a Derby style statement with my knickerbockers.

I am not at the Derby this year, but I am sure I will make another appearance in Louisville in May in another year. And today I will be spending time with Angela, and am certain we will find ourselves in a bar, watching the horses run. (And you read it here first: California Chrome will wear the roses.)

 

 

Plate of the Day: Rack of Lamb Amid the Boxes

It's from New Zealand, and it's good. (But if anyone can find me some good American lamb please get in touch.) (Photo by James Brock)

It’s from New Zealand, and it’s rare. (But if anyone can find me some good American lamb please get in touch.) (Photo by James Brock)

I have taken far too long to settle into my apartment in Houston. In fact, I am still not fully unpacked. Far from it. Most of my books are still in boxes, and though my bookcases are ready and willing to serve their purpose, I have been, shall we say, less than industrious in the area of fully moving in. But that is over. I have set myself a strict deadline. Soon I will be able to put on dinner parties, something I have missed hosting.

However, boxes of books and general clutter have not prevented me from cooking. This past week I was wanting lamb, so I went to a butcher shop/meat market and bought a rack. There was a jar of tapenade in the refrigerator – my parents had sent it to me as a gift  – and I used it, along with some bread crumbs and more capers, as a rub/crust for the rack. A bed of sautéed spinach and shallots finished the dish, which I enjoyed with a bottle of a red from Rioja.

Easy, elegant, delicious. As it was cooking I opened a box that just happened to contain cookbooks. One down, oh so many to go …

Eurocave Is Open …

 

After being in storage for more than a year, my "old school" Eurocave is up running (if only slightly stocked).

After being in storage for more than a year, my “old school” Eurocave is up and running (if only slightly stocked).

One day, in 2003 or so, I went to a dinner party on Roosevelt Island and the host and I were discussing wine when he paused and asked me to walk with him. We stopped in front of a closet, the door of which he opened. Within was a Eurocave, something I had wanted for a while but did not have the $3,000 (or more) that was required for its purchase. John told me that his wife and he were returning to England and that I could have his French beauty for $150. Well, the night immediately became more interesting. I right then and there shook his hand and agreed to take care of transporting it to my apartment.

Since then, the unit has moved with me to several apartments in Brooklyn, to Dubai, and now to Houston, where this past week I unpacked it from its snug cardboard cocoon – it was shipped from Dubai to Florida in 2012 – and plugged it in. Its solid compressor hummed into life, and the bottles I had on hand are resting at a comfortable temperature.

France, Argentina, and California, all in the cozy confines of a French cave.

France, Argentina, and California, all in the cozy confines of a French cave.

This Eurocave is old – just how old I am not certain. It does not have a tempered glass door or a digital temperature and humidity indicator. What it does have is quality components, and history. Personal history. I buy a lot of wine, and friends often give me wine as a gift. I can recall many, many bottles that spent most of their lives inside my cave, and, by extension, the people who gave them to me. From France, from Germany, California, Italy, Spain. Right now, as it begins it life in Houston, it is taking care of, among a few other selections, a 2010 Bond Pluribus, a Malbec, and a great wine from Chinon, all birthday gifts I received this past weekend from good friends, thoughtful people who share the love of wine with me. I look forward to sharing glasses with them soon.

Welcome to Houston, Eurocave. And thank you for your service to my wines.

 

Saturday’s Breakfast, and a Great One at That

A sign for the times. (Photo by James Brock)

A sign for the times. (Photos by James Brock)

One of the pleasures of moving to a new city is that everything is just that, new. That means new people and new restaurants, and I have encountered many of both since I’ve arrived. (It seems that at least five times a day I add another restaurant to the “must-visit” list I maintain in the Notes app on my iPhone, recommendations from nearly everyone I meet.) This past Saturday I met a new friend at a new (for me) restaurant for breakfast, a place he had told me about a few weeks earlier. We were going to Gerardo’s, and I was hungry.

It’s been open since 1977, and is a family affair, father and son, and that shows in the attention paid to the food and the customers. When I arrived at 609 Patton Street, the small space’s tables were almost completely full, couples and families enjoying barbacoa and carnitas. Chris was there when I walked in the door — I was thinking a beer would go well with the food, but while one can buy beer at Gerardo’s to take away, its license does not allow one to drink it on the premises, so I opted for a Topo Chico.

Some of the best Barbacoa – if not the best – in Houston.

Some of the best Barbacoa – if not the best – in Houston.

Sweetbreads and peppers.

Sweetbreads and peppers.

Chorizo with eggs – a great way to start the day.

Chorizo with eggs – a great way to start the day.

Jose Luis Lopez and his son Gerardo are the men behind this food, and the elder Mr. Lopez has been in the kitchen processing pounds and pounds of cow heads and pork and other meats for nearly four decades. Gerardo greeted us at the table and asked what we were hungry for; a few minutes later he brought over three or four small containers of hot goodness, including chorizo and eggs, babacoa and fried tripe. And foil-wrapped warm tortillas, of course.

“I remember coming here after school when I was 6 or so and taking a nap right there, behind the counter,” Gerardo told us, pointing to the floor. “I started helping out in the kitchen a few years later, and have been here ever since.”

Chris and I began with the chorizo, and the rest of the meal was a whirlwind of flavors and spices and textures and sighs. The barbacoa, which is famous and loved – rightfully so – was moist and rich and deep in flavor. Mr. Lopez told me that he goes through on average 160 cow heads a week, and the long process of cooking them results in this amazing dish.

They come from Dallas ...

They come from Dallas …

and become some great barbacoa.

and become some great barbacoa.

I love sweetbreads, and the ones at Gerardo’s are good, cut into small pieces and sautéed along with peppers and onions. The carnitas was a highlight, coming in, in my opinion, second only to the barbacoa, and if the carnitas had been my only dish that morning I would have been more than happy.

Family, tradition, attention to product: Gerardo’s has been around since 1977 for these reasons, and I am confident that if I return there 20 years from now a Lopez will be manning the kitchen and I will sit and eat like a king.

Jose Luiz Lopez, the man of the house.

Jose Luiz Lopez, the man of the house.

Standing behind his products.

Standing behind his products.

Provisions, I Hardly Knew Ye

A fine pizza, from December 2013, when Provisions was my favorite restaurant in Houston. (Photo by James Brock)

A fine pizza, from December 2013, when Provisions was my favorite restaurant in Houston. (Photo by James Brock)

I am sad today. You see, I once had a favorite restaurant in Houston, the restaurant to which I returned many times, so often that Angela refused, at some point, to ever go with me again. I, however, loved it. I have dined there perhaps 10 or 12 times, alone and with others. I have introduced a number of people to the place and its food. I have spent an evening at its “sister” restaurant, The Pass. Indeed, I have spent more time at Provisions than at any other restaurant in Houston. And all was good, at least for a few months.

Something has happened to Provisions, my go-to restaurant. I first noticed things were amiss about two months ago, when I ordered a pizza (Mushroom-Truffle Pizza/Black Trumpet Mushrooms, $18), which at the time was my favorite pizza in Houston. This pie, however, was soggy. I picked up the first slice and it was limp. It drooped down toward my plate, and when I bit into it the usually crisp crust was wet and sticky in my mouth. I asked a cook about it, and he told me they were having problems with the oven that night, something about maintaining proper temperature. Okay, I said, good to know, because I love that pizza.

The next week I was back, at the bar at the rear of the restaurant, a great little perch that seats two guests and affords a view of the kitchen and the dining room. I ordered the duck confit pizza. And again, limp crust, from the first piece. What was going on, I thought. The oven, which is very near my seat, looks impressive, and I know it can make great pies. But two in a row?

Until this past Thursday night, I had not been back to Provisions since the second poor pizza. I will estimate that a month or so had elapsed. I made plans to have dinner with a friend, and he recommended Provisions, then our party of two grew into a group of four, all good eaters whose palates I trust. Three of us arrived at about the same time, and while we awaited the fourth we shared a bottle of a very good South African red (AA Badenhorst, “Secateurs,” Coastal Region, 2010), a shiraz. And a good value at $36.

Roasted Shishito Peppers, most of which remained uneaten. (Photo by James Brock)

Roasted Shishito Peppers, most of which remained uneaten. (Photo by James Brock)

And here is where the sadness began to set in. We also shared some roasted shishito peppers. They are described thusly on the menu: Roasted Shishito Peppers/Cotija/Cilantro/Corn/Yuzukoshu. They cost $14. I love shishito peppers, had some really good ones at Caracol recently. But the peppers that night were barely roasted, and entirely devoid of salt, which we all agreed was needed. In fact, the best component of the dish was the onions. Where was the acid? Where was the delicious char?

Our fourth, Ms. S., arrived, and we ordered. I chose the sweetbreads (Crispy Veal Sweetbreads/Pickled Root Vegetables $18), because I eat sweetbreads as often as I find them. The other dishes? Lamb Merguez Pate en Croute/Yogurt/Cashew/Citrus $16; Broccoli Strozzapreti/Fennel Sausage/Tomato/Parmesan $13/22; and Uni Fettucini/Guanciale. All, in my opinion, mediocre at best. Seriously. Let me explain.

As I wrote, I love sweetbreads. But this dish, with one medium-sized sweetbread on it, was not good at all. The main problem: The sweetbread was overcooked. In fact, the exterior “crisp” of the breading obliterated any taste of the delicate organ. What I put in my mouth tasted as if it could have come from the fry basket at a fast-food joint. (The pickled vegetables were fine, and I enjoyed them. But the star of the plate was a waste of a sweetbread.)

It was a sin, to waste such a beautiful organ.

It was a sin, to waste such a beautiful organ. (Photo by James Brock)

As I was making the first cut into the sweetbread, across the table one of my dining companions, Ms. B., was putting the first bite of the uni pasta into her mouth. Then this came out of her mouth: “Where is the uni?” There was absolutely no taste of the uni in the dish. All one detected, and it was not a bad taste at all, was the guanciale. She asked the waiter about the dish, and was told that the uni was used to prepare the pasta. She later said, forlornly, “I tried to pay attention to the taste of the noodles themselves, and did not get any earthy, uni ‘funk'”. We left it at that. I did not have the heart to tell her about the uni pasta I had earlier in Dallas this year at Spoon Bar & Kitchen, but here are a few photos of it. It was a very good bowl, and John Tesar has a great thing going there. I am already planning a return visit.

image 2

Spoon Bar & Kitchen's uni with trofie (Photo by Surya Bhattacharya)

Spoon Bar & Kitchen’s uni with trofie (Photos by Surya Bhattacharya)

And the Broccoli Strozzapreti? It came to the table lukewarm at best, to begin. Ms. S. told the waiter that it was not warm enough, so he took it back. Meanwhile, Mr. R. was tucking into his Merguez en Croute, and he said he liked it, adding that perhaps it was a bit too salty. I tried a bite, and concurred. I also thought that it was a bit too dry.

At about that time we ordered another bottle of the Shiraz, and when the waiter brought it to the table he opened it and proceeded to pour from the bottle into my glass, which still contained an ample amount of wine from the previous bottle. We did not bother telling him that it might have been more proper for him to have brought a clean glass to the table so that we could taste the new bottle before he poured from it. Neither did we remind him that it would have been best to serve the women first.

We did not order dessert. The uni was not finished; the strozzapreti languished in the bowl.  Ms. S.’s comment? Bland and overcooked pasta. My sweetbread was gone, as Mr. R. had taken a bite of it, agreeing with my assessment.

So, what is going on at Provisions? I don’t really have an answer. I am well aware that things can from time to time become chaotic. Even the best restaurant can, on occasion, send out a dish that is not as it should be. But two limp pizzas – after five or six perfect ones – and then a table full of mediocrity a month later? I am at a loss. And I write this as someone who has extolled the virtues of the food at Provisions, someone who has dined at The Pass and found it quite good. I am sad about the goings-on (at least as far as my past several experiences are concerned) at the restaurant that once was my favorite in Houston. And I so want to be happy again.

Roost Has Hooked Me

This is one of the best things I have put in my mouth in a long time.

This is one of the best things I have put in my mouth in a long time.

There’s a Notes list on my iPhone that grows larger daily. It’s a list of restaurants in Houston I plan to visit. Last night I crossed one off of the roster, a restaurant about which I have heard a lot, good things. It’s called Roost.

I have been looking for a restaurant here with “personality,” which in my book means, loosely, “not slick and shiny, not a place that looks as if it belongs in a hotel lobby or was designed with ‘wow’ in mind.” Too often, I have found lately, more attention is devoted to wall hangings and shiny displays than it is to the food. Roost, however, has the type of personality I want. Small space, a bar at which two people can sit, lots of wood, simple tables and chairs, eclectic decoration on the walls. It’s in a house on a fairly quiet street in a residential area of Houston, and my dinner there was one of the most enjoyable evenings I’ve spent dining in this city thus far.

I arrived a little after 6 and waited for Angela at the bar, which overlooks a small room that has a pass-through to the kitchen. A Sixpoint (in a can, a tallboy) was my order, and I sat and drank and watched the activity as diners began walking in. Roost does not take reservations for parties of fewer than six, but outside the restaurant picnic benches provide perfect seats in which to wait for your table. The chef and owner, Kevin Naderi, was out out at those tables lighting the heat lamps.

Angela arrived, and we took our seat at a table along the back wall that gave us a perfect view of the dining room, which by that time was filling quickly, mostly parties of four, with a few couples mixed in. The menu at Roost has just been changed, and I was impressed: highlights to my eye were hanger steak, mussels in a red curry, an oyster stack, an off-menu special of redfish. And the “famous” cauliflower.

An oyster stack at Roost is a good thing.

An oyster stack at Roost is a good thing.

We ordered the cauliflower, the oyster stack, an order of the mussels, and the hanger steak, with a bottle of Hahn pinot noir. In short, every dish was very good, especially the fried cauliflower, with its sauce and pignoli and onions. (It is usually served with bonito flakes, but we asked from them on the side, though I later nestled them on top of each floret.)

Hanger steak done with class.

Hanger steak done with class.

The fried oysters were breaded perfectly, and the sautéed spinach under them was a great touch. The mussels were cooked well, full of flavor, which the curry (tomato-based) complemented ideally. Hanger steak medium rare with kimchi rice (a half order) and a runny egg came to the table with aplomb: nice temperature, fine flavor, though it could have used a bit of salt at the end.

You like crisp-on-the-outside doughnuts? How about coffee ice cream and pistachios? Then get this.

You like crisp-on-the-outside doughnuts? How about coffee ice cream and pistachios? Then get this.

Finally, the beignet-like round donuts and coffee ice cream finished our meal. (And a note about the service: Some of the best I have encountered in Houston. Not obsequious, informed, calm, and each plate came out with perfect timing. We were able to enjoy the meal in a relaxed manner. Someone has conducted great training at Roost.)

So Long, Can Fabes

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A new year brings with it an ending, or even endings. We look forward to the days and nights that stretch before us, but we also, if we are so predisposed, think about what we are leaving behind, be they people, places or things.

During this first week of 2014 I am doing my fair share of wondering about what lies ahead, making plans, writing down goals and intentions.

And I’m thinking of people and places that are no more, especially these three: Marcella Hazan, Charlie Trotter, and El Racó de Can Fabes. Each made an impression on my life, and made me a better cook.

I never met Ms. Hazan, but she did comment on several Facebook posts of mine, asking questions and giving her opinions in a straightforward and probing manner. I did meet Trotter, when he cooked at a dinner in Abu Dhabi that I attended. Two monumental individuals, Hazan and Trotter. They influenced more people than they would ever know, and made my life richer. Our world is poorer without them.

El Racó de Can Fabes, a fabled restaurant, closed its doors forever in 2013. One day in September 2012 I was in a rental car, having left Barcelona headed to France. It was nearing lunchtime and I spotted a road sign indicating an exit for Sant Celoni. Sant Celoni … The name meant something to me, but I could not place it. I slowed the car, my brain all the while attempting to make the connection. It did about two minutes later: Sant Celoni is the village that is home (was home) to Can Fabes. I exited the highway, then pulled over and keyed the words into my GPS. About 15 minutes later I was parked near the restaurant; it was around 12:30, and I walked to the entrance, hoping that they would seat me without a reservation. They did, and that afternoon has been with me constantly since. (See photo slideshow above.)

You might be aware that the building that housed Can Fabes belonged to the Santamaria family for more than 200 years. You might also know that it had operated as a restaurant for 32 years and earned its first Michelin star  in 1988, seven years after Santi Santimaria opened it as a casual bistro. It was awarded a third Michelin star in 1994. Then, as it sometimes will, life dealt a cruel hand. Santimaria died of a heart attack while at his restaurant in Singapore; he was 53.

Regina Santimaria, his daughter, took over, and made a valiant effort to keep Can Fabes open. Losing a man as original and vibrant as Santimaria, however, is, in my opinion, a fatal blow. The restaurant lost one of its Michelin stars, the global economy fell apart, and things were grim in Sant Celoni.

Today I leafed through an online catalogue for an auction of Can Fabe possessions that took place in December 2013. It included plates and glasses and cutlery and pots and pans. But what one could not bid on, the item that created the magic that was Can Fabes, was Santi Santimaria’s soul, and it was nowhere in that catalogue. It was, however, in the meal I had in Sant Celoni that day, and it will be in me forever.

A Fat Bao Evening, or, My Kind of Surf and Turf

Houston is delighting me. I have met, in my few months here thus far, some great people in the restaurant and food world, and I’ve been led by them into a diverse and exciting universe. The list in my Notes app that contains places I intend to visit is growing by the day – it now contains 67 restaurants and bars – and I look forward to discovering many more great dishes.

Speaking of which, earlier this week I walked through the doors of Fat Bao, a restaurant that more than a few people had told me I must try and which was at the top of my list. It was a cold night, and I was looking forward to the soft shell crab a colleague had raved about. She was right.

You have pork and soft shell crab. You need nothing else.

You have pork and soft shell crab. You need nothing else. I give you the Pork Katsu Bao, left, and the Crab Daddy Bao.

I waited for a few minutes in line to order my bao, and the staff was courteous and friendly, and efficient. Fat Bao stocks a great selection of beers, including Hitachino Nest, many bottles of which I enjoyed in Hong Kong and Tokyo earlier this year. The menu, written on a blackboard, is a broad one, but I was there for the soft shell crab and the pork, and that is what I chose.

I took a number and a seat, and waited for my food. A few minutes later it arrived. The buns were warm and soft, and the proteins were excellent … and accompanied by crisp cabbage and perfect, slightly spicy, sauces. Freshness, warmth, a little heat. Total satisfaction for 15 minutes.

I will return to Fat Bao, as soon as I reach the end of my list.

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