Indigo Days

Live Crabs

I suggested live crabs from Cook’s. 

 “I can get dead ones from Costco cheaper…” was the return email from childhood friend, Marcus.  Oh, and he added that he didn’t have a pot, but could buy one.  We weren’t coming all the way from Japan just to eat dead crabs, so I told him to buy the pot and I’d buy the crab.  I’d say he got off well.

Crab is one of those foods I crave when going to California.  Dungeness crab and Tomales Bay oysters, actually.  Japanese fish is hands down fresher and tastier than American fish (sorry guys, it’s a no-brainer).  It all starts with the fisherman.  Japanese fishermen treat fish knowing it will most likely be eaten raw.  They cut behind the gills to bleed sashimi fish and ice it while still on the sea, while American fishermen wait until they dock.  But for some reason, the Hokkaido crab is sold frozen (thus watery) and the live kegani (hairy crab) that occasionally surface in the market are packed in sawdust, thus tasteless (and expensive).  Needless to say, we don’t buy either.  I’ve never cared for the oysters here, but perhaps have never had the right ones.  In truth, the oysters are usually sold for cooking (not eating raw), so have a slightly unpleasant acrid taste.  Not really my thing, though Christopher and Tadaaki seem to like them.

Last year when I took the little SSU! kids to California, I bought some live crabs and boiled them up at my brother’s house (where Christopher was staying).  We invited three of Christopher’s high school pals.  None of them had ever seen a live crab.  None.  They picked a bit at the crabmeat and pushed it around the plate, but ate a lot of Acme baguette.  In contrast, the SSU! kids couldn’t get enough, and when this year’s trip was set, Kyo immediately piped up, “I want crab!” 

So crab it was, and the venue:  Marcus’ house.  Marcus always generously offers his kitchen for my use (not without plenty of kibitzing) and graciously hosts the whole gaggle of us every year.  He tends to stick the kids in the back room to watch videos, but there’s no complaining.  Adults are a boring lot, anyway.

What’s the big fuss about getting live crabs, when Cook’s will happily boil them to order and perform the messy cleaning and cracking operation (imagine bits of shell and crab juice flying around)?  First, let’s go back to the boiling and cleaning.  What all is involved here?  You must grasp the crabs firmly and confidently (gingerly doesn’t cut it), while keeping your hand out of claw’s way and then heartlessly throw the wriggling guy into a pot of boiling salt water.  Quickly grab another and another, until they’re all in the pot.  Slam on the top and wait for the water to come back to a boil.  Cook’s recommends another 13 minutes after that, but you must factor in the water to crab ratio and adjust.  If your crabs are crowded in the pot, it will take longer to reach a boil, so I cut the boiling time down.  It’s all about common sense.

Dump the pot of boiling water and crabs into your kitchen sink.  Cool with cold water.  Snag a crab and pull of his back, then scrape out the gills.  But don’t stop there.  Pull out a spoon from a nearby drawer and spoon up the rusty orange creamy substance adhering to the shell.  It will be pleasantly salty from the water, wildly pungent and incredibly delicious.  (Did you know that “delicious” is on the food writers’ no-no list?  How can we just “x” out a word from our vocabulary?  Good thing I’m not a “food writer.”)  So what is this orangey stuff?  Crab guts.  Try them.  Please.  If you’re feeling timid, you could splash in a bit of nice Japanese sake to help wash it down.  Yum. (oops another no-no word)

  
We boil the crabs ourselves for those warmly glorious guts, though I like the Japanese word better.  Miso.  So much more respectful and reflective of the texture and taste itself.  And though we can get wood fire-grilled crab these days at Camino—pretty unforgettable, by the way—we’ll still be looking around for a kitchen to boil the crabs from Cook’s, because it’s the crab miso that haunts us.

I remember not liking sea urchin when I first started eating sushi.  No more.  Natto?  Forget it, those drippy, icky beans smelled and looked disgusting.  Now I love it.  But what captivates me most about Japanese food is the range of tastes:  from elegantly subtle to out-of-control-funky-fermented (takuan, natto and yes, crab miso come to mind).  And in many ways, I see this elegant/funky combination reflected in the Japanese people and culture.  And I guess that’s what attracts me to this country.  The contrasts.

 
 Cod Cakes

When my father was alive, we stayed at his house, and his wife (an inspired cook) would always make the hour drive to Cook’s to pick up live crabs for dinner.  And she’d get extra for her signature crab cakes the next day.  I’m a creature of habit who tends to fall back on Chez Panisse recipes.  And I don’t have crab in Japan, so make cod cakes.  But, you probably have crabs.  The basic method from Chez Panisse Cooking for Crab Cakes:  Dice 8 oz. fresh cod and toss with 1 lb. fresh crab meat (picked from 2 Dungeness crabs).  Fold in homemade mayonnaise made from 1 egg yolk & 90 cc top quality mild oil (rapeseed, canola, peanut…).  I never make mayonnaise without a squeeze of lemon juice & a dab of Dijon mustard to help it set, so while Paul Bertolli doesn’t include that in the recipe, I do.  Lightly mix in ½ cup thinly sliced green onion (both white & green part), zest of ½ a lemon (or so), ½ tsp. salt, ¼ tsp. cayenne and 1 tbsp. fresh lemon juice (adjust amount if you added it to the mayonnaise).  Make 12 patties (about 2 oz each), roll in fresh bread crumbs, then fry in clarified butter over medium-high heat.

 

Soba at Chez

Chez Panisse may not be a French restaurant, but it certainly isn’t Japanese.  So what was all that soba and sashimi doing on the plates a few weeks ago?  And on a Sunday?  On February 21, Chez Panisse opened their doors for a Soba dinner staged by Kanji Nakatani of Soba Ro (and Soba Ra).  Chez cooks collaborated on this memorable night, and everyone spoke the same language:  the language of food.

How did Kanji Nakatani (aka Kanchan) end up cooking in that warmly lit Craftsman house on Shattuck?

 Well that’s a long story that starts with a letter I wrote to Alice Waters 10 years ago, being invited to “cook” in the kitchen by Alice’s long-time assistant Cristina Salas-Porras and a friendship with assistant Sylvan Mishima Brackett that resulted in him cooking in Kanchan’s kitchen in Japan.  And I guess it’s also a story about how relationships are formed through the commonality of food.  What Chez Panisse cooks share with Kanchan is that astutely fine sense of each component that goes into making seemingly simple, but actually complex food.  There is a cleanness to the food at Chez Panisse that jumps out from Kanchan’s food as well.  As Kanchan puts it, the food is “ii ni yasashi.” Easy on the stomach.

Two years ago, when Kanchan and Chez Panisse teamed up for the first Soba dinner, I asked Alice what attracted her about Japan.  Her response:  “I have probably always been drawn to Japan.  I’ve always felt like I was thinking about things in the same way:  thinking about things seasonally, thinking about the sort of ‘liveness,’ thinking about its origin.”

Years ago, I told Kanchan about Alice Waters and Chez Panisse because I recognized in him that same unquenchable passion for the most mind-blowingly great ingredient and the same total focus on creating food that will make people stop and say “wow, this is the best thing I have ever tasted.”

So why did 10 cooks spend their day off pulling a 12-hour shift?  Why did busy Japanese caterer, Sylvan, volunteer to spend his week as liaison between Kanchan and Chez?  And why did Kanchan close one of his restaurants for a week, flying himself and assistant, Kai, half way across the world to cook only one night at Chez Panisse?  Why did I volunteer my own two boys to be translators for the week?  Why did we do it?  Because we all believe in the incredible energy surge that happens when two disparate, but like forces, come together.  Experiencing that feeling is rare and exactly what takes food to the next level. 

All cooking is constantly evolving and constantly absorbing influences from outside sources.  A new way of looking at a food (like fish guts) or a new way of treating greens (salt massaged) can open up a previously unseen window into one’s own food.  Kanchan was just as excited to work with the Chez Panisse cooks, as they were to work with him.  And I was just happy to be along for the ride, poking my finger in where ever I could. 

It’s well known that Japanese tend to be fairly indirect communicators (unlike us crass Americans).  But after Kanchan casually asked Christopher several times about my next trip to California, while evoking Chez Panisse in the same breath, Christopher suggested to me that Kanchan might be interested in doing another dinner at Chez Panisse.  I put the word out through my Chez Panisse grapevine, and Alice (a lover of all things Japan) gave the go ahead almost immediately.

Kanchan’s first response to menu discussions:  “It depends on ‘the farm.’”  In Japan, Kanchan has some of the best seafood in the world at his fingertips, so it was the unusual greens and pungent herbs that were calling his name.  Two years ago we took him up to Bob Cannard’s farm in Sonoma.  Bob is a biodynamic farmer who spouts mesmerizingly powerful rhetoric on the earth he nurtures and the vegetables he grows.  Kanchan shares that power, though his platform is from the kitchen, not the land.  Bob was elsewhere when we arrived at the farm early one morning, but Oliver Monday was waiting to shepherd us around.  Kanchan and Kai immediately set off stalking the fields, pinching off tops of flowering greens:  inhaling their essence in the cool morning air, chewing on the stalks as they tromped through the dewy hodge-podge of verdant plants that characterize Bob’s farm.  Oliver steered the chef and his cook here and there, offering suggestions.  We all tasted and weighed in, but Kanchan was on a mission.  General Manager, Jennifer Sherman, madly scribbled as Kanchan made his preliminary selections, and Oliver promised to make up some sample boxes to test in the kitchen.  Back in Berkeley, we took a quick cruise through the Thursday afternoon farmers’ market, usually so enticing, but Kanchan could not be wooed.  He had what he was looking for:  greens from Bob. 

On Saturday morning Sylvan, Kanchan, Kai and Christopher headed off to Monterey Fish at 5:30 AM.  Andrew and I (wisely) stayed in bed.  I was feeling a bit wiped out from the trip.  We met up later that morning at Sylvan’s cooking studio, after a run to Pizzaiolo for cappuccino (me) and Bakesale Betty for lunch (the group).  Kanchan and Kai experienced a bit of culture shock when I unwrapped Betty’s signature fried chicken and coleslaw sandwiches.  Needless to say, we split three among six of us.  (They’re BIG.)  As Kanchan was curing the fish for sashimi, one with kelp another with vinegar and Meyer lemon, he regaled us with the tale of grabbing fish guts out of the trash.  Well, not exactly, but he did rescue fish liver, fish eggs and fish collars (kama) from the pile of fish parts to be jettisoned.  But don’t worry, he cooked those up for the staff meal (too bad you didn’t get to try them…damn good).  He simmered the eggs and liver in soy sauce flavored dashi (bonito and kelp stock).  I spooned up a bit to see if it passed muster and had to take another spoonful, just to make sure.  What a waste, throwing such delicacies away.  Kanchan broiled the kama for the staff on the night of the dinner.  Christopher grudgingly offered me a piece, and full though I was, I savored the boldly fatty flesh.  Kama is one of my favorite cuts.  Crazy that it was in the “trash.”

Two years ago, I was writing an article about Chez Panisse and the Soba Dinner for Slow Food Japan, so didn’t book a table.  This time I did not make the same mistake.  Standing up eating with the cooks in between seatings was loads of fun last time, but ultimately not completely satisfying.  I wanted the whole experience, and two years ago had really regretted not asking head chef, Jean-Pierre Moullé, for a set-up in the kitchen (hard to believe, but I didn’t want to put myself forward).  Though he did bring me a plate of shrub-grazed beef and a draft beer.  Our table this year was eclectic, yet still clicked.  We came together a motley crew:  blogging friends, (Elise and Garrett), writing friends (Karin, Rita and Susan) and the catalyst (not me) was Sharon Jones, my dear friend from Japan and Chez Panisse, mother to budding farmer Oliver Monday and gifted salumi-making downstairs cook, Nico.  Andrew, having worked in the trenches as Kai’s assistant first seating, was holding down the end of the table, just barely.  I threatened to kick him if he didn’t perk up, but Susan wouldn’t let me. 

(video of Kanchan rolling soba)

  
Did the dinner live up to expectation?  Yes, and then some.  It was the best Japanese dinner I have ever had at Chez Panisse.  Hah.  OK, it was one of the most well-balanced and thoughtfully delicious dinners I have ever had the privilege of eating.  And yes, it was a privilege.  Thank you Chez Panisse and thank you Kanchan.  Your collaboration was magical.

Zensai  Dungeness crab tofu, sesame tofu, flowering bok choy tops in aspic, pickled plum, and steamed local sea urchin with soy sauce and chervil

Sashimi  Seared Santa Barbara swordfish, konbu-cured local halibut, Meyer lemon-cured black cod and steamed monkfish liver, with fresh wasabi, slivered daikon, green garlic & pepper cress

Shioyaki to Agemono  Arugula tops and and mustard flower tempura with sea salt, Salt grilled California sea bass with salt-massaged radicchio tardivo, sorrel and chervil  

Kamojiru Soba  Soba noodles and broth with duck, chanterelles, spring onions, turnip, and celery root

Kanmi  Page Mandarin sherbet with soba and matcha gelée and sweetened smashed red beans 

"The Crew" 

Chez Panisse

Chez Panisse (and Alice Waters) is a household word all over America.  But some people still think it’s a French restaurant.  And some people call it “Chez Panee.”  Me, I call it home.

I slid into the banquette at the top of the stairs in the Café on Valentine’s Day, looked over at dining companion Susan Griffin and sighed that deep sigh of total contentment.  (It had been an intense weekend.)  I turned to Susan and exhaled, “Ahhh, I feel like I’m home.”  Susan lives up the hill from “Chez,” so had no trouble agreeing, while also adding, “I’d eat here every day if I could.”  (So would I.)  My boys settled into the end of the table as we waited for the others to join us.  (Note:  if you want to get a table at Chez Panisse Café on Valentine’s Day, book for a crowd.)

We got back to Japan after a three-week stay in California with a collection of 20 or so odd menus from Chez Panisse.  We may not have eaten there every day, but almost.

 

So what, are we independently wealthy?  No.  In fact, my little school is limping along these days as I pursue impractical (but oh so much fun) writing projects.   In Japan, we don't eat out often since we grow a lot of our food.  Also we can’t bring our farm with us when we travel, so we all start to miss food from home.  But Chez Panisse serves food from the farm and the Chez Panisse cooks take those vegetables to another stratosphere.  I’m no slouch in the kitchen, but there is no comparison here.

I love the Café for its bustle and heat and friendliness.  But I’ve got to say the downstairs is where I can really sink into the moment.  I don’t want to choose.  I have to do that every day in my life.  I love that someone else has planned the meal, I love that you can ask for a little more if you don’t have enough (did you know that?), I love that there are preselected wines by the glass should one desire (I do).  And I love the pace and gentle rhythm of the meal. 

 

The kitchen welcomes guests to wander through and the cooks generously explain method.  They’re genuinely engaged in the process and acutely attuned to creating pleasure.  The cooks respect the super fresh, bright tasting vegetables, local fish or small producer meats that they use.  It’s obvious they love what they do.  But that is true of everyone who works at Chez Panisse.  I always feel so welcomed and warm when I step foot in either dining room.  It’s never enough that the food is “good” in a restaurant.  I need the foodstuffs to be stellar, and the feeling to be friendly.  For me, it has always been about the whole experience.  Back in “the day” when friend Cecily and I were swimming in cocktail waitressing tips, we sampled some of the best restaurants in San Francisco.  The one that stood out for food and democratic service?  La Bourgogne.  A classic, and a class act.  But now, life is too short to waste on trying each new trendy spot that hits the scene.  I’m also not much interested in architectural or manipulated foods.  I want to eat something that looks (and tastes) like food, and isn’t built up or foamed.

We take a school trip to California every February.  Guess where we eat the first two nights?  Chez Panisse.  “Why do you take little kids to Chez Panisse?” I’m often asked.  “Why not?  They love it,” I shoot back.  And that’s true.  Not only do they love it, they talk about it when they go back home to Japan.  Evoke the name California and one of the kids will invariably shout out, “I wanna go to Chez Panisse!”  They appreciate the food because it reminds them of the food I cook for my school from our farm.  And they taste that same crucial ingredient: love. 

 

This last trip, I was feeling my 53 years and wondering if it would be the last.  I decided to eat lunch at Chez Panisse on the day we arrived.  Because I wanted to.  Also we had some organic tofu and soy sauce to drop off for the cooks.  After a short nap we were back in force for dinner.  Matthew stayed home in Japan, so it was Christopher, Andrew and me, plus four SSU! kids.  Dear friend, Sharon Jones, bravely joined us for dinner.  The trick to traveling with kids is to keep them occupied (with crayons), fed (a quick pizza to start), spill free (keep the glasses out of reach), cry free (stay on top of the refereeing) and don’t brook any nonsense (no fussing, no arguing, no walking around).  My own kids are a joy to eat out with, but it took several years of “no fun dining.”  Especially since I travelled alone with them (farmer husband stayed home).  Once kids reach seven or so, they’re delightful dining companions and ready for Chez Panisse downstairs (if you’ll let them).

And you’ve got to love a restaurant that not only loves kids, but celebrates them.  At lunch one day, I enthused to Martin Johnson, the floor manager, about the special treatment we got from the kitchen our first night.  Our waiter Adan had requested Café cook Amelia to split the kids’ plates so I wouldn’t have to deal with that, on top of everything else.  This was a first.  Eyeball is huge, so how the food is arranged on the plate is a big deal at Chez Panisse.  And splitting plates is not really done.  When I told Martin that was the best meal I had ever had at Chez with the little kids, he laughed and said that he had instructed the staff to help me out by keeping an eye on the kids.  What kind of restaurant does that?  Chez Panisse.  

They’re family now.

Pissaladière

Recently, we’ve discovered a source for organic slab bacon and I had a few pieces in the freezer, so made an often requested, but seldom executed, dish:  quiche lorraine.  I don’t know why the boys can’t understand we never have bacon.  Some farmer friends from Britain were coming over for lunch that weekend, so I thought Pissaladière would be a nice way to use up the leftover piecrust dough.  The dough I used was a pâte de ménagère I learned from Danie Dubois in the Dordogne.  I’d guess it is similar to the galette dough in the Chez Panisse Vegetable book (see below).  For 4 large tarts:  put 500 grams bread flour in a large bowl.  Grasp a 250-gram piece of butter lightly, and cut thin slices off the smallest end with a sharp vegetable peeler to create 2.5 x 5 cm (1” x 2”) sheets.  Dust butter piece with flour if handling becomes difficult (i.e. slippery).  Distribute a little flour in between the butter slices as you go.  Toss in 2 tsp. salt and 2 tbsp. canola oil with a rubber scrapper.  Add 200 cc. cold water.  Mix lightly, then press together into a large, thick cylinder shape.  You will be cutting the dough into 4 rounds so the shape is important.  Wrap in foil and refrigerate 30 minutes.  Cut into 4 pieces, wrap each piece in foil, put in Ziploc and freeze any pieces you don’t use.  Roll out a very thin round, lay on tart pan, fold down a rough border from the extra pie crust dough, prick with fork and cook at 180˚C (350˚F) for 20 minutes or until nicely crisp and golden.

Pissaladière (Chez Panisse Vegetables):  This is a very simple tart that needs excellent olive oil, fresh herbs, farm onions & garlic, top quality niçoise olives and preferably home-salted anchovies (cheap & very easy to cure).  Peel 3 large yellow onions and 3 cloves garlic, then slice thin.  Film olive oil (3-4 tbsp.) in bottom of heavy pan (Le Creuset works well).  Heat over medium flame and add sliced onions & garlic, a few bay leaves, a small handful of thyme sprigs and a bit of salt. Cover and stew for about 1 hour, stirring frequently, until the onions are soft and about 1/3 of their original volume.  They should be a rich golden color, but not brown.  Rinse and filet 5 or 6 salt-packed anchovies.  Strain cooked onions when done, reserve liquid.  Pick out and discard bay leaves and any thyme twigs.  Preheat oven to 180˚C (350˚F).  Spread onions on baked tart shell, lay the anchovy filets around the tart, as if spokes in a wheel.  Sprinkle with niçoise olives and bake for 10 minutes.  Drizzle tart with a little of the onion liquid and serve.