Welcome to Foodieville

I do not cook.

Yes, it’s true. I am a woman who doesn’t cook. Deal with it.

This is not the entire truth. I can make something in a pinch. I could probably do something half decent if the moment called for it. I have some minor cooking skills. I can make a perfect béchamel sauce (one of the “mother” sauces of French cooking) for example. And I can make pasta dough.

But take a right turn past boiling water, homemade mac and cheese and sautéing your basic chicken breasts and I’m likely then not to drive off a cliff.

The big problem is that I love to eat and I love to eat really good food. I’m a few forks short of being a true gourmand, but let’s just say I know a good meal when I taste one and I know the secret of great food – fresh ingredients that don’t come out of a can.

And I’m damn lucky to be married to a guy who can cook.

And let me just say that statement hardly does the man justice.

He is one of those people who make food so good that people who have dined on his meals talk about them well after they’ve eaten here. He already has a rep in our little Northern California town which is nothing to sniff at I tell you. Not here, not where we live -- in the center of Sonoma County wine country, in the middle of what could very fairly be said to be Foodieville USA. It is a mecca of sorts for people who love great food and fabulous wine and the perfect place to live for artisan farmers, cooks, mixologists, grape growers and wine makers and every other kind of fresh food-related foods and drinks. We are friends with a number of chefs and foodie folks who love, love, love eating my man’s food.

Living with a great cook has been an education in the building blocks of good meals, that is the aforementioned ingredients. He will scour the internet, TV, food mags and other sources for the best place to get great spices, grains, meats, fish and eggs. He’s one of those annoying people that not only reads labels in the supermarket but freshness dates too. (I had no idea how many things have “good until” dates on them and how often even reputable markets will leave them on the shelf well passed them.

I know where to get the best corn meal and a place where you can get like 30 different kinds of pepper and who makes the best salt cod and a dozen other insights into the world of food. All because of the man of the house. Who’s one mean cook.

It seems wrong not to share what I’ve learned and am still learning and so I decided it’s time to blog about it. And since this year, I’ve resolved to spend more time in the kitchen myself, I thought it would be fun to take you along for my education.

I will eventually be posting about this on a new, separate blog about food – that is preparing it, eating it, talking about meals and ingredients and even an occasional restaurant review. Until it’s up and running (by the end of January), however, I’ll, um, wet your appetite with a series of food-related posts over the next couple of weeks.

The first one is a pictorial look at making homemade boar sausage. These were not made at our place but at a friend’s house, but it’s typical of the organic whole idea of how folks up here in Foodieville eat. The boar that we used for the sausages was from two that were hunted and killed on my friend’s property (they have 300 acres west of Lake Sonoma).

Wild Boars are pigs, feral pigs, that are the product of domestic farm pigs who ranged into the countryside and mated with wild Russian boars. They roam fairly freely around these parts and their meat is prized for having tastier and leaner meat than farm-raised pigs -- without the harmones and nitrates and other crap they put into store-bought pork. They benefit from being out in the wild because they eat better. Your basic farmed pig is force fed a diet of crap designed to fatten them up. Nothing wrong with a little pork fat, no sir, but I'd like to have some fat with my meat not vice versa.

I wasn’t there at the time, but my friends are expert hunters and they hunt as humanely as possible. I do realize that it’s still not easy for some people to deal with the killing of a living thing. I don't like it but then again, I'm not a vegetarian and I think it's healthier to know where the meat on your table has come from.

Let's face it, those of you who are meat eaters, the reality is that somewhere along the line the pork, beef, chicken or lamb on your plate was once a living, breathing creature that had its life snuffed out so that you could have a cheeseburger. This is not a bad thing per se. Not if done responsibility and humanely. Not if the whole process is handled with respect. Not if we use our resources judiciously and give back to the land and the earth as it gives to us. Not if we understand the cycle of life and don't abuse the privilege of being high up on the food chain.

Now that we got that out of the way, let's talk sausage.

Making sausage may seem like some big mysterious thing but it's fairly basic cooking. Not that it's easy to make good sausage. That takes skill and ability and the best sausage makers I know rely on recipes passed down from generations of cooks. Artisonal sausages are more common than ever and each is unique to the sausage maker -- it's the special spices each use that set them apart, as much as the quality of meat they use.

Your basic sausage is ground meat, fat and spices which you feed into a sausage maker that forces the ground mixture into “sleeves,” which are made from animal intestines. Before you go “ewww gross,” be aware you’ve already eaten them if you’ve ever had a hot dog or breakfast sausage.

I documented the process last weekend as we joined our friends a their house to make a batch of wild boar, apple and caramelized onion sausage. Unfortunately, I only had my iPhone so the pictures are not the best quality.

The boar meat.

First thing, you cut up the meat and fat for grinding.

Grind the meat through a meat grinder. It's important to keep everything as cold as possible so that it grinds well.


The ground meat and fat is mixed together.

Clean the grinder and then in go the onions and apples. Both were made ahead of time and frozen. The apples were dried naturally first and the onions were caramelized, squeezed dry of liquid and stored in the freezer. Both the apples and onions were grown in our hosts' garden. They look like this before grinding:

And add some garlic and spices

Everything gets mixed together.


We made our own sausage patty so we could check the seasoning. You don't want to eat raw meat. Seasonings were pepper, salt and spices.


The sausage "skins" ... Please, no East River white fish jokes.


The sausage machine. The meat mixture goes in and is squeezed out into the skins, then tied down at both ends and twisted in the middle to make links.

The finished product, prior to cooking.

Cooking them up


The moment of truth. Our wild boar sausages served with fresh broccoli rabe and oven-roasted potatoes. Yum.

Eating My Heart Out, Part One

Tomorrow had to wait a day.

Took me a little while to recover from all that debauchery. And debauchery it is, folks. Well, in a good way. A writer I know calls it Food Porn. Well, the connotation isn't exactly correct but the building that houses The French Laundry, used to be a brothel (and later a laundry) and the experience, well it's definitely not for the faint of stomach.

Nor for the light of wallet.

Veterans we are of The French Laundry, it's been awhile since we've been and this visit we were in for a slight bit of sticker shock -- the prix fixe has more than doubled. But it's not like we're talking about a mere restaurant.

Calling this place a restaurant and the dining experience a meal is like calling Bob Dylan a humble busker.

No, my friends, this is an event, an extravaganza, the ultimate smorgasbord of delights - the Super Bowl of food, if you will. The Bountiful in Yountville – and the cost is in keeping with the specialness of it. Dinner for two is $580 minimum – and that's if you don't order wine. And if you don't order wine -- let's be real here -- you're one of three things: cheap, a teetotaler or an idiot. Take your pick but you shouldn't be allowed to wash the French Laundry's ... linens (ha, you thought I was going to say "laundry" - go on, admit it).

At any rate, paying for the vino and adding one or two of the menu's extra-cost items or "supplements" of the day, is going to add some serious Ben Franklins to the bill. And you will order a supplement, I am here to warn you. Because the truth is, resistance is futile, especially when presented with the choices we had Tuesday night. Did someone say shaved white truffles from Alba?

The wine is another trip of splendor. The French Laundry's wine list is one of the most thrilling you'll read anywhere this side of the Atlantic. It is worth noting the thoughtfulness of the restaurant in offering a wonderful variety of half-bottles, several which are bottled exclusively that way for the restaurant. A beautiful thing because it gives you an opportunity to sample more than if you had to buy it by the full bottle.

Point is, you will not get out of The French Laundry spending less than, say, $700 and it's even odds you'll hit the big one zero zero zero. Yeah, it's a grip and a half for the privilege of dining on Chef Thomas Keller's art on the plate, but hell, as my pal, Undercover Black Man reports this week, you could be paying $300 to see Prince in Vegas - and for that all ya' get is a bottle of chilled French bubbly.

Shit, if money's that important to you, then don't even bother reading any further. Cause that means you're one of those people who won't get it no matter how many adjectives I use (and I'm stocking up on those bad boys right now so hide the children). And that's totally cool with me. There's plenty of places for you to eat.

But if fine food is your religion, and we're not talking burgers and fries folks, then one day in your life you must make the pilgrimage to this little Place of Gastric Wonders hidden in Napa Valley's quaintly quaint village of Yountville, population 2,916.

The size of the bill, it turns out, isn't what this place is all about. To paraphrase, it's the food, stupid.

The French Laundry offers the ultimate "chef's tasting" menu – a nine-course, three-hour food-fest of perfectly prepared, exquisitely presented, brilliantly realized plates of goodness where every single bite is a little bit of Heaven on Earth.

Nothing is left to chance by an army of waiters who attend to your every need, from the moment you are seated in the old-school elegance in front of a starched white table cloths and napkin, pinched in the familiar wooden old-fashioned clothes pin (see photo above). Nothing is left to chance. Everything is practiced and perfect.

The room is simple -- the empty walls painted a subdued yellow, the comfortable dark-wood-stained chairs, the tiny-shaded lamps (with simple little symbols that represent laundry cycles on them) bathe the room in an almost womb-like low-light ambiance. It all serves one purpose: to be a backdrop for the food. Which answers the question why there's nothing on the walls, not even art. The art, it turns out, is on the plate. You can see beautiful examples of this in Keller's "The French Laundry Cookbook."

But it also gives each guest the impression that you alone are dining at the feet of the master. In fact, it's one of the few places I've eaten where, while you can pick up conversations from other tables (a hobby of mine – hell, I'm a writer), you can actually hear your dinner companions loud and clear without having to shout over the din.

The restaurant is nestled, literally, in a neighborhood of comfortable, lived-in houses crammed into curb-less, tree-lined streets. A wood and stone building that was built at the turn of the last century, Keller recently remodeled the grounds, expanding on the outside garden and hardscape. If you come early, you can walk the short distance from the tiny gravel parking lot past the kitchen and sit outside on a pretty bench surrounded by flowers and plants and perfectly coiffed green grass -- and smell the earthy goodness of wine country. Close your eyes and you could imagine you're in a French villa.

But that's not why you're here and you'll soon discover that the real sights are behind you, through the windows that give a bird's eye view inside Thomas Keller's kitchen (if you're lucky you can even see the Master himself at work there) and get a first-hand glimpse of only a small part of the intricate ballet that is required to bring you your dinner.

And what a ballet it is. A seamless, soundless dance of perfection. Service is dead but not at The French Laundry and that is a large part of its appeal, supporting the argument by many a patron that you really do get what you pay for. Watch them work at their stations, every task performed perfectly. Take in the food and the presentation and the military precision of it all and you'll not be surprised to learn he is the son of a Marine.

And what do you get exactly?

For starters, you are warmly welcomed to your seat (for all its haute appeal, this place is decidedly bereft of snobbery and stuffiness) by the waiter who is more of a Meal Director, as he orchestrates each course, adding details, answering questions and ensuring your glasses are always full, your every whim satisfied. Our (tall and good-looking) main man was named Dennis and his first words to us -- "Good evening and welcome back to The French Laundry" -- completely floored us as we didn't say anything to anyone about this being a return visit. And the last time we'd been there was something like four or five years ago. "How did you know?" we asked him to which he replied "A good guess." ( He didn't wink but he might have and that would have been all right with me.)

The pleasantries attended to, you are offered a complementary bottled water (still or sparkling), and gentle nudged toward a glass of champagne, which it being our first anniversary celebration, we accepted happily. The reason for the bubbly is it's a perfect complement to the first two offerings – the amuse bouche which is a Thomas Keller classic – Atlantic Salmon Tartar seated on top of black sesame cornets filled with Creme Fraiche -- they look like ice cream cones. This dish is the right sort of introduction to Keller's idea of good food -- he's at once an artist, a cook, a technician and a conductor. A rare chef who combines vision with execution -- and a delicious dollop of whimsy to round out the whole package.

The amuse bouche is followed by the signature French Laundry dish and probably the one I take with me to the desert island: "Oysters and Pearls". You cannot imagine how good this dish is – a heart-stopping mix of Sabayon and tapioca, the salty seawater taste of oyster and the caviar finish – music for your mouth. Your first thought as you painfully refrain from licking the special oyster-shell spoon is "it's all down hill from here."

How wrong you'd be.

The next plate arrives and you start to wonder if this how the Beautiful People get treated every day of their lives. A creamy, cheesy plate of risotto is brought to you by one waiter who is followed closely by yet another waiter, this one carrying a Wooden Box on a platter. What is in that Wooden Box, you ask?

Ahhh, what's in the Wooden Box will change your life.

What's in the Wooden Box is the most enormous and perfect white truffles you have ever seen in your whole life (like this, only more white and more beautiful). They are so big, so amazing, so trufflerific that you feel completely unworthy in their very presence. Let me tell you that unworthiness in the face of a fungus is a serious, serious blow to a person's ego.

I cannot describe the scent of these truffles except to call on the experience of you potheads out there. I know it's been awhile, but remember those college days when you tried to hide that ginormous bud from your college roommate only to have everyone in the entire dorm smell it when they passed your door.

This is what happens when the Wooden Box is opened and the whole freaking place catches the scent. And they all want to be you.

You're already in nirvana even before Dennis shaves them onto your plate – and he is not cheap with the shavings I'm here to report. Your plate is filled with a nice, healthy helping of slivers. When Dennis dribbles the whole pile with a few drops of melted butter, it's all you can do not to faint dead right there face first into your plate.

Can I just say that "Holy fucking shit" just does not do this experience justice.

And to think there's seven courses left to go . . .


. . .to be contined. . .