The video will be up on my blog soon; my friends at Johlt tell me I should have it in my hot little hands in a couple of weeks.  We’ll be pitching it to the networks and hoping to get it on the air in 2011, but of course you’ll be the first to hear. And, by the way, “Restaurant Meals at Home” is purely a working title. We need something more creative. Any ideas?

So on Saturday I thought it was Sunday, but it wasn’t!  That’s just the best feeling in the whole wide world, to realize that your weekend is just beginning when you thought it was half over.  I started the day with a run (in the rain, sigh…) and then brunch with some friends. In the afternoon I had the honor of sitting down for a good couple of hours with a literary agent who I was connected to by my new friend, the King of Cookbook Writing, Rick Rodgers.  I kicked around some ideas for cookbooks and she very graciously doled out career advice, personal stories, and a lot of laughter.  Most notably, she encouraged me to think about starting a podcast, so of course I was up all night thinking about all the directions in which I could go with that.  As if blogging, launching a television career, and holding down a day job were not enough.  (They’re not.)

And then it was Sunday, which was pretty low-key.  I made applesauce from scratch, for no reason other than to make my apartment smell like warm apples and cinnamon.  (Plus I had apples left over from Heidi and Jason’s wedding weekend.)  And… my apartment did smell like apples and cinnamon.  It still does, as a matter of fact.  The smell reminds me of home and the holidays and food and laughter.  It’s about the happiest smell I know.

When the rain gave a reprieve, I rolled up my sleeves for a little more work in the garden.  Things are still blooming despite the shift in weather, like this electric-magenta geranium that sits in a blue ceramic pot near my front door.  After raking and digging around in the dirt for a few hours, I cleaned myself up and hopped into the car for dinner at the home of my close friends Anurag and Pooja.  They prepared an amazing feast of Indian food: spinach with paneer (that’s fresh Indian cheese), spiced cauliflower, grilled fish, malai kofta (think meatless meatballs in a creamy, spicy tomato-based sauce), and biryani (that’s rice.)  The food was fabulous and the company was even better.  Their daughter, Pari, is 18 months old now and is running around like she’s got somewhere she needs to be.  It’s hilarious.

Oh – I’ll be posting the recipe for Gary Danko’s chocolate soufflé on Wednesday, just in case you’re still scratching your head about what to serve for dessert on Thanksgiving.  I mean, you have to serve pumpkin pie.  But if you want something else… something a little more sophisticated with a chocolaty richness that will knock your socks off, those soufflés are a sure bet.

(And, for the record, I don’t know for sure that the recipe I’ll be posting is “the” recipe from Gary Danko.  I tried to find someone on the inside who I could bribe for the real thing, but didn’t get very far.  All I can say for sure is that it’s a damn fine recipe.)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=aaopKzmapsg

But, never fear!  I’ve written the recipe out in complete detail for you here. I hope you’ll try it. It turned out pretty darn well, if I do say so myself.

Coconut Curry Tofu Over Rice Vermicelli

2 tablespoons peanut oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
1-inch piece of ginger, sliced into thin medallions
1 can light coconut milk
2 scallions, thinly sliced (white and light green parts only)
1 yellow onion, peeled, halved, and sliced 1/4-inch thick
4 4-inch pieces of lemon grass (white part only)
4 fresh water chestnuts, peeled and sliced into 1/4-inch thick rounds (or 1 can sliced water chestnuts, drained)
1 tablespoon curry powder
1 teaspoon hot chili oil (more or less, depending on your preference for heat)
1 teaspoon salt
10 ounces firm tofu, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
10 ounces dried rice vermicelli

Heat the oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add the minced garlic and sliced ginger. Cook until fragrant, about 3 minutes.

Add the can of coconut milk and bring to a simmer. Add the scallions, onion slices, lemongrass pieces, water chestnuts, curry powder, salt and hot chili oil. Simmer for ten minutes. Stir in the tofu and cook for another 3-5 minutes. Add more salt to taste, if necessary.

Meanwhile, cook the dried rice vermicelli according to package instructions.

Drain the rice vermicelli and transfer to a shallow dish. Spoon the tofu-curry mixture over the vermicelli and garnish with additional chopped scallions. Serve immediately.



Well I’ve finally gotten my head out of the show-biz clouds and I’m back to the ol’ bump and grind.  My TV pilot is in editing now and there’s nothing for me to do except sit and wait.  It’s killing me to be idle, but I know the editing team is working their magic on the more than 24 hours of film we shot for a 23 minute episode.  Isn’t that crazy?!  That’s a helluva lot of footage. I know it’s going to be great.

So I’m back at work (oh yeah, still have that day job) and making time for all the fun things I enjoy: hitting the farmers markets a few days a week, taking care of my vegetable garden, and doing some road biking in the early mornings.  I suffered a running injury over Fourth of July weekend, so I made the plunge on a spiffy new Specialized.  I love the wind on my face and being able to cover such great distances in a short amount of time.  I’m seeing more of my neighborhood (the whole city, actually) than I could ever see before on foot.

And I’m spending more time with friends than ever.  With school behind me and the pilot wrapped up, I’m loving leisurely dinners at some of my favorite spots in the Bay Area.  I had a fabulous dinner with two of my closest girlfriends earlier this week at Farina in the Mission.  It was a farewell meal for my friend Richa, who is off to trek in Nepal for a month.  She is a brave, adventurous girl with a big heart and a strong spirit; We were missing her before the meal even ended.  We had tender house-made pasta and a bottle of spectacular red wine, Occhipinti SP68, which is bottled by the beautiful 28-year-old Sicilian winemaker, Ariana Occhipinti.  (Here’s her website, if you happen to read Italian.) The woman herself will be at Farina next Tuesday for a special wine dinner in Celebration of SF Natural Wine Week and I’ve already made a reservation.  Come join if you’re in the Bay Area!

And of course I’m cooking and baking a lot.  I’ve been having squash with almost every meal because I seem to have planted the world’s most prolific squash plant this year.  (And squash is a pretty prolific crop to begin with, as you may know already if you’ve ever grown one.)  And I’m baking a lot, mostly cobblers and pies because I buy too much fruit at the farmer’s markets and I hate throwing it away.

Which leads me to the Best Fruit Cobbler Ever recipe and the story of Berk.  Berk is a colleague of mine, a Turkish-born software engineer who knows his sweets — he always brings delicious little candies and desserts back from Turkey when he goes home to visit his parents.  And when his mother comes to visit him here, she bakes decadent homemade goods that Berk brings in to share with all of us.  But Berk is also a man of few words.  And that is why, after I brought this cobbler into the office a few weeks ago, it seemed notable that Berk stopped me in the hallway to tell me it was the best fruit cobbler he had ever had.

The BEST.  Ever.

Those were his words.

Try it for yourself and let me know if you agree.

Filling

8 cups pitted and sliced stone fruit*
1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
grated zest and juice of one lemon

Crust
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup plus 3 tablespoons sugar, divided
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup buttermilk, room temperature

To prepare the filling, combine the sugar, flour, and lemon zest in a small bowl.  Whisk to combine.  Place the sliced fruit into a large bowl and toss with the lemon juice.  Sift the flour mixture over the fruit and stir gently with a wooden spoon until no white flour remains.

Grease an 11 by 9 by 3 inch baking dish with cooking spray.  Pour fruit filling into dish and set aside.

To prepare the crust, mix together the flour, 1/4 of the sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl.  Whisk to combine thoroughly.

Combine the buttermilk and melted butter in a separate bowl and whisk to combine.

Slow add the buttermilk mixture to the flour mixture and stir to form a soft dough.  Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for about 20 minutes or until the dough is firm enough to roll.

While the dough chills, preheat the oven to 375F.

With lightly floured hands turn the dough onto a clean, lightly floured work surface and roll into a 12- to 14-inch round, about 1/4 inch thick.

Using a sharp knife and a ruler or straight edge, cut strips of dough and arrange them over the cobbler in an alternating basket-weave pattern, leaving 1-inch gaps for steam to escape. Trim any long ends even  with the edge of the baking dish.

Brush the strips with egg wash (I egg beaten lightly with 1 tablespoon water), sprinkle with turbinado sugar, bake for 40 to 45 mins until fruit is bubbly and the top is golden brown.

*Peaches, nectarines, plums, apricots, blueberries, or any combination of the above work great.  You can peel the fruit if you wish by dunking it in simmering water and removing it with a slotted spoon after 60-90 seconds.  The skins should just peel off once the fruit is cooled.  Note that apricot skin is so delicate, there’s really no need to bother.  And if you’re using blueberries (as I did in the photo) they just go in whole.

We stayed at the Ritz Carlton (oo-la-la!), which is situated on the eastern shore of St. Thomas.  Now, I hesitate to complain about a Ritz Carlton, lest I sound like a completely ungrateful travel snob, but this resort was way too big and crowded for my taste.  If I went again, I’d stay at a smaller, more modest property with more beach and fewer people.  Nonetheless, we managed to have a great time, mostly by getting off the island, away from the crowds, and into the water.  The scuba diving on St. Thomas and the surrounding islands is fantastic… fish in every color, sea turtles, and fantastic coral.  We chartered a boat for a day and visited the islands of Jost Van Dyke, St. John, and Tortola, stopping to snorkel and scuba wherever we could.  My favorite stop on land was a joint called Ivan’s Stress Free Bar on Jost.  On Christmas Day, we scuba dived at a spot appropriately named Christmas Cove off the northern shore of Great St. James.  I didn’t have an underwater camera, but here’s a pretty good video from Lonely Planet.  It was a breathtaking dive.  (No pun intended.)

The food on the islands is great.  Not surprisingly, there’s a lot of seafood.   The specialty is “local lobster,” which is served in everything from omelettes to pasta to quesadillas.  It’s flavorful and tender, though not quite as rich and buttery as the cold water lobster we eat here on the mainland.  Comparatively speaking, it makes for a lighter meal, which is not such a bad idea when you’re spending a lot of time in your bathing suit.  Our most unforgettable dinner was at a fabulous little restaurant called Herve in Charlotte Amalie, the capital of St. Thomas.  One of the specials that night was a wilted spinach salad with a shallot vinaigrette, which we paired with conch fritters to start.  For our entrees, I ordered the local lobster (but of course) and my companions ordered seafood linguine, broiled shrimp, and Norweigan salmon.  The food was fabulous and the ambiance was lovely… the owner, Herve Chassin, personally greets his guests at the door and leads them to an open-air dining room with panoramic views of the harbor.

I’m back in foggy San Francisco now, with an interesting task ahead:  I found a conch shell during that dive at Christmas Cove and carried it all the way home in my suitcase.  Now I’m trying to figure out how to get the dead animal out of the shell so I can polish it and keep it as a souvenir.  The thing stinks to high heaven and I’m too squeamish to touch it.  I’ve done some preliminary research online and have learned that the best thing to do is to leave it near an anthill and let the ants clean out the flesh before soaking the shell in a diluted bleach solution to loosen the debris.  The other option is to boil the creature so it “cooks” and then pull it out of the shell with my fingers.  I think not!  So I’m off to find an anthill, I guess.

I think I’d rather be scuba diving off the shores of St. Thomas.

St. Louis Cathedral on Jackson Square

New Orleans' French Quarter

New Orleans offers up all kinds of adventures, and I’d say I had my fair share there last month. I stayed in the French Quarter and spent many an hour wandering its historic streets. I took a carriage ride, perused the museums, caught some live jazz, and had a few too many sugary beignets. I even fed an alligator.

On my last day in the Big Easy I had an afternoon to kill, so I asked the hotel concierge for some recommendations. She rattled off a few things I had already done, then handed me a brochure for a swamp tour. The brochure cover pictured a happy family zipping along in an airboat, smiling and grinning at their swampy surroundings. I opened the brochure and read about up-close-and-personal alligator interactions, rare bird sightings and the pristine ecology of coastal Louisiana. Plus curbside service to and from the hotel. I was sold.

A 35-minute shuttle ride ended at a river dock about 25 miles outside of New Orleans where Jason, our guide and captain, loaded 20 passengers into an open-topped airboat. (You’ll understand, in a moment, why the adjective “open-topped” is significant.) I settled into my cushy foam seat and put on my big yellow earphones. They were intended, as Jason explained, to “protict yer eers.” The fan engine was noisy, but within a few minutes we were darting down the Mississippi River at about 45 miles an hour and I was having fun.

Carriage ride in the French Quarter. (Credit: Tony Cenicola/The New York Times)

Until I turned around and noticed that Jason was wearing a raincoat. A full trench coat, actually. I looked around at my fellow passengers, wondering if I’d missed some important instructions, but noticed no one else was dressed in rain attire, or even a sweater for that matter. Two teenage gals at the front of the boat were in tank tops and flip-flops. The Australian tourists behind me, already a little pink, were lathering each other with greasy sunblock. I, myself, had just put on a hat.

And then there was a giant clap of thunder.

“Yip. This here storm’s gonna git us pritty good.”

No sooner than Jason had finished his sentence did a enormous raindrop fall from the sky and splatter across my knee. And then another, and another. And then billions more, all around us and as far as the eye could see. Raindrops the size of golf balls, the kind that hit the earth’s surface and explode like small water balloons flung from the heavens. Within seconds, I—along with everyone else on the boat save Jason—was drenched to the bone. Smoky black clouds filled the sky and the swamp went dark.

Jason stopped the boat and assured us that the storm would pass quickly. “If ye don’t like the wither in New Orleans, jist wait fift’n minits n it’ll change,” he said matter-of-factly. Wet and hunched over, we waited. Thunder delivered a deafening clap and lightning danced across the sky above us. Nothing much happened, except we all got wetter.

After a good 10 minutes, the golf ball-sized drops subsided and Jason started up the engine.  With great consideration for our comfort, he promised to keep the throttle under 20 mph for the rest of the trip.  Because high-speed boating in wet clothing and 98% humidity is not much fun.

We did get to feed an alligator and we spotted a blue heron and several white egrets. Most of my fellow passengers were good-spirited about the rain, the women laughing and joking about whose runny mascara looked worse, the men making bets on who could fill a bucket with water wrung from their shirts. And the swamp was indeed beautiful, in a wet and soggy sort of way. But then I suppose that’s the way a swamp ought to be, albeit unwelcoming to humans. Perhaps that’s Mother Nature’s intention.

The bus ride back to New Orleans was wet and sticky, and I took a long, hot bath when I got back to my hotel.  It was the last thing I thought I’d be doing on a muggy, 98-degree summer afternoon in Louisiana.

Bananas Foster French Toast (Credit: Chris Litwin)

Stella Restaurant (Credit: Chris Litwin)

Back in the French Quarter that night I stumbled across a gem of a restaurant, and my soggy woes were quickly forgotten. The chefs at Stella, an eight-year-old restaurant run by chef-owner Scott Boswell, served up some of the most inventive dishes I’ve had in all of my travels. Consider, for example, the beet salad: shaved raw beet “carpaccio,” diced red and yellow beets, whipped beet honey, beet sorbet and an airy beet foam. Garnished with tiny, delicate basil leaves, it is a beet salad like no other.

Also on the menu: a refreshing vichyssoise with roasted corn and raw peas, gnocchi with Australian winter black truffles, sea bass with udon and soba noodles in a shark fin broth, and a whole shelled lobster—body sauteed and claws lightly fried—in a sweet dill bechamel.

Stella is known as one of the more romantic dinner spots in town, but while it certainly is formal (at a table for six, six servers deliver six entrees to the table in one grand gesture, and silverware is refreshed after each course by white-gloved hands) the servers themselves are genuinely warm and unpretentious. They are knowledgeable about the menu—and food in general—and they make smart wine pairings upon request.

All of this good cheer obviously comes from the top. Chef Boswell came out to visit with a few guests late in the evening, and we got a chance to talk with this profoundly kind and talented gentleman. A former banker and pet shop manager, he is ridiculously humble for what he has accomplished.

Stella isn’t the only feather in Boswell’s culinary cap. He also owns Stanley, a more casual joint on Jackson Square just a few blocks away. If Stella is the elegant older sister, Stanley is her playful little brother. Stanley’s menu features family-friendly brunch and lunch fare with a sophisticated twist: omelet sandwiches, soft-shell crab poor boys, onion rings, bananas foster French toast, and milkshakes whipped up from house-made ice cream.

All in all, New Orleans was a great adventure. The locals were friendly, the food was fantastic, and the weather, while unpredictable and a little wet, offered a nice change of pace from San Francisco’s hum-drum foggy summer season. Next time, though, remind me to pack a raincoat.

I knew something was up when the tablecloths disappeared a few weeks ago, but I was certain that things were about to get worse, not better. I assumed it was a cost-saving measure and could only imagine what other cuts and substitutions were about to be made in the kitchen.

Lo and behold, out with the tablecloths went the bland, Americanized Italian entrees and in came a whole new menu of truly authentic—and delicious—dinner specials. The new menu contains perhaps what is the best salad I’ve ever eaten: A refreshing mix of arugula, mild greens, raw fava beans, and shaved parmigiano reggiano in a mildly tangy vinaigrette. (I perhaps should not say that it is “perhaps” the best salad I’ve ever eaten because I’ve gone back for it nine times in the two weeks since I first tried it.) It’s the perfect salad for a warm spring evening.

Also on the menu is a linguine with salmon in a creamy tomato sauce that is, for me, a very sophisticated version of comfort food, and a halibut piccata that is so buttery and tender that it hardly resembles fish. Not on the menu (you’ll have to ask for it) is a spaghetti alla puttanesca that is rich, spicy, and intensely tomato-ey. All of these are faves.

Back to the tablecloths… I’m still not clear about the situation. I’ve noticed that the plates and utensils have been upgraded, not downgraded, so I think the owners are just going for a new look. Colorful Italian-made ceramic plates now sit atop bare wood tabletops, replacing the dated floral china and white linens. I guess it’s a more rustic vibe.

Il Porcellino
6111 La Salle Avenue
Oakland, CA 94611
(510) 339-2149

But few people really appreciate the food scene across the Bay in Berkeley and North Oakland. To most San Franciscans, the “East Bay” might as well be somewhere in the Midwest. In fact, it’s less than 10 miles from San Francisco’s Financial District. Ironically, Berkeley really is where California’s food revolution began, at Alice Waters’ Chez Panisse in 1971. The iconic restaurant happens to be within walking distance of my office and remains, nearly 40 years after its opening, a true showcase for local and organic ingredients. Within a block of Chez Panisse is the more casual Cheese Board Collective, which sells not only cheese, bread and pastries, but also a different kind of wood-fired pizza every day and which, by about 6 p.m., can be identified by the line snaking out the front door and halfway down the block. And in Oakland, two fabulous restaurants have recently come on the scene: Dopo on Piedmont Avenue and Camino on Grand. The old standbys are still standing: Oliveto on College Avenue and BayWolf, practically a next-door neighbor to Dopo. (I would be remiss not to mention here that the founder of Dopo is a former chef from Oliveto, and the owner of Camino is a 21-year veteran of Chez Panisse.)

For the at-home chef, farmers markets and neighborhood grocery stores abound. Berkeley holds farmers markets on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays, while Kensington (a quaint little neighborhood in the North Berkeley Hills) has its own on Sundays, and Albany (the town next door) has one on Tuesdays. Montclair Village (a suburb of Oakland) has its own on Sundays too. That’s a farmers market for just about every day of the week.

And if you happen to need a farmers market on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday, just head for Monterey Market on Hopkins Street at the Berkeley-Albany border. Monterey Market is like a farmers market every day, with crate upon crate of the freshest, most beautiful local vegetables, fruits, honeys, cheeses, oils and other delectable treasures. During one visit last fall I spotted seven varieties of chevre: Cypress Grove, Haystack Mountain, Skyhill, St. Marcellin, Florette, Brebicet and Pt. Reyes. I was dumbfounded when I found myself confronted with not one, not two, but eight varieties of fresh beans, including Romano, yellow Romano, French fillet, purple wax, yellow wax, cranberry, organic long, and white. Come to think of it, I don’t think there were any regular ol’ green beans. On the condiments aisle, I found 98 varieties of olive oil and at least half as many varieties of vinegar. Think potatoes would be a narrower category? Guess again. There were nine varieties to choose from, including huckleberry, German butterball, red, Yukon Gold, Colorado rose , yellow fin, red , russet and white. Who knew? On the way out, I spotted black mission, kadota, brown Turkey and Adriatic fresh figs.

And the best news is that the folks at Monterey Market are much, much friendlier than the folks at Berkeley Bowl. If you’re a local, you know what I mean.

PHOTO CREDIT: Dinner at Camino, Shuna Fish Lydon

I woke up in my hotel room on Saturday morning, five a.m. as usual. First things first, I hit the gym. And whom should I bump into there? No, not a fellow student. My classmates were all sleeping off the late-night study sessions that had kept them up through the wee hours of the night. No, it was my microeconomics professor, the world-famous and utterly awkward adorably shy Kent Smetters.

His final exam, which I had taken just the day before, had creamed me. I contemplated strangling him with a gym towel.

Before I could work up the nerve, he was hovering near my elliptical machine, chatting in a friendly, heart-meltingly awkward sort of way. I had to be nice. I was relieved when he popped his earphones into his ears and headed toward the treadmills.

I finished my workout and rode the elevator up the 22 floors to my room. I stood at the window, peering over the gray-blue water at the Bay Bridge and the peachy morning sun rising behind it.

Final exam, financial accounting: Four hours.

I spent about twenty minutes reviewing lecture notes on income tax accounting and marketable securities, and then I decided it was time for breakfast. I studied the room service menu as if its contents, too, would be covered in the final. I placed my order and then hopped into the shower.

Twenty minutes later, a waiter appeared at my door with a cart bearing the makings for a breakfast of champions: waffles, maple syrup, oatmeal, fresh fruit, yogurt, and toast with jam. Wrapped in a bathrobe with a towel twisted around my wet locks, I curled up on the couch and savored every bite. The oatmeal was hot and nutty. The waffles were crispy and fluffy, the syrup sweet and warm. It was heaven.

I swear to you, I did go back to studying for a bit. But before I knew it, I was hungry again. This is the curse of a girl who runs four miles every morning. I prayed that the same operator would not answer the room service extension. Wasn’t her shift over by now?

Apparently not.

“Um, hi. It’s me again. I’d like to order brunch?”

She acted like she wasn’t aware that they had only just delivered 2000 calories to my room.

Twenty minutes later, brunch arrived: An omelette with spinach, jack cheese, and sautéed mushrooms. A banana soufflé cake with warm rum sauce. A bottle of Pellegrino. Heaven all over again.

By the time I finished, it was time to pack up my room and head to campus. Had I gotten much studying done? No. But I definitely was not hungry.

I won’t bore you with the details of the exam. It was horrible. Suffice it to say, several of my classmates—all of whom are successful, over-achieving CEO-type folks—nearly broke into tears at one point or another.

So, what did we do afterwards? We went out to eat, of course. As the sun set over the San Francisco skyline, twelve of us sat shoulder-to-shoulder around a small table at one of my favorite French restaurants in the city: Chouquet’s. Bottles of wine were emptied. Appetizers were devoured. I ate my own entrée of scallops and prawns over a bed of black rice risotto with vadouvan emulsion, then I ate all of the truffled mashed potatoes off my friend Chloe’s plate. She should have known better than to sit next to me. Then came dessert: artful platters of chocolate fondant cake, baba au rum, and banana ganache made their way around the table.

We drowned our sorrows in food and alcohol, and nobody talked about the exam.

Chouquet’s
2500 Washington @ Fillmore
San Francisco, Ca.
Reservations: (415) 359-0075

photo credit: Jacques Mueller

More specifically, you will find it at a little Italian restaurant on 49th Street between 1st and 2nd, called Il Postino. It happens to be my favorite restaurant in the entire world. The ravioli is a total splurge, and is one of my biggest weaknesses.

Two weeks ago I was in New York for business and made late reservations to eat at Il Postino after a Broadway show. I was horrified when my friend and I walked out of the theater and realized it was nearly 11 pm. Ten p.m. is a perfectly normal time to have dinner in New York, but 11 pm is pushing it. I knew the kitchen would be closing, so I called the restaurant to tell the hostess we were running late. She asked how quickly we could get there, and I promised it would be less than ten minutes.

We were all the way across town at 52nd and 8th. Hailing a cab outside Broadway theater at the close of performance is next to impossible, so we hopped onto a bicycle carriage and our driver whisked us away, just like tourists.

When we arrived at Il Postino, we were greeted with hugs and kisses (right cheek, left cheek… Italian-style) by Andrea, the head waiter. Yes, if you order the $80 ravioli enough times, you, too, will be on a first name basis with the head waiter. Andrea is a man, by the way, as in Andrea Bocelli. He’s pictured in the above photo, to the right of me.

We got settled at our table, and I realized right away that Andrea had kept the kitchen open just for us — there wasn’t a single other customer in the place.

For the rest of the evening, all seven members of Il Postino’s wait staff waited on us hand and foot. I ordered the $80 ravioli with shaved truffles, of course, and topped them off with fresh berries in sabayon sauce.

If you go, note there are no menus. Andrea (or one of the other charming Italian waiters) will recite the evening’s selections to you from memory.

Il Postino
337 E 49th St, New York, NY
(212) 688-0033

Lahore is the capital of the Pakistani province of Punjab and is the country’s second largest city. It is often called, “The Heart of Pakistan,” because it is considered to be the cultural, educational and political center of the country. Lahori food is similar to that of Northern India.

For a taste of this great city right here in our own backyard, take a trip to Lahore Karahi and try the following:

Tandoori Fish – The fish is Sea Bass, and oh-so-fresh.
Palak Methi Aloo – Spinach and fenugreek with potatoes.
Matter Paneer — Chunks of fresh cheese with peas in a creamy tomato sauce.
Vegetable Biryani - Saffron flavored Basmati rice with vegetables and nuts.
Onion Kulcha – Onion-stuffed naan.

And, for dessert, try the Gulab Jamun, which are deep-fried pastries (similar to doughnut holes, only denser in texture) soaked in cardamom-infused sugar syrup.

The service is a little slow and the restaurant is not well-ventilated: You practically get smoked out of the place every time the waiter comes through with a sizzling plate of tandoori. But, trust me, you won’t care.

If you want beer with your dinner, you’ll have to buy your own at the liquor store on the corner of O’Farrell and Leavenworth. The server will gladly provide you with a chilled glass.

Lahore Karahi
612 O’Farrell Street
San Francisco, CA 94109
(415) 567-8603