This is what my kitchen looks like these days.
Those dishes on the right? Those are the ones that are done, ready to be put away. These are the stories that are in queue to be posted here soon. The dishes on the left? Those are food projects in progress. And those wine glasses drying on the counter? They’re the reason – perhaps – that I may not be so quick at finishing the job.
Winter is the perfect time for pho (pronounced FUH), and in between checking out several Vietnamese restaurants around the city, Baseball Boy and I decided to try to make it ourselves. He got a new crock pot for Christmas, and I live within walking distance of three Asian grocers; in short, pho was practically begging us to make it.
It’s been quite some time since I’ve partaken in Restaurant Week (a three-course prix fixe, lunch is $24.07, dinner is $34.07), seven or eight years, probably; in theory, it’s a great opportunity to try places that I’d never have the money for otherwise, but there can be an assembly-line feel to the whole experience, an underlying awareness that the people serving you consider this whole thing to be an extended version of amateur night and are less than appreciative that their tips will be smaller and expected work rate higher. It always seemed like the same bunch of restaurants were involved, as well, but in the intervening years, the list of participants has exploded.
During a slow moment at work a couple of weeks ago, I found myself absentmindedly scrolling through the list when I came across a name or two that made me sit up and take notice. SHO Shaun Hergatt, located in the Financial District on the second floor of the Setai condiminium building, has taken some knocks for its pricing and decor, but from what I’ve read, the consensus on the food is that this chef is the real deal. With normal lunch prices in the $16-$20 range for appetizers and $25-$37 for main courses (none of which entrées were on the prix fixe menu), I was eager to get a taste of the magic for a fraction of the cost.
Back in my younger days, I used to be something of a cheesecake fanatic. The creaminess, the decadence, that punch of flavor that comes from a true cheesecake…I couldn’t get enough. I found it impossible not to order it anytime it was on the menu, and, when my parents had friends over for dinner, I always begged for cheesecake for dessert. Over time, though, as so often happens, my obsession’s grip grew weaker; burned by too many mediocre slices, unwilling to gamble on such a heavy endnote, I found myself choosing the cheesecake less and less often.
But, once in awhile, there’s nothing like a classic. The Carnivore’s daughter had one birthday request for us this year, and that was to bake a cheesecake together.
After having the best ramen of my life during a trip to New York, I began a search to find something comparable here in Columbus. I asked for help, hoping that Bethia of Hungrywoolf would be up to the task. Lucky for me, she was. She listed a few Columbus restaurants to help me start my journey, one of which was Sushi Bistro Masa in Dublin. The power of suggestion led Baseball Boy and I to make our way to the suburbs (through a mild snowstorm) that very evening.
I rarely venture onto I-270. Partially because I’m terrified of driving, partially because I almost always get lost and partially because having spent a portion of my life in Hilliard, the shopping-center-big-box-chain-restaurant-sprawl freaks me out. I do recognize that several of the best ethnic eateries are along the northwest corridor of the city, and that unless I overcome my fears, I’m going to miss out.
A confession: I’ve been putting off writing about my last meal in Portland for some time now. Not because it left a bad taste in my mouth—on the contrary, it was an amazing, memorable, late-night dinner. Just the thought of it makes me wish I could hop a West Coast-bound flight that would get me to Oregon in time for a repeat performance. No, friends. I’ve kept this meal to myself for one reason, and one reason only: vanity. I was afraid that my photographs wouldn’t do it justice, that my descriptions would sound clichéd or overwrought, that I wouldn’t be able to nail down my experience in terms that would convey how truly great the food was. And here I am, off to the start I feared.
It took some arm-twisting to persuade Matt that we should stop at Le Pigeon for our final supper; its price point was higher than anywhere else on our list, and he was convinced that we’d get more bang for our buck elsewhere. Be that as it may, I was dying to try it, and as you may have heard, I can be kind of stubborn. I promised not to go overboard with the ordering (one appetizer each, and an entrée to share), but he’s known me too long to believe that line; it wasn’t until I played the “I’m the Guest!” card and admitted that I planned to treat to thank him for being such a great host that I got him to cave.
The house we stayed at in Arizona was very close to Cave Creek, a tiny town with one main street, several Mexican restaurants, a day’s worth of southwest-themed shopping and competing Pittsburgh Steelers and Green Bay Packers bars. Although most residents and visitors have roots in the Midwest, the food hails from south of the border.
After checking out Sedona, we drove through Cave Creek, and with the help of Yelp and my iPhone, found Los Mesquites Taqueria, which, despite the unreliable source, turned out to be a winner. The restaurant appeared to have several large rooms, a bar and a travelling mariachi band. After shelling out quite a bit to pay for our jeep tour in Sedona, we were pleased to find reasonably-priced tacos on the menu.
I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve had enough of this resolution thing. The constant mental tug-of-war between what you want to do and what you know you should do, the guilt that ensues when you throw caution to the wind, the hollow promises you make with yourself that the next day will be better…it’s exhausting.
Sometimes you just want a cookie, dammit. And if said cookie is buttery and chocolatey and straight out of the oven, so much the better.
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.
And when life gives you a free house to stay in – complete with lemon and orange trees in the yard – within driving distance of Phoenix, Sedona and Jerome, you take the opportunity. Most of my destinations as of late have been food-driven, and while the Phoenix area isn’t necessarily known as a culinary haven, I was grateful for an opportunity to get away for a long weekend in December. In the next few days, I’ll give a tiny look into some of the interesting (and edible) parts of my Arizona trip.
This, my friends, is a story about a moral dilemma, a once in oh, let’s say a quarter lifetime dining experience and, finally, some damn good pizza.
Two days after I returned from my trip to New York, I set off again with Baseball Boy for a long weekend in Arizona. We’d scored a free place to stay where Scottsdale ends and Cave Creek begins, just north of Phoenix, and we were looking forward to a break.
When a friend found out that we were going to be in the Phoenix area, he sent me no fewer than 15 reviews for a pizza joint called Pizzeria Bianco, which, conveniently enough, was six minutes from the airport. It was decided; we’d go straight there upon arrival. I only had to read two or three reviews to know that a) this pizza would require a several hour wait and b) it would be worth the wait. Luckily enough, they just happen to operate a bar next door – a nice comfy place to spend money and relax during said wait.
