Hedonia

The Eatsdropper got ridiculous amounts of food by mistake

So who all is going to BlogHer 08? If you're gonna be there, give me a ping. Also, be sure to check out Kalyn's list of food blogger meet-and-greets. I'm very excited to experience it, and to meet so many awesome, passionate bloggers.

This installment leads off with several items overheard by Stephanie at the newly remodeled Andronico's in the Sunset, where they've thrusted all the produce up front to tempt unsuspecting shoppers. I've got a bunch more items in the crisper bin, but this should be enough to whet your palate for now.

Anyway, my motto has always been "more is more," so keep whispering sweet nothings in my ear at eatsdropper-at-seantimberlake-dot-com.

---

Elderly shopper:
    "What have they done with these vegetables?! They're a work of art! Their prices are a work of art!"

Man to wife and three kids:
    "Look how they've designed this, so when you walk in you're confronted with this display ... of things I hate."

Kid, looking up at the carrots displayed roots-out:
    "Look at the carrot butts!"

Chick on her cellphone:    
    "We're sort of like sisters -- we get along so well that we fight all the time."

- All eatsdropped by Stephanie at Andronico's

Young woman with British accent to her companion:
    "I got ridiculous amounts of food by mistake. I forgot I was in America."

- Eatsdropped by Karen at Coney Island Boardwalk

Her: "Try the ratatouille."
Him: "Why, is it famous?"
Her: "It's good; you like ratatouille."
Him (after trying): "I don't like it. There's too many vegetables in it."

- Eatsdropped by EB at Chez Papa

Woman, smugly: "Last night, we had radishes with butter and salt."
Man, patronizingly: "Of course you did."

- Eatsdropped by Anita at Whole Foods

Patron: "Can we get a pizza?"
Server: "This is a Thai restaurant, we serve Thai food."
Patron: "So we can't get pizza?"
Server: "No, we serve Thai food."

- Eatsdropped by Eric at Thai House Express

Western Spaghetti

I just had to share this delightful little stop-motion animation by PES (via Laughing Squid).

This is why the Eatsdropper drinks wine

Whew, hot stuff in the city today! You know what else is hot? When you whisper sweet little overheard nothings in my electronic ear at eatsdropper-at-seantimberlake-dot-com or by Twittering them to @Hedonia. Mwah!

---

Mommy, with whining, flailing tot:
    "This is why mommy drinks wine."

- Eatsdropped by yours truly at Plumpjack Wines

Julie: "Quercia Rossa Berkshire ham? Oh ... I think I know this pig!"

- Self-eatsdropped by Julie at Laïola

Middle-eastern guy to middle-eastern coworker:
    "Mas lavash, por favor"

- Eatsdropped by Anita at Ali Baba's Cave

Him, in shorts and flip-flops: "I wrote you a two page poem, I'd like to read it to you. I wanted to get you a rose to hold while I read it."
Her, in a beautiful dress and gorgeous heels: (looks around nervously) "Maybe not here."
Him: "I spent so much time writing it, I really want to read it to you. It's romantic. What, should I pretend I haven't spent days writing it?"
Her: "That would be okay, yes."
Him: "Okay, I'll just forget it. I'll forget I wrote you a two page poem and was going to read it."
Her: "Yes, that sounds like a good plan."
Him: repeats himself over and over, saying same thing...
Her: "Maybe we could just leave."
Him: "And ruin this evening I have planned? What's changed between us?"

- Eatsdropped by Poshmama at "kind of a nice French place, but small with tables close together. you know the type" (via Twitter)

Student:  How do you tell which ones are the male squash blossoms? Teacher:  You can tell.  Seen one, seen 'em all.

- Eatsdropped by Elise at a cooking class

A jack-and-coke-drinking young gay man, tasting his halibut:
    "You know what it reminds me of? The turkey at Boston Market!"

- Eatsdropped by Anita at Range

Amy: "I haven't made that soup since I made that soup."

- Eatsdropped by yours truly at Canteen

English pea soup

I am addicted to KCRW's Good Food podcast. I love host Evan Kleiman's effervescent yet lucid tone as she investigates a wide spectrum of food-related topics. And I especially love the kick-off segment, the Market Report with Laura Avery, who interviews farmer's market vendors and local chefs with the intensity and sincerity of an embedded reporter in Tikrit.

The main reason I enjoy the Market Report, though, is hearing what produce is coming into season in sunny SoCal, knowing that in a matter of weeks the same things are likely to crop up here in the north. Case in point: English peas.

The peas first made their market debut during Avery's March 1 report, and started appearing at Ferry Plaza a few weeks later. Now, at the tail end of their season, I was able to nab a good hearty bagful at the Noe Valley market, pods plump with bright green orbs within. In Avery's report, she talked with LA überchef Mark Peel of Campanile, who shared a simple, fresh pea soup with a luscious, creamy texture without using actual cream. In fact, Peel's original recipe is completely vegan, with just peas, potatoes, onion and garlic. I used chicken stock simply because we have gallons of the stuff.

The pureed potatoes and peas lend a soothing, velvety texture and pleasant weight. A simple garnish of a few glowing dots of bright-green McEvoy Ranch olive oil completes the presentation. A perfect bowlful of springtime freshness.

Coniglio alla cacciatora

My great grandfather, Carmine Battaglia, came over from the wee town of Salle, in Abruzzo (that's the calf of the boot, for the visually inclined) at the tender age of 16 in 1906. I never knew Grandpa Battaglia -- he passed when I was just an infant -- but the stories about him are legendary. A man of lusty appetites, he fancied himself quite the ladies' man (though the ladies perhaps did not see things quite the same). At the dinner table, he would consume not only the meat from a chicken, but noisily crunch down the bones as well.

He also notoriously loved his wine and whiskey. In fact, the family would often say that his car wasn't capable of making it up Broadway hill in my hometown of Schenectady, NY, to the house, as Cappie's bar was halfway up. He was an avid hunter, which in itself is not a bad thing, but in combination with his drinking had unfortunate results. When he'd return home from the hunt short one of his dogs, he'd say that it got "gun-shy," which no doubt any creature would be after being shot by a crazy, drunk paisan'.

Still, he managed to bring home the occasional rabbit (at least, I hope they were rabbits), and when he did he would prepare them, aptly, in the hunter's style, or alla cacciatora. This quintessentially rustic Italian preparation has been popularized with chicken in restaurants everywhere, but really lends itself to any small game. Since we prefer to keep our dog, we decided to get our rabbits the new-fashioned way: at the meat market.

Rabbit is not commonly cooked in American homes these days, and finding it can be a challenge. Luckily, when I called Golden Gate Meats to inquire whether I would need to special-order it, I was told that they always have it in stock. Perfect.

Now, when you attempt to butcher a rabbit of your own (and you will have to), you may think you have found yourself on the set of Alien Autopsy. The instinct is to dissect it much like a chicken, but this is no fowl. Do yourself a favor and procure a copy of the excellent Essentials of Cooking by James Peterson and follow the exceedingly lucid step-by-step instructions there.

Not long ago, my aunt decided to make Giada De Laurentiis' chicken cacciatore recipe after seeing it on the tube. From the first Proustian bite, she was transported back to childhood and Grandpa Battaglia's rabbit. The only difference, I'm told, true to his lusty nature, was that he had a heavier hand with the red pepper. That is one trait I myself have inherited.

Good morning

Squash blossom frittata with spring garlic, anyone? Yes, please. What, you want a recipe? Uh, how about some eggs; a mess of grated parmigiano; your blossoms (chopped, with a few whole reserved for effect) and garlic; dash of salt, pepper and Tabasco; a little too much butter; and a painter's eye for drama. Easy enough to do on a languorous Sunday morning.

Bicicletta

Hey, we only get so many hot days a year here in San Francisco, so when the season approaches, I like to be prepared and have a cooling cocktail at the ready. Last year, it was all about the michelada. But as the summer came to a close, and we journeyed to perhaps the hottest place of all, Palm Springs, I enjoyed a spectacularly refreshing drink at Spencer's, called the Bicicletta.

The drink is simplicity itself, just Campari, white wine and a spritz of club soda, but the whole is more than the sum of its parts. I am fond of Campari in general, but especially on hot days. Aside from memories of sweltering days on the Amalfi Coast, I find that Campari actually has a cooling effect. The white wine rounds out the cocktail, mellowing the intense bittersweet of the amaro, and of course the club gives it a fizzy kick. They are surprisingly easy to sip on during the dog day afternoons when nothing else is feasible. Luckily, the club soda and ice ensure that you can do so without getting completely fuore come un balcone.

The Eatsdropper has, you know, plain in it

Whew, got quite a load of them this time. I've been sitting on my inbox for a while, so enjoy this springtime bumper crop! And as always, keep sending your overheards my way via eatsdropper-at-seantimberlake-dot-com or append @Hedonia before it on Twitter.

---

Table of three people: "Yes, three green tea ice cream. We'll share!"

- Eatsdropped by Jessica at Sushiholic

Check-Out Girl (holding goat cheese): "What is that?"
Karina: "Goat cheese!"
COG: "Oh. I only eat the square cheese."
Karina: "Cheddar?"
COG: "Orange cheese."

- Eatsdropped by Karina at Albertsons

One man to another picking out shopping carts:
    "We're not at the point in our relationship where we can share a cart."

- Eatsdropped by Camper at Safeway

Woman not loving the lardo pizza:
    "If a dentist made pizza, this is what it would taste like."

- Eatsdropped anonymously at Beretta

Middle-aged woman, distracted by toddlers:
    "I'm looking for sort of an American-made, Swiss-involved Cheddar."

- Eatsdropped by Anita at Cowgirl Creamery

Crackhead choosing a better lime (to steal): "This one's too dry."

- Eatsdropped by Camper outside Val 16 Market

A twentysomething man waxes rhapsodic at the Eatwell Farms stand:
    "They got mad fava beans over here."

- Eatsdropped by Cameron at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market

Ditzy young woman: "What's 'plain'?"
Ditzier girlfriend: "You know, plain. It has, you know, plain in it."

- Eatsdropped by Anita in front of St Benoit

Woman 1: "I love mayo."
Woman 2: "Me too... I just wish it wasn't fattening."
Woman 1: "But it's good for you.'
Woman 2: "What??"
Woman 1: "Sure, I mean, why do you think they put it on Filet o' Fish?"

- Eatsdropped by Anita in line at Peet's

Coworker 1: "You're skinnier now."
Coworker 2: "No, I'm not."
Coworker 1: "Yes, you are."
Coworker 2: "No, I'm not."
Coworker 1: "Just accept the compliment!!!"

- Eatsdropped by Jennifer in the office

 

Thank you

To all of you who read my post about my father, and who commented or contacted me directly with thoughts of warmth and healing, thank you.

I wrote the post mostly as a means of therapy for myself, a way of completing the loop of closure that is all too often left unclosed when someone important departs your life. That it resulted in such an overwhelming outpouring of support and love was an unexpected yet welcome added benefit. I feel deeply loved.

This underscores why I believe blogging and social media in general are important: It brings people together. In the two-plus years since I started Hedonia, I have been blessed to encounter and meet an incredible array of fascinating and remarkable people, both in a virtual sense and in "real life." I have enjoyed an unparalleled sense of community. It's hugely important to me, and has been a great comfort during this time.

If I've learned anything in the last few months, it's that life is brief and that there is no point in withholding expressions of love. I am filled with the love you have given me, and I sincerely love you all back.

Thank you.

In memoriam

I haven't been entirely honest about my radical slowdown in posting over the past few months. To be sure, work has been wholly consuming and exhausting, but that's not all. Last month, my father passed away.

Several months ago, on the return from DPaul's and my trip to Chicago for our anniversary, I received a phone call from my father. He had just been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer with metastatic disease on the liver. It was the sort of diagnosis that most people would immediately accept as an instant death sentence. My father is not most people.

In the ensuing months, he pursued a wide array of aggressive and sometimes esoteric treatments, from hyperdoses of vitamin C injected directly into a port, to twice-daily coffee enemas (organic of course) and a litany of naturopathic remedies; to ultra-high potency and highly targeted chemotherapy at the Cancer Treatment Centers of America; to experimental (i.e., not approved in the U.S.) dendritic cell therapy in Germany.

And there was progress! After the third dendritic cell treatment, scans showed that the tumors in his pancreas and liver had shrunk, and his tumor markers were down dramatically. Through it all, despite sometimes unrelenting pain and nausea, he remained upbeat and optimistic, and we began to think that he just might make it. After all, we reasoned, if anyone could beat terminal cancer out of sheer will, it would have been him.

Unfortunately, they then found that the disease had moved on to bone, and so the battle began anew. This time he underwent Cyberknife radiation treatments and bone-hardening infusions to slow the encroachment of the disease. These treatments took a terrible toll, weakening his system.

DPaul and I finally found a moment in dad's frenetic schedule to visit him in Colorado, a rare weekend between trips to various treatments, and so we booked a ticket. We assumed it would be the first of a few final visits over the course of upcoming weeks or months.

The night before we flew out, his wife Sylvia called me. She warned that jaundice had set in, and he was not looking too well. When we arrived in Denver the next day, they met us at the airport. He was yellowed and gaunt. In the car on the way home, he received a call from the oncologist, and was fairly tight-lipped for the rest of the drive home.

The next morning, we all sat at the kitchen table together. Dad said that the scans showed further progression of the tumors. The treatments he had undergone were doing more harm than good at this point, and he was too weak and unstable to return to Germany for another round of dendritic cell therapy. It was no longer about fighting to win; it was about managing the process until the end. He looked up at me, eyes yellow as egg yolks and said, "cancer sucks." Then he cracked his crooked smile, teeth flashing white against the jaundiced skin.

From that point on, things went fast. The next day he had deteriorated so much they called in Hospice. My siblings flew out, and DPaul and I extended our stay a couple days to be with them. A cavalcade of people from near and far arrived at the house, and phones rang non-stop. My aunts, his sisters, booked to come out that Friday.

Each day was worse than the one before. The pain increased, causing him to rely more heavily on the Dilaudid; but every dose triggered violent vomiting, exacerbating the pain. By the time his sisters arrived, he had been ready to let go for days, but held out for them. They arrived the evening of April 11.

A few minutes before 6 am on April 12, Sylvia awoke and noticed he was breathing very shallowly. She looked into his eyes and said, "I love you!" He moved his tongue to respond, took his last breaths, and was gone. He had turned 60 just three weeks previously.