Food, Wine, Good (and Evil) Spirits

I like bourbon, but not whisky. I know, I know, bourbon IS whisky, but to me there's a big difference. American bourbon is smooth and sweet and has complex flavors that I enjoy in food--warm spices, fresh herbs, toasted nuts, all kinds of fruit, vanilla, coffee, toffee, chocolate, caramel and more. Whisky, is fire water. Though a fan of all whisky, Chef Michael Symon summed it up this way, "drinking whisky should be a massage, not a wax!"

Symon was in San Francisco to talk about bourbon and Knob Creek in particular, an award winning bourbon made in small batches. It's aged in very deeply charred oak barrels, and is bottled at 100 proof. It has a distinctive sweetness and big flavor. Symon told me he like the boldness of it, saying it goes great with the kinds of things he likes to cook. "It's smoky, you can taste the age, like you can with a good salami. It has great depth of flavor, like wine and I appreciate what goes into making it--the 9 year aging process." Bourbon matches Symon's approach to cooking, "Things I like to cook take time and patience like charcuterie. Knob Creek is the charcuterie of the spirit world."

Like many of my seasonal affectations, I’m always delighted when citrus season rolls around for three main reasons:  One: because it means the plump, juicy oranges from my tree will soon be ready and two: meyer meyer meyer meyer meyer meyer lemons, and three: blood oranges. And now that all are here I really don’t know what to do with myself. I’m pretty sure the guys at my farmers’ market are glad I’ve stopped running up to them each week asking the same question over and over again.

Unlike autumnal produce (which always seems so exciting but after about 2 weeks I am ready to move on), I could never ever tire of blood oranges.  I wish I had them year round. And here’s where my craziness really kicks in: I enjoy them just as much for their color as their flavor. Correction: even more so, I think. There’s really nothing else like that color. Crimson with hints of sunshine, pink with a touch of vermillion. And the juice? Such an amazing coral and ruby hue, depending on how the light hits it. I’ve been known to juice several oranges and stare at the pitcher for hours in appreciation of that color I hardly see throughout the year. And trust me, I know my colors.

Last night husband Martin and I were feeling a bit restless – nothing that an ale at the Verdugo couldn’t fix. The Verdugo is our (somewhat) local bar. It has an awesome selection of craft beers on tap, and really, is there anything as good as a good beer on draught? Beer geeks LOVE this place – it has Pliny the Elder, Craftsman, Sour Beers, Belgians, stouts, meads – you name it – on tap. Dudes love the place because the bartenders are pretty, and there is a flat screen t.v. at the bar, where if you ask nicely, they will turn on the ball game. Chicks love the place because, er, the beer is so fine? Also, if you happen to have unenlightened friends who don’t appreciate fine beer, there is a full bar.

So last night perusing the beer list, we both fixed on Aprihop by Dogfish Head. We requested a small taste (they will let you do that!) and we both ordered a pint. Dogfish is an interesting brewery. It’s in Delaware and there was an entertaining article about it in the New Yorker a couple of years ago. Unbeknownst to us, Bryant Goulding, Dogfish’s West Coast Regional Sales Manager was sitting a few seats down, and we got to chat him up about the beer and brewery.

Marylou’s was a New York restaurant that closed in 2001, but in its day was a real gem. Located in a brownstone in the West Village, the restaurant’s great food and atmosphere attracted a list of celebrities that included Jack Nicholson. Co-owner Tommy Baratta, Marylou’s brother, not only became good friends with Nicholson, but became his personal chef as well – and wrote a cookbook with Marylou titled Cooking for Jack.

My most vivid recollection of Marylou’s takes me back to 1986. I was having dinner with a woman whose raven hair was in perfect contrast to her radiant smile, when Jerzy Kosinski approached our table. His intent was not to dazzle us with his fame nor with a story, but, instead, with a series of photographs.