chez pim

Pizzetta 211: at home in unexpected places

I often find myself at home in the oddest of places. It's perhaps because I've lived in so many cities, and been to even more, that home has become less a real place than wherever I find myself content. Drinking coffee by the window at the cafe around the corner from Neal's Yard, in the cold, damp London air, losing myself in the early morning bustle of Borough market. Sipping a cup of Darjeeling in the tranquil salon at Mariage Frères. Strolling Crissy Field at sunrise watching my city awakens.

So it is of no surprise to me that my favorite neighborhood place of the moment is in fact all the way across town, a little pizza shop in the Outer Richmond called Pizzetta 211. The shop occupies a tiny but cheerful and welcoming space which is half taken up by the kitchen and the big pizza oven. There are two window box tables, perfect for lounging, that give a feeling of being outdoor while protected from the cold foggy air, and even a few actual outside tables and an attractive tree bench for more weather-proof souls.

The menu is small but inspiring, focusing on what they do really well rather than covering all choices in the universe. It is also constantly changing, with a few pizzas, salad, a couple of cheeses, a cake or two and a few other side items. Everything here is not only seasonal, but also sustainably, organically, or artisanally produced.

Chez Pim's Guide to an Escapist Thanksgiving

Alaina this morning offers A Full Belly's Thanksgiving Guide full of helpful links to online resources to make your Thanksgiving a successful one. But Alaina -sweet as she is- overlooks one scenario: the one with us seething, vengeful, big city dwelling, bleeding heart liberals sticking it to our good ol' family back in the red states. So, I am obliged to step in with Chez Pim's own helpful guide.

Chez Pim's Guide to an Escapist Thanksgiving

I know you are still reeling with nausea and dripping blood from recent events. And -as if salt is now being rubbed on the wound- there is the impending long Thanksgiving weekend to be spent with your Republican family back home in the good ol' red states. And all you could think of is fuck the South, let alone be thankful for anything. Yes, the thought of your gun-toting/mustachioed/beer-bellied brother-in-law gloating incessantly would scare the beejeezuz out of me too. I feel for you, friends.

Yes there IS a god!

And I know him!!

Restaurante El Bulli
Apreciado Señor,

I am sorry to delay so much in putting me in contact with you. We are surpassed and without options to find a solution for the most of requests. We are moving the situation to solve the possible maximum of cases and we have found an option to please your petition.

With pleasure, I confirm your dinner reservation on month xxth of 2005 for 8 people at 7.30 – 8.00 p.m. under the name: ....

I ask you to confirm your visit a week before and also to give us a telephone number for direct contact.

NOTE: Ferran Adrià will prepare for you a personalized tasting menu. It is important to prepare it to know before if there is some important problem to take care of it, like allergies or products that we can not introduce in your menu.

Atentamente,
Luis García

Now I know in whose praise I shall be singing at thanksgiving table.

Watch this space come next Spring my dear readers. I'll make sure I get a meal at the Fat Duck in as well. Oh, yes, and Grant Achatz's new Alinea should be open by then. Wouldn't it make for an interesting blog? Can't you imagine the title? Well, I don't know, perhaps, Variations on a theme of Molecular Gastronomy: The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit?

This is going to be such fun. :-)

cheers,
Pim --traipsing happily back into the awaiting arms of frivolity

Not about food again. Sorry.

I woke up this morning to a tragic news.

Iris Chang took her own life this week. The mother of a two year-old and an explorer of evil, she was only 36. She reportedly had been hospitalized for depression while researching her fourth book about the brutality committed on U.S. soldiers by the Japanese army in the Philippines during World War II.

Her first book, The Rape of Nanking, was so carefully researched and such a compelling recount of the atrosity. I read it in one go, one Sunday afternoon -at once rivetted and repelled by it- fearing that had I put the book down, I would not have mustered enough courage to pick it up again.

Facing such unadulterated evil was nearly unbearable simply as a reader, I could hardly imagine what researching and writing about it for years would do to one's psyche.

We have lost a courageous historian and a marvelous writer.

Today's nugget of wisdom

from Ajarn Jinmyo herself:

"I wonder if anyone has done a Republican/Democratic comparison of states in which jello is a salad."

I do wonder.

A meal fit for a prophet

There is a well hidden secret deep in the heart of the colorful Tenderloin, a delicious secret, a mythical restaurant where superlative couscous could be had for merely a few dollars. It is but an ephemeral mirage: one must know exactly where it is, and when to visit, in order to partake in the feast.

I heard about this place from Malik, who in turn got the tip from an Tunisian cab driver in the city. A few months ago, we went off on a mini wild goose chase to find this mysterious place where the local North African cab drivers get their couscous fix on Friday night. I've been meaning to write about this place since then, but with my crazy living and eating schedule I just hadn't quite managed to do it.

Last night, I was there again for dinner, this time with fellow SF food bloggers Amy and Alder, and their respective significant others Lee and Ruth. All we expected was a deliciously simple meal of home cooked couscous, but what we stumbled upon was a fabulous break-fast Ramadan meal, a meal fit for a prophet. What a lovely high in this downer week of epic proportion!

What do we do now?

Fucked if I know.
The only thing I know is I said fuck more times in the last 24 hours than I did in the the last two years combined.

That is because we are, you know, fucked, and not in a good way.

I don't know what to do now. I had so much faith in the collective good sense of America, that I had not prepared myself at all for this eventuality. Today, I left work at midday because it took more than I had in me to focus on anything, so I just gave up and came home to wallow properly in my private misery.

Then later in the day, Dave, Allison, and Malik came to my rescue by dragging me out to our usual Wednesday night Shalimar meal, where I ate about a cow and a half. It didn't help much still. Nor did it help that all my friends were just as shocked and miserable as I was. We continued to drown our sorrow in food later at Citizen Cake with a yummy trio of tart, Granada, Full Moon, and Pear and Cardamom. All tasty, all sweet, but they did nothing to erase the bitterness in my heart.

Have I said we are all fucked?
So what do we do now?
Well, fucked if I know. Salon did offer some advice however.

All is now lost

NPR just reported that Kerry has conceded by placing the phone call to you know who -I can't even bring myself to say his name.

All is now lost.

I can hardly believe how American I've become, and how I have genuinely come to care about the future of my adopted home. And now I can't believe how incredibly sad, how utterly drained, and how completely hopeless I feel. I am far too emotional to have anything intelligent to say now, so I will leave you with what my friend M. has eloquently put it elsewhere:

"A state of shock. Drained. Yet, almost a sense of calm.
The US is lost. The vote today was for the Empire over the Republic. For intolerance over understanding. For war over compassion.
Now begins the dark days. Civil rights will be increasing encroached. Free speech eroded. Political opposition marginalized. The fundamentalists will consolidate their power and extend it to the Supreme Court.
First, they enslaved a race. Now, they have enslaved us all."

comfort in a bowl of chocolate

I am going insane watching the election unfold. The early result is not looking good, not looking good at all. But there is stil hope in this world, even if it all rests on Ohio.

Unable to find comfort on the news, or even among friends, I looked for it elsewhere. I finally found it in a piping hot bowl of hot chocolate. If I only had a perfect buttery croissant my pretend happiness would be complete--oh well, even in fantasy world things are not perfect.

Here's how I made my comfort in a bowl:
Put 30g of chocolate in a small bowl, melt it for 45 seconds in the microwave. Steam 3/4 cup of milk to a foamy perfection on the espresso machine. Temper the two ingredients by adding a bit of hot milk into the melted chocolate, mix well, then add the rest of the milk.

Now that my comforting hot chocolate is gone I think I need to take a few Ambien and go to bed. With my luck I shall wake up 28 days later and all will really have gone to hell. :-(

Cookies for Kerry: dispatch from Amateur Gourmet land

Adam, over at the Amateur Gourmet, is trading cookies for a vote for Kerry.

"Are you a Republican? Do you like cookies? I have a proposition for you. Sure, sure, this is a big election. Much at stake. Lives on the line. Grand epic consequences. But think about cookies. Aren't they delicious? Don't you like them? Aren't cookies good? Let's make a deal. You vote for Kerry and I'll send you cookies. Prove to me that you're a Republican. Prove to me that you voted for Kerry. I will send you cookies."

I guess I've just found a good use for all those chocolates. I'm sending Adam some chocolate cookies.