Christina Waters

The pastry case at Kelly’s -
a delicious argument
in favor of
almost anything.

Sean Baker, wunderkind chef at Gabriella, has been joined by new pastry chef Jessica Yarr (former sous chef at Theo’s) for what can only be called a culinary summer of love. Baker, who you’ll recall is a Cordon Bleu grad, formerly of Zibibbo in Palo Alto and Millennium in SF, is busy rocking the menu at Santa Cruz’ jewelbox bistro. Only the fresh, and only the local show up on Baker’s restless menus.

Last week Matteo and I feasted on lunchtime halibut confit and freshly-shelled cannellini beans, ringed with Black Cherry tomatoes and inflected with basil and Dijon hazelnut dressing. Then came an amazing salad of greens so vibrant they practically talked back, bathed in a Syrah basil vinaigrette with slices of incredible ripe plums and tissue-thin slices of icicle radish (see above). Our main course was fresh pan-roasted rainbow trout, stuffed with lemons and thyme, served whole to preserve its beautiful shape, with a side of infant arugula and toasted almonds. Everything was strewn with pungent capers and rich browned butter. . . A few days earlier, my mother and I had lunched at Gabriella and sampled the amazing paté sampler from charcuterie maestro Justin Severino — sensuous rillettes packed with Meyer lemon and capers, campagnola paté loaded with herbs and a rustic ciccioli. A preserved apricot played counterpoint with the organic pork creations. My mom — a Boulder Creek native, now living in San Diego — also had a great time with Baker’s latest pasta creation, a swirl of black hand-cut spaghetti, tossed with heirloom tomatoes, garlic, slices of tiny, tender squid and fat English peas from Half Moon Bay. I gotta say, Gabriella’s kitchen has laid on some serious firepower.

The food at Gabriella was always ultra-fresh, seasonal and local. Now it’s sophisticated as well. Not tricky. Not so conceptual that you have to sit back and have a Socratic dialogue every two seconds about the herbs, or the pedigree of the tomatoes. Let’s just say that chef Baker has eyes in the back of his head. If it’s just been picked, he’s on it. Impressive.

Pastry poetry deepens at Gabriella with the handiwork of Jessica Yarr. Imagine polenta cake with sweet corn gelato. Chocolate torte with amaretto whipped cream. Endless hand-crafted truffles in amazing complexity - dark dark chocolate, sherry-tinged chocolate, chocolate romanced by hazelnuts. Yes, yes, yes!. . . . The ribs at Hula’s are good enough to turn even the most stubborn vegan. Well, almost. . . and La Bruschetta up in Felton is not the same since Luca Rubino sold it this spring. You can still find Rubino’s distinctive touch at In Vino Veritas in Scotts Valley. Thank God! . . . Don’t miss the designer fish tacos at Kelly’s on the Westside. . . And if you can find a bottle of Sones Cellars Petite Sirah, buy it. It’s a bottle-full of huge ripe berries and spice, from a local, micro-winery. Or enjoy a glass at Gabriella. Your call.

Tom Maderos can paint his way out of a paper bag. He pays attention to the way the light strikes the water. The way the sun hits the cliffs. Come see how the coast looks according to his imagination.

Coastal/Abstracts - a show of work by Tom Maderos - opens on August 3 (with reception from 5-9pm) and runs through the end of the month. It happens at the Attic Gallery, 931 Pacific Avenue in downtown Santa Cruz. For details call 831/457-8143 or tom@ebold.com.

[The image here is entitled West Cliff View 4.]

I don’t know who this guy is, but he’s a genius with that big rig he slams up and down Empire Grade these days. Part of an expert road crew, he works his multi-ton Cat with the precision of a surgeon. Completely focused, he can pick up massive baby-blue PVC pipes and lay them back down with the delicacy of Martha Stewart arranging place settings.

Seriously, he’s good. No, he’s better than good. He’s a virtuoso of heavy equipment. You could lay your baby down in the middle of the road trusting that this guy could excavate, lay pipe and fill it all in again without getting so much as a grain of sand in the little one’s eye.

Awesome!

That would be the magnificent and strange Proietti “Vignalibus” Cesanese from Olevano Romano Italy, now available at Soif retail for a worth-every-penny-of-it $28.

This blood red bottle of vintage 2005 Cesanese grapes offers a rich, musty nose like old roses and deep raspberries, before unpacking its elegant stash of tannins. A lovely creation full of restraint, that doesn’t give itself too quickly.

At times it tends toward zinfandel, yet it remains true to its own idiosyncratic character. I found more rose bouquet as it opened, and a persistant perfume of bricks and geraniums with a hit of vanilla at the bottom. At 13.5% it is an adult wine for stylish and endless summers.

Have you ever left a restaurant and wondered “Who gave these people a business loan?” Right. Then you know how I feel now that I’ve sampled what is advertised as “Classic Southern Italian Cooking” at the new place on Soquel Avenue. If you know the food business, or have an experienced cook, or even a few killer recipes — it would make sense that you might want to open an eating place. Lacking any of the above, opening a restaurant in a town full of creative food, is simply suicide.

I have no wish to hurt anyone pouring heart and soul into a new business. But vanity restaurants should pay us to stop by. A person who knows nothing about cars wouldn’t be wise to open an auto body shop, right? So why would merely opening a few cans and putting some over-sized photographs on the walls qualify someone for restaurant ownership?

Southern Italian? I don’t think so. Southern Philly, maybe, (more…)

Where can I find “Profumo di Genova” basil? Seeds, plants, leaves - anybody got a source?

Those words do not describe a naughty predilection. It just means that I love England and never more than last month when I spent a few days on the moors of the Peak District, Derbyshire, hiking with my friend Graham and spending huge sums of money on memorable, if hearty food. The reason I spent huge sums of money is that there is no other way to spend American dollars in England. Pausing between wind-swept vistas, where the sheep were so plentiful they had to be nudged aside as we walked, Graham and I toured a few shrines of old world empire such as the monumental country estate of the Duke of Devonshire, known as Chatsworth.

After feasting our eyes on the plunder, uh… treasure from all over the world collected — and nicely displayed it must be said — at this glorious estate surrounded by the Duke’s 65,000 square acres of green, green, green rolling meadows, streams, hills and dales, Graham and I headed to Chatworth’s tasteful lunch room for salmon, tea and cakes.

The latter (seen here) involved a delectable tribute to English culinary wisdom — containing at least 600 or so calories — called a “Bakewell Pudding.” Now Bakewell is a nearby, impossibly quaint hamlet, centuries old and built of venerable grey stone cottages. And its gift to the world is, by all accounts, a variety of dessert involving custard tucked into a flaky, buttery crust, with a bit of jam spread along the bottom. This is dessert before there was panna cotta, before there was cheesecake or lemon meringue pie. Before donuts. This is dessert to make a grown woman weep. Given that I was never going to be able to afford to return to this neck of the woods, I said “yes!” when offered the extra cholesterol incentive of clotted cream (the voluptuous cousin of butter) atop my already richer-than-Bill-Gates “pudding.”

Some things do not need improving. Ever. By anyone. The Bakewell Pudding is one of them.

We just returned from a breakfast outing to an establishment north of Santa Cruz - old place, new revamp - that can’t possibly be serious about serving food. It can’t actually desire to win the hearts and minds of customers. Can it?

I mean it took thirty minutes for three separate wait staffers, at least two managers that we could see (maybe more in the wings) and someone in the kitchen to FINALLY produce two out of three dishes worth eating. My pancakes was devoid of flavor. Wait. They did have some flavor. And it was not good. Plus the pancakes were the size of hubcaps on steroids, thick and dry as old sponges left out in the sun.

Dry, flavorless and thirty minutes in the making. Not a recipe for success.

Surely this isn’t an actual restaurant? and if not, what is it? Hmmmm.