by Christina Waters | Jul 19, 2007 | Home, Wine |
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.
by Christina Waters | Jul 18, 2007 | Food, Home |
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…)
by Christina Waters | Jul 16, 2007 | Food |
Where can I find “Profumo di Genova” basil? Seeds, plants, leaves – anybody got a source?
by Christina Waters | Jul 14, 2007 | Food, Home |
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.
by Christina Waters | Jul 14, 2007 | Home |
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.
