A Drink at Drink and Dinner at Oak + Rowan — Boston, MA — A Bar and Restaurant Recommendation

Last weekend was my and Chef Reiton's anniversary (WOOHOOOO!), so we decided to do that go-do-a-night-on-the-town thing to celebrate our six years of awesomeness. One of my besties got us a hotel room down in the Seaport district, a section of Boston that used to be SCARY but has recently made huge strides in becoming possibly the hippest neighborhood to play and live in, and with reservations to a new bar and a new restaurant to try, we hopped in an Uber and headed downtown with our overnight bag in tow.

After check-in and a cat nap, we walked over to a bar we had been wanting to try for a while called Drink. We arrived shortly after it opened for the evening and headed down the stairs to be welcomed at the bottom by the hostess. I could see it was already hopping inside, despite only having been open for half an hour—and I mean "hopping" to the point that the hostess asked if we were okay standing at the bar while we waited for a seat to open.

"Sure!" we said. "No problem," and we were led to a private little section of bar that was actually a door through the bar front and only about a foot deep. This, I realized, I liked as soon as our bartender walked up. It was personal and intimate bar service like I'd never had before.

As we waited for our drinks, I took a good look around. A bare-bones establishment of concrete, black pipe, brick and Edison bulbs, Drink's decor vibe is definitely lacking—for some. If you like to go eat or drink at restaurants just because they look pretty, Drink is not for you.

HOWEVER...

if you love a bartender that treats you like an old friend, fries that will blow your mind and cocktails created just for you and your specific taste for...je ne sais quoi, Drink is for you.

I could have stayed at Drink all night, but our dinner reservation at Oak + Rowan was drawing nigh. We thanked Jackie, our bartender, for a wonderful afternoon and headed out the door and up the stairs—which were now packed with a long, long line of people that went out the door and was beginning to wend its way down the block. Note to self: visit Drink at 4:10 PM (and ask for Jackie!).

Oak + Rowan, it turns out, is another minimalist restaurant. Elegant and warm but simple and clean (with windows galore—love!), we were greeted with warmth and welcome and seated in a lovely corner booth. And the warmth and welcome continued when our server, Patrick, approached the table and began what would be an absolutely heavenly evening. Yes, it was a bit pricey. And, yes, you pay for your bread at Oak + Rowan. But you are so SO happy you did once you take your first, warm, homemade, chewy, sourdough-y, date-buttery bite.

And then there is the butter gem lettuce salad sprinkled with flower petals and cherries. 

And the gnocchi drizzled with nettle (yes, nettle) pesto and nestled in mozzarella and the prettiest broth you ever did see.

And then...the dessert. THE DESSERT. I don't remember what it was called, but ask for the deconstructed Twix bar sent from the gods, and you won't be sorry. Maybe sick with happiness at this point, but definitely not sorry.

As we waddled our way back to the hotel, oh, the swoons. The sighs! The evening could not have been more deliciously perfect. 

The whole weekend could not have been more perfect, actually. And we keep finding ourselves talking about the Seaport and it's lovely inhabitants and saying to each other, "Let's go back. Soon."

Celebrating with Nathan Miller, the Chocolate Love of My Life

This past weekend was a weekend of celebration.

I celebrated another year on this beautiful planet of ours with THE love of my life and the people who allowed me to enter into it (I say "allowed" because I've been a difficult one from the start; abortion was an option for my parents multiple times, and they said "No, thank you," for which I am forever grateful).

I also celebrated being given the opportunity to do the very first book reading and signing of my first book, Marley Eats His Vegetables (or you can purchase a physical copy on Blurb.com). The event was planned by my old hometown library, Coyle Free Library, as part of their grand re-opening after a gorgeous remodel.

What an incredible day! The townspeople came out in droves (more proof that the idea of libraries going by way of the dodo is a bunch of hooey), and I got to read my book to a bunch of the cutest little kids I've seen in a long time. I met amazing local authors—Ron Keener, Jennie Brown, Sherri Maret and Esther Jones—and even more amazing townsfolk: Selma Thomson who had just turned 100 and was such a pleasure to talk to. Old friends I haven't seen in decades. A mom who encouraged me in a way I don't think she realized how much it meant: thanking me for writing a book that her daughter who struggled with learning to read loved and could read, and I got to talk to the little girl about the truth that it didn't matter how long it took her to learn; what mattered was that she was being persistent.

It truly was such a special day, and so to celebrate and keep it local, my family and I decided to go to Roy Pitz Brewing Company, an establishment I would highly recommend to both locals and those of you who pass through Chambersburg, PA, for whatever reason. It's always got great food and outstanding brew, and the waitstaff are always super friendly, too.



As we were finishing our giant mugs of beer, my mother reminded me to save room for dessert, not for leftover birthday cake but for Nathan Miller's to-die-for chocolate, sold in the same warehouse down the hallway from Roy's.

Nathan makes—and I am not exaggerating in any way—the best chocolate I have ever had. Crafted in tiny batches with beans that he sources from all over the planet, Nathan can literally take you around the world through chocolate, right from his tiny shop in good, ol' Chambersburg, PA.

This weekend we tried chocolate from Guatemala, a deep, dark, grassy chocolate. It was absolutely delicious (pairing nicely with his rich, nutty-and-caramel-y coffee), but it was the bite of his Buttermilk chocolate bar that sent me over the edge. So smooth, so rich and ever-so-slightly salty. It was what I always imagined Willy Wonka's bar to taste like—only a hundred times better.

Averaging about $8.00 a bar, NM chocolate bars make an excellent little gift, the kind where you don't want to spend a lot but still want to show a sincere token of your appreciation. Believe me, anyone who receives a gift of an NM chocolate bar will take one bite and know that your "little" token—and your "thank you"—are HUGE.

I know that my appreciation was huge. To end my incredible day with Nathan, the chocolate love of my life, and bites of his incredible chocolate?

Oh, sigh. There just could not have been anything better. 

Sidney at Willoughby Run — Gettysburg, PA — A Restaurant Recommendation

When my siblings and I visit my parents in southern Pennsylvania, we tend to have the tradition of going out to eat at least once at my parents' favorite restaurant, Cafe D'Italia, located on the square of downtown Chambersburg. It's a delightful little place that offers real Italian cooking by a young chef who loves what he does.

This past visit, however, Cafe D'Italia was closed for renovations. My sisters and I wanted to take my parents out to celebrate their anniversary, and so we were a little bit stumped. What was close by but worthy enough to honor my parents for their anniversary dinner?

After some research, my eldest sister came up with a solution: Sidney at Willoughby Run in Gettysburg, PA. The reviews seemed to be pretty good, and so we took the plunge.

After living in Chicago and Boston more than half my life, I have to admit, I've become pretty accustomed to having my pick of super-great restaurants. I no longer fear reheated frozen vegetables on my dinner plate at the local "nice" restaurant. But when I'm back in my small hometown in ol' PA, it's pretty hard to find a place that doesn't serve just that.

So that is what I was honestly expecting when we drove up to Sidney's. It was located on a golf course, so that right there meant weddings. And when we walked in, the decor was nice, but it still had that "hotel" feel to it. You know, large rooms with "elegantly" patterned, wall-to-wall carpet. And wainscoting. And draperies. Which was all translating to "canned gravy+slices of dry roast beef" in my head.

And I was wrong. Dead wrong.

Let me just put it this way: I was shocked—SHOCKED—at not only the homey hospitality that was exuded by the staff of Sidney's but also by what the chef was cranking out of the kitchen. Every single dish we tried was delicious, beautifully presented, and accompanied by the sincerest charm of our server. I was so engrossed, in fact, that I actually forgot to take pictures!

I take that back. I did snag a shot of my parents toasting each other with the champagne that our server graciously provided to help them celebrate:

And I did get a shot of the glorious dessert we all shared, a creation composed of sour cherry sorbet, baby panna cottas, cilantro flowers, torn and dried cake crumbles, and crisp, piped meringues.

It was a spectacular end to a spectacular evening, an anniversary celebration that we all were looking forward to, and none of us expected to be so special. 

Will we all be going back? Heck, yeah. Cafe D'Italia has got some competition finally, I believe. Anniversary or not, I think we'll find an excuse to go back to Sidney's. It's chef and it's staff have done what every restaurant dreams of doing: they completely won over our hearts.

Keep it up, Sidney. We expect to see you next time.

A Childhood Classic or A New Classic Cocktail?: The Baldwin Bar's Take on Encyclopedia Brown

Ran and Company have done it again.

After spending the entire day yesterday impatiently waiting for evening to arrive, Chef Reiton and I drove to Woburn and spent the dinner hour with some friends, sampling dishes and creations from Volume 2 of the Trading Company's newest menu.

May I suggest, based on our completely destroying all five dishes brought to our table, the Cucumber with Garlic Sauce as an appetizer? It will leave your mouth singing, but your tongue will get used to it, I promise. We also loved the House Special Eggplant, one of Sichuan Garden's chicken dishes that will not leave your nose running (Ran's father runs the restaurant portion downstairs; it is the best Sichuan food you will ever eat. For real.). When it comes to the beverages, I also highly recommend that you just let the staff pick what you drink. Trust me.

We had the great pleasure to be served by Luteh, who can not only read minds but also has the uncanny ability to see into your past. How do I know? Because at the end of our meal, at my request to "just have one more," I was delivered this:

What you see is a little box disguised as a book. Tucked inside are a frosty flask full of the dreamiest (yes, dreamiest) bourbon cocktail I've had in a long time—if ever; a frosty glass with a wedge of lemon peel clothespinned to the rim; and a "library" card printed with the recipe for the cocktail: The Encyclopedia Brown.

(Pardon the imperfect picture, but it's romantically dark in the bar, and I was using my phone. One of these days I will take an Uber and my good camera and go crazy.)

I'm tempted to provide the recipe here, but—I'm a librarian and a violent opponent of copyright infringement, so.... I think you will have to go yourself. If you read the Encyclopedia Brown books as a kid, you'll remember that Encyclopedia Brown would never have stood for such injustice, either.

So. Instead of going to that truly God-awful Chinese restaurant down the street, make a reservation online for the upstairs section of The Baldwin Bar. Savor every bite of your mind- and tongue-numbingly good dinner, every divinely drinkable work of art that are the cocktails, and at the end of dinner, ask to check out "Encyclopedia Brown." It's a "read" you will never forget.

Yvonne's — Boston, MA — A Restaurant Recommendation

Yvonne,

I know we've only just recently started getting to know each other, but I feel that there is something I need to say: 

We've spent the evening together, what? Three times now? And every time you've been just spectacular. No matter what the evening brings, you always make me feel special. I can't help but leave you with a smile on my face. 

But this last time was different. Why? Because it was the night you truly stole my heart. It wasn't your dark, glittering beauty or your cheeky coquettishness or even your voluptuous menu. Although the baked oysters were divine, the bavette steak mouth-wateringly tender, and the Enchanted Catnip a fiery sight to behold—you had me completely when I overheard your server say to another guest, "I'm sorry; we don't have flavored vodkas. But we do have plain vodka that we flavor with our own housemade syrups."

My dear girl. You are the one.

With all my heart,

Rachael

P.S. You made it into the CAF recommended restaurant travel guide for Boston!

Taberna — Old Montreal, Quebec, Canada — A Restaurant Recommendation

Well, it's been a week since Chef Reiton and I got back from a little trip we took up to Montreal. It's a quick five-hour drive from Boston, and after a different vacation plan fell through, we decided to take advantage of the city's close proximity to us and go for a visit across the border.

I have to admit, I was a smidge nervous. People I talked to beforehand kept asking, "How's your French? Everyone speaks French up there, you know..." HA! After not using it at all, despite the two years of classes in high school and a year in college, I could barely remember how to say "bonjour," much less piece together an actual sentence. And, honestly, the thought of losing the ability to easily communicate with those who were going to be around me for four days made me a little anxious. How was this trip going to go?

If I had had any idea of who we would meet within minutes of arriving in Montreal and the comfort he would give us in exploring his gorgeous city, I would have not spent the entire drive north frantically rehearsing how to say in French, "My name is Rachael. I speak a little French. I studied a little in school."

After hours of driving through the Northeast's burgeoning brilliance of fall color, Chef Reiton and I finally arrived in Old Montreal—and we were STARVING. We parked our car and dumped our bags at the loft we had rented, then headed down the street, looking for a restaurant that was open for lunch, me silently repeating "Bonjour!" over and over again in my head.

ENTER: Maxime and his absolutely delightful restaurant, Taberna.

Greeted at the door by a kind, smiling face and a "Bonjour! Hello!," I immediately let out a little sigh. We apparently had "TOURIST" written all across our faces. No matter. At least it eased my fear of bumbling my way through my long-forgotten French. We were immediately led past a service counter boasting a tower of delicious-looking pastries, past the open kitchen where food was being prepared, to a small table sitting in the light of the front window. My chair was graciously pulled out for me by our host (!), and we settled in for our first meal in Montreal.

What to order? It was difficult to decide. Every single item on the small menu (presented on mini clipboards) sounded delicious: piri-piri chicken, Portuguese charcuterie, croquettes, spicy grilled sausages, sardines and shrimp. And the wine list! Vinho verde—my new favorite white wine!

A few minutes later, our host returned to continue service as our waiter. He set a bowl piled with marinated olives and almonds down on the table, and then, in the most perfect French accent I had ever heard, answered Chef Reiton's question that, yes, the restaurant was Portuguese and modeled after a typical Portuguese tavern. The owner wanted to share the amazing food and warmth of his homeland with all, so he created Taberna, complete with stone walls, warm yet modern lighting and furniture, and painted wood floors.

Following a habit that I always practice, I asked our waiter his name. It was Maxime. We introduced ourselves as well and chatted about where he was from, where we were from, and what we should do while we were visiting. He then guided us through the menu a bit, took our wine order, and stepped away.

After intense but brief speculation due to our hunger pangs, Chef Reiton decided to ordered the piri-piri chicken with the 50/50 (a small salad AND fries!) and I, the piri-piri chicken sandwich with the 50/50. Having never heard of, let alone tasted, piri-piri, we were anxious to give it a shot. It was a type of pepper sauce used as a seasoning, and it sounded delicious.

Boy, was it EVER: spiced more than spicy and perfectly seasoned (although Maxime did bring Chef Reiton a little pot of a more spicy piri-piri). The salad was the most gorgeous side salad I had ever seen or tasted. Grilled peppers and squashes were scattered across the freshest of lettuces and jewel-like grape tomatoes. It was almost too pretty to eat. Even the fries were fantastic. It was plain to see and taste that the owner had not only crafted and fine-tuned a menu he loved, but the staff had likewise poured his love for his country into the food. 

As we wiped the crumbs from our hands and mouths onto our empty plates, Maxime came by and asked if we would like dessert—possibly a pastéis de natas, a Portuguese pastry?

Ohhhhhh, we would love to, but we were too full, we told Maxime. Maybe we would come back later to grab one when we had room. Maxime smiled as he cleared our plates away. Moments later he returned, the check in one hand and a bag in the other. "On me," he said. "I want you to have some." Inside were two still-warm pastéis.

Oh, world, that gesture, that kindness! We could not thank him enough—for everything. For the conversation. For such a wonderful meal. For his generosity. We told him that we would be back. And after biting into the pastéis that evening, I knew I had to go back, just to let him know how absolutely divine those pastries were.

The next morning we walked by Taberna on the way to breakfast. Maxime was out front, cleaning up the storefront. We called to him and trotted across the cobblestone street, extolling the divinity of the pastéis as we did so. A huge smile broke out on Maxime's face. He was so happy we enjoyed them so much. How we were doing? he asked. What had we done the day before? What were we up to today? He gave us a few more suggestions of what we could do and a big smile before sending us on our way.

And that was how every morning went. Maxime and his smile became our morning's ritual. On the last day we stopped by to say good-bye—and to buy some pastéis for the road. Maxime handed us our bag of pastries, then came out from around the counter with another bag—and a hug.

Taberna and Maxime are now lodged into my memory as a food experience that will never be forgotten. They have made Montreal not just a city to visit but a place where I can feel at home. That's not an easy feat for any host to do, let alone a restaurant.

But for Taberna, well—you'll see.

Creating a Foodie Travel Guides: Restaurant Recommendations

It's a blustery day here in Boston—a perfect kind of day to spend an afternoon in the kitchen, baking up some classic pound cake for a dinner party tonight with my amazing family and a dear friend. The house smells like butter, eggs and sugar, thanks to Rose Levy Beranbaum and her Cake Bible. Its warm aroma and the sound of the wind outside are christening the house with homey hints of the seasons to come...

Speaking of seasons to come, most of us do a bit of traveling over the holidays, and I have taken another step at helping you fellow foodies do what you love to do best: EAT. I find that I just don't have the time to write a post about all of the restaurants that I've been to and loved—both here at home and on the road—so I've started a Travel Guides section! Woohoo! 

You can find the tab to CAF's Travel Guides located right under the header here:

The main page lists the cities alphabetically. Click on a city to view "calling cards" for each restaurant that I absolutely LOVED in that city (sorry, mediocre restaurants. You must become worthy...). I provide the address and a mini description of what to expect for each one. If you click on a restaurant's "card," you will be taken to the restaurant's website or its Facebook page.

I hope you find it useful. It's definitely in the beginning stages, and there is a bit of a backlog...

Here's to safe travels and fabulous eating!

The Baldwin & Sons Trading Company — Woburn, MA — A Restaurant Recommendation

NOTE TO READER: The following letter is private. It is addressed to the new bar/love of my life. However, due to the nature of its delivery, I guess I am going to have to let you read it. 

Actually, please DO read it. It just may change your life forever, as well...

~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~

My dearest Baldwin & Sons,

I know we only met last night, but like Romeo and Juliet, one meeting is all it appears to have taken for you to become, in my book—how shall I put it?

IT.

As Shakespeare so astutely says, so will I:

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways...

So, here we go:

Reason #1 - You are beautiful.  I know that sounds incredibly shallow, but let's be honest: no one ever is immediately struck in a GOOD way with how ugly something is. Unless it is cute-ugly. Which you are not. You are striking. Well-kempt. Hip but classy. Well-balanced. Golden. Shall I keep going?...

Reason #2 - You are kind.  See? I'm not all about the looks. In fact, I believe I have to say that your kindness is more attractive than your beauty. (It's just that I didn't know it at first, and I'm going in order of occurrence.) Your genuine interest in my husband and I upon our meeting was rare in an establishment. We weren't just clients last night; we were friends. (Am I making you blush, yet?)

Reason #3 - You serve wickedly outstanding Sichuan dishes.  And as we all know, Sichuan is hot.  Enough said.

Reason #4 - Nika.  She corresponds about reservations and other such related matters at all hours of the day or night. Who ever heard of a bar hostess doing such a thing??? I actually forwarded her notes to my husband before we even met and said, "I love these people already..." See? It was a premonition.

Reason #5 - Van.  He made me my first cocktail (see below) and then proceeded to steer the rest of my dinner-time into an experience I will not forget in a long, long time...

Reason #6 - The Trader Vic.  What an opener! A Mai Tai that shook my notion of Mai Tais to its very foundations!

Reason #7 - The Southern Belle.  Can I just say that this was a revelation as to why I need to make cinnamon syrup TODAY??? She is a cocktail that is exactly as Van designed her to be: soft and demurely sweet but who can most certainly hold her own.

Reason #8 - Mick.  He quotes The Princess Bride.  Instant soul-attraction.

Reason #9 - You are generous. 

Reason #10 - The Prescription Sour.  Oh, glory be... Rum and scotch together? Who knew? (Sigh.)

Reason #11 - Patrick.  He, like Van, is a master. Truly, truly a master.  I could just watch and watch and watch...

Reason #12 - The Baldwin Apple Revised.  Everything about her was so sweetly irresistable: the foam. The little egg cup. The apple chips.  [aside] The frosting.

Reason #13 - You are unlike any other bar I've ever met.  And I've been to a lot.  A LOT.

Reason #14 -  Tyler.  How do you not love chatting about cocktails with someone who has a beard that rivals the finest of all beards? How?

Reason #15 - Ran.  The giant behind it all is THE one to thank, I know. I mean, you all run like the finest piece of clockwork. It's amazing to behold. And to enjoy...

Reason #16 - You are perfection.  So don't change. Ever. Unless you want to add some more life-altering cocktails. Then I'm okay with that.

I hope that the evening was as enjoyable for you... When we awoke this morning, the first thing Derrick and I said to each other was, "Last night was awesome." And we were talking about YOU.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

With many happy thoughts and fond memories, until we meet again,

Yours truly,

Rachael

The Ruby Slipper Cafe — New Orleans, LA — A Restaurant Recommendation

It's a frosty morning here in Mass.  I'm sitting here thinking of the weekend I just spent in New Orleans on the way to my cousin's wedding.  Christmas wreaths and garland hung on every lamp post along Canal Street—and I was wearing flip flops and a short-sleeved shirt.  I have to say, I didn't quite like it.  Part of that holiday-ish feeling comes from wanting to curl up in your house with the people (and animals) you love beside a roaring fire, not the air conditioner.

But when I ignored the Christmas decorations, I felt wonderful as I wandered those old city streets.  I hadn't been back to NOLA since our foodie honeymoon (read about Day One here, then read forward by clicking "Newer Post" at the bottom of each post for a rehash of the whole five days.) Boy, was it good to be back! We found a few more fantastic restaurants in our quick trip, all of which I cannot wait to visit again.

One of the restaurants we stumbled across is a cafe on Magazine Street called The Ruby Slipper Cafe.  It opened its doors post Katrina and has quickly become a local chain because it is so flipping good.  They called themselves "The Ruby Slipper" because the owners found that "there's no place like home."  I love it.  And the home vibe is truly a part of this place.  You don't feel like a customer; you feel like you have  known every employee for years, and they are just welcoming you back home for a bite to eat.

Okay, maybe not a bite to eat.  How about a pile to eat? Huge quantities.  And while we are on the topic of "home," everything is homemade.  From scratch.  Like, really.  If they don't do it themselves, they get small local bakeries, farms, coffee roasters, etc. to do it for them.  You can smell it.  You can taste it.  It is gosh darn DELICIOUS.

Chef Reiton got the Chicken St. Charles, a form of eggs Benedict: crispy fried chicken breasts on top of buttermilk biscuits and topped with poached eggs and Ruby's cream sauce.

I got the Migas, a bed of crispy tortilla strips piled with scrambled eggs, chorizo, tomato, cilantro, onion, and cheese, served aside a spicy sour cream and sliced avocado.

A special thank you goes to our server, Ronald.  Wonderful service.  Best smile ever.  Here he is after pouring me yet another cup of the best coffee I have ever had (seriously.  We bought a bag.):

Crazy good.  I may have a hard time even wanting to try other restaurants for breakfast the next time we visit.  

(As if that would be a bad thing...)

Using Offal Isn't So Awful...Really: Learning to Use Turkey Guts

This past weekend, Chef Reiton and I had the kids home for our "Thanksgiving" since we won't get to see either of them on the actual holiday.  We spent Friday night experiencing the "T," wandering the North End, and trying out Carmelina's amazing pasta and Modern Pastry's fresh cannoli:

YUM to both.  

Saturday was to be "Thanksgiving," so while the rest went winter coat shopping, I stayed home to work on a classic Thanksgiving dinner.  Little did I know what I would discover in my solitary moments in the kitchen that afternoon.

Right before he left, Chef Reiton pulled out the Cook's Illustrated cookbook The Best New Recipe and said, "Let's make this gravy for our dinner tonight."

"Yeah, sure!" I agreed, quickly noting that he was leaving the book open to a particular page and then turning back to what I was doing.  And then he left.

I finished setting out pots and pans and got ready to stoke the fires, then turned to read the recipe.

The recipe that was titled: "Giblet Pan Gravy."

GIBLET.  As in guts.  Innards.  Organs.  Gizzards.  Offal.

Never in my life had I touched giblets, much less cooked with them.  I quickly scanned the recipe to see if I could somehow skip the giblet part.  But alas—it is hard to skip the main ingredient that the recipe is named for.  

I read on in further detail.  What the recipe largely wanted me to do was to make a stock from the giblets.  And the neck.  And the tail.  Which I had to CUT OFF.  Oh, Lord, could this get any worse?

But, really, I thought, trying to calm myself down, a stock isn't so bad. I didn't have to cut anything up.  All I had to do was brown up the whole lot of parts in their entirety and then add some herbs and broth and water and let it all go.  I could do that...

So I did.

As I stood over what looked to me like witches' brew, steam began to rise up out of the pot and bubbles started blurping on the surface.  I took a stir or two when suddenly... DEAR GOD.

It smelled like Thanksgiving.

Oh, for all you believers in a no-giblet/organs/offal Thanksgiving dinner, you must believe me.  That smell that we associate with Thanksgiving, that amazing aroma that our grandmothers' kitchens always had for the holidays that we just haven't been able to replicate and we never knew why?

Offal is why. 

It is the ingredient that releases that intensely dark meaty fragrance into the air—and into your gravy.  I silently praised my husband for once again unknowingly teaching me a lesson about the adventures of food...and then found myself stirring the pot ridiculously more times than was probably necessary.

As the simmering time drew to its close, I read on to my next steps in the gravy making: strain the broth, cool the gizzards...

then chop them up and save them to add to the gravy LATER???

HELL, NO!!!

Brickhouse Pizza Pub — Fort Atkinson, WI — A Restaurant Recommendation

She's a beauty, isn't she?

Like every other good American would probably say, pizza is one of those five foods that if I was stuck on a deserted island and I had to pick one food that I would have to eat for the rest of my life, pizza would probably be it (besides chocolate peanut butter cup ice cream).  I could eat pizza every day, I think.  What you served on it wouldn't matter hugely to me, although I am definitely more of a traditionalist with my toppings.  You can hold the pineapple and the taco meat, thank you.

What I am particular about is the crust.  I grew up in a town full of amazing pizzerias run by Greek and Italian families.  Their pizza dough was like their bread: yeasty in aroma and flavor, with a crispy exterior, and a bubbly, chewy interior.  Good mandible strength was required when tucking into one of their giant pizza slices.  

When I moved to Chicago at the age of 17, everyone declared that I was moving to the best pizza in the world.  And while I would eventually agree that it was quite good, I missed—no, make that craved—the pizza from home.  There is only so much cheese that one person can eat in a sitting before things start acting a little scary, and who the hell cuts their pizza into squares, anyway? I mean, really.  And the dough? It just didn't even compare.  It was either too bread-y or too cracker-like.  Nope.  My Italian boys were missed.

Almost twenty years later I moved to Wisconsin, famous for its cheese curds and frozen custard.  Unfortunately, it looked like I would have to carry on with my pizza fantasies for another few years.  Pizza was nowhere near being a Wisconsin delicacy.

And then along came Brickhouse.

I was one of the original staff that opened this little restaurant in what became my new hometown.  On the day I interviewed to waitress, I sat across from two men, father and son, and admitted that I had never worked in the food industry in my life but that I loved people and I loved food and I would be the hardest worker they had.  They gave me the job, and I prayed that I would like the food.  Little did I know that their food standards would exceed even my own.

The day before opening all the waitstaff came to the restaurant for a tasting so that we would know some of the foods we would be promoting.  It was then that I learned that everything—the pizza dough, the sauces, the soups, the salsa, the bread, the nacho chips, the croutons—everything was homemade.  The only non-condiment item we didn't make were the desserts and the pasta.  The burgers were shaped by hand, the steaks hand-cut.  I walked into the kitchen and saw a tray full of roasted chickens being pulled out of the oven and soup stock simmering on the stove in a giant pot.  This was a restaurant I was going to be proud to work in.

First I tested the chips and salsa.  Delish.  Crispity chips with layers that shattered when you bit, and salsa that was nicely spicy and lime-y and fresh.

The soup was straight out of grandma's kitchen.  Full of flavor and stuff.  No thin, brothy stock here.

And the pizza?

The pizza.

The pizza...

That pizza that I had been dreaming of for the past twenty years? Right.  There.  The crispy-chewy crust.  The fresh tomato-y sauce.  The perfect amount of melty cheese.  Dear Lord, and I was going to work here!

That was four years ago.  I no longer work at Brickhouse, or "BH" as we affectionately call it in our house, but you can bet that when any of us talk about going out for dinner, it is an unspoken understanding that there is only one place we mean.  

Those two men who were my bosses? They are no longer my bosses.  They are my family.  

And that pizza? That pizza... (Scroll back up there and look at it!)

It's still my favorite pizza anywhere.

Blue Moon Restaurant — Lake Mills, WI — A Restaurant Recommendation

I cannot believe how quickly the summer is flying by.  We are almost to the middle of August, and for the teachers of Wisconsin, that means school is starting in a couple of weeks.  It's kind-of odd for me not to be returning to school at the end of the summer.  It's all I've known for almost 15 years.  Life is calling elsewhere, however; not just career-wise but location-wise, and so last night I got together with one of my best friends and former library aide, Judene, to get ready to say good-bye (but not yet, we are determined.  NOT YET.)

We decided to meet in a town that is about halfway between our two homes in a little town called Lake Mills.  It's an idyllic, American small town: beautiful, old homes line the main streets.  The downtown is quaint and surrounds a central park.  It's a place that I should have visited more often, but, typical of me, I never "found time" to.

Anyway, Judene just found out she is neighbors with the owner of a restaurant there, and since the establishment was already one of Judene's favorite date destinations, we decided to meet there for our girls' night.  The restaurant is called Blue Moon, and Judene described it as it having a very "NOLA" vibe.

New Orleans?!? I was in.

I got to the restaurant first, and, thanks to a rather stressful day, happily hit up the Happy Hour special: a dollar off all tap beers.  I sat at the bar and drank my Blue Moon and took a good look around.  The first thing I noticed was the great music: some seriously classic, old time-y blues. Definitely NOLA vibes. The decor? Deep dark blue walls lined with artwork of all kinds referencing blues or jazz music, New Orleans, or—you guessed it: moons. Stained glass windows hung in the storefront.  A silver pressed tin ceiling finished off the look.  I liked it.

At that moment Judene showed up.  Our evening got rolling, and I have to say: it was delightful.

What made Blue Moon stand out for me was the staff.  The creole was tasty (I did not try their famous pizza) and the atmosphere chill, but the staff are what make me wish I had found Blue Moon a long time ago.  By the time I walked out the door, I felt like I had just been let into a little family.  I know that all waitresses are not created equal, but our waitress, Liz, was genuine, kind, and conscientious.  When Judene, who has celiac, ordered a dish that she believed to be gluten-free, Liz came back a few minutes later to tell Judene that she had checked, just to be sure, and it wasn't.  What waitress does that? Obviously, one who cares.

The chef periodically came out from the kitchen and checked on every single table after their meal was served to make sure that everyone was happy.  We had no complaints, but even if we had, I'm sure we would have had that plate whisked off the table and re-served to our liking with his big, booming laugh to accompany it.

The owner, Sherrie, was there last night, too, and she talked to us for a bit after our meal.  What a darling woman! Another authentic, caring human being whose smile adds the final warming touch to a most decidedly happy place.

If you live in or near Lake Mills, I would definitely recommend giving this little place a visit.  I don't believe you will be disappointed.

Saying Goodbye to Mil-ee-wau-KAY: CAF is on the Move!

It's becoming increasingly hard to believe, but within a matter of weeks, we will no longer be residents of the great state of Wisconsin but instead be Beantowners.

While this is a transition that I have been looking forward to for a long time, there are many parts of this move that make me really sad, one of them being: we're losing Milwaukee.

If you have never visited the city of Milwaukee (we can't say that word in this house without referencing Alice Cooper in Wayne's World through the pronunciation), you are seriously missing out.  It is a fantastic little city: beautiful architecture, great walkability, AMAZING art museum, wonderful restaurants, and the best ballpark I have ever been to (yes, better than Wrigley).

To say good-bye properly, Derrick and I surprised Michael with a trip downtown this weekend.  First stop was The Safe House, a super fun restaurant whose spy theme begins with the restaurant signage itself being code named and concludes with a "spy mission" scavenger hunt throughout the entire establishment while you are waiting for your meal.  Here's Derrick reading our list of clues:

After eating a tasty lunch, we did a bit of wandering downtown:

 

Then if was off to the main event:

The highlight of the evening?

Michael caught a game ball hit by Shane Peterson! What a way to end our last home game ever!

We decided to top off the night with one last Milwaukee tradition: Leon's Frozen Custard, easily the best ice cream you will ever eat:

Despite the fact that I kept getting choked up at the thought of what was coming in the next few weeks, that day could not have been more fun.  

Mil-ee-wau-KAY, you have never let us down.  We will be back, old friend.  Just you wait and see.

The Norwegian Codfather—Chambersburg, PA

Okay, I feel like a jerk as I write this post...

You see, I thought I had written this post over a year ago because I'd been dreaming about this little shop for a year.  AND I told some very important people that I'd written it!  They probably think I am a total liar... Oh, geez.

So, my aim is to make it up to them.  (Tom and Pauline, this one's for you.)

Tom and Pauline, for those of you who have not had the delight of meeting them, own a small European grocery in my old hometown of Chambersburg, PA.  No offense meant to my heritage, but when I heard that they existed, I really did not know what to expect.  A European grocery? In Chambersburg?

But Luke, the fabulous chef from Cafe d'Italia just around the corner from them, recommended them to me for some fantastic prosciutto he had used on a white pizza.  The name of their establishment? The Norwegian Codfather.  I had to check them out...

OH, dear Lord, was I glad I did! The treatment! The finds! A deli case stocked with sausages, meats, and cheeses you can't find anywhere else: a sharp provolone that will take your lasagna from good to glorious.  Smoked bacon that I put on ice and drove for 13 hours so I could have some at home for breakfast. Caramelized goat cheese that you can shave into divine little curls and serve for dessert with fruit.  And then there's the licorice.  Licorice like you've never had before.  REAL licorice.  There's even one that is salted.  (My dad finds excuses to go into town just for that!)  And all of this Tom and Pauline offer you to try before you buy. You will even find yourself tasting items that you would never have asked (or thought you wanted) to try--because Tom and Pauline know: the foods they sell are superb, and all it takes is one taste...

On top of all this foodie wonder, The Norwegian Codfather sells random European baking and cooking ingredients that I've read about and wanted to try but have never been able to find without ordering it online.  Like pearled sugar for sprinkling on a braided lemon bread.  And rosewater for cocktails.  Juniper berries for a braised meat dish.

It really, truly is a shop you must explore, at least once.  And here's the ultimate reason why: after last year's visit, I absolutely HAD to go back this past Christmas break, and--can you believe it? They remembered me.

THAT, my dear foodie friend, is what Life is about.  Amazing food made even more amazing by the relationships we build with the people we share it with.  Even if it's just for an hour once a year.

**UPDATE as of Jan. 2016**

I am so sorry to see that the Norwegian Codfather has closed.  I made the discovery a little over a week ago when I tried to visit while back in PA.  Tom and Pauline, you will be greatly missed.  I hope that your closed doors have opened up a new adventure for you elsewhere! Best wishes to you both!

Cafe Selmarie — Chicago (Lincoln Square), IL — A Restaurant Recommendation

Tucked on the corner of a cute little pedestrian street in Lincoln Square, Cafe Selmarie is a delightful place to spend a late morning, catching up with your BF after months of being out of touch.  I recently spent a summer morning here for brunch with Julissa, one of my dearest friends and a foodie soulmate.

I ordered a sandwich, and Julissa ordered dessert.  Our thoughts?

The fried green tomato BLT: PERFECT.  Crunchy coating on the tomatoes, crisp bacon, soft brioche, tangy aioli.  Delish.

Julissa's chocolate lemon torte? Meh. We both found it quite bland.

It looked awfully pretty, but it was missing something.  I almost felt like it could have used a pinch of salt.  It just finished off flat.  The chocolate could have been a bit more heady, too.

Definitely would go back, though, and give other baked items a try.  And to have that BLT again...

Mickey's Diner — St. Paul, MN — A Restaurant Recommendation

There has always been an allure for me when it comes to old-fashioned diners (real ones, not the fabricated types). I don't know what it is about them, especially since I've never eaten in one.  Well, we're up in St. Paul, my hubby and I, for a mini  "us" weekend and a Postal Service concert, and look what popped up on Google maps as I was lounging in bed this morning, looking for a breakfast joint? 

YAHOOO!! Mickey's Diner! I couldn't believe our luck. And only a few blocks away!  Even better. We headed out for our short walk, visions of crabby old waitresses and a row of hunched shoulders dancing in my head. 

As anticipated upon entering, I was faced with a line of hunched backs and customers lining up against the walls. Who could expect anything else? The place is tiny. There's a counter and four booths--that's it. Red laminates the walls, and the woodwork, mirrors, and tableside jukeboxes look all to be original. 

The food was a long time coming, but our coffee refills were not, thanks to Chris.  He took the barking orders from the head waitress with a smile and could not have been more pleasant to his guests. 

Presentation didn't seem to matter at the diner, but after taking those first bites of piping hot food, I suddenly realized that it didn't matter to me, either.  

How can I explain it? The food was exactly what I always wanted diner breakfast to taste like; it was like eating in a dream: This is the way I've always imagined pancakes should taste. How is it that I'm tasting them for real?!? Somebody, pinch me, please! No, wait! DON'T! Everything was fried in butter.  You could smell it in the pancakes, see its golden brown influence on the tender omelet crust-- the fluffiest omelet I had ever seen. The bacon was real bacon, with my favorite mix of crunch and chew. 

I've died and gone to diner heaven, I thought as I forked one last bite into my mouth. There was still a quarter stack of cakes left, but I couldn't do it. My virgin diner experience was going to have to come to a close. 

I sighed and exhaled a "Yum." Yes, a very, very happy close.