Feast Blog

My hairdresser, his boyfriend, and I stopped by Uva Enoteca after a haircut one Monday evening. This is of note as my hairdresser is in Lower Haight and there are only a few restaurants open on Mondays in that neighborhood (we usually go to RNM). The atmosphere in Uva is dark and subtle, warm and inviting. There is a bit of an oddity with the Zeppelin music in the background, but I kinda liked it. As it was my hairdresser’s birthday, I brought a homemade cake and the waitstaff were more than gracious in holding the cake for us as well as cutting and serving it after our meal. When we sat, we were given a small bowl of green olives. They were gone so quickly and thankfully, the waitstaff offered more. What *are* those giant, bright green olives?

The three of us started with three cocktails;
~ Prosecco Cocktail with peach bitters and a bit of sugar.
~ Miele Frizzante – Carpano antique, orange, peach bitters, and Heidrun buckwheat blossom mead. VERY odd cocktail; the mead made it seem like a light, fruity hefeweizen. Interesting, but not something I think I’d order again.
~ In Bocca Al Lupo – Lillet blanc, chilies, basil, prosecco and coconut salt. Too much chilies for me; spicy.

They have a very extensive wine list and we let the owner(?) offer a suggestion. He came up with a Barbera d’Alba, “Gisep,” Massolino from Piemont.

Loving the nosh, we again put ourselves in the hands of the capable staff; bring on a bunch of meat, a bunch of cheese, and some appropriate side dishes.

We started with the crudo of the day; on that day, tuna with olive oil and salt. As my hairdresser’s BF is a professional fish-monger, he confirmed my compliment that it was a great quality fish.

Next the meats and cheeses arrived. They offer various assorted sized plates and offerings and so five of each seemed a good compromise; Prosciutto di Parma, Bresaola from Bernina Montevideo, Coppa di Testa from Boccalone, orange and fennel from Boccalone, and a hot Soppressata from the Bronx. Sorry I can’t remember the five cheeses, but I can remember the accompaniments with the cheeses; truffled honey, a lemon/pepper condiment, and Marcona almonds.

Also served was chunks of fresh bread, eggplant caponata (a bit on the spicy side for me but still enjoyable), roasted asparagus with lemon aioli and Parmigiano (very fresh and nicely crunchy with person aioli), and fresh beans with pancetta and onions (I ate most of these, but I am obviously the veggie eater in the group). We should have stopped, but we were intrigued with the Semolina gnocchi with speck. Of all the dishes we ordered, the gnocchi was the least successful. Perhaps I’m spoiled with Sean O’Brien’s gnocchi but these were on the gummy side and with the speck and no sauce, way too dry. It needs SOMETHING moist on the plate and there was nothing.

I have to admit that there were a number of desserts which looked intriguing and I wished I could have tried the pumpkin cake with vanilla gelato, apples, saba, and pinenut brittle, but we had this cake I made instead. Again, the waitstaff was amazing and I would go back in a heartbeat.

My old friends are well-seasoned in the ritual of my annual Cassoulet. The ritual is simple; once a year, the duck fat flowing in my veins runs thin and like a fine automobile requiring its regularly scheduled quarts of oil, my body begins its craving for this unctuously rich dish, redolent with duck confit, over three pounds of pork products, duck fat, and Tarbais beans. I have written in the past how I came about using my favorite recipe, Paula Wolfert‘s Toulouse-Style Cassoulet. It takes three days to make. It is a labor of love. I have to order specialty ingredients from a local importer, Joie de Vivre. I soak my beans and season my pork. A ragout is made a day in advance and the beans and duck and pork products are layered in the specially-designed bowl by Clay Coyote and baked for several hours.

Fearing my guests won’t have enough to eat, I supplement the evening’s offering with cheese and wine, crudité and charcouterie, stuffed mushroom caps and goat-cheese filled endive studded with port wine- and spice-soaked dried figs and candied pecans, an Alsatian onion tart and caviar. There were desserts and friends. Yes, the evening is truly all about the warmth of sharing the goodness of the richness of great food with the richness of true friendship.

I have truly fabulous friends. They brought the wine; some bubbly to start the evening with, a Moet Chandon Champagne. But then the magic: Without being told it was traditional, every one who brought a bottle, contributed that special juice which is traditional with cassoulet, a California Pinot Noir or a French Burgundy (they are the same grape, after all). From California, we reveled in an ’07 La Crema from Sonoma, an ’06 Domaine Alfred Chamisal Vineyard from Edna Valley, an ’03 Marimar Estate Don Miguel Vineyard from the Russian River Valley, and a very special ’98 Olivet Lane Estate, also from the Russian River Valley. That ’98 Olivet was a close companion with the French ’95 Blagny La Piece sous le Bois.

There has been requests for a second bowl this very cold, wintery season. The fact that San Francisco is experiencing unseasonably cold weather might demand an encore; several friends have considered chipping in for the ingredients, only to divide up the portions for T.V. dinners (it freezes VERY well and I have been known to go through the effort of a second production just for the left-over factor). I was to create a second go-around. In making the ragout for the cassoulet, I was left with a quart or so of the seasoned broth. Not wanting any of it to go to waste, I seared up a few Italian sausages, sautéed some mirepoix with pancetta, and recooked the broth with some Rancho Gordo Yellow Indian Woman Beans. Heartier than the creamy Tarbais beans, the second version of the cassoulet was in some ways, more satisfying than the first — but maybe because I got to relish these leftovers over a few days in the quiet of the apartment without all the pageantry. Just a good friend stopping by for lunch, a mug of eggnot latté, and the cat who knows he gets to lick the bowl when I’m done.

Ah, Chez Panisse… what happened?

Meeting new friends T and S for dinner this evening, the general camaraderie and lusty, culinary conversation could not belie the fact that our
California Icon is becoming a pale reflection of itself. I would like to believe that I am simply so jaded in being able to receive the finest of California’s abundant produce and ingredients, that knowing I am walking into a temple of what should be arguably the finest ingredients available, would entitle me to one of the finest meals available. Sadly, this simply was not to be. However, starting our first heavily-vegetabled course, we ordered a half-bottle of Spanish Albarino do Ferreiro which was perfectly light and clean; almost Sauvignon Blanc-like without the astringency.

After a bowl of Lucques Olives and Acme Bread, we were served our first course of grilled leeks with mustard vinaigrette, beets, and house-cured pancetta. Not listed in the ingredients but obviously an integral part which was included was hard-boiled egg. I am an intense leek aficionado but was initially concerned that the sultry leek flavor that I love so much was masked by the montage of other flavors which were far from cohesive. It was not that any one component was over-powering the rest, but the lifeless, limp leeks, in their stringy and chew state, did nothing to elevate the smallish chunks of yellow beet and occasional crouton. The bastion of fresh ingredients was beginning to falter

For our next course, we ordered a full bottle of Vina Caneiro, Ribeira Sacra which was adequate, but far too young to show any depth or integration.

The main course of the evening was described as Daube d’agneau aux herbes; Cattail creek lamb shoulder with herb-scented soufflé, fall greens, and carrots Vichy-style. Being the showcase protein, the first bite I took was of the lamb. While tender, I was immediately overwhelmed with the saltiness of the sauce. After that, I was underwhelmed with the overall flavor of the lamb; it simply did not provide that unctuous lamb flavor one grows to expect from the Panisse experience. The herb soufflé proved to be the highlight of the evening but was farm from groundbreaking. It was quite simply a very well-prepared, miniature herb soufflé; light, accessible, and with a perfectly-portioned amount of herbs where too many could have been its detriment. The “fall greens” as far as I could tell were simple braised Swiss chard (which I enjoyed) but the “Vichy-style” carrots were limp and mushy to a point just shy of that which one would find in a can. Here was an opportunity to demonstrate the freshness of an ingredient, and instead they were overcooked to become lifeless, flaccid members.

We were given the option of a cheese course before our dessert. From St. Helena, Haiku, a goat’s milk cheese, from Wisconsin came Marissa, a sheep’s milk cheese, and another locally produced icon, Red Hawk from Cow Girl Creamery. The cheese was served with an accompanying bowl of chopped persimmons and three dates as well as a platter of thinly sliced nut bread. I still never bother with any flavored breads as a vehicle for cheeses, the dates themselves were the highlight of this course. The cheeses themselves, while not overtly bad in any regard, were simply too similar in their lack of depth as to distinguish themselves.

The formal dessert course was listed as a poached pear tart with muscat sabayon. I only needed two or three bites of this to know there could be no salvation for the evening’s catastrophe. The pears — like the carrots — were so far beyond their state of freshness as to invoke concepts of can-dom. To inspire and imply a fruit or vegetable is fresh, I believe a level of “toothiness” is required, akin to a great pasta being a dente. These pears exhibited the same insincere mushiness as our carrots. The crust was soggy and flavorless, and the muscat sabayon lacked any tang or sweetness as to even suggest any other ingredient than dairy. It was all so desperately sad.

We
discussed and debated our meal during its transgression. The service — far from being warm and inviting, was perfunctory and cold. Where was the spark that was missing? I had dined at Chez Panisse several times before and thought that perhaps my palate is simply becoming jaded, however my dining companions seemed as unimpressed as I; has this simply become a destination restaurant for the occasional diner and the tourist, the way travelers to Paris feel they must visit the Louvre? Like those who feel compelled to worship at any other venerated cathedral without the introspection of the implied worship, I believe the religion that is Chez Panisse has lived beyond its time and is a mythological anthem that no longer exists except in the reverence and adoration of its devotees. It is a religion of yesteryear.