When I was younger I would regularly attend Grateful Dead shows, The Glastonbury Fest, Lollapalooza, the Oregon Country Faire, and the like (this was pre-Burning Man). At the end of each of these festivals, I would head back to reality wiping away tears, sweat and grime, stunned by the thundering display of humanity and spirit present during the gathering of so many souls. Speaking generally, a fair bit of mood-heightening substances would likely have been consumed over the course of several days, which helps to splay the psyche and let crude emotions come pouring in.  Rejoining with reality felt like spluttering through the stratosphere then crashing into the atmosphere without a parachute. No amount of arm-flapping could protect me from the splintered thwack of contact with unyielding earth. The International Food Bloggers Conference was much the same, but without the drugs and rock and roll. (There was plenty of sex. Food bloggers have DIRTY minds, as you’ll see if you follow the #IFBC hashtag running commentary of the conference on twitter.)

Jason Stratton, best new chef, finishes a Spinasse dish

I am trying to cull my thoughts into a cohesive stream of information that might be useful for my readers, but I feel like a saturated band-aid has been ripped off a still-seeping gash. There was so much information to parse, my brain is spinning like a cpu looking for various nooks and crannies in which to store chestnuts of data. The best part about the conference was not the speakers. It was not the questionable temperature control, the wrapped mints and urine cakes in the glamified porta-potties, it was not even the food. The single-most powerful thing about attending IFBC was the glorious mind-meld that inevitably takes place when over 300 (aspiring and actualized) industry leaders from a burgeoning field come together to eat, drink and be merry. The sum of every individual was raised to the highest common denominator of our parts. We were all able to surreptitiously bask in the “picture-making” sepia glow of what it might be like to be Penny De Los Santos, if only for a too-brief, visually orgasmic slide presentation. We all felt the collective heave of wrenching back what is right from The Man when Robin Goldstein successfully wrestled the ethical golden ticket away from Robert Schroeder of the Federal Trade Commission with only the use of his skillful silver tongue and the cerebral heft behind his words. After so many displays of awesome talent, I am left nearly bereft of words, and those are the things I always have in abundance. Five second pacts over tamales and Kilt-lifter cemented friendships for life, leaving me simultaneously gnashing at the bit to make a masterpiece with my words, lens, hands, and high heels, and also just a little bit verklempt- overcome by the utterly-endowed group of brilliant individuals.

Vignettes. Shauna from Gluten Free Girl made everyone feel extra special when she invited the lot of us to sample a berry crumble she had made along with her husband from berries gathered outside their Vashon doorstep on a dewy, late-summer morning. Chef John from Food Wishes let me in on a brilliant upcoming post idea he has involving twitter streams-of-consciousness, whilst we drank sherry after sherry from cups we stacked end to end as though we were at a keg party. I played hookie with some cool kids like Michael Natkin and Georgia Pellegrini during lunch, wherein we traipsed over to the bar-formerly-known-as-The-Triangle and downed drinks brought to us by none other than Captain Jack Sparrow.  A speaker took the stage at the first moment they started to project the live twitter stream for all to see in the front of the room. The first tweet to hit the screen: This speaker moonlights as a phone-sex operator. Written by Yours Truly, projected by accident, prompting gales of laughter much to the confusion of the speaker, totally unbeknownst to me that it would be there for all to see. I sheepishly hunkered down in my seat, and they quickly removed the feed. Nathan Myhrvold, author of the upcoming, controversial, exhaustive tome, Modernist Cuisine, won my heart as he completely geeked out during his presentation on all things sous vide, foam, gel, and Maillard. He showed us how he cuts things like Le Creuset dutch ovens and Weber Grills in half to get his remarkable images, as well as throwing in some gratuitious shots of slo-mo popcorn popping and wine glass shattering. Incidentally, the price of the book (which oscillates from the high $400 to the mid $600 range on Amazon) does not seem outlandish to me considering that the Oxford English Dictionary sells frequently and historically for $1000, and with that you don’t get images or recipes.

The sheer strength of social media and the realization that I am entrenched in that- a little fava in a big pod- brought out an unparalleled evocative emotional response in me. Collectively, we have the power to incite food revolutions, get generations back in the kitchen, and knock-back an impressive amount of wine while we’re doing it. I cracked jokes and made light of issues with the best of them (I’m looking at you, Seattle Food Geek and Chef Reinvented) but inside, a little ember of surging possibility kept me warm with a surefire, confident knowledge that the future is indeed, very bright.

I had never been to the Corson Building but have been very happy with head chef Matt Dillon’s other enterprises around Seattle (including the newly revamped Sitka and Spruce) so thought it would be an appropriate setting for our third anniversary.  The actual structure and grounds of the building itself cast a spell on me the moment I arrived, and Jonas and I spent an enchanted half hour sipping an aperitif walking the spaces in marvel.  An Italian family is responsible for the building and it shows in the quality construction. It’s worth going to the Corson Building for the ambience alone.  I was able to snap some photos in the kitchen of our upcoming meal, and it was a good thing too, since once we were seated there was very little opportunity for photography. 

Saturday evening meals are done communally at the Corson building, with essentially four tables that each seat eight people. If you are fortunate you will dine with jovial compatriots as passionate about food and wine as yourselves, or maybe not. We got lucky with most of our table mates, the couple across from us regaled us with tales of the inner workings of being defense attorneys- talk about the underbelly of society! 

The other reason I wouldn’t have been able to photograph the food is that the dishes are served family-style for the entire table of eight, and since we were at the foot end of the table, by the time each platter reached me it was no longer in a terribly photogenic state.  I think this is a brilliant way to set up an evening, and I don’t think concessions or adjustments based on dietary preferences are necessary, however the menu should be posted in advance so diners can choose whether to attend that particular dinner.  When my husband called to make the reservation they basically asked if any food would kill him, which it won’t, though the fact that he doesn’t eat seafood or mushrooms limited him to just two courses of the entire meal, which is significant considering what you’re paying.  Again, I don’t think a chef should make apologies for the menu he creates, and diners should be encouraged to step out on a culinary limb and eat outside their comfort zone, just make the menu available in advance. 

This particular evening the menu consisted of smoked trout with pickled vegetables and fiddlehead ferns, brine-cured local lox with crème fraiche, bresaola with raw beets, fennel and dill as well as horseradish and purslane to start.  Next we moved to a delicate halibut bone broth with steamed halibut and mussels from Taylor’s shellfish along with watercress, and lovage.  It was the standout dish of the night.  Next were soft shell crabs served with porcini mushrooms on a walnut sauce, followed by duck eggs with morels from Cle Elum served with leeks and caraway seeds.  We completed the savory dishes with duck from Stokesberry Farm braised in red wine with fennel, green garlic, asparagus, spring onions, and pea shoots accompanied by duck fat fried potatoes with pork belly cured like pancetta but flat, not rolled.  Dessert was an effervescent sorbet made with goat’s milk yogurt finished with strawberries and two types of shortbread cookies.  I greatly appreciate their use of local producers such as Stokesberry Farms and Taylor’s Shellfish.

We went to the Corson Building on the evening of the soft-opening for Sitka and Spruce, the head chef’s other local restaurant, so naturally he was attending to the details of the opening and not at the Corson Building.  I wish he had been with us instead, although I understood the circumstances.  I think perhaps the food suffered a little in his absence as well.  All of the elements were there, but several of the dishes fell flat upon execution. Sometimes too many ingredients marred the natural elegance of the base flavor in the dish, as was the case with the bresaola. Bresaola is my favorite cured cut of meat, made from beef eye of round.  Perhaps my expectations are too high, given that. The bresaola itself was perfectly cured, perfectly sliced and a thing of beauty. Unfortunately too many ingredients masked its flavor, and it wasn’t just me as I asked around the table if folks knew what meat they were eating and most of them thought it was a very mild pork. Had it been allowed to stand with fewer accoutrements it would have shone brighter.  The stronger dishes were the less complicated ones, such as duck braised in wine, and duck eggs with mushrooms.  I was surprised that the delicate halibut in clear broth was so delightful given that it was much more refined in presentation than everything else. In fact it was the only dish that was served individually to each patron. 

A quick note on the wine: the sommelier is a self-proclaimed Francophile, which is a wonderful thing to be most of the time. I love French wines, almost as much as I love Piedmontese wines, so I was mostly happy with his wine pairings.  I wish there were a bona fide red-only wine pairing, as we opted out of the whites, though instead of adding additional reds to our pours, he simply poured us more glasses of the two reds in his original pairing.  In retrospect I probably would have gotten a bottle or two of something I really loved, then maybe had a glass or two of his selections if they intrigued me.  Since the meal lasts from 6:30 until 10ish (which is long by American standards, though short and early by Italian ones) you could easily bring a few bottles and just pay corkage, sampling from his glass pours when they tickle your fancy. 

On the whole it was a Seattle dining experience I would recommend, though next time I go I will make sure Matt Dillon is in the house and I will attempt to learn the basics of the menu of the evening as well.

Next time you find yourself cruising South Genessee Street, stop into Flying Squirrel. If the Herb Alpert Pizza is on the menu that night, don’t hesitate to order it.  Follow it with a Molly Moon’s Salted Caramel Ice Cream Sandwich. You can thank me later!

Sitka and Spruce has been at the top of my very short list of must-try Seattle establishments for countless moons.  While I can make excuses galore about why I haven’t managed to venture in for crudités until now, the real reason is the façade.  Every time I drive by, a little wave of excitement bubbles up inside until I see Subway slinging sandwiches next door and my pitter-pattering heart halts with a shudder.  I honestly cannot figure out why on earth Sitka and Spruce is quaintly nestled between a drycleaner and a franchise sub shop in a dinghy stripmall circa 1992, but I no longer care. 

The place reminds me of high school gym class.  In the beginning of a semester you were supposed to demonstrate your lack of prowess in any number of demeaning athletic activities, only to improve over the course of several months until at the end of the class you were doing back-flips off the high beam.  I would always deliberately underwhelm Mr. Tinker, the Green Beret dropout-cum Gym teacher on the first day.  That way, when I would progress 300% by the final coup de grâce I could ensure myself at least one A+ on my frequently questionable report card.  Sitka and Spruce is much the same in the sense that you are not blown away at first glance, but once inside things just keep getting better and better until you leave bursting at the seams of satisfaction and blissfully intent to return again soon. 

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Mark Fuller of West Seattle’s newish and dramatically acclaimed Spring Hill Restaurant is going to cost me close to $200, never mind the bill from dinner the other night.  In fact it’s a damn good thing this place is not around the corner from me, because if I were eating there weekly, my kitchen could not handle the amount of sheer gadgetry this hot new chef would unwittingly inspire me to go out and buy.  I have been just fine for the last 30something years without a pasta sheet maker or ravioli former.  I’m a bit of a purist when it comes to my pasta; I prefer hand-rolled, stretched and cut, and until now saw no reason to change that.  I’ve never been a big fan of buying extraneous kitchen junk because all the “things” in the world do not a chef make.

 In college, when I had left behind my father’s Henckels and before I could afford decent knives of my own, I took my cue from Uncle Pauly of GoodFellas and sliced my garlic with plain old razor blades.  Fast, effective and no-frills has always served me well in the kitchen, but after one night at Spring Hill, that’s all gone out the window.  You see, I’ve acquired a new obsession with making the perfect raviolo, and I don’t think any amount of hand-rolling and finger-crimping is going to cut it this time. Read more

I had the opportunity to dine at Artisanal Brasserie in the newly-minted Bravern in downtown Bellevue last night.  During this first two weeks, which they’re considering a “soft-opening,” there are obviously some kinks to work out.  Because it is early days still, I don’t think it’s entirely fair to judge based on infinitesimal details, but rather, to evaluate whether the concept and its execution will become a ray of hope in Bellevue’s embarrassingly franchised dining scene.  While the Bravern itself is a source of hot contention among naysayers who feel this economic climate was not the appropriate time to introduce such opulence to Bellevue, projecting that negativity to Artisanal by association is thoroughly misguided.   Besides, West Bellevue is a freakish anomaly of the economic crisis in terms of its relative resilience to strife, so I would urge the Negative Nancy’s of the 425 (and the 206 as it were) to give the place a chance before stooping to blog-bashing and Yelp-yapping that just brings us all down in the long run.  Read more