A Life Worth Eating

Fiercely loyal to my previous home of New York, I was slow to embrace Berkeley. Skinny jeans and flannel predominated. I couldn’t squeeze my forearm – much less a leg – into the former, and I looked heroically stupid in the latter. The hippies had retired to expensive, wood-paneled cottages in the hills that looked down on countless trees they had once hugged. And neither the men nor women who inherited their wrinkly dashikis seemed particularly fond of shaving, but all looked ready to be extras should the producers of Forrest Gump wish to re-shoot any Vietnam War protest scenes.

I was lost in a strange new world, and it took a blue-haired woman who double-dips to make me feel at home.

Her name is Alison Barakat, but people call her Betty. I’d like to believe that she once held wildly successful bake sales, though I’m not sure. All I know is that she now owns Bakesale Betty in Oakland, and she double-dips her fried chicken.

It was my mother’s first time in Japan. While she was only staying for a short week and a half, the planning for her visit started many months before. I had to create an agenda demonstrating Japan’s incredible culinary variety while still making sure she would enjoy, and remember, each meal. If she were to leave Japan thinking the food is anything less than the best in the world, I’d have failed.

Kaiseki was going to be a problem. There are just too many places. The number of Michelin starred kaiseki restaurants alone would consume her trip in its entirety; how would I fit in okonomiyaki, teppanaki, yakitori, sukiyaki and shabu shabu? I knew an early morning trip to Tsukiji market was essential, not only for the tuna auction but to show her the abundance of fresh fish that we don’t have access to in the US, and the ease with which it can be purchased here. Besides, forget cereal; what better way to start the day than with a small crate of Hokkaido uni.

To complement our visit to Tsukiji, later that night, I made a reservation at Jisaku Tsukiji, a small kaiseki restaurant on the fish market’s perimeter. Like most well-known kaiseki houses, diners eat in private rooms. This means two things: the meal will be private, and it will be expensive. Thankfully, this was a once in a lifetime experience.

There are few chefs in France so universally known as Paul Bocuse. It could be because Chef Bocuse, a descendant from a family of chefs dating back to the late 1600s, is 83 years old and still works, though less frequently, in the kitchen. Or the fact that his namesake restaurant in Lyon has had three Michelin stars for over 43 years, making it the restaurant to have the longest period of consecutive years with such an honor. Even the state of California has proclaimed March 10 “Paul Bocuse Day.” It’s no question that Bocuse has an extensive and titled culinary history. What is interesting, however, is that after all these years most of his menu hasn’t changed at all. But fortunately Bocuse continues to reproduce these classics with the same quality and passion that made them popular so many years ago.

Before my visit to chez Bocuse, I had associated “classical French” with the ubiquitous inclusion of French mother sauces containing butter, crème, and wine reductions tasting so starchy and old-fashioned that they could not be exciting. At least that’s what my experience had been. Even in my limited experience at culinary school, we were taught to use these sauces as a springboard for other more elaborate, more international creations to spark originality. But here with Paul Bocuse, the concepts of Spanish molecular gastronomy, California cuisine, and Japanese fusion are foreign. He sticks to the basics; no games. Bocuse only uses classic sauces because he believes it’s the best way to highlight the flavors of meat, fish, and vegetables. He does it because it tastes the best. Period.

I see some similarities between food writing and sports commentary. One of the most famous and least insightful commentators when I was growing up was a portly fellow by the name of John Madden. He had a remarkable gift for pointing out the blatantly obvious (”When you’re talkin’ about 4th down situations, this is what you’re talkin’ about”) and spitting out catch phrases like “Boom!” when a simple comma, period, or question mark would have done the trick. Food writers undoubtedly fall into similar traps, and I’m not going to lie — I’ve done it myself time and again. How many soufflés have I had that were “light and airy”, how many foie gras dishes that were “rich” or “delicious”?

It’s not just about expanding one’s vocabulary or avoiding clichés. Our immediate reaction to food is visceral, and when you first set pen to pad or fingertips to keyboard, these unfiltered thoughts are often what come out. Food is a basic comfort mechanism, and comfort is good. But I wonder why it’s so easy to have too much of a good thing, why it’s so easy to find restaurants that feed you to the point of submission and smile while doing it. Precious few in the world of fine dining don’t coddle or cuddle. Fewer still have real finesse and achieve a sense of luxury without largesse.

Piazza Duomo in Alba was, I’m happy to say, one such place. Enrico Crippa’s dishes were graceful and balanced, never overwrought or overwhelming. And to think, the whole experience started in a pink dining room with a piece of toast.

We splurged on a very drinkable bottle of Billecart-Salmon 1996 Cuvée Nicolas François Billecart Brut Champagne and the scampi were still twitching on the plate they were so fresh. I think those two bits of information basically sum up our evening at Romano. My work here is done…

What, you want details? Well, it was a meal full of bubbles. Perhaps every night in Viareggio is full of bubbles. I have insufficient data to either confirm or deny that. But no sooner had we sat down than a smiling gentleman began pouring Philipponnat NV Royale Réserve Brut champagne into our glasses. He posed a deep philosophical question — what good is a drink without food? — half to himself and half to us, before vowing to come right back with a snack.

Soon before each of us he set a piccolo fritto, a little mixture of this fried fish and that. I didn’t have much of a clue what we were eating, but my friend is like a friggin’ marine biologist when he’s at the dinner table, particularly when he’s hungry. So while I knew there was a head-on gambero (shrimp), tiny moscardini (baby octopus), and an anchovy, he pointed out the nasellino (hake) as the freshest and most flavorful thing on the plate. I didn’t question him. The thin, crispy batter was addictively salty and not at all oily. But even more importantly, you could taste the freshness of everything.