Musee Mechanique

It rained hard on Martin Luther King Day, so instead of staying at home and doing jigsaw puzzles like sane people, we decided to travel into the city. Our destination was the Musee Mechanique, a collection of some 200 vintage arcade games and attractions housed in a warehouse at Fisherman’s Wharf. On a positive note, the combination of rain and holiday made for light traffic. On the downside, parking on or near Fisherman’s Wharf costs $2 every 20 minutes up to a maximum of $32. Oh sure, you get a grace period if you get your ticket validated at one of the many overpriced restaurants in the area, but in general the impression you get is that the city fathers of San Francisco are determined to milk every possible penny out of any sap stupid enough to drive to the waterfront. But it was raining and we were bored, so on that particular day, we were those saps.

We do like the Musee Mechanique, though. Apart from the parking issue, the first thing you notice about it is that entrance is free (although you do have to run a gauntlet of seafood restaurants with their crab pots going at full boil – sad to do when you’ve already eaten and cannot be tempted). The second thing you notice is that it is filled with cool things. The third thing you notice is that those cool things (mechanical dioramas, hand-cranked picture machines, games) only cost 25 cents. Pop in a quarter and be amazed as you watch a real English execution (someone getting hanged), then head on over and see a French execution (guillotine). A Depression-era mechanical baseball game works on the pinball principle, where the player hits the ball, getting base hits, or homeruns, and keeps playing until the third out.

I lost badly to a mechanized arm wrestler, and stole a glance at a picture machine that promised to show me what the belly dancer does on her day off. If you’re curious, the belly dancer coyly gets ready to take a bath while still remaining fully clothed. Gabe and Erika, meanwhile, had fun bowling and riding a mechanical horse.

All told, we dropped about $5 at the Musee Mechanique, and considered it money well spent. Not everyone feels the same way. As I was signing the guest register I noticed that the signer before me, who had driven in from Santa Rosa, thought the whole thing was a rip-off. Judging from the penmanship, the writer was a teenager, so any opinions expressed can be immediately disregarded.

Cioppino

Yesterday for my birthday I cooked Cioppino, a seafood stew apparently created right here in San Francisco. People looked askance at me when I told them I cooked for my birthday; I guess the general feeling is that one should avoid cooking on one’s birthday. The key thing to understand is that I cooked what I wanted. Gabriel tried it and decided he liked everything but the clams. Even Erika ate it, despite the presence of tomatoes.

I adapted it from our trusty Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook.

8 clams
8 oz. fish fillets (I used lingcod)
8 oz. peeled and deveined shrimp
½ cup sliced fresh mushrooms
½ cup green bell pepper
½ cup chopped onion
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon garlic, minced
1 14 ½ oz. can diced tomatoes
1/3 cup white wine
2 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 tablespoon lemon juice
½ teaspoon dried basil
½ teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon sugar
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper
¼ cup water
¼ teaspoon salt

Cut fish into 1½ inch pieces and refrigerate until needed.

In a large saucepan cook mushrooms, sweet pepper, onion, and garlic in hot oil till tender but not brown. Stir in undrained tomatoes, wine, parsley, tomato paste, lemon juice, basil, oregano, sugar, crushed red pepper, water and salt. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Cover and simmer for 20 minutes.

Add clams, fish pieces, and shrimp to saucepan. Cover and simmer for 5-10 minutes more or till clams open, fish flakes easily, and shrimp are opaque. Check for seasoning and add more salt if necessary. Discard any unopened clams.

In the end, it's all about the tuna

What foods to Spanish housewives really crave? Find out in this review of a monumental Spanish cookbook in Slate. It captures the essence of things quite well.

Yet Another Triumph

Sometimes my culinary achievements even take my own breath away.

What About Lunch?

Ever notice that in many popular songs you can replace the word "love" with "lunch" and it still works?

1. What about lunch? -- Heart
2. The lunch boat, soon will be making another run. The lunch boat promises something for everyone.
3. Making lunch in the afternoon with Cecilia in my dining room -- Simon and Garfunkel.
4. All you need is lunch -- John Lennon.
5. Lunch will keep us together.
6. The lunch shack is a little old place where, we can get together -- B-52s.

What others can you come up with?

Cocido Madrileño

I’ve had a hankering for some Cocido Madrileño lately, so I made some today, despite the fact that I knew I would end up with too many leftovers.

In honor of the occasion, I have resurrected some thoughts on the subject from my sojourn in Spain from the summer of 2000.

Sat. Sept. 30, 2000

I have just dined on that marvelous concoction known as Cocido Madrileño. Now that the weather has become brisk, it seemed appropriate to consume vast quantities of garbanzo beans and other gaseous substances to fortify my being for the next two weeks of ever-darkening winter.

I have had gas on my mind ever since yesterday, when I bought for 500 pesetas a copy of Quevedo´s Gracias y desgracias del ojo del culo, an engaging treatise on the wonders of the anus in which he compares the ojo del culo with those of the face and finds that the rear orifice has much more to recommend it. It can be a little disquieting at times imagining the great ones of Golden Age poetry being overly preoccupied with bodily functions, but given the state of hygiene back then I imagine it would be hard to avoid the subject. Of course one good reading of El Buscón is enough to confirm that Quevedo didn´t consider this or practically any other subject off limits.

So after a morning’s perusal of Gracias y desgracias, followed by a long-overdue haircut (where I accidentally stiffed the peluquera while trying to tip her, but that’s another story) I ended up down by Sol and the Doña Juana restaurant, which offered Cocido for 1200 pesetas. I´m not one to pass up cheap cocido, especially on a day like this.

I had not eaten cocido in quite a while. I remember eating some very good cocido cooked by a housewife in Ponferrada, long ago. Of course, being Ponferrada, in the westernmost reaches of the León province, it wasn’t exactly Cocido Madrileño. It was much better, in fact, not only because it was served by a pleasant ama de casa instead of a cranky waiter, but also because it was much heavier on the chorizo, giving the broth a pleasant red zip. This stuff today was bland by comparison.

Cocido is the Spanish version of a boiled dinner. It’s loaded with meat of all descriptions: chorizo, morcilla, tocino, beef, chicken; garbanzo beans, potato, cabbage. While examining my plate it occurred to me that at least half of those ingredients, had serious explosive potential. With cocido you get the broth served first as soup, then the rest follows as a second course.

Over at the next table was a group of middle aged tourists trying to decide what the menu was offering. They were all from Mexico (I gathered) which just goes to show that it is not just Americans who are not quite at home with a Spanish menu. They were saying things like: “Caldo gallego – that´s like cocido, isn´t it?” “I don´t know. Does it have garbanzos?” “Callos madrileños. Is that the same as menudo?” “Ask the waiter.” One guy decided to take the plunge and order callos. Everyone else stayed safe with paella and trout. When the callos came, the main question everyone had was “is it menudo?”

I for one have steered clear of callos on this trip. I once had a mission companion from Andalucía who told me he grew up on callos and that I had to try them. They come in a sort of coagulated brick in the deli section of the supermarket. He prepared them by melting the brick over the stove, and as it warmed it filled the kitchen with the aroma of fresh barnyard. Once they were cooked, the flavor wasn’t bad. Texture-wise they were vaguely reminiscent of overcooked squid mixed with boiled fat. Still, with the smell in the kitchen I couldn’t quite get past the idea that I might as well dine down at the pig trough, followed by a good, brisk roll in the muck. For that reason I have never – despite years of living in Santa Monica – been tempted by all the Mexican restaurants advertising in giant, booming letters “hay menudo.” The dish in general just does not call to me in quite the way it would to someone raised on it.

Cocido is another matter entirely. Garbanzos and chorizo broth. What could be better when the weather turns nasty?

Gabe's First Earthquake

We had a 5.6 earthquake last night. It happened about 8 p.m., just as Gabe was nestling into bed while Erika read him bedtime stories. We've had them before, of course, but this one was stronger than usual. It was centered just to the east of San Jose. Our landlord called me up about 10 seconds after it was over to ask how the building was doing.

"This lets you know my priorities, Michael," he said. "I called you before I called my wife."

He was calling from Santa Clara, which is right next to San Jose.

To me it was business as usual, but soon I heard weepy sounds from the Gabe's room, and Erika informing me that my son was a little freaked out.

So I went in, lay down next to him and told him the story of my first earthquake, which occurred in 1971, when I was also 4. I was sharing the back bedroom with Marcy. There was a picnic basket hanging from a hook on the door immediately opposite my bed, and as the room swayed, the basket swayed with it, looking in the pre-dawn darkness like a monster. So I freaked and jumped into bed with Marcy, who also freaked because she didn't know at first what had jumped into bed with her.

Gabe thought the story was funny, and gradually he allowed himself to be reassured, although he was nervous about going to sleep for awhile.

Nervous as he was, Gabe still held up better than some of our tenants. One woman, from Turkey, was out in the street, too nervous to go back into the building, because of bad memories of Turkish earthquakes. Another woman from Mexico was having a complete meltdown. I tried to reassure her as best I could, all the while thinking, heck this was only a 5.6. How are these people going to react when the big one hits?