Spring Break

I was out of school for Spring Break, and so was Gabe, so on Wednesday we decided to take advantage of the time off and hit the road. My plan was to head down scenic Highway 1 so we could see the elephant seals north of San Simeon and then hit the tide pools at Cambria before heading inland to my brother’s house in Atascadero. We piled into the car and traveled southward. We had smooth sailing on the 101 and hit Salinas in good time. Then we turned off and headed over to Monterey.

We parked at the waterfront, and as soon as we stepped out of our car we heard a high pitched barking echoing across the water.

“You hear that?” Erika asked Gabe. “What do you think it is?”

“Seals!” Gabe replied.

Sea lions, actually. Through a complex process of echolocation we realized that the barking was coming from Fisherman’s Wharf. We headed over, and as we walked past the boats moored in the marina I noticed that the water was crystal clear. You could see all the way to the bottom, a far cry from the murk of San Francisco Bay. We followed the siren song of the sea lions onto the wharf, past trinket shops and a half dozen seafood joints, each offering its unique version of clam chowder in a bread bowl (“A bread bowl,” one happy customer munched behind us. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”). As we passed a row of charter boats a forlorn family of three tried to cajole us into joining them on a glass bottom boat tour. Seems the boat would leave right away if they could rustle up some more customers.

“You paying?” Erika almost asked, then thought better of it, smiled and said “nope, sorry.” We weren’t up for the glass bottom boat, although I was almost seduced by a whale watching outfit called Randy’s, when I found out there was no minimum age. It was a three-hour tour, though, and my body has to be properly prepped before venturing out into the open sea, so we opted out.

We located the sea lions as they lounged on and around a floating dock behind Randy’s. Looking down, we could see starfish on the seafloor at the base of the wharf’s pilings. Sea lions shot through the water like torpedoes. We heard a clacking sound and looked over toward another part of the wharf and saw a gray head bobbing in the water.

“Look Gabe, it’s an otter,” Erika said, pointing.

We watched as the sea otter whacked furiously at its chest, and I explained to Gabe how otters bang shellfish against a rock to break them open and get at the meat inside. Gabe is at an age where he is always suitably impressed by his father’s vast knowledge.

We ate at a place called the Fisherman’s Grotto, where I ordered a shrimp sandwich and a bowl of their “award winning chowder” (awarded, it turned out, by the prestigious Monterey Weekly). Our window seat looked out over the waterfront, where we could watch the otter drift by on the tide. The propaganda on the menu claimed that the Grotto had invented what has come to be known as Monterey-style chowder. The soup was more thick than flavorful, as if the inventors of Monterey chowder felt that an excess of heavy cream could compensate for a lack of salt.

We left Monterey and headed down Highway 1, through Carmel and down toward Big Sur. The drive through Big Sur, down the Central Coast to Cambria is one of the most spectacular in California. The road winds through woods and skirts the edges of high cliffs. Down below the ocean ran through a startling range of shades of blue, from deep and dark, through turquoise to blue-green and frothy at the shore.

“How many people do you suppose get distracted by the view and drive over the edge?” I mused.

“Let’s not do that today,” Erika said firmly.

“Do what?” piped up a voice from the back.

I assigned Erika the task of enjoying the view, while I worked on staying on the road.

Turns out I had radically underestimated the amount of time the drive would take us. Between pit stops and a leg-stretching break, it was close to 5 p.m. by the time we got to San Simeon.

Just to the north of San Simeon is a beach that recently has become a favorite hauling-out spot for elephant seals. A heavy wind had kicked up, blowing grit and ripping our hats from our heads as we stepped out of the car. I had been hoping to see some big bulls butting chests and growling, but instead we saw a sparse passel of seals sheltering from the wind beneath a bluff, occasionally snorting, or flinging sand over their backs. After the long drive, the lack of elephant seal action was disappointing.

We took shelter from the wind in our car and headed inland to stay with my brother Dave and his family. Dave lives on a country road on the outskirts of Atascadero, which is beautiful this time of year. The rolling hills are a lush green. Winter is over, but the baking heat of summer has not set in yet.

Gabe had enjoyed the trip up to this point, but it really took off for him when we got to Dave and Christy’s house, because he met Hamlet and Belle, two dogs who were probably more excited to meet him than he was to meet them. Gabe’s previous favorite dog was Brutus, a Chihuahua belonging to Erika’s brother, Leif, but Dave’s two big dogs kicked Gabe onto Cloud 9. And then Dave’s oldest son Rob introduced Gabe to the rabbits. The horses would come later.

There is nothing quite as satisfying to a parent as seeing your child overcome with pure glee. Gabe fell instantly in love with those dogs.

“I want to live here,” he said. He was too excited to fall asleep that night. He was in love with being in the country, as he called it. At home we live on a busy thoroughfare, and traffic noise is a constant presence. The only noise at Dave’s came from the joyful barking of the dogs and the squealing laughter of my son.

The next day we drove out to Cambria to look at the tide pools. We spent a happy hour poking around looking at hermit crabs and sea anemones, then drove over to Moonstone Beach, where Gabe kicked off his shoes and played in the surf. Then it was back to Dave and Christy’s for a break (more dogs, and Rob showed Gabe how to play Nintendo) before piling into the Suburban for a drive over to where Dave and Christy board their horses, Mandarin and Getty. Christy grabbed a bag of carrots from an out-building and we ambled over to the horses. Christy showed Gabe how to hold the carrots so that his fingers wouldn’t get bitten, then let him loose. Gabe soon got the hang of it.

Friday morning we headed back up the coast to Monterey to go to the aquarium. The Monterey Bay Aquarium is located at the end of Cannery Row. Monterey is Steinbeck country, but I think Steinbeck would be turning over in his grave if he could see what has become of it. Seedy Cannery Row has become a gentrified and homogenized tourist zone, with spas and chain restaurants occupying the sites of the old canneries.

We soon realized that it had been a huge, tactical error to save the aquarium for Friday afternoon during Spring Break. The building was so crammed with people we could barely move at times, let alone get close enough to see the fish. The best part of the aquarium for me is always the touch tank with the bat rays, but this time the rays were spooked by all the people and stayed in a corner far away.

Gabe did get to touch some starfish, and we saw some sharks, but overall it was a huge disappointment. Call it a $64 learning experience.

Still, it was a successful trip. We saw beautiful scenery, visited with my brother and his family and gave Gabe some good memories.

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?