Making Things With Light

On a Saturday night in Portland, with the threat of frozen precipitation during my weekend getaway from LA, I found myself at Disjecta on the north side of town. The gallery recommendation came via circuitous route from LA friends.

I knew only that it was installation work.

Chris Fraser, a Bay Area artist, works with camera as concept, ergo he works with light. Passing through the entry of the space one first had to negotiate a cloud of paint fumes while adjusting to the dim light. The dawning recognition of simple shapes and color followed.

The installation was built of light and surface: a corridor constructed around three sides of the room, each segment of which was cut to allow in light from pendants mounted in a central space.

We entered the corridor gleefully and then slowed. It was easy to rush and immediately apparent that this was not right. Art intends to stop you in your tracks, and we obeyed, pausing in this dark 8 foot wide x 7 foot high opening.

In the first segment Fraser cut thin vertical notches out of the wall, an inch or less wide. Three strips of light, purple, red, green, cut through the gap and splayed onto the concrete floor at three distinct angles, and painted parallel lines on the outer wall of the corridor. The sheen of fresh latex paint defined the incandescent light as crisply as a laser.

One or another color would flick off at intervals when an unseen figure passed in front of the light outside the corridor. Occasionally an abbreviated silhouette caught in an inch strip of light on the wall.

In the second segment Fraser notched the wall on the diagonal. The notches themselves were triangular if viewed from above, the angle opening to the outside of the wall. This brought to mind a prism.

We wondered if we were walking through a triptych: was each segment a distinct light painting, this assemblage the role of the curator credited at the start of the show?

The ambient light in the corridor seemed to increase after we passed the second, diagonally cut section. Here we slowed again: it was hard for the eye to delineate the corner despite the lift in the darkness. It was as if concentrating on the colors had fuzzed our ability to see the subtle gradations of white that marked the intersecting walls. We oozed through this alpenglow, anticipating a moment.

In the last segment of the piece, a cluster of bodies and wide bands fills the eye. The tight notches give way to openings a foot or more wide. Wide enough to pass through, the last one (the foot of the corridor was walled off) was ostensibly a door to the central courtyard of the installation.

In the center space were a trio of industrial caged lights lined with translucent purple, red and green Mylar. The alternating combination and contrast of lights as you move through the space casts distinct colors: the lights were not actually blending to create secondary or tertiary colors, yet the eye read them as such. Fuchsia, white, yellow, distinct, recombinant hues. The colors really weren’t there, but were implied in the shadows cast by the corridor roofline. Lights at differing distances from the white wall stacked in bands of different hues.

In that final moment, color coats the wall thickly, while the light source becomes evident through the cutaway. People lingered here chatting, and their crisp black silhouettes broke into the color. The relationship of light, shadow and color resolves in this passage, and it brings a playful feeling of recognition.

Fraser’s previous work with light often uses a mobile source, the sun, to make the installation innately dynamic. In one piece he installed slatted raw wood panels in the bay window of a partially gutted San Francisco townhouse, framing a day's changing shadow and light. I read that the Disjecta installation was his first use of colored lights, but anyone who’s tracked the sun from morning to late afternoon knows its changeable hues.

When I entered the corridor at Disjecta I remembered the delight with the neon work of Dan Flavin. Both use light to pigment space. "I want to call attention to a type of beauty that usually goes unnoticed" Fraser said. Walking slowly to absorb the space and the effect reveals the art already there. 

I was aware in this piece, called "In Passing," of why art is considered a sacred act: it calls us to mindfulness, to creation. In this simple intervention, cuts in a wall, Fraser calls our attention to what already is and in that creates a space of awe at the nature of things. I found myself wondering if the three colors were a prism being split by the aperture. If the colors were being split, like the atomized colors of a projector, which we see in an image in a million shades and hues, and the lines a refraction of those components. 

"Rather than describing the dry mechanics of how light moves through space, I prefer to show concrete examples of what it is capable of doing." That simple motion is capable of delighting the heart.


Chris Fraser:
http://chrisfraserstudio.com/

Disjecta, Portland
http://www.disjecta.org/

Do you hear what I hear?

i said to the barista "wow, you guys have a bangin' sound system here." it was like being in the ocean. the music totally surrounded me, like warm water so thickly salted it cradles you into weightlessness.

he pointed wordlessly behind me, and i followed his sightline. i'd missed the black-clad quartet arranged in the front corner when i scanned the room at the first swell of strings. half of them backed against the plate glass and the bright december sun outside.

i sat at a table about three body lengths from the source of the sound. warm cup on top of newsprint.


i would not normally sit in the shop, but the music moved me to stay. i would not normally welcome the same ole' christmas chestnuts. i don't believe the myths. what's more, i don't care for most of the tunes: showy bright and silly. i grew up in los angeles. winter wonderland is quaint, dated, and as resonant with my life experience as explosions made in the nearest soundstage that some action hero will later be dropped into via cgi.

first violin focused on her part, tripping up a set of sixteenth notes with simple intent. it was admirable playing, neither terrible nor sublime, but her focus said that it might be graceful one day. watching her track the cascade of black notes before her made the music come alive. it burrowed into my heart. there was a subtle bodily collaboration from viola, second violin, and cello: an inclined head, a torso leaned forward, an elbow shot out. a whole posture unfurling - dropping hands, bow and shoulders, lifting chest, chin and smile in the relaxed aftermath as vibration evaporates into stillness.

i sat at attention, through images of clip-cloppity horses, blond angels in red and white raiment, turbanned silhouettes shuffling forward under a clear night sky. then the harmonies of 'silent night' rose softly. i sat floating in their music, in the buoyancy of it. it was as if their bows drew directly across my heart. motes of rosin caught the sunlight of the window.

i clutched my cup, choked at the sweetness of it, letting salt tears drip into the ocean of their music.

i sat at meditation this morning. i discovered after a year of practice that trying to focus on my breath often brings up anxiety, with it a slight asphyxiation. when offered, i will often choose sound as the object of attention.

the heater set the tone. the vent clacked and clattered. a dull rush enveloped the staccato notes. it encircled my consciousness. periodically a flat arc of a car's passing. closer, a woman coughed a rough triplet, low low lower, the plosive notes offset by pause. the sounds spontaneously built the space, carving concentric circles that marked distance from my ears, my consciousness, inside and outside the building.

the teacher spoke. i heard the bright pitch of her voice. it tickled through my head. i relinquished, somewhat, the meaning of her words, and simply felt five horizontal copper strands vibrate with the pluck of her tongue. i registered the rise and fall of her tone, when syllables were drawn long, or pulled over a series of notes. a cascade or a cataract.

i listened as intently as i could. sometimes my breath shortened, and commanded my attention. it usually does when my legs start to fall asleep. a bright voice. thought: call the cat sitter. a cough. my own mental voice storytelling, explaining, imploring. the demand of my tingling legs. from outside: an instruction to return to expanded consciousness if the concentration is stable. thoughts tinkling like a xylophone.

i settle on the symphony of the heater.

and then it stopped. the system cycled off. it was like thick cotton wool and tattered pinky gray insulation tearing back. breath. a rustle of limbs and shifting weight. footsteps and laughter muffled by the glass door.

soft quiet layers, a gentle flow of woodwind and brass. surging gently.

i heard people
near me
breathing.

with the machinery off, i settle on the symphony that is.

What are you doing new years, new year’s eve?

It’s been 366 days since I last hoisted a tasty glass of fermented intoxicant to these lips. On December 30, 2011, overlooking Downtown Los Angeles from a chilly rooftop bar, I sipped a glass of wine to celebrate a dear friend’s birthday. Then I stopped drinking alcohol.

I’d set an intention to have a sober year. A very sober, clear-headed year. I mean, when was the last time you didn’t drink for an entire year? For most people I know the answer fell somewhere south of childhood. And that struck me as funny. Questions of addiction and compulsion and overused coping mechanisms aside, it made me wonder how conscious the choice to drink really is.

And personally, 2011 left my mind feeling like a gummed up engine. Whatever that stuff is in Chevron gas, I wanted it. To clear my mind’s pistons, lube up my psyche, and honestly see how this engine can run. Sobriety was my mental Techron.

Suffice it to say it was an interesting year. Once you strip away a coping device, even one you don’t use frequently, you learn a lot about yourself. I learned that when I stopped drinking life got a little less comfortable in lot of little ways. I noticed social dynamics with much more sensitivity. Maybe I wasn’t as funny as I thought I was. Maybe you weren’t either. And once I got more comfortable with the uncomfortability, I realized how uncomfortable it made other people who drank when I didn’t.

Now as I complete my commitment to a year free of intoxicants, I am fairly aware that it was an easy thing to let go of. But for a summer trip to the craft brew mecca that is Portland, and a subtle twinge on the tongue that crept up with Fall’s turn to cooler weather, I really didn’t miss it.

A few weeks ago I stumbled across a lecture by biomolecular archeologist Patrick McGovern, about his book “Uncorking the Past”. McGovern’s fantastic contribution to history is to analyze the fragments of old clay vessels sifted from the sand of archaeological sites thousands of years old to see what folks were partying with back in the day. The talk I heard was about a Turkish beverage 3000 years old, a Chinese wine 7000 years old, and a cacao infused South American beverage a few thousand years old.

Say what?

McGovern’s lecture briefs the utterly captivating way he can take chemical traces grabbed by the porous clay of the vessel to make a map of the beverage that was once inside. Grapes have a certain chemical marker, as do barley and honey. These chemical profiles are in fact what contemporary vintners use to create wines to fit the popular palette. Blending their grapes to suit what consumers want to consume.

McGovern presented his findings to a group of professional brewers, and at the end of his talk offered offhandedly that should any of them be interested in recreating these drinks, he could share their thumbprints. Needless to say, he was mobbed by craft brewers dying to brew them. I mean, who wouldn’t be dying of curiosity? What the heck did that honey barley wine from 3000 years ago taste like? Cacao beer?

With the mental clarity imparted by a year of sobriety, I could feel my imagination and curiosity firing on all pistons. As it happened, one of my favorite breweries won the chance to do it: Dogfish Head.

I think you see where this is going for me…

I’d never tried this trio of Dogfish brews, but I recognized the purple thumbprint on the Midas Touch label when I saw it on McGovern’s slide. I hopped on the web to read more about Dogfish Head’s series of historic ales, which turns out to be much more extensive than the Chinese, Turkish and South American ales McGovern’s talk describes. And, thoughtful guys that they are, the online Fish Finder will guide you to places near you who’ve ordered a specific brew.

Midas Touch, it turns out, is in bottles and on tap just a short distance from my apartment.

Chateau Jiahu, named after the city in China where the ghost of the drink was discovered, was a little harder to find. Yet there in a Sunset Boulevard liquor store 1.6 miles from home perches a row of sexy, bare-backed, sleek-bobbed China dolls slinking into deep refrigeration, the 1920s inspired label of the ancient Chinese drink.

The seductively named Theobroma, a word that refers to the compound in chocolate and translates as ‘food of the gods’, hasn’t turned up yet. And the truth is, I’m not really planning my first drink. Tonight is new year’s eve, and I hope to be asleep when the clock ticks us into another arbitrary 365 day cycle. At some point, I may decide to have a drink, to give in to the craving, to immerse myself in the creature comfort of a good brew. At some point, craving will intersect the ebb of my psychic rigor. Hopefully one of those ales will be around then.

Parick McGovern’s fantastic talk at the Getty:

http://www.getty.edu/museum/programs/past_programs/uncorking_the_past.html

And his book:

http://www.ucpress.edu/book.php?isbn=9780520267985

See Worthy

The Bay from Fort Mason.

It's become a fall tradition: each year as the weather turns cooler (75 in LA instead of 85) and the work year is in full swing, I hop on a flight to San Francisco to visit clients and family and trawl the aisles at the San Francisco Fall Antiques Show at Fort Mason.

The first time I attended the opening night party I was blown away. The food is epic. And it doesn't let up. You can sample caviar, oysters, and the lamb chops and tater tots that are legendary among regulars of the show, well into the wee hours. The wheels of cheese, piles of fruit and wedges of chocolate brownie brick self regenerate on the multi-leveled display at the center of the show. The bartenders, this year in skippers caps, continue to pour the year's signature cocktail and whatever other libation you could wish for.

This year's theme was Sea Worthy: The Best of Nautical Art and Antiques. Cresting waves about twelve feet high framed the show's entrance, and punctuated a display of seafaring paraphernalia on loan from collectors and antique shops from around the Bay Area. Included were a beautifully wrought silver-plate bosun's whistle and a delicate 18th century English shell necklace on cotton thread that imagine settled over one of Jane Austen's character's tightly bound bodices. I commend the black humor, too, of an onboard drink service that included a massive ceramic "shipwreck punchbowl" that the artisan had decorated with a splintering ship.

Artist Achilles Rizolli's plan portraiture.

I approach the show as I would any fine art collection: I meander from one spot to the next in a half-gaze until something really grabs my eye. My first pause was at a set of drawings at the Ames Gallery. One wall held a collection of floor plans and graphically lettered signs, some of which blazed the letters "YTTE." The plans, I learned, were actually portraits of the artist's father. (He depicted his mother as a cathedral facade). The key to the plans were reminiscent of the mystical correspondences 18th century occultists brought to the Tree of Life or the Temple of Solomon, or whatever else they fancied to be a portal to greater understanding. Mr. Rizzoli, a local outsider artist from Marin, seems Jungian in the way he brings childhood associations and family lore into the mix. The gal at the gallery explained that the letters stood for "Year To Total Elation," which reminded me of a world peace plan with a similar abbreviation P5Y. Equally stirring, and arguably a similarly mystical possibility.

Across the aisle I ran into friends from Therien, neighbors on La Cienega where I work in LA. Their booth is in the eye of the storm, in view of the bar, dining area and social hub on the central axis of the show. I was distracted from my chat with proprietor Philip by the artful shadow cast by a carved wood dragon perched atop an ornate credenza.

Asian relics at Susan Ollemans, London.

I want to say priceless antiques line the aisles, but actually you can see that the 14th century agate ring from Burma is $3,500, and the Renaissance coin ring is $40,000. It's all on display. Richer still is the finery of show attendees. If you can dress to the nines you will do it here. The designers and the clients they bring to shop are as bespangled and bedazzled as the English furniture, tapestries, folk art, Indonesian imports, French ormolu.

Obsolete's animatronic cow
watches the crowd.

The people at the show are definitely one of the sights worth seeing. As I made my way from Mallett's nine foot high gilded carved wood trophy past Kentshire's fine English furnishing I felt a grasp on my elbow and someone whispered conspiratorially "I LOVE your skirt." The husband of a San Francisco designer I work with wore a tangerine blazer that matched the vintage colors of my Alexander Coleman skirt, and we struck up conversation naturally. Another influential designer complimented my necklace and wondered: Iranian? Indian? "I don't know, Pamela. I picked it up in a Burbank thrift store when I was 16, and had the good sense to hang on to it."

People look each other head to toe unabashedly and unapologetically at the opening nights of the show. Normally I'd find that off putting, triggering memories of the battery I sustained in junior high school style politics. But the designers in the city dress themselves and their interiors fabulously, and perhaps because it's devoid of the celluloid aspirations always at play in LA, there is a true sense of enjoyment and camaraderie in it. It's a pleasure to be in their company, and a wonderful sight to behold.

Ship of Fools: crew and passengers about to embark for a voyage to the other side in 

artist Ron Pippin's installation at the show.

How to Clean a Blender

We both smelled a waft of burning motor from the kitchen. Dark bits of kale were suspended in the purple berry mixture, impervious to the blades that struggled to create a fruity whirlpool at the bottom of the carafe.

Mom was in town for a few days. My blender was on its last legs. Though she is not a shopper, Mom is a natural problem solver, so it was great timing. She was party to the quandary of finding a replacement blender and possibly a food processor. I do a lot of vegetarian cooking, and the chain-gang labor of chopping, grating and grinding registers similar effects on my patience and nerves. Clearly this offsets the benefits of the healthy meals I make, so I finally considered investing in another kitchen gadget.

I poured out the smoothies, which were a lot more like chunkies, and mom did KP.

Mom took the blender carafe, filled it with warm water and a bit of dish soap, then placed it back on the base and spun it for a few seconds. “Oh my GOD, Mom!”

I had never even thought to clean a blender that way. I always unscrewed the thing, parried the blades with a sponge, trying not to cut myself, or threw the bits haphazardly into the dishwasher. “Well,” Mom said in her characteristically self-effacing way as she poured out the soapy dirty water and rinsed the carafe, ”there's probably a better way than this.”

Sitting at lunch with my coworkers the other day, discussing my new blender, I asked: “Do you guys know how to clean a blender?” They blinked.

“Rocket science,” I proclaimed, and described what my mother did in my kitchen that morning. Their mouths dropped open ever so slightly.

“I know.”

Now, my mother and I have not lived together for a number of decades. That channel of wisdom and know-how on matters domestic or otherwise that links mother to daughter went on pause after my formative teenage years.

Sipping (chewing) on my smoothie I looked at my mom in my tiny sunny kitchen, and wondered what else this amazing woman knew.

My mother sometimes expresses regret for the lack of nurturing and guidance and whatnot I received growing up. There were unfortunate circumstances, it's true, and they took a fair bit of her attention.

But as far as I’m concerned, that blender trick makes up for it all. Sure, I might have missed a few things, but I'm doing okay. And I can clean a blender in a cinch. 

I am so glad to be able to learn from my Mom, to receive her unexpected and often unintended gifts open-heartedly. Mom, you’re off the hook. The new blender is great. And you’re awesome. 

To my mom, on my birthday.

Pound for Pound: a culinary tour of the Pacific Northwest

I recently spent just over a week in Portland and Seattle, ostensibly for work. When I travel for work I lug a massive pelican case – picture something you’d put an AK47 in - full of solid brass sconces to show my clients. It generally weighs in at about 56 pounds. This is perfect, because lugging all that hardware around helps offset the pleasure of the spike in caloric intake from eating out every day.

Portland can’t outdo Bay Area culinary culture, but it has a distinct identity and a rain-drenched palette of local ingredients to pull from. Hearty dishes, lots of meat, rich craft brews. Food trucks populate every vacant lot, perfect for a city on two wheels. Rather than mobile munching, I hit brick and mortar eateries this time. I started with Besaw’s.

Saturday: Bunches of brunches

Besaw’s is a venerable institution in Portland: a saloon that weathered the prohibition era, it draws a massive crowd on weekends, especially when the weather is fine. Coffee urns flow on a sidewalk table perking up tousle-haired diners while they wait for a table.

We were seated in the quickest twenty minutes a dark walnut table. Massive plates heaped with all shades of autumn floated by and dropped beside bloody marys. A subtle palette of flour, cheese, egg, and meats. Creamy hollandaise sauce, caramelly home fries, ruddy bacon, toast tanned to perfection.

I rarely eat brunch – to me one massive meal is a lost opportunity for another wholly different meal somewhere else. Plus traditional breakfasts seem to me to be at cross-purposes, their soporific effect fighting any effort to be bright eyed and bushy tailed, or at least present. But Portlanders love their brunches.

I passed the omelettes, short stacks and miscellany of pork product, but feeling indulgent, constructed my own breakfast sandwich: scrambled egg and cheese on scratch biscuit. The biscuit was the quintessential Besaw’s moment: buttery, crumbly, rich and satisfying. I spiked my sandwich with a bit of Aardvark’s hot sauce and fresh pico de gallo - I’m a California girl after all. The fresh red tomato and bright green cilantro were a burst color and taste, the perfect pallet for my palate. Now that’s what I call home-cooking.

http://www.besaws.com/

Sunday: Backyard BBQ

Some of my favorite people live in Portland, and it just so happened they were hosting a BBQ to celebrate their dog’s 14^th birthday when I was in town. I ate more animal in my week in the Pacific NW than I normally do in a month, and this is where it started. (No, not the dog). We stopped by the local posh hippie market and picked up fresh ground beef patties from the deli mixed with cheddar cheese, bacon and herbs. I cocked my head quizzically as I passed the rack full of gluten-free baked goods (I understand allergies, but I can’t help but notice how allergies seem so trendy these days) and grabbed some honey-sweetened buns, and a bag of salt and pepper chips.

Buzz the wonder dog

Our smiling host was flanked by a hot grill and a fresh keg of his healing herb-infused home-brewed cream ale. The backyard garden was lush with hothas and well-drenched grass. The table overflowed with green salad, fresh cut watermelon, grilled roasted asparagus and mushrooms.. We caught up with old friends and new while everything sizzled to perfection. The dog of the hour did not have any of the German chocolate birthday cake, but we all made a wish as we blew out the candle. The grass was green, the night was warm, and everything was delicious.

Monday: The wild, wild Northwest

I happened to be in town for my oldest, dearest friend’s birthday. He recently moved to the Pacific NW after a lifetime in LA, so I’d asked around for restaurant recommendations. Wildwood, billed as typical northwest cuisine sounded perfect, a way to explore the things that made my friend’s new home unique.

The late light still blazed sparking the maple leafs outside the window as we took our table. A wave of cedar swooped over the main dining room tables, and pierced ceramic vessels glazed with muted blue and soft black dropped warm light over each table. The menu looked wonderful: we played my favorite game while awaiting our local craft brew and sparkling water: wiki-searching the unfamiliar ingredients on the menu. I verified the origin of grana padano, and my companion clarified the nature of a coulis. I asked the waiter about boudin blanc and ascertained that scapes and shoots denote the same green tendrils of the garlic plant.

Ceramic lighting by Los Angeles artist Heather Levine

We started with a green salad and turnip greens soup. The soup was delectable to eye and tongue, a vibrant color with Morrocan pepper sprinkled over a swirl of crème fraiche. The salad has slivers of castelvetrano olive, a favorite smoky fruity flavor.

I did not find that the food was typically northwestern. But then one might argue that wildwood was ahead of the curve that is now the norm: local ingredients from small farms and seasonal changes to the menu. It was good. The fish was perfectly grilled, set over scapes and turnips. I scrape the persimmon colored sauce off the top of the fish intuitively. The kimchee mayonnaise did nothing for the fish (why add fat to a light fish, simply grilled?) but it did something interesting with the turnips and scapes the fish propped atop. The table bread, and olive oil I requested, were served a tad too cold, and I was disappointed in the shaker of plain salt.

We finished our meal with a cup of tea, and chocolate chip cookies. An impressive sight, their burnt edges recollecting childhood Tollhouse moments.

http://wildwoodrestaurant.com/

Tuesday: Tip to tail

Painted bright saffron, the Olympic provision company sits on the ground floor of the old converted building west of the river. I generally eat vegetarian and my animal of choice is fish, but I make no claims to be anything other than an omnivore. But I left it to my client’s choice, so here we were at a charcuterie. I scanned the salads and the single vegetarian sandwich on the menu. A smear of cream cheese just didn’t sound appealing, so I dove in head first and ordered the bratwurst.

We started with an appetizer of fried almonds. I had county fair visions of fried Twinkies, fried Oreos, fried butter (I’m not making that one up, either). When that pile arrived I knew it didn’t matter was my sandwich was like. Nuts make me crazy, and I am a connoisseur of salt. The almonds were sautéed in olive oil and fat grains of salt clung to them like they were in love.

My client ordered the Italian sausage over polenta, and my bratwurst was served with a side of house made potato chips and red cabbage slaw. The thick-crusted bread perfectly held the sliced sausage, and the whole grain mustard floated on its surface. It was here that I was primed for the future epiphany that every food is bettered either by mustard or by red pepper sauce. I asked for more mustard and had another bite.

http://www.olympicprovisions.com/

Wednesday: Sleepless in Seattle

I drove to Seattle on the solstice, the relentless sunshine beaming in the driver’s side window the whole three-hour drive. Clouds are amazing in the northwest: they are so high, but contained, like a soft barrier of ceiling holds them in. Expansive but finite, unlike the Big Sky clouds in Montana that stretch on forever, or the whisps of the Southwest desert.

I arrived at my generic but well-appointed downtown hotel room and Yelped. It was time for a lighter meal, and some serious veggies. Meet my road go-to: Vietnamese. It was almost nine (and still light out) when I sat down to peruse the massive menu, and I was famished. The restaurant had gotten great reviews and the dishes, not just your typical pho and bun, sounded wonderful.

Elephant's ear - Saigon, not Seattle

I ordered spring rolls with grilled tofu and coconut to start, and a pineapple seafood stir-fry that included Vietnamese celery. When I was in Vietnam I cooked with an ingredient called elephants ear, a local vegetable much like celery but with more porous cross sections. I wondered if it could be the same here. I scanned the dining room: there were three other tables, all of which were Vietnamese. That was a good sign.

Granted I was ravenous, but those were the best spring rolls I’d ever had: the crisp curls of fresh coconut made it. The stir-fry was light and simple. I used copious amounts of sambal to spice it up. Pineapple stir-fry was one of the outstanding dishes I had while I was in Vietnam. I had never cared for sweet and sour in Chinese cookery, but the pineapples here were different: small - the perfect size to split with a friend - and pale yellow with a tart sweetness, rather than the deep syrupy gold of Hawaiian or Dole. They were the perfect compliment to peppers, greens, cashews. At Longs the pineapple was sweet, but beautifully complemented with cooked tomatoes and warm cucumber.

I was meeting a friend for dinner the following night, and seriously considered inviting him here to try: lily blossom halibut, turmeric coconut rice cake, cognac scallop pomelo salad. Next time. And the time after that.

http://longprovincial.com/

Thursday: Storming the Bastille

My good friend in Seattle has the same culinary adventurousness as I. A new place is always better than somewhere we’ve been before, and anything is fair game (fare game?) He suggested Japanese near my hotel downtown, but I was keen to explore the edgier neighborhoods of Seattle. He countered with the proposal that we meet in Capitol Hill near his place and wander to find a hole in the wall café. Behind our text conversation though, he must have been canvassing his workmates, because he pinged me back with two options in Ballard. I dismissed Tex Mex – which I almost always do the farther I am from that particular border – and made a reservation at Bastille.

It was typical bistro inside – white subway tiles that amplify conversation to an ear splitting level, moody vintage lighting fixtures, a sweeping wooden bar. The menu standards were there, too. Moules frites, check. Croque Monsieur, check. But there were other piquant dishes on the menu and while I’m no expert in French cuisine, there were ingredients that I never would have pegged for typical French.

I was sure I was overdoing it, and ordered a carrot salad with coriander and exotic spices, and the socca galette, a chickpea pancake with frisee, radishes and olives. The veggies come from the restaurant’s rooftop garden. We sat on the patio, the scent of the ocean drifting towards us on the evening breeze. The light lingered through our entire meal, lulling us with summery promise. My friend entertained me with his always bright conversation, and we noticed that the family dining beside us on the terrace was French. This was a good trend I was riding in Seattle.

Before I knew it I had two petits plats before me, which I was sure would be the death of me. The carrot salad had a round slice of soft white cheese atop it, the color deeper at the irregular edge where the rind held it together. The shreds of carrot were liberally coated in oil, which was spiked to a bright red with warming spices. Smoldery bits of dark dried olives flecked the dish. It was delightful. The galette was something else entirely. About the size and texture of a dense crumpet, the galette propped up a mountain of light curly lettuce, and olives and anchovies hid in the midst of it. It was luscious.

I asked our waitress about the provenance of the dishes, since I really had no idea where such a lovely combination would come from. She mentioned the galette was Parisian street food, but said she’d ask the chef. A few minutes later a tanned young man in his mid thirties in a double breasted white coat stood before our table and with an “uh” said he thought we had some questions. I felt like I should have some well articulated ponderings steeped in knowledge of traditional and contemporary French cookery, but that is probably just the byproduct of watching Julie and Julia recently. 

I wondered where the dishes were from, if they were, say Norman (wrong) or Breton (no), and completely misplaced the relationship of Nice and Marseille in my mental map as he talked about the combination of ingredients of the galette, and the Moroccan influence on the salad. He mentioned you would get a simple shredded carrot dressed in vinegar in most Parisian restaurants, but that he took it a step further. I don’t know that he was any more well-versed in the spice trade’s influence on his menu that I was, but it was a totally unpretentious exchange of information and a chance to commend the man responsible for a delightful meal. My friend’s croque, by the way, was served in a miniature cast iron dish, bubbling wickedly and oozing cheese. I demurred a bite of his croque, sticking to my pescatarian pretensions only as a means to stuff myself on every last morsel of carrot and frisee.

http://bastilleseattle.com/

Friday: Return to Eden

Photo: Thomas J. Story

I have two fallbacks on the road: Vietnamese food and the venerable Whole Foods market. When the heft of my portions outstrips the heft of my sample bag, I go for simple, nourishing and predictable. The Whole Foods deli is my version of home cooking: give me some quinoa with edamame, broccoli crunch, herbed tofu, Indian style cauliflower.

And give me some fresh fruit. I can’t say no to Cripps pinks apples, even when they are flown all the way from Chile. (One day I will visit Chile if for no other reason than just to eat them locally). Taylor gold pears. Rainier cherries. The tiny deep red points of local strawberries, so small they could be the tips someone’s sliced off the bland overgrown mega-berries from a conventional market. Blackberries, which can be one of life’s biggest disappointments, but are divine revelation when they’re good. The nectarines and black velvet plums, mostly from California, were just coming to season and were golden and amazing. I picked up a basket of figs bought from a tiny market on MLK.

I did not make it to a single farmers market, which are legendary in the Pacific Northwest. But I ate a harvest’s worth.

Saturday: I want to move here

It was my last day in Portland. So much to do – so what to do? I hit Camamu Soap in their new location in Sellwood, and then stopped in on the local cabal of my the Dharma Punx. And then I ate pizza.

I kept noticing the pizza places in Portland. The baking crust smell wafted out storefront windows beginning early in the day. I don’t go much for pizza. I'm an Angeleno. Who craves cheese-slathered bread in the semi-desert? But up here it was looking good. Maybe it’s the climate, maybe it’s the obvious pairing with beer.

I’d heard a few places mentioned by locals during the week, but wandering outside the blocks around the Laurelthirst pub waiting for the band to start I was drawn by a simple heart shaped sign. I looked in and discovered Dove Vivi, which translates as "where I live." I scanned the menu and knew I was home: vegan options, kale salad, castelvetrano olives.

We put our name in around 7.15. It's rare that I wait for a table, but it gave my friend and I a good chance to talk. It turned out that this was the fantastic place he was trying to remember.  The waitresses, unintentionally but uniformly clad in heathered tshirts in sorbet shades paired with gray or black jeans cuffed above a luminous stretch of ankle terminating in clogs or Chucks, hollered the names of to go orders at the bar, some with tumblers full of wine. We caught up on our days, and then I begged my friend to check on the wait, and to request some olives to munch on.

We were seated some time later, oliveless, by the plate glass front window. I reminded the waitress to bring us some olives as good naturedly as I could – I was seriously hungry – and we perused the menu while sipping water decanted from a large mason jar. Older couples, families with young kids, girls who looked destined for a night out sat at the other tables - the place only seats about ten parties. I shortlisted the vegan with herbed tofu ricotta, and the veggie, a classic which we decided on as a baseline on which to assess the pizza.

Our kale salad and herbed olives were delivered with a sincere smile from the waitress. We munched the sweet green flesh of the olives between bites of thin dark strips of kale flecked with ricotta cheese. Both were richly dressed in good olive oil. My appetite whetted, I wondered aloud if the thick crust pizza would take forever. I was optimistic since they didn’t call it Chicago style and there were no warnings on the menu that you should expect a 45 minutes wait for your pizza. Then again, no one warned me I’d wait 45 minutes for a table.

When the waitress asked if I was feeling better I answered "yes!" wholeheartedly, mentioning that I might lick the plate. She suggested I hang on to it and dip my crust in the dressing. I was really starting to like this place. A heavy cast iron dish touched down moments later. Thick with tomatoes and veggies, thick with cheese, all resting on a deep pillow of crust. Perhaps it was Portland’s distinctive twist on the cornmeal crust. Chicago style never impressed me. This was divine.

I dipped my crust in the sheen of herbed oil on my salad plate. A single slice filled me perfectly, though I wanted to stuff down one more slice for the road. Instead I wrapped the rest to take with me on the plane the next morning. It was back to LA after a wonderful week, but I got to live one more day in the Pacific Northwest.

http://www.dovevivipizza.com/

What's in your cup?

This morning I walked into my local Starbucks for a triple shot of decaf espresso before work. It’s my usual drink when I’ve fallen off the no coffee wagon, and since the wagon’s wheels left me in the dust some time ago, I had my nifty spillproof Contigo travel cup with me.

Conservation is a no-brainer to me. It takes building a new habit, but humans are great at that (when did you last glance at your smartphone?) The way I figure it, I would not want 365 used coffee cups in my bedroom, so I do my best not to live with a mystical belief about where things go when I throw them “Away.”

My Starbucks is full of locals (you can tell, because it’s right in the heart of boy’s town and the bicep quality is well above par) but it also gets some tourists from the hotel just down the block. The mother with her two adolescent daughters before me in line was clearly of the second variety. She was fitting three drinks into a cardboard carry tray as I screwed the lid onto my travel cup, when I heard her say “Now, that’s a great idea!”

Um. “Yeah,” I said, with no detectable sarcasm. “It is. I save a few hundred cups a year, I figure.”

The usual barrage of judgmental thought was staunched along with the sarcasm, with just a tiny bit of effort. As I stood there and saw her regarding my cup with a smile, I realized, in a way that was completely unrelated to her charming Midwestern accent, that on this Friday morning in the year 2012, it occurred to this woman for the very first time in her life that she had an option not to use a disposable cup. She had the option to conserve. She had the option to save trees and plastic and space in the landfill, as well as all the unaccounted pollutants generated behind the scenes for anything that’s mass manufactured and distributed world wide to deliver a hot cup of creature comfort to us in the morning in whatever city we may find ourselves waking up.

That was what really woke me up this morning. I realized how I sleepwalk through my worldview, which presumes that everyone, everywhere knows what they can do to help our planet get a little healthier.

When I set aside my assumptions for a second, I had the opportunity to share a great idea with someone else. This woman didn’t deserve scorn for flaunting what I consider one of the simplest measures of personal environmental responsibility. Quite the contrary: she gave me the gift of being inspired by an action that I take almost without thinking about it. I paraphrase George Bernard Shaw:

If you have caramel frappucino and I have a triple decaf and we exchange cups then you and I will still each have one tasty beverage. But if you have an idea and I have an idea and we exchange these ideas, then each of us will have two ideas.

And that idea tastes much, much better.