9 July 2009
Our dinner with Agnes
John’s article on our dinner with Agnes Varda last week. From Vogue.com.
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21 February 2008
Kyoto pics
Kaiseki at Kikunoi, Kyoto
The February platter, Before:
After:
The grilled pomfret with yuzu, Before:
After:
The soup with the unannounced turtle, Before:
After:
16 February 2008
Okina in Ebisu
Michelin-starred kaiseki with a startling plate of white soba (from Hokkaido buckwheat) at the end. The grilled tuna from Oma (home of the best tuna in Japan) is mindblowingly great. Taro took us here:
Lightly smoked oyster, crab guts, grilled baby eggplant:
The tuna from Oma:
Snow white soba:
12 December 2007
Notes on Flesh
From Octave Mirbeau’s Torture Garden, pp. 78-79:
“So?” she said in a malicious voice. “It’s not a joke? You really have eaten human flesh?”
“Certainly I have,” he replied proudly in a tone which established an undeniable superiority over us. “We had to… You eat whatever you can.”
“What does it taste like?” she asked, a little disgusted.
He thought for a moment … then, with a vague gesture:
“Heavens!” he said. “How can I explain? Imagine, adorable young lady, imagine pork, slightly marinated in nut oil…”
In a complacently resigned tone he added: “It’s not very good … At any rate you wouldn’t eat it for pleasure. I’d prefer a leg of lamb or a steak.”
“Clearly,” Clara accepted. And, as though she wanted, through politeness, to minimize the horror of such anthropophagy, she added: “Doubtless because you only consumed negro flesh!”
“Negro?” he cried with a start. “Ugh! Fortunately, dear lady, I was not reduced to such harsh necessity. We never lacked whites, the Lord be thanked! Our escort was large and mainly composed of Europeans — from Marseilles, Germany, Italy, a bit of everywhere. When we were hungry, we slaughtered one of the escort, preferably a German. The German, divine lady, is fatter than other races and provides more meat. And again, as far as we French are concerned, it’s one German less! The Italian is dry and hard, full of nerves…”
“And the Marseillais?” I intervened.
“Well,” the traveller declared, shaking his head. “He’s pretty over-rated. He smells of garlic and also, for some reason, sheep grease. He’s not exactly appetizing. Edible, but no more than that…”
16 January 2007
Housekeeping
Last Night’s Dinner Log
Where: Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, Pasadena
Who: special guest Dave, JP, me
What: Fried chicken! Waffles! Cornbread!… and diet Coke
Talk: movies, meddlers, Andrei Konchalovsky, Palm Springs, the rich folk, dumb folk and bad art of Palm Springs, Bob Hope’s gay daughter, Robert Aldrich, Palm Springs film festival, critics awards, Golden Globes, Marty’s snob wife, Masters of Horror, an evil/dumb New York critic with a malicious blog.
Epiphany: It was a supercrowded MLK night at Roscoe’s. But where were all the black people? And why was the place filled with Chinese/Asian teenagers who ate like horses? Is it always like this? We must return. The chicken is amazingly delicious, and as much as I hate it, even better than at my beloved Pann’s (whose menu, btw, was used as a truck stop diner menu in the movie Little Miss Sunshine).
2 January 2007
Housekeeping
Yesterday’s Lunch Log
Where: there
What: black eyed peas, beans and rice + gumbo
Who: them, the usual
Talk: everything/nothing, rose parade floats, TiVo set-up, Lightning McQueen
Epiphany: none (too self-involved for that)
23 December 2006
Housekeeping
LAST NIGHT’S DINNER LOG
Where: here
What: stinky cheeses & fig jam; rapini, cannellini bean & potato soup; prime rib; roast carrots with garlic; savoy cabbage cooked in its own juice; pear tart (from Europane). Soave, Dolcetto & Pinot Noir.
Who: Guy, Lise, Rachel
Talk: Film, Paris is dead, “very strange film”, Guy Maddin, David Lynch, Woodland Hills, Inland Empire, Clint, editing suites, Paris is dead, Cannes (secret routes to theatres at), film, “I have never seen a beef like this!”, Fry’s Electronics, Pigalle, Marin Karmitz, Locarno (the expensiveness of), Death Valley, Georges Delerue, Paris is not dead, drunk-driving, David Lynch, “We will wait for you in Paris, OK?”
Epiphany: Fabulous four bottle night with Francophone sound effects and occasional sign language. Superb company. Cooking-wise, we now realize that Bristol Farms is not where you go to buy the best tasting prime rib, just the priciest. I think we would have done just as well at Whole Foods. Also, ’tis not the season for rapini ($4.79 a bunch at Bristol Farms, with yellowed leaves) — soup turned out bitterer than usual.
