The Cheeky Chef Convention

Yesterday I spent the day exercising willpower at Milano's Identita Gelosa.
A chef centered event where they hammer fresh vegetables to the walls, but offer exclusively glutenous samples, one tablespoon at a time.

Actually, I am more certain that it was a space for top male chefs to posture on-camera while their female or twenty-something stagehands frantically fired up gourmet miracles with all the fixings in fifteen minute intervals.

I spent the time -- all 8 hours of my contractually obligated time -- hallucinating between vendor stands as my waning willpower wheeled me around this aromatic space of things I must not have.
In between the blurred bits, I managed to catch some highlights.

Chef Kobe Desramaults split the skull of a skinned goat's head to teach us to reconnect with the animals we eat...Aaand also so that he could pull out the brains, cook them in kidney fat and place them back in the skull. Now it's a serving dish, guys!

Massimo Bottura gave shade to "young" Massimiliano Alajmo for not saying "traditional" when referencing Modena's balsamic vinegar, which we all know is sugar water unless it is proper aged. We know that, right? Like, everyone?

Massimiliano Alajmo then threw shade at Davide Cassi, the guy he was supposed to be honoring, when he rebounded a question about why "young" chefs are not appreciated to him. Seriously, why does everyone in Italy think 33 is the new 17? Must have something to do with their parents paying their rent until they are 35 -- jusss saying though.

Luigi Salomone backhanded his sponsor when he very mindfully muttered "quote, un-quote 'serious presentation'" while referencing the work he was asked to do for a certain national beer company. I think he was more mad that he wasn't on the main stage throwing shade with the big boys and sippin out of lamb skulls.

And that concludes my account of the event.
If I had been double-fisting cheese samples and inhaling native Thai dishes instead of choking down oat bran in a dark corner I might have had an entirely different day to share. But, it is what it is.

3 weeks down, 5 weeks to go. Hash-tag: cleansing

HHH

Banh Mi Battle

I have just come back for a 10-month sabbatical in a country where cilantro was an exotic jungle vine-- hard to say and impossible to find -- and salted bread marked regional rebels who sparked political flames with their culinary noncompliance.

Now I am back, and every inch of my tortured tongue craves the tangy, spicy, savory, crunchy, and oddly creamy bundle of that South East Asian piquant perfection, banh mi; or even better known as the Vietnamese sandwich.

Vietnamese sandwiches for me, have always been up there with Subway, Jamba Juice and all the usual fast, fresh, and cheap junk food alternatives, but never had I had the patience to explore any sandwich stead outside the 5-mile radius of my front door (I don't dare say their name). While I am completely aware that they, temptingly accessible and successfully marketable, are not the gold standard for all things banh mi, they do offer for the hurried, hungry and lazy the quickest fix.

But enough with apologies and excuses of the past. Today is a new beginning. The beginning of...

Battle of the Best Banh Mi: San Jose edition

Round 1: Huong Lan vs Lee's Sandwiches

Fight!

Bank: $2.75... Seriously, tax included

Weight/Height: about 8 inches or so, not super full

Bread: soft on the inside flaky on the outside (doesn't scrape off the first layer of skin on the roof of one's mouth)

Veggies: the pickled daikon and carrots were a little bland to me. Not so tangy or sweet.

Meat: tender, savory, delicious. could have been more, but still a quality ingredient.

Condiments: a little heavy on the mayo (two salty things without a buffer is no good)

Two-Cents: while the maintaining that the quality of meat was great for a sub $3 sandwich, I still miss the lightly sweetened baguette and the crisp and tangy pickles from Lee's.

Seoul Food

At least once a week I make a pilgrimage to the land of hybrids and urban hippies; that great West Coast hipster haven called San Francisco. Seeing as I work part-time at both a suburban, hilltop golf club and an exclusive country club, it is imperative that I atone for my societal sins to maintain my self-proclaimed, non-elitist persona.

This Sabbatical journey usually includes hours at an industrial arts non-profit in a notoriously violent inner city locale, where I answer phones for free and refresh myself with free-trade chai tea lattes from our specialty vending machine. After this saintly act of goodwill, I scurry to my car using my $15 thrift store peacoat to hide my $100, leather bound Fossil laptop tote. I then take a 40-minute drive over a 2-mile bridge to treat myself to an authentic Bay Area meal.

An authentic Bay Area meal can be a number of things.

1. A pricey organic meal in a restaurant practicing sustainable business methods.
2. Hole-in-the-wall eatery characterized by mediocre food, unconventional themes (sushi in a 50's diner), and the neighborhood patrons that support it (drunks, hipsters, bored college students).
   
3. Ethnic food served in a place where all communication is done with hand gestures and head nodding (except the suspiciously enunciated price).
4. A regular American meal plus avocado.

On this particular pilgrimage I went with option #2.

The place was called Toyose. We found it on a deserted street lined with Frisco's signature low-income, double stacked, cubby hole housing. The visible shoreline drive to Toyose suggested fine-dining superiority; the neighboring plastic signboard liquor stores insisted otherwise.

We opened what seemed to be a garage sidedoor and entered what appeared to be an East Asian countryside hut. A corridor of attractive wooden booths lined either side of the chic shoe box of a diner, and the back opened up slightly to a section walled with mirrors, lined with similar booths, and topped with a faux gazebo-esque roof strung with lights. -- O holy and chic Zion, grace us with thy victual blessings -- At the time my guest and I were the only ones seated; however, judging from the cutesy powder pink and blue posters featuring unnaturally fresh-faced foreign models I could tell who would inevitably be joining us.

Moments later, small groups of soju-sipping Korean twenty-somethings piled in, and by that time we had already broken bread -- crispy squid tempura, egg-topped kimchi fried rice, and assorted Korean pickles and starters. The food was good, but not great; a strong indicator of a classic Option #2 meal. There was also no dessert available, which is unacceptable, but the overall experience was satisfying.

We finished up the meal with several rounds of pacifying hot tea, let out a sigh of contentedness and reverence, and headed home.

A relatively relevant link...Black Jesus. You're welcome.