Destination: My House

Somewhere in the world, somebody is describing my seaside hideaway as unique experience on the international scene.(Okay, perhaps seaside is a bit misleading. I can see the docks at the Port of Oakland from my window). They’re talking about the abundance of culture, the richness of the diversity, and the very mild weather in the other city by the Bay. They might even call it exotic, in an urban chic sort of way. Okay, perhaps chic is too strong. Let’s try urban industrial on for size, as the majestic cranes of which the longshoreman are stewards each day, cut quite an imposing figure against a backdrop of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco skyline in the distance. Well, how ‘bout just…URBAN.

I haven’t been on a plane or even in or near an airport in 2 months. I’m well past withdrawal stage. The shakes, the screaming, and the need to be constrained by the orderlies are getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror of this spaceship. A few weeks ago as I stood on the sidelines at my daughter’s soccer tournament which happens to be about a mile and a half from the airport and not far from the flight path of the departing planes, I could feel those shakes coming on again. Each time a plane went over head I found myself staring at it, wondering where it was headed, and wishing I was to be soon on my way to somewhere. I even looked longingly at the FedEx and UPS planes.
I also haven’t been to any of the Au Manoir de Khai’s (see Souffles in Saigon link in archives)or Cuba Libre’s lately either. Don’t start playing that little violin with your thumb and forefinger for me yet though. I have been to a few pretty decent local eateries lately in the Latin themed Tamarindo and Cesar in Oakland as well as a nice little hole in the wall Jamaican place (Back A Yard in Menlo Park) down the street from my job. My absence from the restaurant scene has been partly due to my not having any business trips during this time period and my always being one missed paycheck away from poverty.
Fear not, faithful readers (crickets…) as I’ve been engaged with clients in Asia and the Caribbean already at my new job. I’ll be up to my old globetrotting ways very soon. I’m like a kid waiting for Christmas. I’m so antsy, you’d think I wasn’t actually going to be doing any work when I go. But you can’t keep a good man down. Since I haven’t been able to enjoy an incredible experiences, I had to create my own.


I get tired of making plain ol’ spaghetti or baked chicken all the time, so when I’m in my kitchen I try to draw from the vast international dining experiences that I’ve had . If I have a taste for something, I’ll often drive myself crazy running around town trying to find the ingredients to make it. Unfortunately, the local American grocery stores rarely have any of the “off the beaten path” items that I need for these concoctions. It’s not unusual at all for me to go on a quest for something like real saffron or malanga (a potato like root that I’ve got to search for at the various Supermercados in the Fruitvale District of my fair city). Tortilla Soup, Carnitas tacos (yes, the real taqueria style with the fresh cilantro a a whole jalapeno and some sliced radishes and carrots), Arroz con Pollo, and Chicken with Peanut Sauce are some of the things I’ve whipped up lately. When I’m at a loss for inspiration, the Food Network saves me. Good ol’ Molto Mario (Batali) made a dish that had me nearly putting my face up to the dusty glass of my 32” Sharp television and I was determined to make it come to life in my humble abode. Chez My House. I actually did it too. I surprised myself. The sweet aroma of the merlot , cloves and rosemary in which I prepared the chicken drifted out into the hallway of my condo and down toward the elevator. I overheard some people talking about how good it smelled and how they wanted to go out to a restaurant that night. I kept quiet, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that Chez My House not only had very limited seating , but also was running short on dishes, silverware, and …did I mention our credit card machine is down?

Ever since I ate at Paul K’s in San Francisco earlier this year, I’ve had the urge to try my own hand at cooking with the delectable pomegranates that were used to make the heavenly creations that made me lean over to the adjacent table and say “Oh my God! You’ve got to try this!” holding up a spare rib appetizer that had been glazed in a pomegranate barbeque sauce. Luckily they just forced a very uneasy smile and went back to their conversation. When I picked up a pomegranate at the store it touched off all sorts of inquiries by my children. “What’s that? Are you going to make us eat that? Is it good?”

I went on to explain that it was one of the absolute best fruits I’ve ever had (along with papaya, dragon fruit and the candy-sweet grapefruits that they have in Southeast Asia). I told them how I used to savor them when my mother put them in my lunch as a kid, enjoying each individual seed or just biting into them, leaving my face looking like the proud house cat after he has just made quick work of the family canary. But I digress.

It was Saturday night and my best entertainment options were cooking and enjoying ESPN’s College Football. I flipped between the sometimes Mighty Trojans of USC on one channel and the LSU Tigers on the other channel. When it was all said and done, I had cooked up a melt in your mouth Pork Tenderloin that I would baste in a mustard and pomegranate reduction sauce. I served it with brown basmati rice and some succotash (okay, okay, this was from the frozen section at Trader Joe’s…so shoot me!).

My kids eat GOOD! They’re my little international, culinary connoisseurs lately. I felt like a chef on opening night, with the tough critics sitting at my best tables. My 8-year old critic will eat almost anything, but is still quick to comment on the quality of the meal one way or the other, sometimes with a total disregard for tact or anything like that. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt since I daresay that tact is not yet in his vernacular. My 10-year old is really tough. She turns her nose up at everything, and will flat out refuse to even try many things.

The tangy fragrance created by the union of pomegranate, mustard, orange zest and honey got the best of her. Downright eager to try it, I had to withhold silverware so that I could snap this photo before the moment was gone and food devoured. Success was mine. I, the very humble chef of Chez My House had created another masterpiece to add to the portfolio, with only very minimal pretense as I tossed caution to the wind, and endeavored to create something so sophisticated as a reduction sauce in my very minor league kitchen. Did you hear me? I said REDUCTION SAUCE! Around these parts, barbeque sauce and maybe a semi-homemade spaghetti sauce have supreme. Now I’m making a reduction sauce. Big shots out to Linda W. on the AllRecipes.com website for allowing me to be imbued by her creation.

I doubt not that if such words and phrases were in their vocabularies, my young critics would rave about the masterfully layered flavors that came together while somehow managing to maintain their individuality, unfolding in the mouth like the exotic tales, that are often told here on this site; or like a good bedtime story, perhaps Where the Wild Things Are. They’d speak of the richness of ingredients that invite them to indulge more and more. They’d rush to proclaim Chez My House as a Tour de Force, unparalleled for the quality of its free dining and access to premium seating.

But more likely, they’d just smile and find comfort in the notion that unlike those other stuffy establishments patronized by the Restaurant literati, this one will indeed honor their request for some ketchup in which they will subsequently smother their food.