Business & BBQ in Dallas

This week business brought me to the greater Dallas/Ft Worth Area. While I didn't get much time to chase after food in the two days I was there, my hosts took me and my associates to two different BBQ places, one for dinner and one lunch. The dinner joint was disappointing. Love & War in Texas is a two location operation with a great name. Inside the enormous structure of their Grapevine shop there's huge ceilings and lone star flags, those double saloon doors you see in cowboy movies, and a couple of empty stages (no music on Wednesday nights I guess). The menu felt like something from a national chain, tons of options printed in large text across four stiff, glossy folds. The way the BBQ was divided up between different regional schools of ingredients, techniques, and sauces was a nice touch for a food nerd like myself, and wild boar did show up in several spots.

I wanted to try the BBQ brisket, as its what Texas is suppose to be all about. Every region of the US has its own style of barbecue (an excellent wikipedia entry here), with its own favorite cuts, and in Texas its hot smoked brisket, a tough cut popular with European immigrants. The menus, with their commercial fonts and registered trademark signs, made me suspicious, but one of the Texans at the table said the brisket should be alright. Wishful thinking. Relatively dry, tasteless meat smothered in an average sauce was what I got. My friend Jeff (who is from Texas) does a better job on his balcony in a little smoker. The meal was not a total wash, as our young waiter kept the enormous pints of local brew Shiner Bock flowing. The boar, tried in quesadilla form, tastes like little more than roast beef, but hey, its another critter I can check off the list as eaten. The only real highlight was the Oatmeal cookie sundae at the end. Cinnamon ice cream (worth the trip alone) over hot oatmeal cookies, with whipped cream and caramel makes any meal better. Even our host was disappointed, and secretly vowed to blow our minds with lunch the next day.

Hard Eight BBQ will be remembered as a special place as far as my gregarious appetite is concerned. After loading up the party of 12 or so in several different cars and driving to the suburb community of Coppell, we pulled up to a well maintained but industrial looking building. The railed-in line runs a zigzag underneath a large awning, and it took me a moment to realize we where not surrounded by empty picnic tables, but smokers measuring at least eight feet in length and five feet in hight. Each a menacing sarcophagus of smoked goodness, they stood like flat black steam punk arks, pipes and gauges popping out above the top. Above all this swung the menu on a well varnished plaque, listing several types of cooked meats to be ordered by the pound. Round the corner, one of the big black boxes is presented open to the line, prostate before those brave enough to take in the gastronomic glory with their eyes. Think the ark of the covenant from Indiana Jones, but instead of your face being melted you get really hungry. Warning signs about eyes being bigger than stomachs where hung from the entrance to the pit.

Friendly staff passed trays of food from other smokers too one another between the light Thursday lunch crowd. One of the guys working the pit added a tray of fresh half chickens, wedged somewhere between the roasted corn (with a little husk left for convenience) and pork ribs. As he worked his tongs through the tray of fresh supplies he looked at one piece of chicken and pitched it into the garbage. Dave, a co-worker asked why, and the pit worker said 'I didn't like the look of it'. This blew Dave's mind, as he is a big fan of Cheese Cake factory, Chile's, and several other chains not known for strict quality control. Dave also cringed as they cut slides off a large piece of brisket, flagging himself as a modern man, deeply removed from the fact that meat once strolled across the ground, had pretty brown eyes, and made cute noises.

The display, covering the entire smoker rack, included smoked turkey breast, plain and jalapeño sausage, a vat of butter with half cobs of corn floating about, two different cuts of steak, seriously thick pork chops, and pork ribs. A highlight where the Brush Poppers, bites of turkey wrapped in bacon and smoked. After some soul searching I went with the pork ribs (in retrospect I should of hit the brisket...I bet that one would of been up to snuff) and a roast corn cob, declining the offer of dipping it in butter. The man with the massive knife chopped up some ribs, getting my okay before weighing the grub and printing out a sticker. Sliding inside, a selection of fluffy white bread (in Texas Toast or Roll form), sides, and deserts are offered before cashing out. I have to admit this one was on the company dime, and I didn't get a chance to see the total. I can tell you it was all worth it. Beyond the bar with, constantly running frozen drink machines and the soda fountain was a pot filled with navy beans, jalapeños, and who knows what else, offered self service style.

While the ribs where not the best in the world, I most definitely did not complain. A good rib does not let go of its meat without some resistance, but a mouthful should be tender, as the Hard Eight's pit master had done. The dry rub on the outside offered complex mix of sweet and spice, and I did not need to add any sauce. While you can argue any way, I believe good BBQ should not need sauce, and any addition should be left to the diner. The meat was pink (a sign of good smoking, not being rare). They left the membrane, a layer of tissue on the back side of the ribs, on the bone, but I get the sense it did nothing but add flavor. The smoky flavor, primarily mesquite, had the distinct personality of a down home piece of barbecue done by someone who not only likes their job, but respects the cuisine. The corn was roasted to perfection, and my Styrofoam cup of banana bread pudding was great, pushing me from happily overfed to slightly uncomfortable. Our host, the one who mistakingly led us astray at Love and War in Texas smiled as we waddled back to the office, trying to stay alert for the rest of the meeting. Dave even had to run to a smoothie place near by, needing something resembling fruits or vegetables so he could feel like a good person.

Barbecue, in my mind, is the national cuisine of America. I know other nations do it, but ours blends old world cuts (much of Texas can thank German immigrants for its BBQ tradition) with new world ingredients, and the process of smoking meats speaks of the frontier, the deep old growth forests and endless prairies that helped define the American identity. BBQ reflects the unique regions of the country, with even neighboring states claiming different (and superior) methods and styles. In Texas I had some the best BBQ of my life, presented in an awesome restaurant, obviously built by someone who decided to run their joint just the way they please. Sure, the night before I was eating dry, un-inspired commercial knock off versions, but without these bad meals we never can appreciate the great ones.

San Francisco: Lament

As stated in a short post a long time ago, I went to San Francisco. If there ever was a great city for food lovers and fat bastards, it is that one. The proximity to prime growing areas, like the vineyards of Napa and Sonoma and the incredibly fertile San Joaquin promises a source of high quality regional ingredients and wine. The massive Chinese population, a people who have been serious about food before the rest of the world had moved beyond 'Cold or Not Cold' must help. At one point the bay was over flowing with seafood, and an influx of European immigrants built a style of cuisine around it. These factors, along with a bunch I am more likely completely ignorant of, has led to an awesome region of food excellence.
A figurehead in this San Franciscan tradition of culinary excellence is chef Alice Waters, and her restaurant Chez Panisse. Established in 1971, the restaurant serves a fixed menu which changes on a daily basis. The ingredients are as local and fresh as possible, and the emphasis has recently focused on organic food, but served with the quality and passion of the French tradition. While I can not say Waters and her restaurant are responsible for cuisine as we now know it in America, Chez Panisse can be pointed to as a leader in many of this countries food trends, and a pillar in the eating scene of the Bay Area. With all this said, I did not eat there.
The worst part about my trip to San Francisco is how I managed to avoid amazingly great meals, and pursued a itinerary of mediocrity. Average Chinese in China Town, so-so pasta in the Italian North Beach neighborhood, both meals where not bad, but not good, and walking up the street we passed numerous locations that looked like better choices. The breakfast we had at Cortez, the upscale Mediterranean restaurant located in our hotel was forced, overpriced and disappointingly simple. This is a sharp contrast compared to the high quality of the Hotel Adagio, which had excellent service, nice rooms, and a top notch snack selection in the mini-bar.
This isn't to say the food of the entire trip was a let down. Located in the waterfront district called the Embarcadero across from Market Street is the restored Ferry Building. Not only is it a working terminal for cross-bay boat commutes, but a market of high quality food vendors have set up a permanent residence. DELICA rf1 takes the small dishes bento box and fills it with dishes inspired by the ingredients and philosophies for which the bay area is known, making a refreshing and fun work time lunch option and a new deli fusion concept. At this market you can find high quality meats, a stall devoted entirely to mushrooms, and belly up to counter service caviar. We picked up a sourdough loaf, and an excellent artichoke and olive bread from the artisan bakery Acme Bread Company. Another cornerstone of the market is the CowGirl Creamery Cheese Shop, the retail arm of a nationally respected gourmet cheese maker. A small selection of cheeses with the breads made for a great mid day meal, and the entire market is one of those tributes to eating that tend to make me loose my mind, skipping about with glee like a child, or some sort of escape from a mental institution/weight loss clinic.
We had another great meal on our last day during an excursion deep into Marin county, the area just North of San Francisco across the Golden Gate Bridge. Fairfax, a small town tucked in the hills of the county Northwest of San Rafael, is home to a small and pleasant space called the Barefoot Cafe. The menu doesn't go much beyond a simple American and Mediterranean selection, and my party of four focused on hamburgers and sandwiches. But each item was crafted with care and ingredients not often found in similar joints elsewhere in the country. Even the side salads consisted of crisp micro greens and excellent whole radishes, going beyond the typical browning and iceberg lettuce and pale tomato slices that usually accompanies lunches. The Barefoot Cafe embodies the spirit of bay area cuisine, where the time taken in selecting and preparing ingredients elevates even the most basic dishes to something special, making the region a top priority travel destination for anyone who loves to eat.