Boots in the Oven

Horseman's Haven

What do you need after a raucous all night bachelor party? If you said grease, carbs and green chile you are totally right.

And an egg.

Serious chowing with friends.

God bless you Horseman’s Haven. Yup, this place was the only restaurant that made mine and Girlie’s absolutely must revisit list from our last trip to Santa Fe. Its straight up, no frills good food transcends its non-descript, hodgepodge pseudo-dive identity problem.

Shoved oddly behind a gas station, close to nothing in particular, this little unassuming diner has been churning out huge messy plates of deliciousness for locals and the college crowd for years.

The green chile cheeseburger laughs at your handheld attempts.

Even though they have recently renovated, you can’t shake the sense that the threadbare under layer is just behind the seams. Horse blankets still cover the vinyl benches, the odd assortment of pictures and nick-knacks hang unconcernedly at odd angles on the walls and the new karaoke machine is just as likely as not to have some crappy, falsetto, R&B song stuck on an endless loop.

Mom's Taste

Whatever you call them – panchan, banchan, pantchan or just those countless tiny bowls of often unidentifiable tasties that cover the tables of all good Korean restaurants – we’ve stumbled on a place that does all the hard work for you so you can bust out an over the top Korean feast on the cheap, in the comfort of your own home. Naked bi bim bop anyone?

Mom’s Taste is a non-descript little door in the middle of an old school strip mall. With the exception of the miniscule two-word title, the whole front is marked only in Korean. The name is actually what drew me in as I was pretty sure that it wouldn’t have any affinity with my own mom’s penchant for cream of mushroom soup or powdered ranch dressing.

Walking in, you have two choices. On the left are dry goods- sesame oils, soy sauces, rices and such and on the right is a bank of coolers holding an entire cultural education at 38°F.

Row after row of varyingly sized little plastic tubs are filled with shoots, sprouts, roots, peppers, meats, fish and more squid than I thought possible. They’re pickled, candied, dried, fermented, fried and every combination thereof. All of it is made in house.

Some of the dishes are marked in English but a good portion remain enigmatically unnamed. Often it’s just as well though, since the translated ingredients tend to say things like codonopsis pilosula, and osmund. It’s not a store for the timid but with just of bit of moxie your efforts are well rewarded.

Taqueria La Canaria

Yellow is the new awesome.

In the continuing theme of taco-truck-obsession I have recently discovered yet another little enclave of Mexican yumminess.

I actually pass this truck all the time on my way to work. I haven’t eaten there though since powerful forces hate me and don’t want me to be happy. Recently (and lucky for me), its siren song of bright color and bubbly hand painted menu items proved too much and I found myself timidly sidestepping up to the little window to see what might be delicious.

The menu offered no real surprises. It was a basic blend of tacos, tostadas, soups and gorditas with a few specials that are mainly to be found on the weekends. I figured I needed to make up for lost time so I decided to order some of everything. (Rachel was inside a nearby gas station buying drinks so her powers of logic and moderation held no sway.)

The two nice ladies inside the box were from Veracruz and Guerrero and spoke zero English. Not a problem. I just do what I always do in situations like this. I open my mouth to confidently order away in my best restaurant Mexican and inevitably end up spouting poor Italian and garbled pidgin. I have a keenly honed talent for making an ass out of myself.

Taking pity on me, the ladies dished up some of the finest street food that I’ve had in this town for a while.

We started with an adorable tostada filled with al pastor. The generous chunks of fresh avocado and fine smear of beans were a great texture contrast to the crispy corn disks. (I loved how the tostada wore an extra one on top like a tiny hat.) The al pastor was a bit chewy but I was pleasantly surprised by the deep savoriness.

La Fogata Taco Trailer

I’m surprised by how often I’m surprised by my own ignorance. I really should be used to it by now.

But seriously, I obsessively read about food, eat it, write about it, photograph it, talk about it, roll around in it, and yet all too often I feel like Jethro at a Seder. “That there bitter herb sure do taste funny. Maybe if I tried it with one of them big ol’ crackers…”

Just this weekend I got taken to school by a little trailer not five blocks from my house. I love that Austin sports scores (hundreds?) of little mobile taquerias. My only regret is that I don’t get to eat at more of them, more often.

In an attempt to rectify this shortcoming, Rachel and I committed ourselves to lunch at La Fogata, a tiny white box that we’ve driven by countless times, parked at a self-serve carwash.

Walking up to it, I realized something wasn’t quite right. While the menu had some of the usual suspects in the taco and gordita categories, I had never heard of their specialties. This town is pretty good about providing regional Mexican cuisine if you know where to look. Areas like Jalisco, Oaxaca, and Michoacán are all represented; with a little footwork, excellent pozole, moles, and corundas can all be found lurking around.

To my delight though, I discovered that the amiable proprietress of La Fogata is from San Luis Potosí. Sure my brainiac (and gorgeous) wife had heard of the place but I was in decidedly uncharted territory.

De Afghanan - And Yes I Can Spell.

Pretty much nothing. Zero.

I’d say that was an accurate description of the sum total of my knowledge of Afghan food. My knowledge of the country isn’t much more impressive.

I know we all should have gone in the ‘70’s, we’re bombing it now, and the opium is supposed to be amazing. Does that count?

While not totally uninformed (feel the stretch) I was eager to learn more about the place and the people when Rachel and I found ourselves in Fremont, CA- home to the largest Afghani population this side of the ‘Stan itself. Heck, they even call it Little Kabul.

Given a choice, my favorite introduction to a culture is through its food. While not exactly wearing their shoes, a good meal can really open a window on the lives of the people who prepared it. I know we were thousands of miles from all the actual local produce and spices, but I figured California probably grows a few suitable substitutes.

When we started looking around for the best Afghan place to break us in we noticed two things pretty quickly. First, there are a whole freakin’ lot of them. And second, they’re almost all labeled as kebob houses.

Lucky J's Chicken and Waffles.

Chicken and waffles is a great gift to the culinary landscape. The unintuitive combo blends a perfect combination of sweet, salty, crispy, savory, fluffy, gooey and succulent. Add some hot sauce and magical things can happen.

Unfortunately, Lucky J’s isn’t a great gift to chicken and waffles.

I have every reason to want to love this place.

It’s right down the street from my house. It’s in an adorable pinkish-red trailer with picnic tables and flowering plants. You can get real honest to goodness maple syrup and they offer a dozen varieties of spicy condiments to tweak your meal. Their motto is “Chicken for Strength, Waffles for Speed.” Heck, they even recycle their fryer oil into biofuel.

So what’s the problem?

The French Laundry

It started with me being buck naked in the St. George distillery and ended with a drunk guy in a garden groping my shoulder and demanding to know “just what exactly the fuck is going on here?!” In between, we had dinner at the French Laundry.

As with all of our trips to world-class restaurants, this one started on a rainy day. Our reservations on Friday May 1st  weren’t until 8:45pm, so we filled the in-between time with various adventuring around the Bay area.

Some locals had scared the crap out of us with traffic horror stories and had gone on in detail about how it could conceivably take eleven and half hours to get from Alameda to Yountville, the home of the French Laundry. We tried to split the difference with a dose of realism and traffic reports but still managed to arrive a good hour or more early.

A sign of good things to come.

Yountville is a pristine little village just north of Napa. Driving through its small streets is like running a Twilight Zone gauntlet of amazing restaurants. In a few short blocks you pass Ad Hoc, Redd’s, Bouchon, Bouchon Bakery, Étoile, Bottega, and of course the Laundry itself. I think the town of 3,000 is aiming for one fine-dining establishment per person.

To wile away the last of the time and dampen the anticipation, we strolled through a small grocery store/market were I calmed myself by buying a jar of local baby beet pickles. What? That doesn’t work for you?

Outside the French Laundry.

Being unable to stand it any longer, we showed up 15 minutes early. The hostess was very nice and led us to a little seating area stocked with books by Thomas Keller. I hadn’t seen his recent opus on sous vide cookery so I thumbed through it while listening to a tipsy lady, deep in discussion with a solicitous staff, trying very hard to determine which umbrella may or may not be hers. Hilarious.

We were quickly seated in a small upstairs room with only two other tables- one was a four top with a party atmosphere and the other was a painfully awkward couple who may or may not have been on a first date.

What an adorable clothespin.

Our menus arrived and in short order we opted for the Chef’s Tasting Menu over the Tasting of Vegetables. Both looked incredible but we figured traditional was a good start.

Our waiter, Bob, was a Flemish dynamo. He wished Rachel a happy birthday (a theme that would continue through most of our interactions with the staff), took our order and magically disappeared. Within moments two amuse bouche arrived, the famous Salmon Cornets and two tiny Gougères filled with cheesy Sauce Mornay.

I’ve seen the Cornets for so long now that it almost seemed surreal to pluck one out of its silver stand, undress it of its little napkin and nibble away. They’re perfect previews because they combine whimsical and delicious, two of my favorite things.

Empress of China - Boots Takes on San Francisco

We are officially back from California (booo!). Friends and family were seen, copious and amazing wines were drunk and food, eye-searing, nostril-flaring, don’t-know-whether-you-should-eat-it-or-hang-out-with-it-because-it’s-that-awesome food, was eaten.

You’ll be hearing about it.

But like many great stories, this one starts in Chinatown.

Having very little time in the Bay area requires one to make some serious dining choices. The array of options and quality is substantial to say the least. We looked for deciding factors. One thing that San Francisco excels at though is Asians. And damn they can cook.

With that as our starting thesis we decided to meet our friend Paolaccio at the epic Empress of China restaurant. The place has been around for decades and their self-description as reflecting the beauty, color, and architectural form of the Han Dynasty (206 BC) won me over. 206 was such a great year.

The place is located on the sixth floor of a non-descript mid-rise building. The only entrance we could find required us to weave our way through an odd oriental chotzky/herb shop and then take an elevator up to the roof. It made me seriously miss Hong Kong.

Empress of China is definitely from the old school. The dark wood, white table cloths, gold ornamental lattice work, green suited waiters and silver tray service all lingered from a different time. A totally awesome time.

We were early and the place was sparsely populated, so when we ordered we weren’t quite sure what to expect. We started with a chicken salad or as they called it, our famed Sai Sea Gai. Normally I’m not one for chicken salads, but hey, this one is famed.

Parkside - Confusingly Delicious

The weird thing is I really like Parkside. When they first opened up I thought a little bubble of insular awesomeness had landed on Sixth Street.

The creative and diverse crudos, the late night hours, the high-end food in an unpretentious setting- and I didn’t even mention half priced oyster and champagne Wednesdays. Yeah, the place kind of kicks ass.

Then they had this foodblogger tasting event. It left me a bit ruffled and confused. While I can always eat more of Parkside’s food, I’m not entirely sure what the point of it was and it certainly could have used some tweaking in the execution department.

The whole thing started off kind of strange. We were there ostensibly for a happy hour type event. Only they don’t have any happy hour food specials, just drinks. That’s fine, but when I asked to see their drinks menu, the bartender pointed at some bottles behind her and grunted that I was looking at it.

A Manhattan perched on the downstairs bar.

I knew they had specialty house cocktails, but she informed me that they don’t make those upstairs where we had all been gathered. Ok.

She further explained that if I wanted to, I could walk to the downstairs bar, buy them there and bring them back up. Honestly, I could use the exercise. (Later, she told me she had no idea an event was going on and that she could, in fact, make all of the drinks. It’s always good to be warned about a swarm of camera wielding, vittle loving, highly opinionated foodies. Just sayin’.)

Parkside's rockin' upstairs balcony.

We then proceeded to hang out next to a lovely vegan blogger who had been invited but who left early because as it turns out, Parkside wasn’t offering any actual vegan food. Hmm.

Other awkward strangeness was afoot but I’m done bitching. On to the food!

Taste of Ethiopia - And by Taste I Mean Thorough Gorging.

I love Ethiopian food. Any cuisine that scoffs at utensils and encourages communal dining as a rule, is aces in my book. I do not love Pflugerville. Any town that requires you to drive past 16 strip malls to get to your destination is, generally speaking, not where I want to be.

Last week however, these two parts of my life collided and delicious Ethiopian came out squarely on top.

Austin has several Ethiopian restaurants: Aster’s, Karibu, the now defunct World Café. But all of them are so-so. I get some pretty serious cravings for the tangy, chewy injera, rich spiced vegetables, and fragrant lentil dishes, so we make it a point to hit up good Ethiopian restaurants when we’re in cities like D.C. or Chicago.

Injera in an Adorable Basket.

For the past six months, though, I’ve been hearing buzz about this little place up north, in the middle of concrete sprawlsville. I don’t think of central Texas suburbs as prime area for African food, but I’m ever hopeful.

Coffee Service, Ethiopian Style.

We finally sucked it up and made the 25-minute trek to Taste of Ethiopia. Oh. My. Yes, yes, hell yes. This place needs to be uprooted and put behind my house.