Christmas3

Christmas

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Time flies.  Snapshots from our 2011 Christmas: ham, maple roasted butternut with apples and sage, scallops, sushi, a collard-strewn table, a breakfast casserole, Kaʻū Kuahiwi beef, Wailani chard, roasted red peppers, and holiday fun with the kin.

Uni

Thanksgiving, and Sea Urchin on Cereal

“Ooh, what is that?”

“Uni.”

“Uni?”

“It’s uni.  Sea urchin roe. For pupu.”

“How would you like it to be served?”

“I thought, I don’t know, maybe on a cracker.  But we didn’t have any crackers.  I mean, of course.”

“John has crackers.”

“We brought some.  Well…” she fished in her purse, and pulled out a little box.

It was one of those little orange cereal boxes.  Shredded wheat.

“Very Momofuku…” said one child.

Thanksgiving lunch 2011: Patsy, Patty, Fenny, Frank, four Chocks and Linnea.  Turkey by Dad, and super cranberry sauce (lime, in the place of orange) by sister.

Caramelized white pumpkin, sweet potato with lavender…tuberose.

And, when my old favorite heard her old favorite on the jukebox, a quiet conversation with Maikai Kamakani o Kohala.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Sushi Sasabune - Snapper and Halibut nigiri

Popcorn Sushi (“But again, no soy please.”)

Here are some pictures from a birthday party at Sushi Sasabune, the Honolulu omakase where the approach to soy leaves no room for nonsense.  Above, the halibut (left, no soy please) and the snapper (right, soy sauce permitted).

Most dishes were (per instructions) a single bite, served in pairs, like this plating: nigiri of king salmon (soy) and scallop with yuzu koshi (no soy). It was, to this non-connoisseur, popcorn dining.  The fish melted into thin air, chased by the faintest brushstrokes of lemon sea salt, green onion, miso, wasabi, toasted sesame.

Sushi Sasabune

1417 South King Street, Honolulu, HI 96814

Oven Roast Figs

Oven Figs

California Fresh FigsAll those Costco figs, and a Sunday morning.  A long roast in a low oven, brushed with NZ honey and nutmeg.

Oven Roast FigsTheir juices puddled into a bright pink jelly.

Oven Roast Figs And we ate them with greek yogurt, and in salads with black olives and sheep’s cheese.

Magali4

Biography through recipe

Last week I was blessed with dinner chez Magali + famille.  It comes as no surprise that the conversation found itself aboard le Mistral, hurtling toward Paris.

“Do you remember, that time?”

“The lamb…”

“And the haricots blancs–”  Mme. turned to Magali to explain, her French accent making everything marvelous.  “They were not fresh.”

“Cooked from dry,” Mme.’s husband added. “On a train in America, we would have welcomed grilled cheese; and on this one the food was delicious but the passengers were up in arms.  It was a lovely train, le Mistral.”

“Before le TGV,” sighed Mme.

Fresh haricots blancs! My head was still spinning, chasing a moving cabin where legumes knew no compromise. “Back to the beans,” I interrupted. “The French really complained, to the servers?”

“They asked to approach the conductor himself.”

I need to plant haricots blancs,” I thought out loud, realizing I was gripping the table with force commensurate to the thrill of the conversation. No surprise. This was, after all, dinner at Magali’s–an experience that has been called “outlandishly elegant and riotously gastronomic” in certain media.

And at Magali’s they call it pain quotidien. This is perhaps the only corner of the world where, after a casual evening swim at Kaimana, one serves panisse over gorgeously-blackened chicken “Diablo;” a fragrant ratatouille, baguette, salade et fromages… and then announces dessert.  How?  I kept glancing at the tiny kitchen. Watching these dishes parade to the table was  like seeing the Dallas Mavericks file out of a Volkswagen bug.

And that dessert: plum clafoutis by Magali (plums, allowed by Julia’s headnotes as a substitute for cerises) and Mariage Freres.

Our stories ricocheted from haricots to Lanzhou paomo, and through decades.  Magali mentioned a “book” twice, in reference to family cookery, and as intrepid journalist and marginally polite guest I had to pry.  What, pray tell, was this project?

A binder, now quite thick, of recipes–each one patiently tested and calibrated by a father who does not need to measure when he cooks. (The other chef in the family, the French one, said something about refusing to break the rhythm of cooking.) Its contents range from Marseille heirlooms to dishes required for school projects, pan muerto to teriyaki steak.  In parts, the gastronomic canon of a family; in sum, something so much more. Menu as life score, I thought.

“Biography through recipe,” mused Mme., and my jaw dropped.

That would have been the perfect title for the blog, I said.

“It is yours,” she said immediately, forever French and elegant; always quick and deft with courtesy.

The French, I guess, have always had a strong sense of what matters most.  Baguette crusts, evening swims; good wine, fromages. And taste and tale: heirlooms that travel through time, fresh beans on a fast train to Paris.

 

Summer8

Broccoli Days of Summer

The high tide of summer is inching away: long days always a little less so. Avocados are dropping, pakalana is in bloom and currant tomatoes flow from the vine. Salmon is smoking in the grill.

Also appearing at the table: first-ever homegrown broccoli.  Not exactly a tropical summer crop, but there it was in the garden bed.  A splash of olive oil and a moment over the fire to char and sweeten.  Delicious.

Then the matter of those avos, and tomatoes, and Kahuku corn.  These last snapshots are from a dinner with Jean-Yves, Monica and Carole, a bright-skied early evening that finished with blueberry crumble.  The crumble was by Pia, who wasn’t there to eat it–like summer, she had tiptoed away.

Au’s Garden

A Parisian son of our Chinese clan is on island; to celebrate, two round tables at Au’s Garden on Moʻokāula St. in Kalihi.  It was my first trip ever, and Aunty Helen’s third in two weeks.

It has been a long time since I last journaled on FiF; I don’t know why.  You probably know that I spent the summer paralyzed by indecision–and with apologies to Yogi Berra (“When you come to a fork in the road, take it”) I chose to stay in Hawaiʻi.  I remember it as a difficult choice, but driving to Kalihi with the windows down and “ʻŌpae E” on the radio, it seemed a natural step on the path to self-actualization, forks and all.

Au’s is a lovely dining room unchanged by time, and by the way I have also discovered it to be the best Chinese restaurant in America.  Hands down.  I swear in print that is better even than Darda.  (Another story for another time!)

We began with corn soup.  I will have you know that I am not particular about the service aspect of Chinese dining experiences.  But I will always kvell when soup is ladled with one hand behind the back.  It is a graceful echo of childhood dinners, special occasions, when Yong Sing’s kitchen would send forth giant winter melons, hollowed almost to translucence, cut with a serrated edge and  filled with shimmering broth.  I can remember when our family filled six or more round tables, each with a steaming melon.  (Also a soft spot: steamed fish fileted deftly with two silver spoons in a single hand.)

Yong Sing is gone, as are many of the masterminds whose taste and tact guided the selection of those ten-course meals.  It is an incredible art and science; my sister seems to have picked it up but I wouldn’t even know where to begin on a menu.  I believe our meal this time was pre-selected by Aunty Pat, perhaps with help from Helen and maybe Dori.   It was a triumph.  Following the soup: sweetest cuttlefish on sin choy;  wood fire roasted clams; bittermelon; green beans seared with crisp pork and garlic; spicy eggplant; sherry chicken; shrimp, jai; a brilliant fish over tofu and under a fragrant mat of thread-thin ginger and scallions.

And, this being this, resin water glasses, little tea bowls, Australian sauvignon blanc in plastic cups.

We also observed the upcoming departure of another cousin, who is headed to Portland for college.  His recent graduation from Punahou was the centennial of our great grandfather’s commencement in 1911, a fact not lost on a great-aunt after likely 18 years of calculated anticipation.

On the subject of generational cycles, I happened to make this image below as we were wrapping things up.  It is the ritual act of portioning and packing leftovers, an exacting exercise that is perhaps one of the quaint hallmarks of Aunty Pat’s singular hospitality.  Here our young Parisian guest is seen, instinctively doing the same, unprompted (even as the original leaps in from the next table).

What a meal.  I kept snapping and snapping pictures all night.  Whatever kept me from blogging had disappeared.  We were all together at the right place in the right time–and though I didn’t take that fork, there was a pair of chopsticks for me.

biography through recipe

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