So, whatever, I am like an eighth Jewish and sometimes my Jewisher friends like to tease me about it. Then I have to prove myself by doing things like eating chopped liver by the pound. I am only bummed that because my oven is broken, I had to buy Zabar’s challah and couldn’t make honey cake from scratch, but I’ll atone for it on Yom Kippur.

Apples & honey, for a sweet new year.

An ENTIRE FISH, because I’m hardcore. This apparently has to do with Rosh Hashanah literally translating to the ‘head of the year’, and also something about being ‘the head and not the tail’ - leaders rather than followers (the shiksa blog claims this appears in Deuteronomy. I grew up going to Unitarian church where we were busy making bird feeders out of pinecones and not learning this stuff, but I can tell you that an entire tilapia can be purchased at Pioneer for three dollars, that it’s a very impressive presentation, and that with a little olive oil, salt and lemon, it tastes pretty darn good.)

Fish heads, fish heads, roly poly fish heads.

KASHA VARNISHKES! I love kasha varnishkes. Kasha varnishkes from the 2nd Avenue Deli got me hooked, but this was the first time I’d tried making them from scratch. They are fairly impossible to screw up, containing four main ingredients - buckwheat groats, onions, farfalle (which my boyfriend pronounces “farfle”) and olive oil or schmaltz. I knew they’d be better with schmaltz, but I couldn’t figure out where to buy it - anywhere legit enough to sell me some was closed today - so I did them with olive oil and The New York Times recipe. My Polish great-great-grandmother Loewenstein would’ve been proud.

Challah from Zabar’s. The round kind, braided into a circle, represents the cycle of the year. The way this particular loaf tasted reminded me how excited I am for Christmas panettone. We had it with Trader Joe’s honeybear honey and kosher cabernet. 

Apples & pomegranate - new fruit.

Yesterday my boyfriend and I went to his grandma’s house down the shore where he grew up, which turns out to be not terribly far from the places down the shore where I spent a lot of time during summers as a kid (the Maps app on my iPad had me playing a well-illustrated version of the “What exit?” game in the backseat). We ate Vic’s pizza with extra garlic, sausage and peppers. We ate linguine with anchovies and chicken marsala and ziti marinara and good bread. So this morning, I woke up full of carbs and salt and grease but craving something for dessert. 

I’m not a big yogurt fan - on the whole, it strikes me as too goopy and/or watery and/or tart and/or boring - but I’ve recently come serendipitously across a yogurt I adore. Zabar’s has a special on these adorable mini-cups of a full-fat, fruity French yogurt that is ABSOLUTELY DELICIOUS (and, as Google would have it, I’m not the only one who thinks so). The size of the cups implies a responsible portion control, but this morning I’ve had three of them. Strawberry is the best, with apricot trailing close behind. I’ve also discovered a new favorite in the combination of Zabar’s rye bread spread with Crunch Time peanut butter and a little honey. Yum.

I don’t like trendy restaurants. I’m not saying that in the way people do when they’re too trendy for trendy restaurants. I’m saying that in the way of people who love food and love restauranteurs and love discovering new and delicious things, and hate disappointment. I believe strongly that on a good menu, you shouldn’t be able to “order wrong.” I believe that less is more, except sometimes when more is more, and that there is no such thing as too much garlic. I believe that the quality of the ingredients matters as much as the aptitude of the chef.

Last Saturday I had the opportunity to try Scarpetta, Scott Conant’s high-end Italian restaurant on West 14th. The housemade pasta has received a lot of hype, largely well-deserved: my cavatelli had all the lightness of really fantastic gnocchi, with an accurately al dente chewiness. The caponata was lovely, served with some addictive if heavy-handed salumi e formaggi bread.

Caponata

Primi piatti: My boyfriend slurped down an entire serving of the creamy polenta, which I described as something like macaroni and cheese without the macaroni - would you like some cornmeal with your unearthly amounts of parmesan and heavy cream? The olive oil braised octopus was both more subtle and more delicious, largely benefiting, as many of Scarpetta’s dishes do, from the sheer quality of the ingredients chosen.

Spaghetti with tomato and basil.

Cavatelli with rabbit ragu, porcini and arugula.

Paste: The tomato and basil sauce in the spaghetti pomodoro was plainly not as incredible as I wanted it to be. A little too sweet, not enough garlic. New York calls it “famously restrained,” which I guess is sort of the opposite of what I’m looking for in Italian food. I had no complaints at all, however, about my rabbit ragu: fork-tender, flavorful, the braised meat was an ideal foil to the firm cavatelli. I would have happily eaten three times the quantity of porcini, but luckily a side of broccoli rabe with extra garlic filled the gap.

Veal loin with gremolata crust, salsify, favas and semolina dumplings.

I had only a bite of the veal, and it’s possible that it just isn’t up my alley, but I found it vaguely bland. In summary, come for the pasta and some elegantly prepared, top-quality produce, but you’ll have to be sure to order right.

Finally found a place in Hoboken that reminds me of Philadelphia. Pretzel bread, BBQ ranch salad with fried chicken, and creme brulee french toast with bacon. The caramelization on the surface of the toast perfectly mimicked the hard caramel on the surface of actual creme brulee, and the inside was just as creamy and custardy. Kinda a miracle of physics. Molecular gastronomy ain’t got nothing on this french toast.

It’s my last night in San Francisco and it’s hitting me that this is the first time in years I’ve gone anywhere besides New York and Chicago for an extended vacation (in the schedule of the working world, four full days is practically studying abroad). I serendipitously got to spend most of the weekend with my friend Mary and her sister Liz, who happened to be in Cali at the same time, and we had some delicious eats: lunch at Rose Pistola, where I had a truly memorable antipasti of seafood-stuffed grilled calamari surrounded by lentil salad and rosemary aioli: 

Liz bravely ordered the capponada salad without knowing what it was: it turned out to include tuna, bread, and that gorgeous farm egg floating on top. The pesto tasted unbelievably fresh.

Mary had the acclaimed pizza, made in a wood-burning stove, with artichoke and prosciutto and green olives. The artichokes were strangely a little bland, but the crust was excellent.

Liz and Mary, who spent months this past year living in Paris, fell in love with a little North Beach bakery called La Boulange. You can see why.