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My mom drives to Monterey to Sea Harvest or Wharf Number Two and buys cooked, cracked, whole crabs. The dismembered Dungeness beasts are dumped out into the utility sink, washed, and returned to the fridge until dinner. When I set the dinner table around four-thirty, I place a nutcracker and a pick along the top of the place setting, centered between the spoons on the right and the forks on the left. The crab is served cold in big earthenware casserole dishes. Mom’s whole wheat crescent rolls arrive at the table warmed and nestled between cloth napkins in a woven basket. We heap salad onto our plates and use the pick to tease crabmeat out onto the bed of lettuce and veggies.

Until my mid-twenties, I was too repulsed by my abstract, untested notion of crab to eat any myself, though the entire table moaned at its lusciousness. Some other runner-up meal was prepared for me and any other non-crab eaters present, but instead of jumping right in and finishing before everyone else, I moved around the table, helping crack and pick crab for the rest of the family. There was great disappointment when I finally clued in that Dungeness crab is one of the most delicious things a gal can have for dinner.

- – -

At the end of the meal, we were well sated declined the offer of a dessert menu. Our server, in kind, careful English, offered that the house dessert was included in the meal and asked if we would like to try it. Reasoning that it would be rude to refuse, we assented. We didn’t know what the dessert was – I had only understood, or thought I had understood, “water chestnut,” and when it arrived, the dish was a bit of a surprise.

The dessert was a soup, I guess, in a small bowl – the same that held the white rice during our supper – with a saucer. It’s a clear liquid, slightly sweet and hot, in which floats a crinkly matter, not unlike rice noodles but firmer and in short, koosh-ball-esque shapes. And three lychee nuts. Or, they’re berries, right? The lychees were pitted, but still sheathed their rough red skins.

I took up the large ceramic spoon, awkward to my american table habits, and slurped, first the liquid, then with the crinkly bits. I discovered the water chestnut – if that is really what it was – a few bites in, cut up small and sunk to the bottom of the tiny bowl.

The lychee was delicious, and I especially enjoyed breaking the tension of the skin with my teeth to release the soft, sweet flesh inside. The physical sensation of its mastication was as enjoyable, if not more so, than its flavor.

My dining companion looked on in mock – or true – horror. She slurped a little of the liquid, might have tried the crinkly things, broke apart one of the lychees with er spoon, and then set her bowl aside to watch me.

I suggested she try a lychee, making a show of enjoying mine in the exact manner that my father used with trying to convince Baby J9 to eat steamed zucchini slices. Mmmm, just like candy, he’d say. This tactic never worked on me; I don’t know why I was surprised that it didn’t get the lychees eaten either.

When I finished and pushed the bowl away, she made a joke, likening our dessert to gorilla testicle soup.
“I am sure gorillas have much larger testicles than a lychee nut,” I volleyed, determined not to let an allusion to primate genitalia affect my digestion.
“Well, I would have said ‘monkey,’ but I didn’t want to be culturally insensitive.”

- – -

Three years ago I was at the Portland Nursery with my friend Julia. We had gone on a specific errand, but as often happens, we allowed ourselves a stroll through the greenhouses and were unable to resist one or two particularly beautiful, or interesting, or just plain green plants. I spotted a cluster of coffea arabica: coffee. I let out a small, quick noise that betrayed my delighted surprise. Coffee? I asked, for Julia is one of my favorite resources for all matters relating to both fauna and flora. She responded in the affirmative. Yes, that really is coffee and yes, it can grow in the Pacific Northwest. Like citrus, coffee is potted instead of planted so that it can be brought inside in the winter. It took no more assurance or encouragement: I took home eight three-inch tall coffee trees.

The little trees are now three years old and have lived with me in four different houses. Each summer when the temperature is reliably above 60º most of the time, I take them outside and try to tuck them in shady, warm corners of my yard. Coffee plants prefer to live in the shade. Too much sun and their leaves will burn, making photosynthesis impossible. Too few months later when the temperature drops back down, I bring the pots back inside, trying to find places they may be protected from the cats.

Julia’s house is always stuffed with plants and living things, sometimes so much so that it resembles a nursery more than a place where one might settle down in the evening with a book. When she housesits for me in the winter, she brings some of her houseplants with her, hanging the orchids from the baker’s rack in my kitchen and setting pots down on the floor of my living room. When she leaves, my place looks a little empty and I wonder how I survive with so few houseplants.

- – -

Sometimes a girl can walk by a restaurant and just *know* that it’s a winner. I’d like to tell you that I can always pick the great ones, that I am a human dowsing rod for good eats, and I’d like that to be an accurate assessment of my divination prowess. But the truth is, I’ve picked some real losers in this town, and often I don’t see the gems coming until the meal arrives in front of me.

Last week, however, I called it – called it good. A friend of mine has just moved to town and, having neither a proper job nor a full course load to monopolize the hours of my day, I have taken to exploring the City with her. It’s nice to see good ol’ Portland through fresher eyes. We had enjoyed a lunch at the Bridgeport Ale House and were walking up SE Hawthorne Boulevard just to walk up it. Construction compelled us to cross the street six blocks above 39th Avenue, routing our stroll by the Hawthorne Fish House. A sandwich board sign on the sidewalk forced us to walk single-file past the modest-looking door, just outside of which was mounted a translucent plastic menu caddy. As I moved past I reached for one, saying “Gosh, I bet this place is good,” while folding the menu into my bag. I don’t remember why I thought so, or if I could have justified the assessment at the time. Back home, the menu lay folded on my desk for days before I bothered to look at it again.

The Hawthorne Fish House (henceforth, HFH) menu is nearly perfect. Though they do offer one or two items to appease the non-pescaphile (a burger, chicken strips), the majority of their food is fish, fish, or fish. Or clams.

It is, I believe, a profoundly wise restauranteur who can resist needless innovation and clutter on her menu. So it is at the HFH. Make no mistake, I am not herein supporting the hum-drum or the uninspired. No, I am not. I am, however, saying just this: When you figure out how to make what are very possibly the best fish’n'chips this gal has ever had the rapturous pleasure to chew and swallow, it’s best for everyone if you don’t screw with them too much.

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The last time I watched and enjoyed a cooking show was during my grammar school years. I would have been home with a flu or something, watching Jeff Smith and Martin Yan on KQED between episodes of the Woodwright Shop and This Old House.

Cooking shows were different then. Jeff Smith opened his show with a stroll through an outdoor market. Martin Yan made vocal sound effects while chopping vegetables with his imposing, well-honed clever. These guys could cook, too. They didn’t need a pretense – no friends were on their way over expecting an array of munchies to to enjoy while watching the Big Game. Meals didn’t have to be prepared in under thirty minutes, or in only five steps, or with some obscure ingredient that nobody’d want to eat anyway. Jeff and Martin cooked because they were good at it, and I watched them because they were clever are rarely obnoxious. These days the Food Channel makes me cringe, as I do when someone asks if I’ve seen the newest Nigella Lawson cookbook, and when celebrity “chefs” appear on my darned cracker box. Leave my crackers alone, or bring back the Frugal Gourmet.

The night before our most recent meal at Passionfish, I had a couple of glasses of wine, and wondered out loud and at length at the strategy I should take upon my return to the scene of this great letdown. I had over eleven months to think about it, yet had not come to a decision. The crux of the problem was this: If the same menu item that was a disaster last December was offered to me again, should I take it, thus giving the kitchen an opportunity to atone for past wrongs, or should I choose something else, perhaps safer, thereby increasing the likelihood of having a satisfying experience and mending my strained relationship with a favorite restaurant?

It was clear on the ride over that my family didn’t quite grasp the full extent of my (admittedly slightly dramatic) quandary. I can’t believe you’re so worked up over one meal, Mom puzzled; and then Dad asked with genuine worry in his voice, Are you going to say something that gets us thrown out of the restaurant? I told them that I am the nicest critic I know, that I have only ever written two mean things about anyone, and that of course I would behave myself in public. None of these assurances had any visible effect on my parents.

Our meal at Passionfish, I am delighted to report, was positively fantastic and I feel completely at peace with them once again.

We had a crab cake over lime relish to start, and barbecued shrimp with lemongrass slaw and spicy Vietnamese sauce. The crab cake was just like it ought to be – mostly crab, fried crisp, and carefully seasoned. I didn’t taste the shrimp, but their accompaniment was without question the best thing on the table that night. The slaw tasted like daikon with pea shoots and the Vietnamese sauce was so flavorful and spicysweet without being too much of either. Together they gave me pause – the crunch and tang of the slaw, the spice of the dark sauce drizzled over… As soon as I finish this piece, in fact, I am going to draft a letter to Chef Ted, in which I will beg with as much dignity as I can muster for the recipe.

For our entrees we chose – and I snagged a menu so I could get it all accurate here, mind you – Mahi with a black pepper-rum sauce, cucumber salad and green onion rice, Alaskan sablefish crusted with pepper in a wasabi slaw, and ginger vinaigrette, Maine scallops with a tomato-truffle butter and a thyme risotto custard, Tilapia with thyme mashed potatoes and garlic-balsamic vinegar butter, and Duck confit with a honey reduction, chile gratin potatoes, and braised fennel.

My plate was the tilapia, but I tasted it all, swooning ever more with each bite. While it is true that some dishes (the scallops, the tilapia) were more fantastic than others (the sablefish, the mahi), it is wholly unfair to say that anything was rotten. To my mind, the latter two were under-seasoned and therefore underwhelming in the flavor department. It’s also darned near impossible to seriously compete with well-prepared scallops (in tomato-truffle butter, for heaven’s sake!). Everything on the table was extremely well-executed. The fish on my plate was cooked to a medium doneness, which makes for a moister, more flavorful piece of fish. The garlic-balsamic butter, which I was half-expecting to think was objectionable, was absolutely delicious, and mixed so well with the herbalicious spuds and the tender (but not overcooked) snap peas. I forced myself to eat slowly and savor; it wasn’t easy. I can’t think of how they might have improved the plate, in fact.

The duck at Passionfish, I should say, is also the best duck I have ever had. It is a thing of dreams, the sort when you wake up and are depressed all day because what you dreamed was not real. Except this duck is real, it is just 700 miles away. It is a leg and thigh seared over high heat to caramelize the outside, and then slow-roasted for hours until it is tender and succulent and barely hanging on to the bone. It has never not been on the menu and I would order it every time I go, were it not for those gratin potatoes (I think cheese is icky) and the dazzling array of seafood offered with accompaniments that I actually want to eat. If you ever go to Passionfish with me, you will almost certainly be encouraged strongly and at length to order the duck so that I can have a bite without having to contend with those cheesey spuds.

If thoughtful, well-crafted and delicious food weren’t enough to make the trip to California especially for a meal at Passionfish, you should also know – and you might if you read Bon Appetit Magazine – that the Walters and Passionfish are advocates of sustainable seafood, dedicated to serving meals that are healthy for their customers and for the environment. Like Alice Waters of Chez Panisse, Cindy and Ted were doing this before it was cool, and now get serve as guides for newer chefs and restauranteurs who will undoubtedly hop on to this very important wagon. Indeed, the global community of cooks and eaters – not to mention all of the fishies in the sea – are lucky to have them aboard.

When I lived in Pacific Grove, this was the restaurant of choice for my gang of friends whenever we had any occasion to mark, and for when we just felt like celebrating our collective love of good food, wine, and each other. It is such a tremendous relief for me to have had another dinner at my beloved Passionfish, and for that dinner to have met their – and my – high standards. And though my parents clearly relished their meals, they were much more pleased that I was given no reason to utter remarks that would have gotten us thrown out of the restaurant.

Passionfish
701 Lighthouse Avenue
Pacific Grove, California 93950
831•655•3311

Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Seafood Watch

I wanted to let Dad’s glowing review cover the evening. I wanted to never write anything shy of a rave for my favorite Pacific Grove eatery. Goshdarnit.

This is why a body can’t review a restaurant based on one night, one meal. This is why real critics go over and over – different nights, different service, different cooks. This is why you can’t really trust me.

My bouillabaisse in “Spicy Caribbean Broth” made me kind of sad. There, I said it. I’ve had the dish before – it’s a red bell pepper and coconut milk based kind of thing, sometimes heavy with cilantro. And when they do it right, geepers, it’s great. It’s this perfect balance of spicy and sweet, creamy but light on the tongue. It’s perky and fun but quiets down enough so that you can stil taste the fishiness of the items swimming in it. When it’s good, I soak up the last drops with their warm cibatta. Whipped butter’s for suckers.

It was not good this last December 23. It was flat. It was boring. It just lay there. The bouillabaisse – a dish with such possibility, so many promises and potential thrills – was having a profoundly bad night. The chunks of fish were just that: chunks, waiting to be goosed by this flop of a sauce. But the sauce was asleep on the job. Perhaps knowing this, someone put cubes of carrot and potato in the bowl (the underlip smeared with sauce), maybe to serve as a distraction. In abrupt contrast to the soft fish, they were barely cooked and had to be chewed somewhat aggressively. The icing, so to speak, was four sprigs of an unidentified green mass drowning in the sauce. I assume this was meant to be garnish but it got waterlogged somehow. I would have used cilantro, but maybe the kitchen ran out at the late, late hour of six p.m. em>Maybe the cook doesn’t know cilantro from watercress or peashoot or whatever tasteless, stringy gob of greenery I tried – and failed, utterly – to get into my mouth without dribbling that sad “spicy” broth on my chin.

Such a crime; such a needless, senseless, shameful crime to let this potential exit the kitchen unrealized. For the majority of my meal, I sat nine feet away from the Executive Chef who stood at the Host’s station, glad-handing outgoing patrons. Chef Walter, you should have been lording over your empire in the back of the house, teaching your line cooks or your point guy about picking leaves off of stems for garnish. They should know that if the menu reads “spicy,” the thing ought to taste, well, warm. There´s not a lot of wiggle room in that adjective, you know. And I know that you have the formula for a kick-ass “spicy Caribbean broth” rattling around in your head somewhere. The execution failed. Failed.

I can’t even say that the kitchen was having a bad night. It wasn’t. The salmon served across the table from me seemed fine and when I left Cali, Dad was still talking about those scallops. Our appetizers, the crab cake and BBQ’ed prawns were their usual exquisite selves. There was no panic in the air; no expletives emanating from the kitchen or the dishpit.

What does one do when an old friend, which is indeed how I have come to think of Passionfish, disappoints one so? Since I first “discovered” it in 2001, I’ve had many more amazing and wonderful meals there than I have had letdowns. The very first thing I ate there – a simple grilled halibut with sugar snap peas over scallion rice – actually made me cry. Everything about it was perfect. It was stunning, and I hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t expected a literally flawless plate.

I will forgive Ted and his gang this (regrettable, embarrassing) oversight. I will surely drop in for a meal the very next time I am in the neighborhood. I’ll just make sure to have the duck confit.

Scallops in tomato-truffle butter with risotto and baby bok choy.

Dad says:
immediately following the meal: those were pretty good.
later the same evening: those were maybe the best scallops I’ve ever had.
the next day: those were the best scallops I’ve ever had.

Please see also Monterey Bay Aquarium‘s Seafood Watch.