The Art of Tasting Chocolate

Jane at the Top of the Mark

My friend Jane died three years ago this month. She went peacefully as her two sons,  Jim and David, and I sat with her. After such a momentous event it is hard to know what to do next. It seemed odd to just say good-bye to each other and to go our separate ways. We had witnessed a life passing. It seemed appropriate to find a way to celebrate her life in a way that she would have enjoyed. It was David who suggested the Top of the Mark at the Mark Hopkins Hotel. Of course. Very San Francisco. Very Nob Hill. Cocktails with a view. I could almost hear Jane’s husky laugh at the thought of it.
It is not easy to find a cab in Pacific Heights on a Friday night at 7:00 p.m. so we hopped on the #1 California bus and climbed Sacramento Street to Nob Hill. Somehow arriving at the Mark Hopkins by public transportation helped to add another surreal element to the already ‘out of body’ evening. There is a very convenient elevator in the lobby of the Mark Hopkins Hotel marked “Top of the Mark” which whisks you to the 19th floor. The Maitre d’ greeted us as we walked out of the elevator at 7:45.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked.
“Yes”, replied David, “We would like a table for three for just a drink”.
“Well, sir, as you can see we have a dress code after 8:00” he told us as he glanced down at my athletic shoes and Jim’s jeans.
“Our mother has just died this evening” explained David “and we would like to toast her memory. We will not stay long.”
“I will see what I can do” the Maitre d’ replied and disappeared into the next room.
Less than one minute later he returned and escorted us to the best table in the house. We had a perfect, unobstructed view of the Golden Gate Bridge, the City and the setting sun. David and Jim ordered big martinis. I ordered what Jane and I would always drink together over steaks: a double Jack Daniels with a water back. With our cocktails in hand we started to reminisce about some of Jane’s favorite things to do in San Francisco...
Jane was my link to the elegant San Francisco of my childhood - circa the Alfred Hitchcock movie ‘Vertigo’. A day with Jane in San Francisco would start with breakfast at Sear’s Pancakes on Powell Street.  It was important to have a hearty breakfast because who knew when you would be able to grab your next meal?  Then we would walk down Powell Street to shop at I. Magnin’s in Union Square where she had a charge account. We always primped ourselves before walking through the main floor of this very elegant department store which involved reapplying our lipstick and making sure our hair looked good. I referred to crossing the main floor of I. Magnin’s as ‘running the gauntlet’.  Perfectly made up sales women stood behind their respective make-up counters and would eye each customer up and down as they walked by. If you could make it to the elevator bank in the back of the store without a sales woman suggesting that perhaps you needed ‘a little color’, it was going to be a good day. However, there was a particular shade of pink lipstick by Christian Dior that Jane would always stock up on so we had to make at least one stop.  Then we would proceed to the elevators which were operated by middle aged women wearing tasteful beige knit dresses, proper pumps and a gold brooch that was an insignia of the I. Magnin initials.  The first stop would be the fifth floor to use the Powder Room.  Any woman who ever shopped in San Francisco until the store closed in 1993 will tell you how amazing the Powder Room was.  It was a huge room paneled in dark green marble.  The doors to each private, marble lined commode  were opened for you by the female attendant.  She also handed you a cloth hand towel to dry your hands and a sample of pink hand lotion and sent you on your way. Jane’s next stop would be Mister Lee’s on Jones Street to get her hair done.  Then back down the hill for a cocktail in the old Redwood Room of the Clift Hotel and occasionally an evening at the ballet or a jazz concert...
Jane lived in Northern California and thought nothing of loading her four children into her navy blue Volvo and driving down to the City for the day so that they could see what her favorite city was all about. She instilled a love of San Francisco in Jim and David and it seemed appropriate to watch the sun set over the city she loved so much on the day she passed. 
When we asked the waiter for the check we were told that the drinks were on the house. Jane would have loved that.

Cupcakes are the Puppies of the Food World

They oohed. They aahed. The cable car conductor exclaimed (I never use the word ‘exclaimed’ but there is no other way to describe it) that he was sure there were enough for everyone, didn’t I think so? When I presented the tray to my friends they shrieked with delight. What could evoke such spontaneous glee? A Baked Alaska? A two story high souffle? A serving of flaming crepes Suzette? No, dear reader. Just a tray of cupcakes. White cupcakes in heart patterned paper cups topped with pale pink frosting and sparkles to be exact. Nothing that I thought was particularly brilliant culinary-wise but apparently I was wrong. Witnessing this response immediately reminded me of the days when our Boxer dogs were puppies. Take a puppy anywhere and you will not be alone for long. You could be dressed as the Grim Reaper and people will drop to their knees in front of you to play with a puppy. People will do almost the same thing when presented with a cupcake.
My earliest cupcake memory goes back to nursery school.  Yes, I can remember back that far.  This nursery school was a co-op which now seems very progressive for what I would describe as my very conservative suburban hometown across the bay from more progressive San Francisco.  It was a wonderful school run by a woman named ‘Miss Lorna’.  Birthdays were celebrated with a cake (which your mother was expected to provide) as well as cupcakes.  This was before the days of concern over children’s sugar intake, obviously.  (I can honestly say that I don’t remember one overweight child in my class).  Anyway...you received a slice of cake to eat at once and a wrapped cupcake to take home with you.  Two cupcakes if you had a sibling.  These were carefully wrapped in wax paper and packed away in your lunch box for the trip home. 
So where did the cupcake come from? It may be that the name comes from the measurement of ingredients needed to produce a cupcake.  Just as the pound cake is a result of a pound of butter and pound of flour the cupcake required a cup of flour, a cup of butter and so on.  You get the idea.  Also, these small cakes were originally baked in earthenware cups.  Therefore the small cup shape and size and the name. Cupcakes were mostly confined to children’s parties, the Hostess Cupcake and Saturday School Bake Sales and mediocre bakeries until 1996.  That was the year that the Magnolia Bakery opened in New York.  They created a cupcake buzz (lines out the door).  And then all the buzz needed was a nudge from an appearance on ‘Sex in the City’ and it became a cupcake craze.  Former employees left and opened more cupcake bakeries.  Then SPRINKLES opened in Bevery Hills.  More lines out the door.  So what is the big deal, anyway? Why have people become so possessed by a sweet treat that they are willing to wait in a line that winds down the street?
I have been aware of this cupcake phenomena for a few years now and am surprised that it has lasted as long as it has. I have tried a couple of the most au courant versions, organic no less, from very good bakeries and found them dry and flavorless.
So what is it exactly that people are reacting to if not the flavor and texture? I think it must be a fond childhood memory of Room Mothers (remember those?) baking a batch to be distributed during the Valentine’s Day party. But the appeal here goes beyond the concept of comforting food. People do not giggle when a plate of macaroni and cheese is placed in front of them. A cupcake is about the compact cuteness of something that fits into the palm of your hand that does not require a fork and knife and will sometimes even be dyed pale pink or blue and often leaves a speck of frosting on the tip of your nose.Bigger than a cookie but not quit as big as a slice of cake.  And you can eat it with your hands.  Can’t do that so easily with a slice of cake which requires a plate and a fork. Not culinary brilliance but maybe folks don’t need food brilliance in their lives. What people seem to be craving is whimsy and silliness and a chance to shriek with delight over a simple pink cupcake.  It may also have something to do with portion control.

So what do I do when I need a cupcake fix?  I bake up a batch of cupcakes using a Duncan Hines Yellow Cake mix but I add a teaspoon of almond extract to the batter.  For frosting I recommend the recipe that appears on the side of the C & H Sugar Powdered Sugar box.  Use sweet butter and add a generous pinch of salt (finely grained sea salt is best, also known as ‘fleur de sel’.  Delicious!

Mother's Day Buffet

My birthday sometimes falls on Mother’s Day. In the past this has meant that it is the Moms and I lining up at the hostess stand for Sunday Brunch at the fancy restaurant. Not my mom, however. My mom was born during the Depression and she felt that spending a lot of money on what was essentially just breakfast food was a total waste. Unless, of course, it was a buffet. Now a buffet spoke to her. It said ‘you will not leave hungry, you will get your money’s worth’. My mom’s favorite place for Mother’s Day brunch was the Crown Room of the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco. The view and abundance of food was quite the spectacle to behold: silver bowls heaped with fresh red strawberries and mounds of whipped cream. The carving station held a huge baron of beef, a whole roasted turkey and ham on the bone. There was a station with omelettes being made to order. And for those of us who love pancakes there was an interesting concoction that I am sure was inspired by the classic English Trifle. At least a dozen pancakes about twelve inches in diameter were spread with a thick layer of raspberry jam. They were then stacked on top of each other in a silver bowl and topped with whipped cream. This gooey delicious mess was my favorite. My mom was crazy about the cold seafood display complete with an ice sculpture of the Golden Gate Bridge. I can still see her plate heaped with pink prawns and crab legs.

I can’t see an ad for a buffet without thinking of her. I wrote the piece below in her honor three years ago. I am reprinting it now because she passed away a few months ago and she is on my mind daily. She reminded me often that she would not always be around and that she thought about her own mother every day. I now know exactly what she meant.

My Mother’s favorite ‘dining experience’ has always been the ‘buffet’. As a child of The Depression, I think she is overcome with joy and relief when she sees dish after dish spread out before her with a sign that reads “Take all you can eat but eat all that you take”. Because it was a good way for a single mother in the 60’s to feed her child and herself inexpensively, my childhood was full of these buffets or, as we called them in San Leandro, “Smorgy’s” (short for smorgasbord?). Our favorites were the “The Pipers” on MacArthur Boulevard and the less expensive “Perry Boy’s Smorgy” on the other side of town in the Marina area.
Both restaurants were dimly lit except for the bright spotlights that hung low over the buffet tables. A tall stack of hot, damp white plates fresh out of the dishwasher marked the beginning of these groaning boards. After years of eating at various buffets I became a smorgasbord strategist, I knew that it was important to find a cooler plate or my Jell-O selections would melt before I got back to the table. Also, it was important to approach in stages. A plate heaped too high would find your slice of roast beef swimming in a pink pool of beet juice and salad dressing before you could eat through to the bottom layer.
The first trip to the buffet was for salad – chopped iceberg lettuce, slices of canned beets (the fancier Piper’s served them sliced julienne) all smothered under a big ladle of creamy blue cheese dressing. If the plate was cold I could load up on the lime Jell-O and cottage cheese mold. The second trip was for hot food – canned corn, mashed potatoes, gravy and crispy fried chicken. Finally a trip to the dessert table where two HUGE clear plastic Melmac bowls full of yellow pudding and brown pudding were sunk into a bed of crushed ice. You had to pay extra for drinks so we drank water.
After dessert, my Mother always made one last trip to the buffet. This is when she loaded up her plate with fried chicken thighs and legs. Back at the table, she would look around the restaurant to make sure that no one was watching as she wrapped each piece of greasy chicken in the white paper napkins she had hidden in her black patent leather purse. Still smiling, she snapped her purse shut, asked the waiter for the check and paid the cashier on the way out. Did the waiter see what was going on? She was never busted. No one ever said, ‘Excuse me Madam, hand over the chicken’. I remember being embarrassed but I also remember how fun it was to empty out her purse when we got home. And how delicious that chicken was. I hope that all they saw was a pretty young woman and her child dining alone. But if they did see her ‘slight of hand’ I know that they would have understood it for what it was. Not stealing, but rather just a single mother trying to figure out how to feed herself and her child one more day.