Antonia Richmond's Backstories - The Bold Italic - San Francisco

Against the Grain

Antonia Richmond — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 00:00:08 -0800

If you want to know how I feel about wheat – pasta in particular – you just have to hear this story from my childhood. As family lore tells it, my parents (one of whom is Italian), frustrated by their thwarted attempts to feed me peas ’n’ carrots, finally came up with the idea to give me mostaccioli , a tube-shaped pasta much like penne. They’d watch breathlessly as I sucked the tubes down, exhaling only when it was clear that the tube had cleared my tiny windpipe and hadn’t made me choke.

In short, I was pretty much made from gluten. (And was a very fat baby, natch.)

So when my friend April told me that she had been diagnosed with celiac disease, I’m pretty sure I took the news worse than she did. No pizza? No pasta? Now way! But I wanted to support her—and see if it was really possible to exist on a gluten-free diet—so I took on the task of eating gluten-free in San Francisco. I did so with a high dose of martyrdom (and a little skepticism), to be sure. In general, finding gluten-free things to eat isn’t too difficult – fruits, vegetables, meats, rice, corn tortillas, and cheese all qualify – but there’s no way a carboholic like myself could survive too long without bread, in some form or another.

And then there’s just my general snobbery about food. I will eat anything and everything, but I’m pretty picky about elemental things like texture and flavor. Therefore, I can’t conceive of breadstuffs made without wheat flour. Gluten is what gives a baguette its light, delicate crumb, a strand of spaghetti its toothsome chew. Could gluten-free versions of bread or pizza actually be edible, let alone good?

The first thing I noticed as I embarked on my quest is that San Francisco is surprisingly devoid of restaurants specializing in gluten-free food. Sure, there are organic restaurants like The Plant Cafe Organic and vegan/raw food joints like Café Gratitude (both of which have gluten-free offerings), but I want pizza that tastes like, well, pizza…not a sunflower seed and sprouted rice bran disk topped with cashew cheese and ribbons of nori. I want crust. Sauce. Cheese.

I turn to April for advice. Since being diagnosed, she’s been searching high and low for restaurants that can accommodate her condition. As I don’t have celiac disease, wheat allergies, or any other gastrointestinal issue associated with gluten, I ask her if she’ll accompany me on my quest. She agrees and recommends Amici's, the Bay Area pizza chain, which has an entire gluten-free menu.

We order a pizza with pancetta, feta, and olives and a couple of Redbridge beers. The beer, made from sorghum rather than wheat and barley, tastes sweeter than regular beer, but it’s definitely a reasonable substitute. The pizza…it was good. There was cheese, there was sauce, and there was crust. The texture was different, to be sure – but not so much that it detracted from the overall pizza experience.

All in all, my first foray into gluten-free food is a modest success. Next challenge: finding a good breakfast sans gluten.

I meet April on a bright Sunday morning at Just for You Café in the Dogpatch. I’m excited because I’ve managed to find a brunch place that offers gluten-free toast and wheat-free oatmeal pancakes. (It wasn’t easy.) I’m irrationally crestfallen to learn that though it contains no wheat, oatmeal is not considered a 100% gluten-free food (it contains a protein that’s similar to gluten). April can’t eat it, but she can eat the thick slices of gluten-free bread that accompany our eggs. “Man, have I missed toast,” she sighs. I’m amazed to discover that, unlike the pizza at Amici’s, I can find no discernable difference between the texture of this toast and toast made from wheat.

Emboldened, I decide to expand my gluten-free repertoire. During my lunch hour the next day, I head to the Mariposa Baking Co. kiosk in the Ferry Building. My intent is to hone in on breakfast foods like bagels, muffins, and cinnamon rolls, but I also can’t resist the chocolate chip cookies, brownies, or the charmingly named “penguinos,” a rich treat which is a little like a Hostess chocolate cupcake. I bring my booty back to work and spread it across a table, feeling slightly like a kid on Halloween.

“Hey guys…want to help me eat this stuff?” I ask my coworkers.

I get a few weird looks, but eventually one of them comes to help me out. In 20 minutes we go through the cinnamon roll (amazing), four cookies (really tasty), the penguino (not my favorite, but I’m not a big chocolate person), and the brownie (ditto). I’m particularly impressed with the cinnamon roll. It’s fluffy and light, with a slightly yeasty flavor. Oh, and tons of sugar.

After our midday dessert binge I feel sick and like I’ve spontaneously gained five pounds. But I still have a job to do. I arrange my next dinner date with April: Vietnamese food.

Zadin is a modern, minimalist space in the Castro that’s close to empty when we arrive. There is a wide array of options on the menu for the gluten-challenged – appetizers like imperial rolls and fried calamari (a major win for gluten-free eaters), and entrees like pan-fried noodles, spicy tofu, and green curry scallops. This is significant because soy sauce contains gluten, and is a major ingredient in many Vietnamese foods (and other Asian cuisines). Gluten can also be found occasionally in rice paper wrappers – another reason why Zadin is doing gluten-free eaters a major service.

April and I order imperial rolls, fried and full of porky goodness, and then share an order of shaken beef with fried yams and coconut rice. The beef is caramelized, tender, sweet, and salty. You’d never know the soy was missing. April orders a gluten-free brownie for dessert but I pass it up.

The final frontier of my gluten-free quest is pasta, my personal staff of life. There are various brands available at Rainbow and Whole Foods, but I search in vain for an Italian restaurant that fits the bill. I remember that during my dessert party at Mariposa, there were various raviolis and pizzas in its freezer section, so I trek down to the Ferry Building again to pick some up. While I’m there, I ask the cashier what her favorite gluten-free restaurant in the city is and without hesitation she replies, “Pica Pica.” It’s looking like after my pasta experiment, I’ll have to try out some arepas. Darn.

Because it’s a chilly fall night, I decide to have Mariposa’s butternut squash ravioli with my own butter and sage sauce. It’s amazeballs, if I do say so myself. The pasta is chewy but tender and the squash filling is smooth and sweet. Like the bread I had at Just for You, there’s really no detectable difference between this ravioli and others I’ve had with gluten. So much so that I eat the whole package. Oops.

At Pica Pica Maize Kitchen (tagline: aMAIZE yourself!), everything is made from corn, so it’s all gluten free. It serves three different types of maize breads: an arepa (corn flour cake), cachapa (sweet corn pancake), and maize’wich (sweet corn bread). I decide on the Pabellón arepas: crispy cakes topped with shredded steak with black beans, plantains, and cheese. I don’t have anything to compare them to, gluten-wise, but they are tasty and super filling – the bonus being that you don’t have to worry about cross-contamination in the kitchen, as there’s no wheat.

I leave Pica Pica stuffed and satisfied. One thing to note about my gluten-free experiment is that I definitely have not gone hungry or felt deprived in any way. True, there are foods that I couldn’t find that I’d really miss if I had celiac: Chinese dumplings, fried chicken, falafels, and banana pancakes, to name a few. But for now, perhaps it’s a blessing that I didn’t come across those in my research; my pants no longer fit. I think I’ll try being vegan next.

Gluten-free eaters, never fear. You can literally have your cake (and pizza and bread) and eat it too. For pizza, try Amici's East Coast Pizzeria (near AT&T Park or on Lombard) and Mariposa Bakery (at the Ferry Building); Extreme Pizza has gluten-free crusts available too. Craving breakfast? Head to Just For You in Potrero Hill or the Red Door Café in Pacific Heights for French toast. Gluten-free bakeries abound: In addition to Mariposa, you can find Crave Bakery goods at Rainbow and Whole Foods, and gluten-free cupcakes at Kara's Cupcakes. If you’re craving more Vietnamese, try Zadin, Out the Door, and Le Colonial – they know their gluten-free stuff.

SuperBowl

Antonia Richmond — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 00:00:08 -0800

If one can get crushes on food, I have a food crush on ramen . It’s a dish that, done properly, leads you to close your eyes and briefly imagine that all is right with the world. Soothing, hot, rich, noodle-y, salty…ramen is the ultimate comfort food, yet doesn’t leave you feeling overstuffed or like you’ve eaten a giant grease bomb afterwards. Best of all, it’s fun to eat. Who can resist the childlike pleasure in slurping down a bunch of eggy noodles and getting broth all over your face? Not me.

Like many white Americans, my first experience with ramen was courtesy of Top Ramen, those $.59 bags of dehydrated fried noodles into which I’d stir an MSG-laden seasoning packet. The resulting neon-yellow broth tasted like someone had upended an entire box of salt into my bowl, but it was hangover-friendly, filling, and cheap – thereby meeting all the requirements of my collegiate appetite.

In the post-college years, I’d have a bowl whenever I went to the Kabuki Theater in Japantown. Not wanting to stand in line at Suzu (though, duh, lines generally mean good food), I’d usually go to Sapporo-Ya and have a bowl of chasu ramen in soy broth. It may not have been perfect, but it definitely did the trick. Ramen was a three, maybe four-times-a- year meal, and certainly not a meal I ever thought could be unforgettable.

But then I went to Ippudo, a noodle joint in New York.

San Francisco, we have a problem. A ramen problem.

My ramen world changed one bitterly cold, snowy night in the East Village. I’d heard about Ippudo from a local friend who considered it to be the best ramen joint in New York. As I entered the dimly lit restaurant, it was clear that the other 50 or so people in line felt the same way. I waited for an hour and half or so, and then finally(!) was seated. I ordered Akamaru Shin-Aji ramen, pork belly in a tonkotsu (pork) broth. And let me tell you…

It was seriously one of the, if not THE, best things I have ever eaten.

The broth was rich and creamy, almost milky, and seriously porky – with a fresh, soft-boiled egg floating in the center. The pork belly itself was smoky and fatty; its flavor haunts me still. And the noodles! They were toothsome, springy, and utterly delicious.

This was no Top Ramen. This was something else entirely . And I was determined to find it, or at least something close to it, in San Francisco. I have long believed that anything NY or LA does food-wise, SF can do better, and I am fully confident my hometown is up to the task.

Conventional ramen wisdom states that the best bowls in the city are actually to be had outside of the city (in, say, San Mateo or San Jose) but my trusted sources (Jackson Scarlett, proprietor of the Shirohige Ramen-Ya truck being one of them) beg to differ. With my faithful foodie sidekick Maggie, I begin my quest at Katana-Ya , in the theater district. Katana-Ya serves a variety of broth, meat, and vegetable options (like soy, miso, pork, fried chicken, tofu, corn, and kim chee). I order the chasu (pork) ramen in shoyu (soy) broth, and though it is not like Ippudo (the two broths have very different flavors and textures), it is delicious and hits the spot on a chilly SF night.

Our next stop is Izakaya Sozai in the Sunset. An izakaya is a Japanese restaurant specializing in small plates that are eaten while drinking alcohol. In addition to starters, Maggie and I each order chasu in tonkatsu broth. The portions are large and we probably could have shared one, but we down our bowls anyway. The ramen is great. It has a soy-sauce soft-boiled egg, several slices of smoky pork belly, and a rich and creamy broth.

We venture out into the Richmond for our next stops, Oyaji and Halu . At Oyaji , we slide into what is almost a private booth separated by a heavy bamboo bead curtain and order two bowls of chasu ramen. There are other choices, but it’s my philosophy that you can tell a lot about a restaurant by the way pork is cooked. Oyaji does not disappoint – the pork is tender and smoky.

A few nights later, we check out Halu , a small restaurant absolutely covered in Beatles memorabilia. With “Paperback Writer” blaring out of the stereo, we consider our options and both decide on – surprise! – chasu ramen. When we place our order, the waitress tells us that the pork isn’t ready yet. Undeterred, I tell her that we’ll wait.

“It’s going to be, like, four hours,” she says. Oh.

We order karaage (fried chicken) ramen instead and slurp up our noodles, this time bathed in a salty, meaty (rather than porky) broth. It’s a bowl of savory goodness and is extremely filling. I can manage to finish only about half of it.

Although sated by San Francisco’s surprisingly varied ramen options, I still want to keep searching for the transcendent ramen bowl.

This is where Richie Nakano comes in.

Richie, a line cook at Nopa restaurant, is on a mission to create the ramen that I’m craving –the kind that uses the freshest ingredients, has a complex depth of flavor, and, as I discover, takes about four days to cook.

I meet Richie at his home in the Richmond District one sunny Saturday afternoon to see the process in action. After a few quick introductions to his wife (Sky) and his rabbit (Kozy), we go into the kitchen and get down to business. First up, the stock.

Richie opens his freezer and I stare in amazement. He’s got a good 30 pounds of frozen pig parts jammed in there. He pulls out a few choice cuts. “So, it takes about 10 pounds of pork necks,” he says, explaining that the collagen from the bones and tendons create a richer, creamier stock. He puts the bones into a giant stockpot and then adds two whole free-range chickens. To this, he pours a few quarts of dashi, a light fish-flavored stock.

“So, when will it be done?” I ask.

“Hmm, what’s today, Saturday? It should be done on Tuesday,” he replies.

Next, Richie gives me a noodle-making demonstration. Many ramen noodles are made with flour, water, and kansui, otherwise known as alkaline salts. That’s what gives ramen noodles their springy texture and also creates a numbing sensation in the mouth. Richie eschews the salts and uses superfine double-zero flour mixed with fresh-from-the-chicken eggs. He mixes up a bright yellow dough, kneads it to develop the gluten, and then, after vacuum sealing it and letting it rest, rolls out the noodles with a metal pasta machine.

At this point, the smell of the broth starts wafting through the kitchen, making my mouth water. But alas, due to our schedules, I’ll have to wait seven(!) more days before I can taste Richie’s magical brew.

On Saturday I finally get the text that I’ve been waiting for and race down to Richie’s. When I walk into the kitchen, I am met with the smell of roasted pork. He’s had an unanticipated pig-part delivery, and in an effort to use it all, has whipped up another pot of stock. There’s a fresh batch of noodles hanging over the counter, and a few bunches of chard in a bowl. After pouring me an excellent Koshihikari Echigo rice beer, he adds mirin, sake, and soy sauce to the stock, sautés the chard, and puts the noodles in to boil. It’s go time.

In addition to the chard and noodles, there are several slices of meaty roasted pork nestled into the bowl, as well as my new favorite foodstuff: a sous-vide (cooked in a water bath) egg. I break the egg and let the yolk spill into the broth. It has a surprisingly delicate flavor that’s rich without being overwhelming, smoky without being overly salty, and most importantly, is exquisitely porky. The noodles are super fresh, like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.

In a word, it’s magnificent. Take that, New York.

Take your own ramen tour of the city, with Katana-Ya , Izakaya Sozai , Oyaji , and Halu . You can have a bowl of Richie’s ramen on May 8, when Hapa Ramen takes over Coffee Bar in Potrero Hill. Hapa Ramen will also be at the Thursday Farmers Market at the Ferry Building starting in May.

Or, you can make it yourself. Measurements are in grams and pounds:

For the noodles:

5 eggs (255 grams) 4 cups flour (606 grams) 4 T water (62 grams)

Mix the eggs, flour, and water together in a standing mixer with a dough hook attachment until the dough is smooth and shiny. Let it rest. Roll it out using a pasta machine and cut the noodles on the #4 setting.

For the dashi: 12 quarts water 70 grams konbu 100 grams bonito flakes 170 grams niboshi

Steep for 2.5 hours. Strain. Add 8.5 grams dried shiitake. Simmer for 30 minutes and remove. Add 8.5 lbs of chicken (2 whole chickens). Simmer on low for 90 minutes, then remove chicken. Strip the meat from the bones; reserve the bones for the stock and the meat for another use. Add 10 lbs of pork necks and 1 beef femur. Add water to cover, approximately 12–14 quarts.

Once at a simmer, add stripped chicken bones. Remove beef bone. Cook for 30 hours, replenishing water as needed. During the final seven hours, add in two onions and four carrots. At the end of 30 hours, strain the stock and add mirin, sake, and soy.

For the pork:

Cook sous-vide at 80°C for 8 hours.

Slice the pork, sauté some chard, and cook the noodles to your liking. Layer into a deep bowl and add a few ladles of broth. Garnish with a soft-boiled egg and a sheet of nori.

Use Your Illusion

Antonia Richmond — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 00:00:09 -0700

Here's the thing: Magic is awesome.

Trust me, I was a skeptic. I’d always thought of magic as a tragically outdated form of entertainment, one reserved for a kitschy date at The Magic Castle in Hollywood and elderly uncles with a penchant for pulling quarters out of ears. Or of Criss Angel, Mindfreak – he of the bad hair and “levitate above the Luxor” trick, to say nothing of Will Arnett’s character in Arrested Development (“I am an illuuuuusionist!”) It all just seemed so…how do I say...cheesy. And fake.

But to my surprise, I discovered that magic has grown up quite a bit since the days of men with moustaches sawing screaming women in half and busty, bewigged assistants holding cages of doves. The kind of magic that made me a convert is the kind that’s so subtle, so quick, so, well, tricky, that it makes you do double takes. It leads you to gasp with the pleasure of being utterly surprised and slap your thigh in disbelief. It cuts right to the core of your perception of reality. It’s basically a complete and total mindfuck – but in a good way.

It’s not hard to find this magic. You just have to do a little digging. And you have to keep your eyes open. Because one blink and – poof! – you’ll miss it.

My journey into the world of magic begins on a foggy, blustery afternoon in the Inner Sunset. I’m here to meet up with Christian Cagigal, a local magician who has graciously agreed to take me on a tour of Misdirections Magic Shop. Before we head over, Christian gives me a brief rundown on the different kinds of magic, which he calls “the red-headed stepchild of the arts.” There’s old-school parlor and cabaret magic (think doves and vaudeville), street magic, “bad boy magic” (see: Criss Angel), illusionists (sawing people in half, vanishing people), and Christian’s specialty, mentalism (the magic happens to you…in your mind.)

Walking into Misdirections is like walking straight into a nerdy 13-year-old boy’s room: The walls are lined with whoopee cushions, playing cards, coins, dice, how-to books, magic wands, silver rings, handcuffs, DVDs, and other assorted ephemera. And indeed, the clientele of the shop on this day are a smattering of prepubescent boys – one entertains me for a good 15 minutes with the coin-out-of-the-ear, disappearing-into-thin-air trick.

Christian introduces me to the owner of Misdirections, Joe Pon, who’s run the store for the past 15 years. Joe explains that being a good magician is about studying and perfecting the craft; magic is an art form. “Anyone can do magic, but that doesn’t make you a magician,” he says. Storytelling, presentation, and performance are all key components of executing a trick properly. And to illustrate his point, he offers to show me how to do one.

It’s a mentalist trick involving three cards, each with a different color bull’s-eye printed on the front (red, blue, and yellow). He looks deeply into my eyes and taps each card with a green pencil. He tells me to choose a card color but not to tell him. I silently choose yellow.

“Are you sure about that? You can change your mind,” he says, tapping the pencil on each of the cards.

I feel pressure to change my color, but I stick to it. Yellow it is.

“OK, then. If you’re sure, then tell me what color you picked.”

I tell him, and he hands me the pencil. “Turn it over,” he instructs. Printed on the pencil is the phrase “YOU WILL SELECT YELLOW.”

WTF?!!!!!

“Holy crap!! How did you DO that?” I exclaim.

“Whoa!” The 13-year-old boy next to me says.

Joe grins. Do I really want to know? Yes, I do. I buy the trick and in seconds it becomes clear how the trick is performed. I’m almost sorry I know. It’s a bit like finding out what you are getting for Christmas before the actual day.

Joe estimates that there are about 30 working magicians in SF, but most of them are corporate magicians – that is, they perform at company functions and kids’ birthday parties. Unfortunately, this means live magic shows can be hard to come by. Luckily, Christian tells me that his limited-run show, Obscura , is playing at the EXIT Theatre in the Tenderloin. Quicker than you can say abracadabra, I am there.

The show takes place on a small stage behind the café area. Christian sits at a table outfitted with a video projector so you can see his hands from above while he does tricks. His brand of magic is what he calls an “intimate spectacle” and blends acting and storytelling with sleight-of-hand card tricks that are truly mind-boggling in their ability to completely confound. I find myself riveted, leaning forward in my chair in suspense. I am spellbound – not to mention completely entertained. Forget bars, and maybe even live music…magic is my new favorite Saturday night. I have to find another act.

I email several magicians – an elusive, mysterious bunch, I discover, after only one of four responds to me – and finally get the tip I am looking for. Had I heard about the magic show that takes place in the basement of Marrakech Moroccan Restaurant every week? Um, no. A quick Google search confirms that the Marrakech Magic Theater takes place every Friday and Sunday evening. I order tickets immediately.

I arrive at Marrakech one hour before the show starts so that I have plenty of time to enjoy drinks in the Sultan’s Oasis lounge and the pre-show entertainment. Magician Peter Morrison greets me warmly and directs me down a dark flight of stairs into the lounge below the restaurant. Though drink specialties are offered from the Far East, I wimp out and order a red wine. No sooner have I sat down on a plush couch in the lounge when Peter strolls up and tells me to pick a card.

I pick my card, look at it, and give it back. He proceeds to quickly shuffle the deck and flip several cards over and turn them back again, all the while looking me straight in the eye and telling me exactly what he’s doing in a low, hypnotic voice. Of course, I know he’s going to pick my card, but I still give a small gasp of surprise when he does.

Peter smiles and calls everyone into the main stage area. For the next hour, he does a variety of card tricks and an astonishing rings performance. The show is billed as “interactive theater,” so every so often he pulls someone onstage and lets them participate in the trick. Though my desire to be a magician’s assistant has only increased, I’m feeling shy and don’t want him to pick me. So naturally, I accidentally knock over my wineglass with my foot as he’s in mid-trick.

The sound of shattering glass fills the tiny auditorium. Wouldn’t you know it, he calls me right up to the stage.

I’m so embarrassed, tipsy, and hot (stage lights!) at this point I can barely focus on the hocus-pocus happening two feet away from me. But before I know it, he’s instructing me to dance to the classic rock that’s being piped in from behind the curtain. All of a sudden, he starts to pull yards and yards and yards of fabric out of his mouth to the utter delight of the audience. He hasn’t really asked me to do anything except dance, so I keep swaying my hips, but after a good minute or so of this I’m starting to feel woozy. He finally finishes pulling the fabric out of his mouth and the audience goes wild. I leave the stage confused and kind of mortified, like Rosanna Arquette in Desperately Seeking Susan when she screws up the dove act.

But that doesn’t stop me from practicing my mind control trick the next day, or the next. Following Christian’s advice, I perform my one-woman, one-trick magic act over and over in the mirror until I’m confident I can convince someone that I can read their mind, and that I am gifted in the ways of deception.

The perfect opportunity to show off my trick arises at a friend’s dinner party the following week. After downing wine to calm my nerves (thank God I don’t break the glass this time), I summon everyone to the kitchen table and ask, “Who in this room would like to have their mind read?” My friend Michael volunteers. I lay out the cards before him and bring out my pencil.

“There are three cards here with three different colors on them,” I say slowly, tapping each card. “I’d like you to think of one of the colors and make a choice. I want you to choose one of the colors.”

Michael nods. “Okay.”

“Have you made your choice?”

“Yes.”

“At this point, I would like to give you the opportunity to change your mind. Do you want to change your mind?”

“Uh…”

“You have free will. You can change your mind anytime you want.” Tap tap tap. “Do you have your answer?”

“Yes! I do.”

“What is the color you have chosen?”

“…”

What, you thought I was going to tell you? A good magician never reveals her secrets. But let’s just say my friends now think I have special powers.

DO IT YOURSELF

The Magic Theater at the Marrakech Restaurant is open on Fridays at 8:30 p.m. and Sundays at 6:30 p.m.; tickets are $38 (this doesn’t include drinks). Christian Cagigal’s Obscura will be reappearing at the EXIT Theatre on October 7 through December 18, 2010. Tickets are $15-$25. Any number of magic tricks are available at Misdirections Magic Shop at a variety of different prices; my mind control trick is $12.

Hive Mind

Antonia Richmond — Thu, 27 May 2010 00:00:09 -0700

Needless to say, bees have not held a place of great esteem in my life. I’ve always had some vague understanding that bees are an essential component of flower, fruit, and vegetable production, and, of course, that they themselves produce a delicious by-product, honey. But bees were more of a nuisance to me than anything – stinging little buggers that left me swatting frantically at their approach.

Yet when news of the honeybee crisis (and with it a rise in urban beekeeping) began surfacing on my radar, I found myself strangely intrigued. I’d always imagined that beekeeping was something one did on a farm, or, say, another large patch of land with no one living within a ten-mile radius. Having hundreds and hundreds of potentially lethal insects semi-contained in close proximity to unsuspecting neighbors seemed risky and dangerous, if not slightly insane.

In fact, it turns out that there are beehives all over the city – in parks, on porches, on rooftops, and probably in one of your neighbor’s yards right now.

Homesteading is hot right now – in addition to jam-making, canning, and back-porch vegetable gardening – I’ve heard reports of chickens and goats in Glen Park and Diamond Heights backyards. So it makes sense that there's been a surge in urban beekeeping over the past few years. There are around 450 beekeepers in the city now, up from 25 just a few years ago.

Though it may seem counterintuitive due to the scarcity of space, San Francisco is actually the perfect place to raise and keep bees. First, it’s legal – unlike many counties in the U.S. As long as your bees don’t create a public nuisance, you’re free to have a hive wherever you want it. Second, bees thrive in our mild climate – especially in warmer areas like the Mission, Glen Park, and Noe Valley. Third, there’s a market for the product. Food-obsessed San Franciscans are definitely more apt to throw down $10–$20 for a jar of local honey (which, by the way, puts the honey bear to shame.)

Still, the reality of being responsible for hundreds of bees seems daunting. How does one even get bees, anyway? And where does one get those amazing beekeeping outfits? And what if the bees freak out and swarm an innocent bystander?

Clearly, it’s time to talk to the pros.

If there’s anyone who knows about beekeeping in San Francisco, it’s Cameo Wood, the owner of the nation’s only urban beekeeping store, Her Majesty's Secret Beekeeper. Cameo also runs the San Francisco Urban Beekeeping Group, which has monthly meetups at Borderlands Café. I head over there one evening to join my fellow “beeks” in conversation about all things bees. Cameo sits at the head of the table and presides over the informal meeting, in which around 25 beeks, ranging from newbie to professional, discuss topics such as starting a hive, where to get bees, bee diseases, and – yikes – dealing with swarms.

Perusing the honey shelf, I notice that the local honeys are divided by neighborhood –Glen Park honey, Mission Dolores honey, and Noe Valley honey. I write down the contact info from the labels and send off a few emails the next day. I’m ready to see some hives.

After the meeting, I accompany Cameo to HMS Beekeeper so she can give one of the beeks some new equipment. Walking into the store, I am blown away by the lovely smell. It is sweet, grassy, and earthy. It is the smell of pure honey. Jars of the stuff, both local and imported, line the shelves, along with candles, lotions, and soaps. On the other side of the shop sit various wooden hives, books, tools, and – best of all –beekeeping suits.

A few weeks later, I huff and puff my way up 26th Street to Diamond to visit Noe Valley Apiaries, a one-man outfit run by longtime beekeeper and former president of the San Francisco Beekeepers Association, Philip Gerrie. It is a beautiful spring day: The flowers are in full bloom, the wind is blowing softly, and the bees are buzzing gently. Philip ties a protective veil on my head and lights a smoker, a tool that blows smoke into the hives and calms the bees. He leads me up a small path into his other lot. There, toward the back fence, are the hives.

I freeze in my tracks. There are thousands of bees buzzing around each of the five hives. I stare at them warily for what seems like an hour. A blue jay suddenly lands on the tree branch above and causes me to jump several inches off the ground.

“Relax,” says Philip. “It’s just a bird.”

Slowly, I approach the hives. Philip opens the cover of one and blows smoke into it. “They think there’s a fire in their house, so they get distracted,” he explains. Gingerly, he lifts up a frame to inspect the bees.

The worker bees are busily taking care of the queen bee’s brood and delivering pollen that eventually gets condensed into honey. I can see teeny tiny larvae (baby bees) in the cells when I hold a frame up to the sunlight – and where the bees have started to create wax. In spite of my fear, I am completely fascinated by the perfect system the bees have created for their survival. It’s all about making sure the queen has the best environment possible to lay eggs and create more bees.

I look down and notice a bee making its way up my leg. I take deep breaths and try to remind myself what Philip has told me about bees: that making a sudden, jerky move (like swatting) is actually the worst thing you can do. To a bee, you’re really just a surface to land on. Comforting, I guess, though Philip gets stung soon after he says this.

We continue to inspect the hives. Each has eight frames and all must be checked to ensure things are running smoothly – there should be no trace of mites or other diseases, the broods should be filling up the cells, and, most importantly, there should be no sign of an imminent swarm. Philip lets me hold some of the frames while he inspects them, and I try not to think about the proximity of about 200 bees to my bare hands.

The whole process takes about an hour, and I notice that I have grown quite calm. The constant hum of the bees has put me into a sort of meditative trance. After we are done with the inspection, I buy a jar of Noe Valley Apiary honey and practically float back down 26th Street, taking special care to notice all the flowers and trees (and the birds and the … well, you know.)

Emboldened, I decide to take a Beginning Beekeeping class at HMS Beekeeper. Taught by Karen Peteros, another former president of the SF Beekeepers Association, the class covers all the basics – equipment, resources, considerations – that you need to start a hive. We learn where to put a hive: in your backyard, a friend’s backyard, or a stranger’s backyard, with permission. A rooftop would also work, or you could put an ad on Craigslist to find a location. Karen explains that what bees need in order to thrive is sun, water, and protection from wind and nocturnal critters like skunks. She also discusses the cost of starting a bee operation (around $500), among other topics. The question of transparency comes up. Should you tell your neighbors, or your landlord? It’s a touchy subject for sure, and really depends on the situation. For example, an absentee landlord might not have to know, especially if all of your neighbors were fine with it. One of my classmates suggests rather than asking, “How do you feel about bees?” ask, “How do you feel about honey?”

Karen stresses that urban beekeepers should consider themselves experts, ambassadors, and advocates of bees. “There is so much misinformation and fear of bees, that it’s your responsibility to learn as much as you can, so that you can educate others,” she says. “Plus, the more you know, the more you’ll be able to deal if something goes wrong.”

After the class, Karen mentions that she has to go on an emergency swarm removal mission in the neighborhood. Naturally, I jump at the opportunity. She says she’ll box it up and bring it back for me to look at. Yes! Fifteen minutes later, she honks her horn and gestures to me to come outside.

“Do you have the swarm?” I ask, excitedly. “No. They weren’t there when I got there.” She opens the door. “Get in.” “Where are we going?” “To my hives.”

Karen’s apiary is nestled up on a hill in the back of her Glen Park home. She zips me into a full-coverage beekeeping suit (unlike the men, she says, who are “cowboys” and don’t believe in full-coverage, women feel more comfortable being covered up) and we head into the backyard.

Like I did with Philip, I follow Karen as she does her inspections. I witness a dramatic attempted murder of a new queen that Karen’s tried to introduce to a hive, and a “hot” hive, full of angry bees that are too crowded and need redistribution. It’s too early in the season to get the honey, which is usually harvested in late summer/early fall via a machine called an extractor. Amazingly, one hive can typically yield up to 60 pounds of honey. Just think of the holiday gift potential!

After the inspections are done, I buy a jar of Glen Park honey and head home to have a taste test. Noe Valley tastes lighter and less sweet; Glen Park tastes richer and sugary. I eat them both with French blue cheese and sigh contentedly. It’s official: I’m buzzed.

There are many ways to start an urban beehive, but first join a beekeeping organization. The San Francisco Beekeepers Association, the San Francisco Urban Beekeeping Group, and the San Francisco Beekeepers Association Yahoo! group are all excellent resources for information, and also serve as mentors and guides. Once you have a basic understanding of what you’ll need, find your space, and then head over to Her Majesty's Secret Beekeeper for books, tools, and supplies. Lastly, get your bees! You can do that at HMS Beekeeper, or through a local beekeeper.

The Cheese Stands Alone

Antonia Richmond — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 07:06:38 -0800

So, you think you can make cheese? It’s entirely possible that you can. After all, you might be one of those types who can make pickles. Or jam. Or French baguettes. Or raviolis filled with pumpkin puree… from scratch. I have long considered myself one of those types. Recipes with never-heard-of ingredients? Pages of complicated steps? 24-hour cooking times? Bring it.

I have an unwavering obsession with all things curd and whey. I’ve been hooked on the stuff since childhood—beginning with my first taste (of a cellophane-wrapped Kraft Single), and I still can’t get enough. Most of my days begin and end with cheese (cottage for breakfast, a hunk of blue, Brie, or parmigiano-reggiano for dessert).

I’ve also spent a lot of time at the counter of Delfina Pizzeria, watching the cooks stretch the curds of fresh mozzarella in a bowl of water and form them into little balls. There is something so sensual and tender about it, as there is with any food that is made by hand. Plus, the taste is sublime – eyes-roll-back-in-your-head good. Cocksure and confident, I set out to make fresh cheese. But let me tell you: it was humbling.

Before I embarked on my mission to make my own cheese, I decided to get some advice from the cheesemongers at Cheese Plus, a gourmet grocer in Russian Hill. I spent a few hours observing from behind the counter, and watched as they solved a multitude of dairy dilemmas, from what to eat with specific wines to what cheese is best in fondue to what cheese would be good atop sliders. Lucky me – I was generously fed samples of a variety of different cheeses, the most memorable being a goat raclette (served both heated and unheated, to get a feel for the difference in texture). As I wolfed it down, a pair of Japanese tourists approached me. “Excuse me,” they said. “Where is stinky?” I started to tell them that I don’t work there, but, to my surprise, I realized that I could actually help them. “At the end of the counter, to your left – that’s where you’ll find stinky.” I asked one of the cheesemongers, Samantha Chertoff, how she learned so much about cheese. “By eating it,” she said. “I know exactly what everything tastes like.” And it’s evident in the way she talks with her customers, using words like pungent, stinky, buttery, fresh, sweet, smooth, at every turn, like a walking, talking cheese encyclopedia. She had no experience in home cheesemaking, but assured me that she’s thought about doing it and it shouldn’t be too hard to whip up a simple mozzarella. I left the store emboldened, but listening to my new cheesemonger friend speak so fluently about my favorite food group made me realize I knew much less than I thought. I decided to enroll in Cheese School.

Yes. I said “Cheese School.” The Cheese School of San Francisco is exactly what it sounds like. It is where you go to study cheese. The school is housed in a small, pleasant building on the edge of North Beach, on Powell Street. It’s curriculum ranges from fundamentals (primers, presentation, and pairings) to tastings (European and American) to further explorations (washed rinds say, or pecorinos). Being a neophyte, I enrolled in the primer course, taught by Judy Creighton, a seasoned cheese educator. I found myself in a room with two long tables covered in white tablecloths, a wineglass and a plate of twelve different cheeses.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/stuart_spivack/2892219225/

In other words, I was in heaven. For three hours, I learned the ABCs of cheese. I sampled each of the twelve flavor families, from a fresh fromage blanc (tastes like rich cream) to a mountain appenzeller (my favorite, with a full, nutty flavor) to a bloomy rind Brie de Nangis (delicious and vastly superior to any Brie I’ve had). I learned how to taste it, serve it, and store it; the difference between cow, goat, and sheep milks; how and where they are made; and the incredible range of aging techniques. I headed home with a belly full of cheese and wine, a head filled to the brim with new found knowledge, and a heart that immediately wanted to take another class. So I signed up for my next course, Cheeses of France.

The Cheeses of France class is taught by Colette Hatch, a food and wine authority whose business card reads “Madame de Fromage.” After tasting twelve delicious cheeses and going into the ins and outs of aging and bacterias, I decided to stay after class to talk to the Madame about making my own cheese. She seemed a little skeptical, and told me you really have to get the best quality local milk, which is hard to find. Nevertheless, she steered me in the direction of local cheesemaker Soyoung Scanlan, the owner and cheesemaker at Andante Dairy in Petaluma. Soyoung, a former dairy scientist, told me that she doesn’t recommend home cheesemaking, for the same reason: it’s generally very difficult to get good milk. I was slightly discouraged but decided to do it anyway. Because the Internet says it’s easy.

I decided to go with the 30-minute mozzarella recipe from The New England Cheesemaking Supply Company. (It’s founder, Ricki “The Cheese Queen” Carroll, is profiled in Barbara Kingsolver’s book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle — the bible of DIY food production.) With visions of my future dairy farm (full of cows and goats and big wheels of delectable cheese) dancing in my head, I bought my supplies: two gallons of Straus Dairy (local) organic milk, liquid vegetable rennet, and citric acid (all purchased from Rainbow Grocery). I poured the milk in a big stockpot, added the ingredients, and slowly heated and covered the milk. When I lifted the lid up, things are not looking that good. The milk, rather than looking like a smooth custard, was very soft, wet, and separated into quivering little curds. I left the lid on for a few minutes more, and then drained the curds into a colander. I kneaded them like I would bread dough and reheated them in the microwave. More whey runs off, leaving me with a firm, round ball of curds. At this point, the stretching began. The curds stretched magically, but the resulting cheese was really tough, almost rubbery. I formed the mixture into a ball and slice off a piece. It tasted like a wet, milk-flavored sock. Disappointed, I tossed out my efforts, and washed the pot. I was not used to such unmitigated disaster when I cooked, and my ego was a little bruised. It had sounded so easy—heat milk, drain curds, heat milk again, stretch. Sigh. I decided to give it another go. I slowly heated the milk and let it sit, covered, longer this time. Happily, when I lifted the lid, the curd was smooth and slightly firm. I drained it, reheated it, and folded it onto itself just-so, being careful not to overwork it. I formed the curds into a smooth ball and noted that its texture was soft, almost like a water balloon. I ate a slice. It tasted creamy and fresh and pure.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rberteig/2274117964/in/photostream/

It will take some refining before it’s ready for the ultimate test of a cook’s mettle: the dinner party. But I’m confident that with practice, I’ll have a unique addition to my pre-dinner cheese plate: my own.

Cover: http://www.flickr.com/photos/seeminglee/3866969210/

Design: Kari Stevens