Nog

It's getting to be that special time of year again. I will leave the reasons behind its specialness open to interpretation. Holiday party invitations start showing up in one's mailbox the moment the turkey baster has been dried and tucked away in a drawer. Concurrently, this is the time of year when egg nog starts to muscle its way into your local supermarket's dairy case.

Egg Nog. It's a heart-stopping, cholesterol-laden, alcohol-spiked, phlegm-producing cup of Holiday goodness. And I'm a huge fan. I always have been.

As a child, the appeal was obvious; what eight year-old is going to say no to a sweet, creamy dairy product? I imagined I was drinking melted nutmeg ice cream. Given the ingredients, I didn't know how close to the mark I was. I would drink several glasses at holiday gatherings. If I accidentally got into the rum-spiked nog for adults (which was understandable since the crystal punch bowl full of alcoholic nog looked exactly like the cardboard carton that contained the booze-free liquid), so much the better. Open a container, pour out its contents, mix in a little rum, and get the party started. Egg nog punch is that simple. Or was, until I had my first taste of the real stuff.

It wasn't until I was well into adulthood that my family would pay a call on my stepmother's friend Charlene and her family, who had a sort of open house party every Christmas Eve. The house was always dressed to the teeth in holiday drag, complete with a sort of Christmas-on- Main-Street, U.S.A. recreation in miniature spread out over the tables in the living room and onto the grand piano. I'd peek into the tiny cellophane windows looking for any signs of domestic unhappiness or violence, but was invariably disappointed in my search. Booze-spiked cocktail wieners, prawns, and every kind of dip imaginable were there for the taking, and our hosts were always warm and in a festive mood, which is just the thing my family needs during the holidays. For me, the two main attractions of the party were the Presentation of the Egg Nog, and the Wheeling-in of Grandpa. This quiet old gentleman was missing one of his legs and an eye. At least, I assume he was missing an eye since he wore an eye patch. This in itself is nothing unusual, since it it very likely that he suffered from diabetes, though I never asked. What I always found interesting was the fact that he was always parked against the wall near the center of the main room, slightly to the right of a parrot cage, which hung near (but wisely not over) the dessert table. He was, to me, a sort of pirate centerpiece to the party.

The Presentation of the Egg Nog was not a heralded event, but one I always watched with interest. Charlene and her husband Bill would be in the kitchen fussing over the bowl, stirring in something here, adding a little nutmeg there. They'd do a little tasting, adjust favoring, do a little more tasting, add more booze, then Charlene would pick up the enormous bowl and walk it to the buffet table very carefully, the whitecaps of stiffened egg white gently rising and falling against the sides. When her mission had been successfully accomplished, people would grab their cups and huddle around the bowl, waiting their turn to dip in. It was a revelation, in terms of my nog-drinking experience. It was fresh and frothy. I finally understood where the egg part of egg nog came in-- the subtle yellow coloring from yolks beaten without mercy, the foam of egg whites folded in for body. It ruined my enjoyment of store-bought nog forever.

I won't assume that all three of you reading this have ever tried homemade egg nog. If you haven't, and you don't have problems consuming dairy, cholesterol or alcohol, I say go ahead and try it. It's really, really good. And you only get it once a year, so drink up.


Egg Nog

The rumor behind the word "nog" is that it derived from the English word "noggin"; a small, carved, wooden mug used to serve drinks in various taverns. The full name of this beverage might have been "egg and grog in a noggin", which does not sound especially appetizing. There also seems to be some disagreement as to whether the beverage is spelled as one word or two. I like two, it sounds more important that way.

Ingredients:

4 egg yolks
1/3 cup sugar, plus 1 tablespoon
1 pint whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup rum, bourbon, or whatever poison you prefer
4 egg whites

Procedure:

1. Beat egg yolks until pale yellow in color. Gradually add 1/3 cup of sugar until it is totally dissolved.

2. In a medium saucepan, over high heat, combine milk, cream, and nutmeg and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat and temper the hot milk mixture into the eggs and sugar. Return everything to the pot and cook until mixture reaches 160 degrees F. Remove from heat, stir in alcohol and extract, pour into a medium-sized mixing bowl and chill in your refrigerator.

3. In a medium bowl, beat egg whites to soft peaks. Gradually add one tablespoon of sugar as you beat until stiff peaks form. Whisk egg whites into chilled mixture.

4. Put your now fresh and somewhat safe beverage in the noggin or vessel of your choice and drink up.

What Else You Can Do with Leftovers

On my way home from Thanksgiving dinner, I walked down Capp Street in the Mission, fully bloated and lightly buzzed from an over abundance of great food, good wine, and a mild case of self-satisfaction over having won two games of Celebrity. I had just spent the past eight hours feasting and laughing with friends. As I turned the corner onto Mission Street, I saw a man sitting on the sidewalk. He stared at me and I stopped in my tracks and stared back for a moment. He didn't ask me for anything and I realized then that I didn't have anything to offer him. No leftovers, just a bagful of dirty dishes and a book of short stories by Saki. The warm, fuzzy glow of the evening I had just spent evaporated and all the casseroles, turkey, and pie turned to cement in my stomach. It was clear that our respective celebrations of the holiday differed. I felt thankful that his experience was not mine and impotent to do anything about improving his. The exchange lasted about three seconds.

If you are reading this, chances are you own a computer and pay for online service, which means that, in all likelihood, you can afford turkey and, if not all, then some of the trimmings. Like me, you probably spent Thanksgiving with friends or family or both, either sitting about a giant dining table stuffing yourselves silly, or milling about a party, drinking and grazing your way through relish trays and pumpkin cheesecakes (Please tell me you didn't spend the day locked in your bedroom, quietly drinking). Whatever the case, the chances are slim to none that all the food was consumed.

What can you do wth the leftovers? Apart from salivate over Madame Laidlaw's ideas from yesterday's post (I am a sucker for a good quesadilla), you might think about donating food to your local food bank, if your feast of plenty was too plentiful.

Of course, most places aren't going to accept a couple of slices of pie or a pile of turkey skin. Most food banks request items that are in some sort of packaging, but I wonder, since there was a shortage of deposits at local food banks this year, according to Maris Lagos of the San Francisco Chronicle. When you are shopping next year, buy an extra thing or two and just give it away-- nearly every grocery store has some sort of food drive happening.

I suppose we should think ahead to next year, not that one need only give on Thanksgiving. If you're saddled with cooking dinner for 20, why not push that number a little higher. Feed an extra person or two. Or twenty. If you are affiliated with a particular church or mosque or temple or glee club for all I care, find out if they are involved in any feeding programs, like Glide Memorial Church, for example.

If there are organizations that accept cooked food from private homes, I would very much like to know. Why not bake a pie for a total stranger? It's a not-so-random act of kindness.

If you are in the restaurant industry and have a surplus of holiday fare, contact Food Runners in San Francisco, they'll know what to do with your leftovers.

During this time of year, we're supposed to take time out of our lives to think upon what it is we are grateful for. Last night, among other things, I was grateful I wasn't that guy sitting on the sidewalk on Capp Street. I have promised myself that next year will be different. Not that I will be that guy sitting on the corner, mind you. I've just realized that I actually can do something, which is get up off my lazy, self-involved ass and give something, whether it be time, food, or money. Most likely time or food, since I don't have any money. I suppose it would be unethical to suggest that, while you are giving food and time to those in need, you make large monetary donations to me. I am thankful that I know better than to make that particular request.

Hangtown Fry

Before I moved to San Francisco, I knew surprisingly little about the City, which suited me fine, since I have never felt the need for too much advanced knowledge about anything. And I had no desire to trade the fantasy I had of Carol Doda and a chorus of flannel-clad gay men singing the Rice-a-roni jingle from a cable car as it crested some hill or other with the reality of some homeless guy defecating in front of me on Capp Street as he ranted incoherently.

Once moved, I had a formulated a shortlist of what I thought were very San Francisco-y things I needed to experience. One: Visit Alcatraz, no matter how touristy. That I finally accomplished this year. Two: Read Tales of the City by Armistad Maupin. Still haven't gotten around to it, much to my friend Bill's irritation. Three: oh, there were lots of things on that list, but way down near the bottom of my to-dos was eating a dish called Hangtown Fry. Why? I think I read about it in a cookbook somewhere at some point and I got it into my head that it was more ur-San Francisco that sourdough bread. So I was wrong. But not by much. The Hangtown Fry is a very old school San Francisco dish-- take a look at the Tadich Grill menu if you don't believe me, but the hangtown in question was not, as I had hoped, our City-by-the-currently oil- streaked-Bay. That particular honor goes to Placerville, a charming little town in the Sierra Foothills formerly fraught with multiple crises of identity.

Originally called Dry Diggins by the miners who carted their dry soil from there to the river to wash out the gold, Placerville's second sobriquet was collected in a pique of impromptu vigilante justice. Tired of being robbed of their hard-earned gold at knife point, some merchants and miners of the area suggested making human swings out of three men accused of the crime. Since this was the first such recorded hanging in the Mother Lode area, the camp was rechristened "Hangtown", leaving its old name to blow away like so much dust. As the town grew up and struggled to become respectable, the best of their marketing minds came up with the more child and virgin-friendly "Placerville." I suppose they could have done worse.

It was at some point in the early life of Dry Diggins/Hangtown/Placerville that, as legend has it, a newly rich gold miner walked into the restaurant of the El Dorado Hotel and demanded the most expensive meal that could be had there, mumbling something about being tired of eating nothing but canned beans. What he was given was a scramble of eggs, oysters, and bacon. Perhaps the chef misunderstood him and made the richest meal he could think of rather than the most expensive. Whatever the case, he was charged a princely sum since, it was explained, "Canned oysters had to be shipped in from Boston, eggs were as scarce as pig feathers, and bacon was just as expensive." Of course, as read at Gold Rush Chronicles, "Eggs, bacon, and oysters were the only ingredients the chef could find. Chickens were portable so the camp had eggs early on, oysters were prolific in San Francisco Bay at the time, and bacon would keep without refrigeration." I somehow doubt this miner held onto his money for very long. At least he got a good meal.

Hangtown Fry



Many of the recipes I found called for the use of a non-stick pan. Since I strongly suspect the humoring chef at the El Dorado Hotel had no acquaintance with Teflon, I asked my trusty cast iron skillet to take on the job instead, to keep in the spirit of all things 49'er. Of course, it is also doubtful that he utilized a gas stove, overhead electric lighting, or an ipod. My spirit carries me only so far.

This particular recipe is an artery clogger, near as rich as anything one might care to put in one's mouth. I decided to go for broke, otherwise, what's the point, really? There are lighter versions of this dish, certainly, but the spirit of the thing is it's richness. This was made at the request of a man who stumbled upon a gold strike after months of eating nothing but beans, after all. Life expectancy rates were lower then and no one knew the meaning of cholesterol. Shave a few months off your own life and try it.

Ingredients:

3 whole hen's eggs (if using Plover's eggs, 4)
1/4 cup heavy cream
1/4 teaspoon of salt
1/8 teaspoon of nutmeg
a turn or two of your pepper grinder
6 small oysters, alive and in their shells



enough flour for dredging the shelled oysters as they lay dying
1 tablespoon of cow's butter
1 tablespoon chopped parsley (I use the curly kind because I have finally rejected my previous
rejection of it)
3 strips of thickly sliced bacon

Preparation:

1. Into a pan heated to medium intensity, place your bacon and fry until crispy. Remove to a paper or cotton tea towel to drain and cool. Reserve the bacon drippings.

2. Combine cream, salt, pepper, nutmeg and oysters in a bowl and beat until egg yolks are
just incorporated.

3. Drop shelled (you may have to do that yourself if your mother is not available to help you)
oysters into flour to coat lightly and suffocate. Tap off any excess flour.



4. With the bacon grease still hot in the skillet on mediumish heat, introduce the oysters to
the fat and brown on each side. About 45 seconds to one minute per hemisphere. Do not
overcook, since a certain degree of juicy sweetness is desired of them. Remove from heat
onto paper or other materialed towel.

5. If the bacon grease is hissing and spitting at you, I find the best way to deal with such
rudeness is to ignore it. Return to it once it has cooled down sufficiently to introduce it to
it's new fat friend, butter.

6. Add egg mixture to the butter/grease melange and treat suitably, as one might treat an
omelet, say. When half way cooked through, crumble in some of the bacon, add the oysters, and cook the other half of the way.

7. Remove your newly developed Hangtown Fry to some sort of plate and have at it while it is still warm.

Hellenic American Imports

Over the past several years, I'd wandered past Hellenic American Imports on Mission Street many, many times, never bothering to go in. Mental notes were made and promptly filed away. If I ever had the need for a Greek flag or an evil eye charm, I thought, I'd know just where to go.



After lunching with a friend in the neighborhood a few months ago, I found myself in front of the store. As I peered through the plate glass windows and past the statuary, I saw something that caught my attention-- food for sale. A sucker for interesting markets, I found myself compelled to enter.



After browsing the cheeses in the refrigerated case at the back of the store, a young woman descended a little staircase to the right to welcome me.

"Let me know if you need anything," she offered, "My name is Greece." Was she serious? About the name, not the offer of help, I mean.

"Your name is Greece?" I asked, thinking how fortunate she was to have found just the right occupation for her name.

"It's actually Griselda, but they call me Greece here."

And why not? I continued to browse, working my way over to the wines.



As I wandered a bit more, grabbing a box of Dumplings with Yeast (Loukoumades. It sounds better in Greek.) here and a can of giant beans (Gigantes) there, I recognized a man I had waited on before coming down the staircase from the office that looks down upon the store. I said hello. He introduced himself as Savas Deligiorgis, the owner of the store.

After chatting for a few minutes, he mentioned that he had some work to do for his radio program. Radio program? Savas, it turns out, has been producing the Hellenic American Broadcast-- the only Greek radio hour west of Chicago-- for the past 43 years, which is as long as he has owned the store. Journalism is a passion of his. It's what he studied in school. He then excused himself and went back upstairs into the office.

I was intrigued. I made my purchases, thumbed through some Greek VHS tapes for amusement, and left, quite glad I had decided to wander in.

When in Greece last month, I got rather hooked on taramosalata, a spread made of fish roe, oil, and bread. I remembered Savas carried the stuff, so I made a pilgrimage back to his store.



He was there, up in the office. I waved hello and was invited up. As I sat at his desk drinking Amita brand peach juice surrounded by office walls lined with photos of Savas posing with the likes of Jerry Brown, Anthony Quinn, and several Greek dignitaries, we talked about the changing demographics of the Mission. When he bought the store 43 years ago, there were still many Greek and Italian families living in the neighborhood. Now that most of them have moved away, he still serves to hold the community together through his Monday-to-Friday radio hour. Greek-relevant interviews, news, commentaries and music are all on offer. While we talked, the other half of his radio team, Tonia Demitriadis, arrived and we all chatted a bit more.

Back downstairs with Savas, I noticed some cookies dusted with powdered sugar. "Hey! What are these called again? The lady I stayed with in Santorini would make these for me." I said, excitedly, but not very gracefully.

"Kourabiethes. Take some. The one's in the box are better." I took some home and had them with my coffee, powdered sugar blown like talcum over the front of my shirt and in my beard. But they were good and worth the wiping for.



Again, I thanked him for his time and wandered the store while Greece busied herself arranging merchandise. A bin of ouzo candy wrapped in shiny metallic blue paper caught my eye. I plunged my hand in as if it were a barrel of pinto beans and hoped no one would notice. I did not purchase any candy.



I went back to the cheeses. Manouri, feta, myzithra. The back walls were lined with products I'd seen in markets on the Greek islands I'd so recently wandered. Cookies, dakos, calamari, Nescafe, and frappe shakers. It's all there. I was glad to know it.

I moved on to the non-food-related areas, contemplated buying a book or a video. I wondered how funny I might find a Greek comedy. If the phrases "thank you" or "I'm sorry" or "where is the toilet, please?" were said in a particularly hilarious fashion, it might be well worth it. Otherwise, it would be a purchase entirely lost on me. I took my cod roe, cookies, a little wine, and left.

I'll be back as soon as the roe runs out.

Hellenic American Imports
2365 Mission Street
San Francisco, CA 94110

Tel: (415) 282-2237

Open Monday through Saturday from 10 am to 6 pm

The Hellenic American Broadcast airs at 8 pm Monday through Friday on KTVO- AM 1400