California Delight #6: Toasted Open Focaccia Sandwiches at Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store

Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store in North Beach San Francisco is a corner café of some renown. Rumor has it Francis Ford Coppola scribbled down the first draft of The Godfather there, but I’m skeptical. Mario’s seating is informal and comfortable – but not that comfortable. I have no doubt, however, that Mario’s has a special place in his heart.

The Cigar Store does have a modest selection of cigars, if you’re into that sort of thing, but their real claim to fame rests on their toasted open focaccia sandwiches. This writer is particularly taken with the grilled eggplant, and I heartily concur with her. Mario’s earned its fame with this sandwich, and is worth seeking out.

Meatball s'wich also good.

However, for those who can’t book the next flight to San Francisco, here’s an easy focaccia recipe. As for the grilled eggplant, caramelized and lightly suffused with balsamic vinegar ... you’re on your own!

California Delight #5

California Delight #7: Conversation

Some years back I met a Columbian man who was visiting Canada for the first time. I asked him what his first impressions were, and he said, “Don’t look, don’t talk, and apologize if you are clumsy enough to touch.” A little different from South America, then? “Oh, yes! We have to hug everybody. Unless they’re wearing a pistol, and even then sometimes.”

A friend who moved to Toronto from Newfoundland said much the same. At the time, I was pining for the prairies, so we mused over the quality of our homesickness. I suggested my fondness for my hometown was perhaps a bit naïve: I knew everybody there, which was why I thought it was friendlier than the city. He conceded that, but said the Maritimes were different. “It doesn’t take so long to be a neighbor, because everyone talks to you.”

The conversation in California differs considerably in quality from the conversation in Newfoundland (material for a future entry, perhaps), but the charming thing about California conversation is that, in sharp contrast to Toronto, it exists. This is a trait I’ve always appreciated about the citizens of the United States – so long as you are not the sole occupant of any given space, you have a ready interlocutor. I've conversed with complete strangers while cueing up for a movie, shopping for post-cards, visiting the local library, buying a pair of shoes ... Thankfully, none of these has ever concluded with a hug (too far out of my comfort zone, still - after all, I'm not just Canadian but Mennonite) but it leaves me with the impression that becoming a “neighbor” in this State would not be a long or difficult process.

California Delight #6

The Library - A New Musical

Somebody went to a lot of work to pull this off. If you have high-speed, do check it out. And no, this shouldn't get you in trouble if you're at work (unless you start singing along).

Link thanks to Bookninja.

California Delight #8: Mexi-Cal Cuisine

This delight comes with some specific conditions, most notably: the eats have to be good. There's nothing less appetizing than lame Mexi-Cal: tofu that can be identified doesn't belong in even pseudo-Mexican dishes, and the Californian propensity to fetishize chicken breasts (which, I suppose, might be symbolically appropriate) can really detract from the larger, more delightful menu at hand. Worthy Mexi-Cal chefs don't bring Hollywood to Mexico: they make the dinner table a multi-cultural, ecumenical, hyper-sensual experience.

Practitioners and consumers of Tex-Mex sneer at Mexi-Cal, calling it "yuppie food." These epithets aren't altogether objectionable: as someone who also enjoys Tex-Mex (it has a laudable blue collar, do-it-yourself approach to food: if it doesn't taste right, reach for the hot sauce), I'll admit you've got to have more in your wallet (or in your credit rating) if you're going to really dig in to Mexi-Cal.

Mexi-Cal foodies, when they aren't fastidiously vegetarian, don't mind experimenting with fish - any fish: shelled, smoked, pickled, pan-fried, whatever. The vegetarian variations will (obviously) eschew all contact with lard, so you won't get the genuine "re-fried beans" you might have developed an unhealthy fondness for. But Mexi-Cal connoisseurs know the difference between cilantro and Mexican oregano, and they use their knowledge to good effect. Consequently Mexi-Cal food is robust; it doesn't need extra heat, but won't suffer from it, either.

There are several ways to get the Mexi-Cal experience: on the street, or at home. One affordable SJ MC restaurant I've raved about before is Aqui. Those who want to give the home-cooking effort a try could do worse than start with Southwest Turkey Chili. Or you can check out the ultimate Mexi-Cal reference: California Rancho Cooking, by Jacqueline Higuera McMahan.

Cilantro mandatory.

California Delight #7

California Delight #9: D & J Hobby Store

This entry is a little embarrassing, but I believe it constitutes a significant aspect of the Californian mentality that appeals to me, so I will confess it: I'm sorry to say goodbye to San Jose because it means saying goodbye to D & J Hobby.

Some background: when I was 12, I joined a model-building club that held a town contest in the early spring. I hiked over to the local hobby store (a vendor that could have been set up in a typical master-bedroom closet, with space to spare) and sought out the coolest model available. This being 1977 - too early for George Lucas to properly capitalize on Star Wars, and consequently too late to choose anything particularly "cool" - I settled for an F-15 Eagle (an airplane the US Navy developed then scrapped within a year), grabbed a tube of Testor's glue and a handful of paints, then paid seven dollars for the mess and hurried home.

Things went badly right from the start. My paintbrush was a blocky construction with brittle bristles that raked the paint over the plastic, producing a wide array of uneven loops and swirls. It didn’t occur to me until I’d finished the majority of painting that the cans of spray-paint on display next to the little bottles were there for the body-work, while this brush could probably have done an adequate job of the details. By then it was too late: an immaculate application of spray-paint would have done little to hide the damage I’d inflicted on my model.

Still, the money was spent, so I proceeded with the task of building. When it was time to glue the cockpit to the fuselage, I accidentally spilled a large drop of cement on the plane’s clear-plastic canopy – D’oh! I gingerly wiped it off, but this was now my model’s second fatal wound. In a panic, I called my father’s office to tell him what happened. He generously called a parishioner who had won a few of these contests, and returned to me with the following advice: “Try scraping off the glue with a razor, then polishing the scratches with some Brasso.” Hope was once again restored, but although I whistled while I worked, the effort produced further disaster. I pondered my predicament, and came up with an ingenious solution: paint the canopy black! The end result was, I thought, rather dangerous-looking.

Other problems arose that only model makers can relate to. The plane’s landing gear was spindly, and if you attempted to put the airplane’s weight on the wheels before the glue had properly dried, the result was surreal. I discarded the newly-warped landing gear, and glued shut every workable door and hinge.

The final result bore my unmistakable fingerprint – several of them, in fact. I very much doubted I’d win any sort of prize, but I entered the contest anyway, curious to hear what the judge would say.

There were some stunning models on display, including a couple of vans with interiors that had somehow been upholstered with miniature shag rug. These had their own display cases outfitted with strobe lights, and they both won top prize. The judge took care to say something about every entry, and I made notes, then held my breath as he approached my airplane. He paused, reached down and picked it up with pinched fingers. “This guy,” he said, regarding my model with a look of mild sorrow, “Well, he sure tried.”

The hoots of laughter haunt me still. I gave up model-making after that, but when I turned 30, I bought my first kit in years – a P-38 Lightning. I took my time with it, and must admit, felt immense satisfaction with the final result. I haven’t hung it with fishing line from my bedroom ceiling (in fact, it’s not on display anywhere), but I do make it a habit to build a model a year. And D & J Hobby, an enormous, cluttered mess of a store, has for the last ten years provided me with the best of them.

Oh, baby!

Funny thing, though: the customers all seem to be men my age...


California Delight #8

California Delight #10: Pain Is Good Hot Sauce, Batch #37

Americans sure do love their hot sauce. It’s a rare restaurant that doesn’t have a rack of little red bottles just behind the cashier. A tourist could spend hundreds of dollars on the stuff and be hard-pressed to discern much difference between brands: most hot sauces are an unimaginative combo of Habanero peppers and vinegar, with salt and occasionally a little (choke) powdered garlic thrown in.

There are, however, some geographic characteristics to consider and enjoy. It’s been my experience (a host of exceptions allowed for, of course) that if you begin your southward journey in the eastern states, the hot sauces pretty much begin where you expect (think: Tobasco), but increase their heat as you descend further into the south. By the time you hit New Orleans or Dallas, there’s little point in crossing the border to Mexico, because American Can-Do Attitude has been applied to the science of hot sauces with great effect, producing a plethora of sauces that are entirely unfit for human consumption. I see little point in indulging such an extreme, but will admit that the endorphin rush I get from adding a little Dave’s Insanity to my chili collaborates very nicely with the buzz produced by the beer I guzzle for relief. Beyond Dave’s exists a wasteland of criminally hot sauces: if you seek such novelty, Da Bomb somehow manages to impart a modicum of flavor with its torment, and comes in a charming medicinal bottle that will attract attention in any fridge. No doubt hotter sauces exist, but hotter than that I will not go.

There are probably Californian outlets that cater to this sort of craziness as well; I just haven’t encountered any. The Californian attitude toward spice of any stripe is to explore its breadth, not its deepest impact. Thus, while dealers of “Tex-Mex” might sneer without irony at the affectations of fusion cuisine, “Mexi-Cal” practitioners proceed with unshakeable hippie bliss to experiment without end.

This is the environment in which I discovered Pain Is Good Batch #37.

Pain isn’t nearly as excruciating as it makes itself out to be, but it does have an unmistakable heat. More than that, however, it has incredible flavor. Batch #37 is a garlic sauce, but the first ingredient is carrots. The list continues: minced garlic … mustard seed … olive oil, lime juice, lemon juice, etc. The combination is a thrill – I dump the stuff on dishes like Spaghettini Aglio E Olio, add a little parmesan, and dig in.

“Very nice,” you say, “but is it Californian?” Well ... no. Pain is manufactured in Kansas City, of all places. But I was introduced to it in California, and so it remains in my experience a delight I will always associate with the State.

Canadians can get their supply here.

California Delight #9

Return From California: The Conclusion Of An Arm's-Length Love Affair?

The State of California took hold of a particularly feverish corner of my brain at a very young age. This was due chiefly to the television shows of my youth and their aesthetic, which held a Pleasantville sort of appeal that retains its power over me even now.

I first visited California when I was 16, and returned to the state once in my early 20s. Ten years later my father announced he'd accepted a pastorate in San Jose, and I couldn't help feeling a little ripped-off. This was so typical. My parents waited until I left home before they bought a color TV. A VCR was purchased when I moved to another city. Now I was married, and conspiring with my wife to begin a family of our own, and my parents were moving to California - land of my most delirious childhood dreams.

Living in California is no longer my deepest desire. I wouldn't object to a year or two of Californian exile, but the place is perverse enough to sour the dreams of all but its wealthiest citizens. Unless you exist in the vaunted .01%, it doesn't matter what rank you occupy on the food chain: you have to work like the devil to live there.

Still, every visit we've made in the last ten years has amounted to something of a perverse thrill - consider it an arm's-length love affair, which allows for all the high and none of the jones. The fantasies California inspired in me as a child were allowed to flourish, unimpeded by the banal impositions of everyday life. I could visit Santa Cruz and, channeling Walter Mitty, dream of being a blissed-out surfer. I could walk the vertical streets of San Francisco and dream of being Beat. I could even talk with friends who had moved to Silicon Valley and dream of being a free-market, code-writing geek.

Last summer my father turned 65 and used the occasion to announce his intended retirement. Preachers can preach until their last breath (or beyond - I'm starting to wonder about Billy Graham), but most pastors gratefully acknowledge the 65-mark because even the healthiest congregation pulls a large draught from the emotional reservoir. His congregation is an exceedingly warm and generous bunch, but retirement in CA is out of the question, so my parents are returning to the Canadian prairies. I now have to face the fact that I will no longer see Mistress California on quite so regular a basis.

I am already in mourning over the loss of many particularly Californian pleasures. In an effort to come to grips with my grief, I will hereby ennumerate ten of my faves - many of which can be sampled and largely enjoyed in the comfort of the non-Californian home. If you'd like to see all 10 in one page, simply click here and scroll down. If you're a sucker for the suspense of Top Ten lists, start at number 10 - here.