A long overdue post: Vegetarians in San Francisco

Back on April 6th, 2010, communion hosted its last dinner in San Francisco. Yes, it has taken me a very long time to discuss this, and I am very sorry for that. I realize now that that dinner was more loaded than I wanted to admit at the time or than I wanted to address. I can appreciate now a bigger picture of its complexities and nuances.

It was a vegetarian feast for vegetarians. The only two omnivores were Jacob B. and I, who cooked the meal. I wanted to have a vegetarian meal that was delicious and filling, but also one that went beyond the basic pasta primavera. In that way, it was a challenge for us doing the cooking. But furthermore, I wanted to converse about the personal journeys the vegetarians at our table had travelled. I wanted to know how did vegetarians become so and what sort of memories informed their decision then and sustains it now. But though I did not want to frontally admit this, my curiosity was hidden in a veneer of judgement, where vegetarians are a breed of the self-righteous and inflexible, and who exercise an incredible amount of privilege. It has taken me a while to contest my judgements and finally feel ready to recount our findings here, without any tongue-in-cheek bullshit.

Our first course was a purée of spinach soup, along with stories of how they first decided to be vegetarian. One of our guests recounted having to work in a meat processing facility as a teenager, not even with direct slaughtering, but packaging and shipping beef outside Berlin. Though he told his story with cool composure, it was clear how impressed and disgusted he was handling meat. He told of unhygienic premises, an assembly line layout, and a basic emotional detachment working with flesh; the impact was so big and long-lasting, he had been a vegetarian for over two decades.

The second course was one I was very happy with, especially considering my reluctance to making a savory dairy-free meal: a warm quinoa pilaf with asparagus and three-way peas. We used english peas, with their shoots and leaves, blanched baby carrots and asparagus, with walnuts and a sprinkle of minced carrot tops. We asked diners to share a moment of frustration when having to defend their diet, and most stories were of recent vegetarian converts having to stand firmly in their decisions especially with family members and loved ones. Other stories were of traveling, especially alongside carnivores and the conflicts that come up when restaurants don't offer a vegetarian option.

The third course, a leek soufflé, was a major flop. I had been practicing my soufflé techniques for weeks with pretty good results. But this time, the leeks exited the oven high and puffy, but in traveling ten feet from the kitchen to the dining room they deflated to a sad-looking blob. At least, the conversation was good: how do you manage integrity with practicality and hunger? I think this is an especially important question because in the moments where hunger pangs are the most intense, we can make the worst eating choices. A diner told us of a time he ordered a vegetarian burrito on his way home from a long day at work. As he got home and unwrapped

his dinner, he saw a huge chunk of carne asada staring at him. What to do----either get up and return it (and wait and additional fifteen minutes more) or turn a blind eye to the meat in front of him fueled by growling hunger. Not only did he spit out the food in his mouth, but he returned to the taquería for a remake.

The fourth course, grapefruit granitas with créme fraîche ice cream with questions of whether their commitment has ever wavered. It has. One diner told us of traveling to Mexico, where after starving for days, she finally succumbed to eating a turkey sandwich on a plane. The funny tidbit here is that she was on the plane alone, given she would have never done it within the gaze of her fellow vegetarian travelling partner. She broke her rule when she knew no one could see her.

Our fifth and last course, a milk and caramel tart with toasted hazelnuts. This is a dish that would convert vegans, I think, because the crust is ever so-flaky and wonderfully buttery that whoever denies themselves that gift is just plainly an extreme ascetic. But instead of asking where diners stand on the scale of vegetarianism, we asked what vegetables would they like to be. A beet: good for you and aggressive; a mushroom, which can grow overnight, and a wild mushroom, tasty or poisonous?; a carrot, unassuming and rewarding; rainbow chard, pretty and good for you; a dandelion, surprising; an eggplant, 'cause you gotta know how to treat it.

It was a fantastic dinner. Delicious, yes, but also difficult. It was one of those moments in which I, a food scholar and a proud omnivore, had my beliefs and my pride tested. And, like a note scribbled on our tablecloth said, I do always end up with picky eater friends. Thanks everyone for sharing.

November's Communion: Thanksgiving with a twist

This month's communion was very very different. First of all, a very special diner and guest cook flew out here all the way from Venezuela and owned the execution of two of our courses. She not only provided in-depth chocolate knowledge but also spoiled me rotten, which makes me assert once again that my momma is seriously the best. She came to spend Thanksgiving dinner with me, and since she has been wondering what these Communion dinners are all about, I decided the best would be to host Communion a few days before turkey day so she could see for herself. Second, our rule about having strangers at the table didn't really pan out this time: we were joined by another amazing mother-daughter duo, a significant other, two good friends and a housemate.

The theme was 'thanks' in honor of the coming holiday, but I reckoned no one wanted to eat thanksgiving dinner twice in one week any more than I wanted to cook it. Instead, our menu was comprised of things I love so much I thank God they exist: bread, cheese, broth, pork, fried dough, ice cream, chocolate. Devising the menu was a pretty hard task, not only because I love many things, but also because deciding how to present them and in what order could have easily been overkill.

Our first course was a plate of bread and charcuterie: lightly toasted New York Rye bread with slivers of jamón serrano and picnic ham and slices of a sharp Pecorino Romano and Murcia Drunken Goat. We served them with some wild arugula tossed in olive oil and lemon juice and a couple of meaty Gordal olives. We shared glasses of an Alfonso Jerez Oloroso and tossed around ideas about the word 'thanks': gratitude, graciousness, gracias; appreciation, value, recognition.



Our second course: a brothty soup for the soul and a glass of Vigneto Tsasco Vermentino and some tales of when our soul was thankful. I don't think there is anything better than a cup of warm broth on a cold day, when sick or when indigo blue. (I believe a good hearty broth may just be the cure for almost everything.) Here, my dear friend and diner revealed that her recent precarious health condition has been cleared and that she is 100% healthy. Our glasses raised to celebrate her health and the topic moved to our failing and flailing health care system, our experiences and frustrations and what alternatives can we come up with. If only those in congress could have heard us... But from here on, the prompts on the menu no longer guided our conversation. It was purely organic.



Our third course was an apple cider braised pork shoulder with root vegetables and a glass of Beaujolais. This course proved to be the trickiest of all because though I knew I wanted pork on the menu, I was unsure of how to present it: an herb crusted tenderloin, a braised short ribs ragú, fennel and coriander seed sausages, or bacon?



Our fourth course: donut holes, milk ice cream and a coffee caramel sauce with a glass of Suri Gramella Moscato d'Asti. And this is where my mom shines. When I was in elementary school, every Friday afternoon a grade would hold a sale to gather funds for upcoming trips or projects. The main school hall would be filled with sale stands of lemonade, brownies, cookies, empanadas, and, whenever me or my siblings were involved, doughnuts. They were sure winners not only because fried dough is just irresistible, but because my mom's donuts are simply the best.
So in this course were five of my most favorite things: fried sweet dough coated in sugar, ice cream, coffee and caramel and my mother orchestrating how they all came together. Below is a picture of her hands at work.



Our fifth and final course were bittersweet chocolate truffles made mostly by mom. I had an basic acquaintance with the makings of chocolate, so it was truly enlightening to see her at work. Here we are trying to make the little round balls of heaven.



And here are other things else I am thankful for: Help. Advice. Unconditional love. Sometimes it is really hard to ask for them, even to accept them, but there is something truly heartwarming when someone, especially if it's your own mother, intuitively knows what you need and just steps up to the plate, whether we want it or not. I have to say I was so happy to have her in my home for the holiday and to have shared the intimacy of the kitchen and of the dinner table. ¡Gracias, mami! Here are a happy mom and daughter duo, exhausted after days of cooking, indulging on a dinner out.



I don't know when the next Communion will be. It has proven to be a time and money consuming endeavor that I don't know whether I will be able to continue. It needs to be seriously re-considered and re-designed to be a feasible long-term project. I welcome any suggestions you may have. As I write this, I am in Venezuela, sitting on my mother's kitchen table while the rest of the house sleeps. I am officially on vacation. But, since all the women in my family will gather in the kitchen this holiday season, know I will come back with more stories to share.

¡Felices Pascuas!

October's Communion

October, at least in San Francisco, is a month of remembering: it marks the anniversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake, 20 years to be exact this past October 17th. In line with the commemoration, I've been thinking a lot about emergencies, especially about what would we eat in case of an emergency. I'm always careful to freeze a batch of whatever I cook, so that not only will I have ready-made food in case of lazyness, but so that in the case of food ever being scarce, my household will be able to sustain itself for at least a week, until other arrangements come through.

With that in mind, this month's Communion was about emergencies and the ways in which we cope, or not, with them. I think that for the first time in Communion's short life, both the menu and the theme walked the same lines, so we were pretty excited about not only sharing stories and tips about previous crises, but also for creating dishes that were the gourmet approximation of survival food.

This month's guest cook and helper was none other than my dearest Oscar Manuel Trujillo---dancer, performer, activist and bad-ass extraordinaire---who added his fierce touch to the decor, the pacing in between courses, and making this overworked cook chill out. Below is a surprisingly calm picture of Oscar and me taken from the dining room. (And a note about pictures: I've already claimed I'm a bad, sloppy, forgetful photographer, so the evidently better pictures in this post are by a fellow diner, NickSantan, who was kind enough to email me some of his textured glossy shots.)



Our first course was a "ramen" noodle soup, because, who hasn't had a ¢99 packet of soup when flat-broke? And, isn't being broke a crisis in it of itself? Our conversation navigated around our descriptions of what exactly entails a crisis, an emergency, or being in a pickle. It all depends on perspective and on how quick action is needed. At the same time, some of us asked questions of how our perception may be conditioned to see a situation graver than it is: last week was fleet week here in the Bay, and the Blue Angels were flying really low and really loud. Have we been trained to think of a terrorist attack as soon as we hear the too-close-for-comfort roar of a jetplane's engine? Why do we see an emergency when there isn't one?

And here is a pic of our first course, noodles in a vegetable broth with dino kale, before being carried to the table.

Our second course: anchovies and crackers (or flatbread, really) along with stories of being caught with our pants down (metaphorically.) We made a sautée of onions, garlic, thyme and rosemary in butter, very much in a Pissaladiere style, with anchovies, black olives and watercress. Sure, this sure beats having anchovies and saltines, but it's the thought that counts, no?



One story is of a 17-yr-old girl who threw a house party while her parent's were out of town. The party went on till the wee-hours of the morning, and she was careful to wake up early to clean up before having to pick up her father at the airport that afternoon. She expected beer bottles, cigarette butts and random trash, but what she found was a house robbed of all electronic equipment. She freaked out, not so much for having her house broken into while she slept, but because she now would have to confess to throwing a raging party the night before.

The third course: a chunky beef stew, like the ones you buy in a big can, only better. We browned a chuck roast, cut into one-inch cubes, in olive oil. As they rested in a bowl, we added diced onions, shallots and garlic until softened. Then, added diced carrots and potatoes for sweating. Add a bottle of good red wine (we used a Montirius Côtes du Rhône), and about two cups of beef stock. Bring to boil, reduce heat to low, and cook covered for about 2 hours, until the meat is super tender. I made this stew two days before Communion, and I gotta say, it was perfect. We served it with some homemade rosemary breadsticks and a full-bodied Anglianico.

I think everyone at the table was too busy chowing down, because no one remembered to take a picture. Below is what it looked like in the pot, before it reduced a few inches.

Conversation centered around what our survival modes look like. "Turn to stone" was one that resonated with me, not only because it implies separating panic and fear for the sake of being practical, but also because it captures how in the moment when one realizes the urgency, or the gravity, our hearts stop temporarily turning us into stone. Mine is more like denial, until I can't look away any longer, and others are more like improvisations.

For dessert, we served vanilla wafers, marshmallows and a drizzle of bittersweet chocolate. I put to test my new scorching equipment, and I have to say it was very rewarding. (Crème brûlée, here I come!) We shared tips onto how to deal, prepare and/or avoid any future predicaments: know CPR and the Heimlich maneuver; have a first aid kit handy, and if applicable, an earthquake kit; always keep $20 in your pocket, though some savings and health insurance wouldn't hurt, and best of all, give yourself permission to not do the right thing. But, despite how afraid we might be of a crisis, we are never to avoid bungee jumping, surfing, riding a bike, laughing really hard or falling in love.

Our fifth and final course was a poached pear with Camembert. The inspiration there was that perhaps, in the case of an emergency, the most likely fruit source will be canned fruit, kind of like the canned poached peaches I was addicted to when I was kid. And if there will be cheese (which I hope) it will most likely be a soft spreadable triangle, like the Laughing Cow. But since we are not in an emergency situation (yet) we might as well poach some ripe Bartlett pears with a super sweet gerwerstraminer, cloves and cinnamon; reduce the juices to a syrup, and drizzle it over the fruit and a slice of the creamy goodness.

But if we were in an emergency, what would be the first thing we'd reach for? A pair of shoes, a picture, or nothing at all because we'd be too stunned to choose. If there is anything emergencies do, is put life into perspective: what is really important and what is inconsequential, or transitory. Our survival, and of those around us, is what matters. But how is survival linked to happiness? Are they a one-way street? And, as the picture below shows a pseudo-equation to the survival/happiness paradigm, there is another. Yes, emergencies are unpredictable, unavoidable.

Does that mean they are dangerous? Or can they be a blessing too?



Next Communion is Tuesday, November 24th, featuring a very special guest cook!

September Communion

This month's Communion was a little different than last: a different theme and a mostly different cast. Thanks to Jiwon Park, our sous-chef at Range, the prepping, cooking and serving of dinner was a breeze. At first I was very nervous to have her. Yes, she's my dear friend,but she's also a trained professional. I'm an intuitive cook, but a home-schooled one at that, and even sometimes a very scattered distracted one. Needless to say, I was intimidated. But once she got here and we got to chopping and chatting, it was very comfortable. Jiwon and I talked about our families, hers in South Korea, mine in Venezuela; about our growing up in very different places, and about how, around the same time and the same age, we both moved to San Francisco. Our lives now converged in this kitchen, around my red island work table, with her providing amazing insight into cooking techniques and Korean culture.
Our line-up included Lisa the Peanut, still with Burning Man sand stuck in her hair, and Susita, my dear friend and roommate, who before going to work at her posh Italian restaurant, helped fold napkins and set the dining room table. And Rebekah, The Petaler, who took pity on us and donated an exquisite floral arrangement. So this time, we were ready ahead of schedule, set and ready to go, vestidas y alborotadas.

The theme: Change. How we have coped with it, fought against it, or simply rolled with flow. What was the outcome of change---a success, a defeat, or still the source of bitterness? I wanted to hear what other people called a considerable change and wanted to learn of how they managed it. More specifically, I wanted to learn of those steps we take to entice change: those steps forward, or back, that create a new path to follow.

Our first course was a white bean crostini with basil and shaved parmesan that I played with a few months ago when making a white bean stew. We served it with a simple arugula salad and some plump, meaty olives tossed in lemon juice.

Along came stories of leaps of faith, of when we had no clue of what to do, but jumped anyway. Most stories included a geographical move but in the heart of these tales was how each of us had decided to follow our own path, despite what parents, school, or a lover said. There was as much agency in action than in inaction, too: just as one of us jumped on a plane to Argentina to follow her heart, another refused an private liberal arts education for the massive experience at Cal Berkeley. (Go Bears!)

Second course: a purée of spinach soup with garlic butter, and tales of catalyst events. If I can digress a bit here, this is one of the best soups I've ever made. I've inherited it from my Tía Loly, who runs her own cake business, Aurora, in Caracas.

Sautée onions, garlic, a carrot and a celery stalk until translucent.
Add about 5 cups of water.
Bring to a boil and add cleaned and trimmed spinach until wilted.
Season with salt, pepper and a dash of nutmeg.
Purée in a blender, and unless you're serving immediately, quickly chill over an ice bath. I never knew that trick before, but apparently all food professionals know that. Thanks, Jiwon!

The butter: roast two heads of garlic in a 350 oven for about 45 minutes.
Use room-temperature unsalted butter cut into cubes. Place roasted garlic cloves and butter in a food processor until smooth. Add parsley if desired. Then roll onto saran wrap and make one-inch wide cylinders. Refrigerate until hardened. To serve, just take wrap off, slice, and place onto whatever you're serving!

But back to the confessions, it was curious to see that a lot of us understood the catalyst event to be the same one for which we had had a leap of faith. For me, this sparked a cascade of doubts: What am I doing here? How terribly have I failed at Communion if the first two questions enticed the same answer? Unfortunately, this bone-shaking insecurity lasted a good part of the evening and it kept me from really listening to the rounds of anecdotes shared. I've spoken to each diner since then and they continue to assure me that lessons ran far and wide and that conversation was animated. What a shame I missed it. In a way, that sort of mental and emotional disconnection is what prompted me to come up with Communion in the first place. I'm happy to be reminded of the crucial need to let go and listen and see where the conversation turns.

Our main course: a citrus pork shoulder with a corn and zucchini ragú and pieces of good advice. For a few weeks, I played with the pork shoulder, which Venezuelans call pernil, and deviced a delicious ratio of acid to sweet in the marinade: a cup each of pineapple and orange juices, an onion, a couple of cloves of garlic, bunch of cilantro, about a tablespoon of cumin and a generous pinch of salt.

The handed-down advice made me think of a Venezuelan saying: más sabe el diablo por viejo, que por diablo---meaning age and experience have more to teach than the devil himself. Despite that all the pieces of advice came to each of us in different times and different contexts, I felt that all of them were pertinent to my life at the moment. I don't think I can repeat them any better than the picture below: (And I love Jiwon's Korean handwriting!)

As we indulged in dessert, a fleur de lait ice cream with espresso granitas that I experimented with so much it deserved its own post, we spoke of "best mistakes"---those actions that seemed like a bad idea at the time or those that were a good idea but didn't turn out the way we expected, but somehow all worked out in the end. For me, it was a spring break trip to New York City to interview for a summer internship at a non-profit, when in reality what I really wanted was to be near a man whom I thought at the time was the love of my life. What happened? I didn't get the internship, and the man told me we were speaking different languages. I was the most defeated I'd felt in my life, both at work and at love. On my way back, I was the only one in the plane sobbing inconsolably, but in a moment of glancing out the window, looking at NYC fade away, I thought that not getting what I wanted was exactly what I needed.
In the midst of such bittersweet lessons, good thing there is ice cream!

For our final course we served an Italian sheep's milk Nocino Pecorino and a 3 sister's Serena, a californian cow's milk cheese, with fig preserves and my very own walnut raisin bread. We talked of sliding-door moments, or those where we found ourselves at a fork in the road, where whichever direction leads to a very different outcome. Doesn't that include everyday when we decide to get out of bed?

To close, we asked diners to fill in the blank: I'll be more [___] from now on. I think reminiscing on what we've been through, despite how difficult it was, inspired our answers: appreciative of sorrow, happy, open to all invitations, active/risk-taking/buck-wild, honest (in totality), relaxed/compassionate, loving/honest. I want to be more of all of those from now. The key issue here is not what, but how, we get what we want.

Next Communion is Tuesday October 13th.

1st Communion: a night of memories and building intimacy

What a night, what a night! After a lot of last minute work which included rolling out fresh pasta as well as setting the dining room, Jacob, Lisa and I had almost everything ready, except my makeup, by the time our first guest arrived. This first communion was a little different than I'd intended: only one of us was a stranger to the rest. Out of ten invited guests, only three rsvp'd; the rest were foodie friends who'd volunteered as understudies. So, the atmosphere was more of a themed dinner party than the social experiment I had planned. Given the pun of having it be a "first" communion, I decided the overarching theme would be about our childhood. I thought it would be appropriate to explore how the kids we once were informs the adults we are today.

We started off with a purée of eggplant soup, a dollop of basil goat cheese, and a round of everyone's earliest, or most poignant memories. Amazingly, a lot of them included a body of water, but most included a trauma, or a distressed feeling. Feelings of betrayal by parents who'd promised they'd catch us, and didn't. Feelings of desperation when we were in some sort of medical emergency. And then, there were the memories which we couldn't recall, but we'd inherited. It led us to ask: what makes a memory, or rather, a childhood memory? A lot of us remembered an early moment, as early as being three or four, that most of us can't really remember, but have had imprinted on our consciousness by the adults who witnessed the event.

Second course: my broiled chicken with an olives, lemon and bread salad, along with tales of what did we want to be when we grew up. Baseball players, taxi drivers, seamstresses, models, mad scientists, absolutely nothing, or a variety of things depending on the day. What drove our desires was an interesting exploration: can girls be smart, and can they invent a time machine? What are boys supposed to be? Is reaching adulthood even a possibility? The social contexts and the gendered expectations of our desires were a good topic of conversation: what does city dwelling, single parent households, suburbia, queerness, or being an only child do to how we develop desires or long term goals?

Third course: homemade tagliatelle with Jacob's lamb ragú, and stories of our thirteenth birthday. A lot of us didn't remember that specific year, but could remember a few years before or after. My 13th birthday was February 4th, 1992, which in Venezuelan politics is the day our current president, Hugo Chávez, tried a Coup-d'état. A very primal resentment sprung out that day when my birthday party was canceled due to a state's curfew. I think that is the day where I became conscious of a being a political being, or at least living in a grander political context.

Good thing that by the time our fourth course was due, everyone had had plenty of wine. The topic: first crushes and early heartaches with melon and lime sorbet. Funny thing was, the full names of strangers buried away by decades were being shouted out at the dinner table. Detailed descriptions of that tight knot in one's chest when being broken up with, or that guilty feeling when breaking up with someone. Some stories of first sexual experiences came up, like the Norwegian woman in Sri Lanka getting her way with a thirteen-year-old, or the gift-wrapped condom for a seventeenth birthday.

Our cheeseplate was comprised by a Roaring Forties, a tasmanian cow's milk blue cheese that was both dolce and stinky, and a Sottocenere Perla Grigia, a soft piedmontese cow's milk cheese, with my perfected batch of walnut raisin bread and a trio of apricot, fig and pear jams. We discussed our first drunkenness, but you'll have to forgive me, dear readers, since the only detail I remember from that conversation was that I myself was now really drunk, and was contemplating the irony of having to recount my first drunkenness amidst my most recent.
Thanks to my friend e.m.a.e.l, the perfect closing prompt asked diners to fill in the blank: I want more of [...] in my life. Adventure, consistency, fun/honesty/money, simplicity, intimacy. The best one was not written on the menu, but rather scribbled onto the table, hidden away by breadcrumbs, candlewax, and water stains: CONNECTION. I feel like the intimate stories and memories we shared did just that, build and strengthen the connection, intimacy, and honesty among us at the table.
Next Communion is Tuesday, September 8th!

gestational stages

For about a year now, I've pondered on the social consequences of food---from grocery shopping at the farmer's market, to sharing chores in the kitchen, to the intimacy of the dinner table. Though these are definitely not new concerns, I have been wanting to explore cooking and eating as a performance. The act of cooking for others and the act of eating with others as a stage, a temporary platform where relationships are formed or strengthened.
At first, I thought of developing a food show but dropped it due to my inadequacy with camerawork, as well as the limitations of one-on-one guest interactions. Then, thoughts progressed towards more of a performance art piece, or even better, an underground restaurant...
The premise is, really, to have a dinner party. But one where guests arrive alone and do not know the rest of the diners. Though one could only look to a bar or to a communal table at a restaurant to see strangers interacting, I'm positing that conversations among strangers are of a superficial nature (the what do you and who do you knows.) The purpose is to create a space where guests interact and exchange stories that they would not otherwise share with strangers.
With the help of some of my fellow foodie friends, I am orchestrating a once-a-month five-course dinner in the basement of my home. Menus will read like prompts for conversation and with each course, the topic changes. I see it as a communal confession stand, but one where diners will not be asked to repent but instead asked to share, as with a meal, and where we might just see how much in common we really have.

The following blog entries will reflect the ongoing process of developing and executing the restaurant along with recipes and relevant stories. Save the date: Tuesday, August 4th!