In many ways, getting older is a drag -- for me it means that milk and ice cream are no longer on the dining menu, second helpings go straight to my midriff no matter how much I run, and staying up until 3 am in Vegas now buys me two ensuing days of naps. On the plus side, Mark Spitz looks much hotter to me now than he did when I was seven -- and my kid is also getting older, and taking a much greater interest in the family business: being obsessed with all things food and wine.
For many years, I have wondered how the offspring of a dilettante cookbook editor and a professional chef could be so prosaic in her food choices. We're talking about a kid who'd been to at least seven foreign countries by the time she was eight -- and consequently, knows how to say "can I have fries with that?" in seven languages.
But lately, things seem to be changing. "We should cook more, Mom," she says yesterday, "Let's go to the store and see what interesting things they have." Music to my ears!
Instead of the grocery store, however, we headed for one of the wonders of Los Angeles: Farmers Market. A very dangerous place to go if, as I did, you've neglected to eat lunch: the aromas from all the food counters can drive you insane, one country at a time. (Singapore noodles? Oyster po'boy? Brazilian barbecue?) But the kid (who had eaten lunch) dragged me past them, destination firmly in mind: Mr Marcel.
Once inside, we wandered among the shelves, examining tiny jars of tasty sauces, smelling the baguettes, lingering over the cheese counter. Our choices: Gnocchi in a clever vacuum-sealed package decorated with emphatic Italian cooking instructions; ripe, rich Gorgonzola; Point Reyes blue cheese (for sentimental snacking when I'm thinking about west Marin); one of those baguettes; a box of tiny biscotti. Back out to one of Farmers Market's produce counters for arugula and figs (we tried to buy a roasting chicken, too, but the chicken boys were busy), then home for dinner.
I set the Point Reyes on the counter with the baguette and the figs (just a few bites were enough), whipped up a Gorgonzola sauce with just a dash of red pepper for the gnocchi (see Julia Child's The Way to Cook for the difference between béchamel and mornay), tossed the arugula with a little homemade dressing, and we were on our way. Dessert was sliced strawberries and peaches, with the biscotti.
Libations? Well, for me, the grownup kind: San Felipe 2007 Roble Malbec, spicy and tannic enough to cut through the richness of the Gorgonzola sauce and leave a little tingle on my tongue, an adventure ride for only $10 a bottle. For the kid: Strawberry Ramuné, a favorite that she discovered, not while visiting Tokyo--want to see a picture of her there, eating fries?--but here in cosmopolitan LA.
We're now researching how to say "Can I have some Gorgonzola with that?" in Japanese. Welcome to the family business, kid.
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