Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Raindrops, Haight Street, and EUROCHOC CHAUD

It’s raining, and in honor of the random descent of these droplets of purity, here are some random droplets for y’all:

I enjoy listening to the news with Kelly because she is not only a critical and cynical consumer of news “products,” she also likes to incorporate more familiar names and terms into stories that otherwise would not be of great interest to her or to myself.  That’s why yesterday started off so well: According to her reporting, Verizon is about to buy M.C. Hammer.  Finally my parachute pants are going to split 2-for-1, and I don’t even expect to tear a groin muscle when it happens.  By the same token, Kel was giggling every time the putative leader of the HomelandSecuritybund was identified in the news today, sure that she was hearing either the name “Michael Jerkoff” or “Michael Turdoff.” This is the stuff that makes national paranoia entertaining.

Speaking of the torn groin muscles and Mr. Turdoff, Kel also mentioned an extremely disturding incident to me over the breakfast table this morning: at the gym (you see where this is going) she was working out on one of the cybex machines for ab and lower back strengthening in the core training room.  I like the gym, even though I don’t like gyms in general, since they tend to be full of people of whose personal habits and metabolic intimacies I prefer to remain ignorant.  But this is a mellow gym; they don’t play music and they tell people not to wear cologne or perfume, or to talk on cell phones.... I generally find it to be a humane place to work up a sweat and they have had some great yoga classes I’ve really enjoyed.  However, all this may be obviated by Kel’s discovery of a “baby ruth bar” on the floor of the abs room near her cybex machine.  I can easily imagine how such a thing could have happened.  I just don’t want to.  Dude, I lie down on that floor.  Michael Turdoff: secure this! 

Of course, our life is not an endless stream of media parodies and execretory discoveries.  Sometimes we eat, too.  Last night we tried to go to our new favorite Korean restaurant for a low-key V-D meal, but found it inexplicably closed on one of the year’s most popular eating-out nights (heh), so we trudged through the drizzle up to Geary and dined at Gaspare’s instead.  It’s a real throwback, with authentic “3-for-a-quarter” jukeboxs at every booth playing italian favorites and nothing more current than Santana (almost italian-sounding and a local boy so he counts, though the Creedence selections were still inexplicable); netted chianti bottles and plastic grapes hang from a latticed ceiling and the walls are painted with idealized vistas of old SF and older IT.  We got a nice linguica and sausage pizza, which was a far cry from the kim chee and bul go ki I’d been craving all day, but it satisfied us and after we finished it they brought us some lovely giant chocolate-dipped strawberries for dessert.  The best part was that the place was packed with families and couples streaming in and out; there were at least a few people waiting for tables the whole time we were there and the ambient noise and festivation levels were high.  It’s a pleasure, in this snooty foodie town, to come back to a place that serves up authenticity, with a side of olive oil.

And continuing on the theme of gustatory authenticity, earlier in the day yesterday I threw myself on a chocolate grenade - I went to *$s and tried a chantico, their new molten chocolate confection.  It’s served in a 6 ounce cup, which wound up being about 3 ounces too much of this goop.  The name “chantico” appears to be taken from Aztec mythology, but then again, what isn’t?  The thing is, as I drank it, I could actually feel it staining my interior.  It was too thick, too rich and syrupy.  Think of a cup of hot Fox’s U-Bet.  Some people know no limits or restraint when it comes to chocolate - I reserve such heights of depravity for other indulgences, but with chocolate, I think there are realms beyond which wise men do not stray.  I like chocolate just fine, please don’t get me wrong… but increasing its density this way just didn’t work for me.  After half the cup I started feeling woozy.  So, naturally, I pounded the rest, and felt like simultaneously taking a nap, running laps, and throwing up.  I recommend passing on the Chantico.

What would I recommend instead?  Good damn question, internet!  I recommend the product that Chantico obviously tries to emulate with typically heavyhanded american overzealousness: the EUROCHOK CUPPA, as prepared for us earlier this year by the lovely and exotic Helena from a recipe dragged back from darkest Euro:

3 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream (o yea)
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/4 teaspoon cardamom
1 cinnamon stick
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2-1/2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped (scharffenberger is a good choice)

In a large heavy saucepan, combine milk, cream, sugar, cocoa, cardamom and the cinnamon stick.  Bring to a boil over medium-high heat; then reduce the heat to low and simmer for about 30 minutes, until slightly thickened.  Stir in the chocolate and cook a few more minutes, until it’s all melted and incorporated and irresistable.  Stir in the vanilla and serve hot; if it congeals and gets too thick, stir in warm milk.  This is the real deal, people.  This is the chocolate that makes time stand still.  Enjoy it in good health, so long as the good health lasts.  I make no representations about how long a person can live drinking this all the time, but I can guarantee that you’ll enjoy the time you have.

As to which, I’m out of time.  But to round out this miscellany, here are a few photos I recently enjoyed taking on Haight Street.  That’ll wrap it up for today. 

Hit the photoblog for the big versions.  And with that, I bid you good day.