All Of A Sudden, I Am Interested in Twitter

Sorry Chris, but this is going to be another "how cool is living in SF" post. The other day I was walking around and found a little trailer selling some incredible crepes. I talked with the folks there briefly, and they let me know that San Francisco has a great tradition of "street food" and that most of it is now coordinated by Twitter.

Turns out, you can get everything from curry to tamales to goat tacos, on the streets of San Francisco (sorry, I couldn't resist..) in conveyances ranging from the classic taco truck to a guy on a bike. And, they use Twitter to tell you exactly where they are going to be. They also give you hints as to what's on the menu.

Acting as a guiding force in this is an organization called La Cocina. They are helping street vendors deal with city ordinances and permits, acting as incubators for food ideas and even offering kitchen space for aspiring street vendors. Here's a map they put together of some of the many choices around SF.

I'm not usually one for the Twitter/flashmob/social networking sort of thing, but (probably because I love food like I love oxygen..) this whole thing just seems very cool to me. It's almost enough to make me sign up for Twitter and follow a bunch of these folks in hopes they make it to my neck of the woods. Especially those bacon wrapped hotdogs!

When I think about Pad Thai causing ignominious downfalls . . .

. . . I'm usually thinking about me eating the rest of the take-out at one in the morning straight out of the refrigerator.

But apparently Thai food is even more destabalizing than that.

Thailand's prime minister was forced to resign along with his Cabinet on Tuesday after a court ruled that he had violated the constitution by hosting TV cooking shows while in office.

Was it worth it? That depends. Did it come with cha yen? I love that stuff.

Allow me to mention that I cannot imagine wanting to eat anything that any recent president would want to teach me to cook.

Did We Say Cyanide? Sorry. We Meant Oregano.

Via BoingBoing: Swedish cooking magazine means to tell readers to add two pinches of nutmeg; instead tells them to add 20 nutmeg nuts, which is a lot. Too much nutmeg makes you delirious, apparently. I think I've experienced that myself. Though it might have been the spiked eggnog upon which the nutmeg was sprinkled.

Michelle Malkin Is In A Pickle

One of Michelle Malkin's favorite themes about Barack Obama is that he's an elitist, because he does things like mention arugula. Real Americans eat iceberg lettuce, preferably smothered with some sort or orange cheese. A more rational pundit might have noted that Obama's arugula-and-Whole-Foods reference in Iowa was too subtle if it was a joke and rather tone-deaf if it was not. Malkin's objection is not so limited; she's seized on food as a class-dividing dog whistle and is committed to gustatory orthodoxy.

But I think that it's possible Michele Malkin's standard for what sort of food is elitist or strange might be even a little more extreme than we previously realized.

The Obamas also invited 60 Minutes to come film the family making tuna fish sandwiches earlier this year–you know, to show what a regular guy he is. Question: Who the hell puts Grey Poupon and gherkins (don’t ask me what those are, I have no idea) in tuna sandwiches for kids?

Even in fawning Malkinland, that's good for some eye-rolling from her commenters. And think for a minute what type of thinker that makes her. She's never heard of a gherkin (okay — odd to me, but whatever), but decides to (1) present it as something elitist, odd, or silly, (2) admit she's never heard of it, and (3) not bother to Google it.

That's because intellectual and journalistic curiosity are like elitist panini, but willful ignorance is like a patriotic Wonder-Bread sandwich.

To Our Unmarried Readers

When you get married, don't elope.  Don't do it before a major holiday either.  We did this, and while it seemed right at the time because we were young radicals, in the end I regret that the experience wasn't shared with our families, who've been good to both of us.

But if you must, one advantage is easy reservations on anniversaries.  I just scored the best table in the best restaurant in the state, a multiple James Beard award winner for cuisine and for bakery/dessert, for our fast-approaching ninth.  On almost zero notice.

I shall food-blog soon.

Four Meals, Nine Bucks

One bag of dried pinto beans cooked two days earlier as part of a larger batch (most delivered to sick relative last night, spiced without salt). – two bucks.

One kielbasa, purchased at farmer's market – four bucks.

Two cups rice – one buck or less.

One onion, one tomato, purchased at same farmer's market – one and a half bucks.

Two large spoonfuls Chinese mustard, paprika – half a buck or less.

Cooked the sausage and the onion in a cast iron skillet, seasoned the beans with the mustard, paprika, and the tomato, which was chopped after a short boil. Tossed in the sausage after cutting, and onion, mixed well. Served over rice.

Best meal I've had in weeks.

But I'll Draw The Line At Little Umbrellas

Via khomotso, an inhabitant of our forums, I found this new cocktail blog. I'm enjoying more cocktails, and experiments with same, since my wife bought me a shaker and some decent glasses. The blog looks like fun, and goes on my watch list — the reference in the title alone sells it.

My Kind of Tourism

A college friend sent me this marvelous tour of Oxford's pubs, making me feel warm, nostalgic, thirsty, and old all at the same time. The article beautifully captures the diverse atmospheres of the different watering holes scattered across the venerable city. I have fond memories of trying them all, and of drinking in not just the damned warm beer but also the sense that you had sit yourself down for a friendly drink in a spot where history had happened. It seemed amazing at the time that you could go to such a place that had been there so long and that there would be a chair and a pint for you — it was like being able to get a reservation at the Lincoln bedroom for a long weekend. At the time the pubs still had to close at 11, so we'd meander slowly back to Stanford's architecturally depraved dorm on the High Street, perhaps stopping at a Kebab van to have a pita filled with some unknowable meat carved from a juicy haunch on a spit, careless of the danger, happy recipients of the amused goodwill of the English.

I mean, we learned stuff, too. But the pubs stand out.