Ron's View

The former Woolworth's in Greensboro, North Carolina

Back in early Decvember, I wrote that with Joel in North Carolina, we might take a trip in the spring, timed so that we can see a UNC home lacrosse game against one of its traditional rivals. I had checked periodically through the fall for UNC’s schedule to be posted. When it was, I was delighted to see that they would be playing defending national champion Virginia at home on April 7. Without checking with Joel (and without realizing that that weekend also happens to bring two Passover Seders, Easter, and the Masters), I decided we would be there. Since then, I’ve been thinking about what we’ll do when not at the lacrosse game. I now have a great day trip planned, to Saxapahaw and Greensboro.

Regarding Greensboro, let me go back to a trip Gail and I made two springs ago. I had some business in DC, at the end of which Gail flew out to meet me for a little Civil War outing: two-and-a-half days in Harper’s Ferry, Antietam, and Gettysburg. We got back to DC in the late afternoon, checked into our hotel, returned the rental car, and dashed back to the museum closest to our hotel, the National Museum of American History. Our time was limited, so we grabbed a handout at the front desk with a list of highlights that included the one exhibit Gail wanted to see, Julia Child’s kitchen, dashed off to the kitchen, caught our breaths, and spent some time touring it.

After that, we examined the highlight list and selected a few other exhibits to see before the museum closed. (See my post written at the time for a fuller discussion of our visit.) One of our choices was the Woolworth’s lunch counter from Greensboro, North Carolina. As the museum webpage explains:

The landmark object for the 2nd floor east wing will be the Greensboro lunch counter, famous for its significance to the civil rights movement.

Racial segregation was still legal in the United States on February 1, 1960, when four African American college students sat down at this Woolworth counter in Greensboro, North Carolina. Politely asking for service at this “whites only” counter, their request was refused. When asked to leave, they remained in their seats. Their sit-in drew national attention and helped ignite a youth-led movement to challenge inequality throughout the South.

In Greensboro, hundreds of students, civil rights organizations, churches, and members of the community joined in a six-month-long protest. Their commitment ultimately led to the desegregation of the F. W. Woolworth lunch counter on July 25, 1960.

Ezell A. Blair Jr. (now Jibreel Khazan), Franklin E. McCain, Joseph A. McNeil, and David L. Richmond were students enrolled at the North Carolina Agricultural and Technical College when they began their protest.

Protests such as this led to the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which finally outlawed racial segregation in public accommodations.

The closing of the Greensboro Woolworth’s in 1993 presented Museum curators with the opportunity to acquire this historic artifact. After extensive negotiations with Woolworth’s executives and representatives of the local community, a small section of the lunch counter was donated to the Smithsonian.

With the memory of that small section of lunch counter in mind, I suggested to Gail two months ago that we seek out the rest of the counter while we’re in North Carolina. Greensboro is only 50 miles away. A short internet search led me to Greensboro’s International Civil Rights Center & Museum. The website explains that it is “devoted to the international struggle for civil and human rights. The Museum celebrates the nonviolent protests of the 1960 Greensboro sit-ins that served as a catalyst in the civil rights movement [and] is located in the historic 1929 F.W. Woolworth building in Greensboro, N.C.” Included in the museum is the “original lunch counter and stools where the Greensboro Four (Ezell Blair, Franklin McCain, Joseph McNeil and David Richmond) began their protest on Feb. 1, 1960.”

Perfect!

The next piece of the plan fell into place when I looked at the NYT Sunday travel section four weeks ago. It had a short note with the headline, Saxapahaw, N.C., Middle of Somewhere, Becomes a Draw. I had no idea where Saxapahaw was, but I was intrigued, so I read on.

I was polishing off a steaming bowl of coconut curry soup when a server appeared bearing a plate of plump pan-seared diver scallops atop creamy applewood-bacon succotash and braised asparagus. The food was befitting a candlelit restaurant, but I had a view of gas pumps outside and, a few steps from my table, fluorescent-lighted aisles packed with workaday necessities — toilet paper, motor oil, sauerkraut juice (aids digestion, according to the label).

This jarring contrast of farm-fresh food and service-station atmosphere is part of the appeal of the place where I was dining: the Saxapahaw General Store, a no-frills convenience store and restaurant that has sparked a revival in the former mill town of Saxapahaw in central North Carolina.

Saxapahaw General Store, from their home page

I still had no idea where Saxapahaw was, but this sounded promising. And when I looked it up on the map, I discovered the best possible news: it’s just 16 miles west of Chapel Hill, on the way to Greensboro. We could stop for a late breakfast, or perhaps on our return to Chapel Hill for dinner. The plan was complete.

Further confirmation that the Greensboro museum would be a worthy destination came yesterday. For a brief time, the NYT home page featured at its top an article from today’s paper on civil rights museums. Seeing it, I wondered if the Greensboro museum was mentioned. Sure enough, it’s in the second sentence: “A visitor can peer into the motel room in Memphis where the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was staying when he was shot or stand near the lunch counter in Greensboro, N.C., where four young men began a sit-in that helped end segregation.” And two of the nine photos in the accompanying slide show highlight it. (See the lunch counter here.)

I’m thinking we have a pretty good day planned. Unless we’d rather just stay in our Chapel Hill hotel room and watch the Masters.

[From the Parm website]

We didn’t eat much Ialian food at home when I grew up. Or maybe I should call it Italian-American food. No pizza. No pasta. And I didn’t mind, given that I wasn’t too interested in tomatoes. Or cheese. Or spaghetti, which was pretty much synonymous with pasta then. My brother would like to pick up meatball heroes from a place nearby. I didn’t understand that at all. The name alone was a puzzle. Plus, when he’d bring the paper bag into the car with the takeout hero, the smell was awful.

I know. My loss. And what a loss it was! Here we were, in a suburb of New York with a large Italian population, and I eschewed the local food.

The first four of my Cambridge-Boston years were no better. But finally, when I stayed in Cambridge to attend graduate school, I had to cook for myself and my interests broadened. No heroes in Boston. They had grinders. There was a Greek pizza and grinder shop on Mass Ave about halfway between Central Square and MIT that I’d walk past every day. One day I took a chance. Rather than heading on to campus to grab lunch at the student center cafeteria, I stopped in to look around. And ordered a meatball grinder.

Mind you, I didn’t have much room in my diet for onions either. Thanks to this shop, I learned. They made a meatball grinder the likes of which I’ve never had since. The meatballs were cut long and flat, like meatloaf. A small amount of sauce was put on top. And sliced onions. Then the grinder was grilled, the bread getting toasty, the onions crisp. It was so good. The best.

But not a traditional meatball hero. Or sub. Or grinder. I wouldn’t learn to eat them for a few years more. The year we spent in Princeton, when Joel was a baby, I began serious research. Whenever we went to a pizza place, I’d be sure to order a meatball hero too. Some were good; some weren’t. They were nothing like those Greek meatball grinders from Cambridge, but I didn’t use them as my standard. I treated this as a different food category, and I was content.

Here in Seattle, as Joel has gotten older, he has begun his own search for the perfect meatball hero. We don’t have the same vision. I am convinced, for now at least, that the best in Seattle are from Stellar, in Georgetown. Joel’s not impressed. He prefers Piecora’s, which he grew up eating. More to the point, he’s not convinced there are any good meatball subs in Seattle. He may be right.

Which brings me to Pete Wells’ weekly NYT restaurant review last Wednesday, in which he awards two stars to Parm and breaks my heart. Why must we be so far away?

I would like somebody to explain why my mind keeps drifting back to the meatball parmigiana hero at Parm. Like most things at Parm, which opened on Mulberry Street in November, it is prepared by cooks wearing white paper hats and is set before you in a red plastic basket. And, like most things at Parm, it is completely faithful to your memories while being much, much better than you remembered.

At first, the sandwich exhibits nothing out of the ordinary. The tomato sauce, simple and summery, just seems to have been made by a good cook. The mozzarella and torn leaves of basil are fresh, which isn’t unheard of. The seeded roll is completely normal. The meatballs are not normal. For starters, they are not balls, they are patties. Anyone who has ever taken a bite of a meatball hero and watched one of the meatballs launch into orbit will recognize at once the significance of this deviation. Patties stay put.

Most sub-shop meatballs are as hard as a 15-minute egg. The patties at Parm are not. Your teeth fall right through them.

And when they do, you find something else that isn’t normal: the meat is juicy and rosy pink on the inside, the color of a perfectly cooked pork chop. The meatballs, made from veal, beef and sweet Italian sausage, are pink because they were braised at 180 degrees in a CVap low-temperature cooker for 40 minutes. They were braised at 180 degrees because Rich Torrisi and Mario Carbone, the chefs behind Parm, studied fancy-restaurant techniques under chefs like Andrew Carmellini, Mario Batali and Wylie Dufresne.

But the meatballs are sitting on a hero roll because Mr. Torrisi and Mr. Carbone are Italian-Americans who, once they had a restaurant of their own, decided to cook what is a kind of soul food for them and for millions of other Americans, even those with no Italian ancestors.

In the summary data at the end of the review, Wells describes Parm as “an Italian-American lunch counter with tables, where the short-order cooks in white paper hats happen to have trained in some of Manhattan’s best restaurants.” The service is “as smiling and professional as one could ask of a place where nearly everything is served in a plastic basket.” Parm receives two stars, a ringing endorsement of such a simple place. We will have to find our way down there next time we’re in Manhattan.

[From the website]

Gail and I were sad to learn of the death of Carmine Smeraldo, the founder-owner of the Seattle restaurant Il Terrazzo Carmine. I have written about Carmine’s many times, most recently after we ate there in November to celebrate Gail’s birthday. We have celebrated many birthdays there in recent years, and always wonder why we don’t go more often. I love their cannelloni, their rigatoni, their constantly changing risotto specials, their lamb, their green peppercorn steak. Gail’s partial to their ossobuco. But more than that, it’s such a warm and welcoming place. Carmine will be greatly missed.

Here’s an excerpt from yesterday’s Seattle Times obituary.

The food is one thing at Il Terrazzo Carmine.

Then there was the man.

Carmine Smeraldo would greet customers at his Pioneer Square restaurant with warmth, offering a handshake, or oftentimes, a hug. He knew loyal crowds turned up for perfectly smoked salmon dishes and handmade ravioli stuffed with bursts of wild mushroom.

But he also knew his customers wanted more. They came for an experience, an escape, a desire to envelop their senses and return to their lives a little happier than how they felt an hour — or two, or three — before.

At this, Mr. Smeraldo was the master.

[snip]

The interior summoned Mr. Smeraldo’s homeland with its terra cotta floors, rustic chandeliers and high ceilings. It conveyed a feeling of “old-school romance,” said Seattle Times restaurant critic Nancy Leson.

Gail and I had dinner last night at the newest restaurant in the neighborhood, Cafe Parco. It was our first visit, and we anticipate returning often.

Cafe Parco occupies the small Madison Park house that was the long-time home of the popular Madison Park Cafe. For no good reason, we rarely went there. Indeed, I don’t think we’ve been for over a decade. The owner, Karen Binder, closed in August, prompting an appreciation by Seattle Times restaurant writer Nancy Leson.

Binder will bid adieu to Madison Park Cafe, turning over the keys to Celinda Norton. Norton, a talented chef, sold her 6-year-old Pike Place Market bistro 94 Stewart in July in preparation for the move. If all goes as planned, Norton expects to reopen in October as Cafe Parco. Her “New World Italian” menu should appeal to a neighborhood short on Italian restaurants.

“Oh my God, I’m so happy!” says Binder, who’d hoped to find another woman entrepreneur to take over at 1807 42nd Avenue East. “I’m thrilled about Celinda. She’s got a big-enough personality so I feel I have a replacement. I think she’s going to knock ‘em dead.” Speaking of, given the news of the impending closure, “I just hope all the people who’ve been eating blintzes here for the last 32 years don’t have a coronary.”

Blintzes! I like blintzes. Why exactly did we not eat there?

Leson also quoted the new proprietor, Celinda Norton.

Why Italian? I asked Norton, whose 94 Stewart had a decidedly Northwest bent. “Seattle loves Italian, it’s got such broad menu-capabilities — and I love it. For the philosophy for what I do it’s the best fit: you buy the best ingredients you can and don’t screw them up. I’ll change the menus constantly. Italian food gives good value as well, and that’s important in the current economics,” she says, for both the customer and the proprietor.

And in November, Leson included Cafe Parco in a roundup of ten new restaurants, with a brief blurb: “Fans of the Northwest bistro 94 Stewart, late of Pike Place Market, can now find its chef/owner Celinda Norton here in Madison Park. Fans of the long-lived (and recently sold) Madison Park Cafe will find that French bistro and brunch spot has been given a face-lift — and “the boot”: Norton’s cooking Italian.”

It took two more months, but Gail decided late yesterday afternoon that the time had come. After the other members of a committee dealing with some Madison Park neighborhood business left our house, Gail got online, looked up the restaurant, clicked the reservations link, and booked us for 15 minutes later.

We arrived only to discover that it was closed. Or rather, inasmuch as no one had come for dinner yet, the hostess (who turned out to be Celinda Norton’s daughter Lindsey) had failed to turn the closed sign around to read open. We peered in the door, she saw us, let us in, and reversed the sign.

We had our choice of tables. See the two-top in the far corner past the fireplace, dead center in the photo above? That’s the one we took. We would have the restaurant to ourselves until dessert, when another couple arrived without a reservation.

The Cafe Parco website explains that it “[showcases] Chef Celinda’s passion for dishes that seamlessly meld the best fresh ingredients available, while maintaining the integrity of each element. A philosophy inspired by Italy.” The menu is available at the website. Not too big, but filled with interesting options.

For starters, Gail chose the Anatra con Radicchio: twice cooked duck leg, warm salad of radicchio Balsamic, and walnuts. I had the Spinaci Caldi: a warm salad of mushroom, bacon, wilted spinach, olive oil, and organic cider vinegar. Gail loved hers. I enjoyed mine, but might have opted for a different mushroom-spinach balance. I was looking for more spinach. Still, it was quite an interesting mix of mushrooms, and a good dish.

We both selected the same pasta dish, the Ragu di Vitello: hand made Papparadelle, braised Veal and tomato ragu, shaved mushroom, parmigiano. It was outstanding, to the extent that I was aware during our conversation. I think when we go back next I’m going to order it again, because I didn’t give it the attention it deserved.

We probably should have stopped there, but Lindsey brought out a tray with four luscious tarts to inspect. We decided to split the German chocolate cake. A little too rich for me. I see now that the website describes two desserts that were just added, and that were among the four Lindsey presented. There’s the Caramel Fudge Tart, a blend of dark chocolate and brown sugar. And the Oban Tart with glazed pears, a sweet tart laced with Oban Scotch. Pears are Bartlett cooked with sweet butter. Topped with a little Sel Gris. I was angling for that second one myself, even though we weren’t entirely clear on what to make of it. Next time.

It’s a beautiful restaurant, by the way. We will return soon.

Bakery Nouveau

We don’t get over to West Seattle* much. It’s not all that far; it just feels that way. But from SeaTac airport to the south, it’s pretty accessible, and therefore we have developed a little tradition, when we drop someone off at the airport on a weekend morning, of stopping in West Seattle on the way home. Joel’s return to North Carolina yesterday gave us our first such opportunity since August 2010, when we saw our friend Kenny off to his Glasgow home.

*West Seattle is the part of the city that lies west of the Duwamish River. It’s basically the whole southwest portion, taking in several distinct neighborhoods and commercial centers. Puget Sound borders it on the west, Elliott Bay to the north and east, with dramatic views across Elliott Bay to downtown.

We arrived in West Seattle as their huge Bank of America branch on Alaska opened, allowing us the opportunity to take care of some business. Then it was off to the intersection of Alaska and California, site of Easy Street Records and Easy Street Cafe. (History here.) Breakfast at the cafe is always the centerpiece of our West Seattle visits. They had a 20-minute wait for a table, which we spent in the adjacent record space. CD space actually. If there are records there, I haven’t seen them.

Easy Street occupies what appears to have once been a fire station. The cafe side has two large garage doors, the entire space has high ceilings and a partial upper floor. A coffee bar counter divides the space in two, with stool seating on the CD side. We wandered around as various parties ahead of us were called for their tables. At exactly the 20-minute mark, our turn came. We got to sit right in front, at a two-top by one of the old fire station doors with a view out to the street. And we had the same waitress as we did two Augusts ago, a pretty lively woman.

I ordered the Horton Heat Hash: “Our fresh cooked hash with corned beef, bacon, onions, peppers, hash browns and secret spices. Served with 3 eggs any style and toast. Can you handle the Heat!?” Gail had the Billy Breakfast Burrito: “2 eggs scrambled with black bean salsa and cheddar, wrapped in a Spinach tortilla. Served with hash browns and sour cream and salsa on the side.” Mine was great. I can’t believe I hadn’t ordered it before. We have many fine restaurants within a mile of our home, but no classic breakfast place. We sure could use one. Easy Street is so good I don’t know why we don’t make a point of driving over there.

We were all set to head home when I remembered that we were intending to try the French bakery our architect Todd had told us about last year. In the meantime, two French bakeries have opened in our neck of the woods — the wonderful Inès Pâtisserie and Belle Epicurean — making it less pressing to get over to West Seattle to try it. But we were there. It would be silly not to visit now.

We couldn’t think of the name, so I had to search for West Seattle French bakeries on my iPhone. Bakery Nouveau popped up instantly, and it was just a half-block south of Easy Street, except that we were now a block north at our car. We doubled back and found it to be much larger than we had imagined, with a long counter (pictured above) on the left and table seating running the length of the bakery on the right. A line of people ran from the far end of the counter right to the door. We got on and took turns inspecting the goods. The offerings were far more diversified than I imagined: croissants, sandwiches, little pizzas, chocolates, jellies, pies and tarts, cakes, cookies. (Menu here.)

Had we not just eaten a late breakfast, we could have had quite a charming early lunch. Instead, we ordered a selection to bring home: Two twice-baked almond croissants. (Our classic croissant soaked in simple syrup and filled with delicious almond cream. It is topped with sliced almonds and additional almond cream.) One cherry almond pear tart. (Cherry and pear fruit layered over frangipan over a thin layer of raspberry jam in a pate sucre crust. It is finished with an apricot glaze and toasted almond slivers.) One strawberry macaroon with caramel filling. And two mango pâtes de fruit.

The croissants were warm. When I got home, I ate mine. Gail found hers to be somewhat on the heavy side. She’s probably right, but when she ate, hers was at room temperature. I loved mine. I ate the tart today. Good, perhaps not great. The pâtes were excellent. I never tried the macaroon.

One more stop awaited. Just a couple of weeks ago, our friend Russ had asked Gail where to find local smoked ham. For an answer, Gail turned to one of her former instructors at Seattle Culinary Academy, who directed her to The Swinery in West Seattle. On leaving Bakery Nouveau, we looked it up and found that it was up California a ways. Not in the neighborhood. We would have to drive about a mile north. We drove that and more, not realizing that The Swinery has the smallest storefront imaginable. We were more careful on the way back south.

There’s a big workspace below and behind, but the retail area is small, with two display cases and a freezer with pre-prepared items. We were third in line for the one woman running the shop, giving us plenty of time to review the offerings. Some are marked as coming from Zoe’s Meats, a San Francisco purveyor that has a branch here.

When our time came, Gail ordered a four lamb chops (the woman threw in the fifth and last for free), two spicy Italian sausage links, Zoe’s sopressata, and some goat cheese. Gail had the cheese today, said it’s wonderful, but the meats are still awaiting trial.

That was enough. We headed home, pleased with all the good food and hoping our next West Seattle expedition comes soon.

Last Sunday, I promised a report on our lunch two days earlier at Rover’s. Here it is.

Rover’s, as I have mentioned on many an occasion, is the fine French restaurant just a mile from our house. It serves lunch on Fridays only. We last had one of their Friday lunches three months ago to celebrate Russ’s birthday. I was otherwise engaged for the following eleven Fridays, but not last Friday. Hence, off we went — Gail, Joel, and me — to celebrate the end of the fall semester (for Joel) and fall quarter (for me, except for grading).

We sat in our favorite location, a corner four-top. Gail ordered a glass of their sparkling rosé, as she typically does and I followed suit. We were uncertain what fish “loup de mer” (“sea wolf”) was, and learned it’s sea bass. After a little more study and reflection, we were ready to order. (You can see the lunch menu here. It changes regularly, especially in the small details of accompaniments, but it looks pretty much like our menu a week ago.)

To start, Joel and I had the spiced carrot potage with sage crème while Gail took the seared scallop with squash, mushrooms, and seafood nage. I love Rover’s soups. Last week was no different. Gail’s dish looked beautiful. She reported that indeed it was.

For the main dish, we went our separate ways. I took the loop de mer, accompanied by quinoa, baby spinach, and … well, the menu says lemon grass sauce or, but that’s not how I remember it. The fish was sliced thin and lightly grilled. Perfect. The quinoa was flavorful, the spinach a delight. Gail had Pacific sole with Parisian cheese dumplings, leeks, and sherry vinegar. Boy it looked good. Joel got a taste of her cheese dumplings, which she raved about. And Joel had the roasted guinea fowl, served with black lentil, Brussels sprout, and thyme sauce, another winner.

I had been in touch earlier this month with Rover’s events person about a possible special dinner there next year. We agreed to chat further on our visit, and she appeared as we awaited dessert. Talk turned to wine options, leading to an impromptu wine tasting hosted by Rover’s wine manager, Scot. We tasted a white wine, then some reds: first a Bordeaux, then a California wine, then back to France for a wine from the Rhone.

Somewhere along the way, dessert arrived. We all chose the clafoutis. It is served as two pieces, a larger one topped with kumquat compote and a smaller one with chantilly crème. And it’s superb. As were the wines, though Gail was less a fan of the Bordeaux than I was. Two hours after arrival, we headed out, sated and happy.

Once again, my Fridays will be tied up for a while. But Rover’s does serve dinner. And there’s that event we were discussing. We’ll be back before the next open lunch date.

[From The Wall Street Journal]

One of these days the WSJ will finally stop arriving at our door.* Two months have passed since we stopped paying for it. But as long as it shows up, I’ll keep reading the great fluff features, such as yesterday’s on casual dining restaurants.

Regular Ron’s View readers know I have an unending fascination with Olive Garden. I’m determined to understand why people love it. My interest is more conceptual than experiential. Years can go by between field investigations. (Though see here for a report on our last field trip.) Thus, when new research appears on their business model and offerings, I devour it. I dream of dropping by Olive Garden’s research and development center, the Culinary Institute of Tuscany, next time we’re in the neighborhood. And I always ask Gail to unmute the TV or avoid the skip button on the remote when an Olive Garden ad appears.

What a joy, then, to discover yesterday’s WSJ article, with its review of the pressures on our national casual-dining chains to upgrade their offerings while maintaining their appeal to a broad demographic, and its focus on Olive Garden as the prime example. Let me highlight one revealing line:

“We don’t use the word authentic,” to describe the Olive Garden experience, [Olive Garden president John] Caron says. The chain prefers “Italian inspired.”

The article offers this example of Italian inspired:

Chefs at Olive Garden headquarters reverse-engineer menu items from real Italian dishes. A current seasonal dish, baked pasta romana—a mix of lasagna pasta, rich cheese sauce, spinach and either a beef or chicken topping—started as a fresh-torn pasta dish with olive oil, garlic and herbs eaten by company chefs on a trip to Northern Italy.

Chefs found the dish “really rustic, but still kind of normal,” the magic formula Olive Garden chefs often look for, says Marie Grimm, director of culinary development for Olive Garden. In restaurant tests, the company tried a chicken version with roasted tomato sauce, but diners didn’t find it “cravable,” says Ms. Grimm. The restaurant switched to a cheese sauce.

That “fresh-torn pasta dish with olive oil, garlic and herbs” sounds enticing, doesn’t it? But, if I went to a high-end Italian restaurant and saw that on the menu, would I choose it or would I search lower down the menu in hope of finding a dish of lasagna pasta, cheese sauce, spinach, and beef? Am I a member of the Olive Garden demographic? I don’t know.

I do know I like my pesto. Yet, earlier in the article we learn that “for chains that aim to entice almost every demographic group through their doors, there are limits. In several years of tests, Olive Garden diners often deemed pesto too oily, bitter or green.” I fear that I’m trapped between demographic groups, condemned never to find my proper home.

Read the entire article, check out the accompanying video, and study the graphic, which I’ve copied above.

*As a reminder of my desire to bar the WSJ from our house, see today’s opinion piece on Ron Paul by editorial board member Dorothy Rabinowitz, in which she feels free to describe him as “a leading spokesman for, and recycler of, the long and familiar litany of charges that point to the United States as a leading agent of evil and injustice, the militarist victimizer of millions who want only to live in peace.” And that’s only the beginning of her unsubstantiated hatchet job. Boy oh boy. I have written often of my affection for the WSJ’s Saturday arts and culture sections. The TV reviews, courtesy of Ms. Rabinowitz? Not so much.

Two months ago I wrote about our dinner at Chloe, a self-described French bistrot near the university. After describing the meal, I confessed to telling Gail as we left that I would eat there all the time if it were in our neighborhood, not realizing that its older sibling, Voilà, is in fact in our neighborhood. As I explained then, Voilà is one of four French restaurants in a one-block stretch in Madison Valley, just over a mile from our house. I have written often about Rover’s and Luc. A month ago I wrote about La Côte Crêperie. But until yesterday, we had never eaten at Voilà.

Like Chloé, Voilà describes itself as a French bistrot, but at lunchtime it turns into a burger joint, albeit a fancy, French-influenced one. The left half of the single-sided, one-sheet menu lists Les Burgers, each with aioli, lettuce, tomato, and choice of frites or a mixed greens salad. One can pay more for additional toppings: bleu cheese, brie, emmental, red onion, truffle oil, sun-dried tomato, caramelized onions, wild mushrooms, fried egg, bacon. Or, one can order the tartine de légumes (open grilled baguette with mixed vegetables) or the gnocchi au pistou (hand-made potato dumplings with pesto cream sauce). These sounded good, but we focused on the right half of the menu. Both of us started with soup (onion soup for Gail, vichyssoise for me), then we ordered the salade gourmand (mixed greens, tomato, ham, egg and apple).

A simple meal, but a good one. Oh, I forgot. We also shared a side order of frites. Those were first rate. I would happily return for another Saturday lunch.

We passed on the crème brûlée and the lemon tarte in favor of going down the street to yet another neighborhood French enterprise, Inès Pâtisserie. It’s relatively new, and I had never been there before, though Gail had brought home a few of their items from time to time. The proprietor has a distinctive approach to her customers. Ahead of us at the counter were two mothers and three young children. One mother started to order when Inès stopped her to ask how many children there were, then went into a case and pulled out pretzel-shaped biscuits for each of them. When the second mother and her child were leaving a few minutes later, Inès pulled a candy out of a glass dish for the child.

Gail was set on ordering canalés, the famous Bordeaux pastries that my sister introduced us to some time ago. (I devoted a post to them three years ago, after returning to Seattle from a trip to New York with a box that my sister had brought to New York from Paris. Two years ago, on the morning we arrived in Paris at the start of our France/Italy trip, Gail and I went food shopping with my brother-in-law and stopped to buy some on the way back to their apartment.) There were several in the display case, or so we thought, but when Gail asked for them, Inès said they were savory pastries, not canelés. But she assured us there would be canelés today. She then brought out the pitcher of batter that she had refrigerated for several days and gave us a lesson on the importance of refrigeration. She ran through the batter ingredients, held up a couple of the canelé molds, and assured us that canelés are easy to make, as long as you are patient and let the batter set.

As consolation, I asked what the similar-sized chocolate-looking pastries were that were under glass on the counter. Chocolate, or something else. Inès looked at me blankly for a second, sizing me up it seemed, then wordlessly lifted the lid, pulled out one of the chocolate-looking pastries, grabbed a knife, cut it in half, and gave each of us a half. Yup, chocolate. And pretty darn good. We bought one, along with a chocolate macaroon and a pistachio one.

This morning, Gail returned for the canelés. That pitcher held only a small amount of batter, enough for a dozen, which were waiting when Gail arrived. She bought two (or so she says) and we each had one this afternoon. As good as the Lemoine canelés that my sister buys? It’s been a while. I can’t really compare. Perhaps not. But what’s the difference? They’re great, and they’re available just down the street.

[From the Via Tribunali website]

Joel flew back from North Carolina Wednesday. Despite a delay getting out of Atlanta that resulted in his flight arriving here 40 minutes late, he arrived in time for us to have dinner together. Of course, it was three hours later for him, but he was game to stop at a restaurant on the way home and voted for the Georgetown location of Neapolitan pizzeria Via Tribunali. I wrote about Via Tribunali three years ago, after we went there on the day after Christmas. That post focused more on the accident of our stumbling on it after choosing not to stop at Via Tribunali’s Capitol Hill location in favor of heading farther afield to the Georgetown restaurant Stellar, only to find Stellar closed and then find ourselves at the Georgetown Via Tribunali in our search for somewhere else to eat.

Joel was with us that time too and had been a veteran of the Capitol Hill branch, the original. He had frequently urged us to try it, and we were there at last. My verdict, from the post that day: “Everything was great. A superb meal, well worth driving to Georgetown for.”

Since then, whenever we eat at the better pizza places in Seattle, Gail holds up Via Tribunali as her model, even though we never got back to it. You’ll recall our latest experiment, dinner two months ago at Delancey with Robin and Brooke. We quite enjoyed it, but Gail was convinced it was no Via Tribunali. I didn’t presume to remember well enough.

So two nights ago we were there once again, with Joel and with Jessica as well. We arrived moments before the end of happy hour, so we hastily ordered wine and beer and Jessica, who wasn’t interested in the full range of offerings, ordered a small, happy-hour sized Margherita (pomodoro, fresh mozzarella, grana padano, olive oil basil), which she declared the best pizza she ever had. Gail, Joel, and I bypassed the waning happy hour options, ordering two salads and two pizzas from the dinner menu.

To start, we had the Insalata di Caesar (romaine hearts, caesar dressing, anchovies, grana padana, croutons) and the Insalata della Casa (seasonal greens, fresh mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, olives, prosciutto cotto). Hmm. I’m getting these descriptions off the on-line menu, but I don’t remember getting croutons in the Caesar salad. What we had instead were small pieces of what I thought was pita. And we asked for the anchovies on the side, for Joel to eat. Both salads were excellent. I especially liked the prosciutto.

Then we had a Primavera pizza (cherry tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, arugula, grana, basil) and a Salsiccia (pomodoro, fresh mozzarella, Italian sausage, grana padano, basil). Excellent once again. The primavera surprised me. I expected to like it, but to prefer the salsiccia. Instead, I enjoyed both equally, and found the primavera perhaps the more interesting of the two, probably because having sausage and basil on a pizza is common enough, but I don’t recall having a pizza covered with arugula. It turned out to be a great mix of ingredients: light but full of flavor.

For dessert, Gail and Joel shared a piece of tiramisu while Jessica had some chocolate ice cream. I tasted the ice cream. First rate.

Is Via Tribunali the best? Do I prefer it to Delancey or Tutta Bella or Cafe Lago? I can’t say. I enjoy them all. What I can say is that we shouldn’t wait another three years for a return visit. That would be a mistake.

Yesterday was a day off from pizza, what with Thanksgiving dinner and all. And tomorrow we have family plans that will prevent us from eating pizza. So if we were to get to Northlake Tavern and Pizza House while Joel was home, tonight had to be the night. Plus, it was the right night in any case, since Northlake is our Friday standby. Off we went, the same four of us, a few hours ago. Not much to report. We had our usual: salads with honey mustard dressing, the combo (sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms, olives), vegetarian (mushrooms, peppers, onions, olives, tomatoes), and salty dog (secret ingredients; only those in the know have the privilege of ordering order this, since it’s not on the menu, and being in the know means knowing Russ, Northlake’s best customer, who conceived it).

There’s no point comparing Northlake to Via Tribunali. They reside in different food universes. That I have come to love Northlake is one of the great mysteries of my life. I can’t explain it. Nor will I try. What I know is, I’m fortunate that Gail introduced me to it decades ago, that it became smoke free a few years back, and that Russ turned us into regulars.

Oh, and the turkey last night was pretty darn good too, not to mention the fabulous squash soup and today’s lunchtime turkey hash. Thanks Gail.

[From Il Terrazzo Carmine's website]

I just finished a post about my current visit to O’Hare, mentioning in passing my fondness for the O’Hare Hilton’s Italian restaurant, Andiamo. Not the greatest, but comfortable. Perhaps it’s worth pointing out in contrast that two nights ago, we celebrated Gail’s birthday a day late at our favorite Italian restaurant in Seattle, Il Terrazzo Carmine. It is a continuing puzzle why we don’t eat there more often.

Sometimes we get there twice in a year, once for Gail’s birthday and once for mine. Sometimes just once. You may recall my post in March 2009 about our visit for my own birthday. (Well, non-birthday, since I didn’t have one that year, but I did get a year older, and that’s when we went.) That’s the time we had dinner in the bar, since we were too late to reserve a table, and Dale Chihuly dropped in to join the celebration.

This time Dale didn’t show. We had a good evening nonetheless. We always do. The menu never changes. But there’s always a risotto of the day, always yet another risotto served as a side dish with one of the dinner specials, always a soup of the day, a fish of the day, another three or four appetizer and main dish specials. Lots of variety. And the constant menu is plenty large. I’m invariably drawn to the cannelloni or rigatoni as an appetizer, to the rack of lamb or veal chop or pork chop or steak as a main dish. And then I hear the specials and want the soup, or the fish, or some other concoction. This time I went with the risotto special, with pancetta, and then the peppercorn steak with shoestring potatoes. Those potatoes are the greatest, one reason I can’t resist the steak.

For dessert, Gail was brought tiramisu with a candle in it. Then our (fabulous) waiter brought a tray with all the desserts to view. I resisted the profiteroles, difficult to do, and went with the pear tart, served with berries.

Let’s not forget the outstanding bottle of wine that accompanied the meal, a 2006 Brunello di Montalcino from Casanova di Neri.

I’m hoping this time we won’t wait another year for our next visit to Carmine’s.