Canlis: A Masterpiece in Three Acts

Last Tuesday got real fancy real fast. Since you weren't there, I invite you to grab your opera glasses for flavor, sit back in your seat, and allow me to regale you with my decadent tale. 


I spent all day prepping for an audition, and as soon as I finished I raced across town to grab Bill, only to race home, pull on some evening wear and dash out to dinner. I made a conscious choice to let my frantic momentum run itself into a $20 cocktail as the hostess took my coat and we were led into the beyond.

The best $1 dining
bible around

Tuesday, February 21st, we left this earthly plane, all its noises, plastic clutter and crude banalities to ascend the gently sloping path to a dinner I'll not soon forget. In William Speidel's You Can't Eat Mount Rainier!, Canlis is described as having reached the "pinnacle in decor, service, and taste." This book is adorable. Published in '55, it called to me from a clearance rack after Christmas, and upon flipping through it I found an entry for the mysterious restaurant we'd just received a gift certificate for. I brought the book with us, handed it to the hostess and invited her to pass it around so the staff could enjoy a glimpse into their mighty empire's past.

Oh, help me, John Mason.

We gave our name to the valet, let our car drive off with all our cares and woes, and headed in. We were early, and so took a seat in the lounge where a piano played gilded versions of today's hits. Brittany, Whitney, Celine, Radiohead - a likely overture to foreshadow the evening ahead; modern in places, but smacking of your favorite traditions. We perused the cocktail list, but I knew right away what to order. My 'Prince In Disguise' and Bill's Old Fashioned arrived just as our table was ready, so we followed our drinks to a table facing the dining room. It was pulled out so we might sit easily beside each other in the booth, and I was lucky enough to find my orientation offered a view of the kitchen window, fully done in copper paneling, casting off soft visions of kitchen business without clearly reflecting any distractions. We took in the other diners as we sipped our drinks. Mine a bourbon fantasy with a slice of apple dusted in cinnamon and Bill's a cold, refreshing toddy. If nothing else, please, take yourself and $50 to Canlis and get a couple cocktails. Really fine work.

That star anise came home with me. What were they going
to use it for? These things don't just grow on trees.
(Do they?)

Act One began shortly after Bill learned he would be feasting on his very own plate of oysters, our amuse bouche arrived; a warm, creamy leek soup in sweet little cups that were perfect with nibbles of their house milk & honey rolls. For those of you with private shame about gorging on King's Hawaiian Sweet Rolls in a dark pantry, the soft and supple crumb of Canlis rolls will upgrade your addiction. And you can have as many as you want. And they're always warm, because they bring them to you one by one out of a hot, covered basket. Ok. The bread was good. What about the food?

Let's coddle an egg together.

Voted one of the 100 best dishes in America, the Canlis salad has barely evolved since 1950, but continues to dazzle diners, $18 at a time. A crisp foundation of romaine, green onion, grape tomatoes, mint, oregano, bacon, romano cheese and croutons, what really sells this salad is its fresh simplicity, but it might be the coddled egg--which is exactly what it sounds like. I think you pay for that one careful moment where the sous chef pauses, ignoring whatever chaos is going on around them, (does Canlis know chaos?), and delicately places the whole egg into water that was ever-so-recently boiling. Kind of a high-risk job for anybody. Or maybe they have an egg coddler on staff for just this sort of thing.

Humming along with Gangster's Paradise on the piano, we sighed as our plates left, empty, but lit up as our main course arrived. Act Two opened with Muscovy duck, sliced parsnip and pear in a creamy reduction, a dollop of sticky golden raisins and a duck croquette. The duck was delicious, aged 14 days and prepared admirably, but the croquette, which maybe took minutes to form and fry, sang the song I still can't get out of my mind. As a fan of fried treasures, this one goes straight to the top of my list, and that's all I'm prepared to say.

In between bites of duck, I moved in on Bill's king salmon. On a bed of shitake mushrooms and pearl onions dripping with something fabulous I'll never know the secret to, the salmon was fresh, thick, and gently grilled. A substantial meal in itself, I ate about half the fillet and left thinking I'd never need another bite of protein. That's value.






Not pictured are the twice-baked potato - a sixty year tradition that keeps on giving - and a mound of herbed truffle fries, which we were advised to take home and broil the next morning with eggs for breakfast, (encore!) An unexpected intermezzo arrived as I was agonizing over ever standing up again: two dips of goat's milk sorbet. Bravo.

Happy Birthday Forever!!!!

Just as I'd lost hope that we'd receive a visit from the distinguished owner, Act Three began: a Grand Marnier soufflé, cracked and drizzled with creme anglaise by Mr. Canlis himself.  Personable and younger than you'd guess, he returned my book and we chatted about more refined dining techniques. The Morenos were climbing the social ladder a little too fast, so we ordered two boozy coffees and slowly prepared for our humble return home. The bill came and went, our serenity unbroken as we handed over our gift card.

I bow to you, sweet somethings.

For all there was to love, the one thing that didn't succeed was Bill's Spanish coffee - a mix of armagnac, cointreau, rum, you see where I'm going with this? Not really a "perk up before you drive home" kind of beverage, which we were duly warned about, but it was so sweet and alcoholic I couldn't really enjoy it. Maybe set it on fire? My Irish coffee was just what I wanted, and effectively brought me back to life for the curtain call:


Rosewater macarons and dark chocolate nibbles filled with peanut butter ganache.



Clap louder, you swine, they can't hear you in the back.





Dine of My Life

Still struggling to pull myself together

But wait, where was the climax? Who died?

It was me, I died, and as Vanessa Williams once cooed, I've gone and saved the best for last. The gun shot happened early, in the first act, making expert use of the charcoal broiler Canlis is famous for, and adding star power to huckleberry jus, coriander, and a smashing pickled rutabaga coin. The star in question is pork belly, the softest, fattiest, most breath-taking cut of meat ever to be dusted in pastrami shavings and disappear, between sobs, off my plate. And the rutabaga - (I promised myself I wouldn't cry again, but) - so crisp and commanding, I tried to pace myself but... Before I knew it the feathers were drifting to the floor and my mascara had betrayed me. This dish was so, so good, I'm having trouble getting out of bed in the morning, knowing there's nothing in my kitchen worth getting up for.

As a diner, I'm not quick to award an establishment simply based on its reputation for excellence, and having read a few reviews slandering Canlis as an over-priced, over-staffed exercise in stuffy tradition, I kept an eye out for missteps. I am easily disturbed by overly-attentive servers, and while the staff was indeed extensive, and we never wanted for anything, the calm at our table never felt threatened. As this particular outing was a gift, I wanted to see the good, but was ultimately and unexpectedly charmed, thrilled, to find that even a diner as disgruntled as I could be healed by a truly fine dine out.

Special thanks to our investors, Bill & Cecilia, for believing in us and sending us to the moon for one beautiful evening.

San Francisco: Money's just food you haven't eaten yet

Last week around this time, I was looking back on my fantastic trip to San Francisco, hosted generously by Aaron & Genevieve Saenz.

A: "What did you pay for that?"
G: "Like, an eighth of  what it's really worth."

 We made a fair effort to sample the best coffee in the area, which took us to Blue Bottle Coffee, and after an appropriate waiting period, we were handed two ceramic-dripped cups of organic black magic. At home, I use a plastic Melitta dripper for one cup days, the jumbo French press for three cups and beyond. I have to say, the ceramic dripper combined with the organic micro-roasted grounds made my home methods and coffee skills seem inferior in every way, but I think my snooty poseur points are now way up just for mentioning it.

Take off that seat belt, girl. 

As we sipped, we grooved in the sun to a nearby boombox playing all the hits of the 90s while waiting for our table at the highly-trafficked Stacks. Beyond popular, a Saturday morning here is harrowing to behold. Hoards of people waiting inside, outside, and jammed in corners, all in the frantic paths of servers and bussers struggling to get to tables. Space is not the issue here. With decor inspired by a Parisian silk flower fever dream, brunchers flock to Stacks for their comfortable food. We enjoyed a short stack of blueberry wheat germ pancakes and a fresh veggie egg skillet, but I was so immersed in our victory at finally getting a table in the center of the action that the food took a backseat. But in a "let's make out in the backseat" kind of way. Really good.



Snack time took me and Genevieve to Isobune Sushi, the "original" sushi boat restaurant in Japan Town. I have had sushi mechanically pass me by on conveyor belts, but I've never been able to reach out and pluck it from a floating vessel.  I always though sushi boat meant something a little less exciting than actual sushi on actual boats. Isobune's adorable wooden dinghies float along a clear blue canal encircling the sushi kitchen. We were seated quickly, handed hot hand towels to freshen up, served hot tea and took our time choosing our fare. Everything's very compact, and seating is tight, but the bar provides ample privacy for two. Though we tried to linger, we sailed in and out in under 20 minutes.

Rapid fire vanity photos. We very nearly did it right.

 With just enough time to spare before our walking tour, we slipped into Pika Pika, a highly-confusing Japanese photo circus. The art of purikura was one unknown to me until now, and I'm not really sure I actually get it. Here's what we left with.

One of our favorite afternoons was spent at The Franciscan. Overlooking Alcatraz off Fisherman's Wharf, the dining room is flawless. Built in the 50's and recently remodeled, it's a beautiful place to spend an afternoon gazing at the bay while enjoying some fresh antipasti and cocktails. The smoked trout crostini arrived with toy box tomatoes, capers, avocado and a dish of dreamy, creamy, housemade burrata. No idea what burrata is? Mozzarella blended with cream blended with whatever makes life worth while. We were going to stop there, but it seemed absurd to leave without trying their Italian sundae: frozen custard drizzled with olive oil and garnished with flaked sea salt. Woof. And I would have stopped there, but before I knew it I was ordering espresso and sambuca. Genevieve and I get along so famously, it's easy to get a little grandiose.

 Bottomless thanks to Bill for sending me away for my birthday, San Francisco, Imperial Spa, Tom Brown, Aaron, Genevieve, and their whole rompous, good-time gang for a great weekend.


Dine of the Week

Hey handsome.

The first stop off the train was to Straw, one of the first places I ever reviewed on this here blog. Maybe you recall?  While in town, I think I measured every meal against the resounding triumph of this one, simple salad. The Aunt Sally. Mixed greens, beets, strawberries, goat cheese & pecans tossed with a sensible balsamic vinaigrette. Nobody's handing out awards here, you could make this at home and play it off as your own reasonably-gourmet invention. The true cause celebre here was the addition of, oh yes, precious bacon.  Maple-glazed and shining with emulsified meat-shame and fatty pride, two strips were laid briefly to rest atop my salad to conserve space at our table, and for that I thank our waiter. Fresh, smokey, nutty, I don't want to get too graphic, but this salad has stayed with me, haunting my every trip to the kitchen, and my every dining dream.
I'll be back for you, Aunt Sally.

Winter Bites

Oh, hi! I know it's been a spell, but I've just finished a solid month of power yoga and it seemed to have relieved that pesky urge to blog. Not that I haven't been dining and whining, but it's become more of a dine, whine/yawn/stretch/breathe through it approach.
It seems like ages ago that we danced, begrudged and sloshed our way through the snow that covered our fair city, but toward the slippery end of that storm I remember enjoying a fine hot dog. My buddy Jeff and I fought our way through rain and slush to the Pacific Inn Pub to savor their local brews and divey charms. Their menu is really quite inviting, somehow making you believe that your booth was put there just for you and a basket of fish and chips to take it to the next level. Obscured by darkness and fueled by the joint's "whatever" factor, a bartender came by our table and talked me through my indecision, and in short order we were served dogs with slaw and pickles, a likely pairing with our frosty pints. Go for the atmosphere, the tv, or, whatever.

On a cold Saturday morning when the wind was up and the tide was high, Bill and I made our way to Heartland Cafe, the local everyman of diners. We walked in, took a booth and ordered their highly celebrated cheese curds. With a mustard/beer/cheese/dream dip it's easy to say ...hmm, Valentine's Day.... What a great day to devour a box of cheese curds in bed!



When Sunday comes, there's always a little part of me that wants to stay in bed, dreaming of breakfast feasts and lazing away the hours of precious daylight. Then something snaps and my brain cries "you're a phototropic animal with dwindling stores of vitamins and you're sculpting heinous bed sores!" So I take a moment to gently panic and gingerly convince myself that I'll have a lovely time strolling through the farmers' market if only I'd get up and get dressed.

Bring your own crumbs, or buy some
new ones at the Junction Farmers' Market

On a really good Sunday, I can even get Bill to go. This time, before I knew it I'd blown $5 on a really spectacular pop tart by Hot Cakes Confections, filled with dark sweet cherries, figs and fennel, thinking somehow I was investing in something savory. Hot Cakes is sporting take & bake gluten free, vegan & molten chocolate cake pots right now, which are a little wet for my palate, but seem to be garnering some positive attention.We couldn't eat much more than half of our pocket pie, as things were getting a little too sweet by that point, and lunch seemed to be a much more sensible idea.

Making beautiful music together at Taqueria Guaymas

We were wandering through an alley when we decided tacos would be rad, and found ourselves serendipitously facing the back door to Taqueria Guaymas. This spot reeled me in with their festive decor, painted tables & benches and an accomplished salsa bar with spicy pickled carrots, fresh radish and plenty of salsas to choose from. Take a gander at my fish taco (meh on fish strength but muah for fresh flavors) and my asada taco with beans and fresh fresh pico (muah, muah muah! mas musicas!)

Dine of the week


A haphazard walk through the Pike Place Market got me hungry for more than the usual bag of sweet, playful Daily Dozen Doughnuts (more on those much later). I had a few bucks in my pocket and gave them all to the Saffron Spice counter for a vegetable samosa. Simple in its execution and fierce in its tasty elegance, samosas are hard to complain about anywhere you go. Dreamy masalas and soft, steamy vegetables, basically the most sturdy combinations in Indian cuisine. It was the perfect snack to walk around with, but I took a moment to find a little sun to sit in and enjoy my pocket of warmth. It's not fancy, but should definitely be included in your circuit of finger foods while perusing the market.