Going solo.

After my trip to Sonoma, I worked from San Francisco for a few days. I had one day where I worked from the office, but without my friend YaeRi. Left to my own devices, I decided I'd give Super Duper's veggie burger a whirl. I got it with everything, plus avocado, and it was wonderful.

Equally delightful - if a bit overwhelming - were the garlic fries, tossed with parsley and a bit of parmesan cheese. Make sure to get the dipping sauces, too. Split these, though, if you're not on a solo expedition like I was - you don't want to be the only one with the garlic fries breath, you know?

Super Duper
721 Market Street (Between 3rd and 4th)
San Francisco
415.538.3437

Meatless Week: Giving in.

On Thursday night, I became the embodiment of every parent's worst fear about their child's vegetarianism: I had ice cream and french fries for dinner.

After four days of cooking and eating meticulously sourced, impeccably fresh vegetable-based meals, I couldn't take it any more. I needed relief from the virtue and toil of Meatless Week. And so, when I was walking past Shake Shack and saw that there was a lull (for once, the line was not out the door), I pounced.

Ten minutes later, in possession of a small cup of vanilla custard (with peanut butter sauce) and an order of fries (mayo on the side), I sat myself down in the sunshine to be very, very naughty. Not gonna lie: it was seriously good. I hardly even missed the burger.

This is the life.

I love my job. I like my life. And, most days, I'm pretty darn content with the demands they place on me. But, every once in a while, I sneak a glance over at the other side. What might it be like to be feckless and free, to be one of the ladies who lunch? One recent afternoon, I caught a whiff of luxury, and I liked it.

Lunch at Brasserie Ruhlman, Laurent Torondel's vast indoor/outdoor restaurant in Rockefeller Center, is most definitely a luxury. Menu highlights include steak frites, a lobster roll, oysters and sole meunière. Starting with shrimp cocktail, therefore, does seem the thing to do. What's more classic, or more perfect for a warm summer afternoon?

And I know you know that a true lady who lunches always orders steak tartar. After all, what good is a meal if it doesn't need to be mixed tableside? (Actually, this is the place to tell you that the service at Brasserie Ruhlman was a bit odd. Our waiter didn't seem to care for us much, and instead of offering to mix up my tartar himself, he said, "Would you like to stir?" and kind of walked away. Lame.)

And this is excellent steak tartar. The meat was fresh as could be, and the sauce and, er, fixins were wonderful: big, juicy, salty capers, chopped shallots, dill and parsley, all topped with a piquant dressing and a teeny, perfect quail egg. Yum.

The fries were pretty freaking awesome, too. If not terribly ladylike. Whatever.

Brasserie Ruhlmann
45 Rockefeller Plaza
212.974.2020

The lobster roll at the end (well, middle) of the bike path.

Last weekend, I went up to Bristol, Rhode Island to visit my Aunt Cathi at her new digs smack on the water. My family are a bunch of New Englanders at heart, and it's nice to finally have a member of the parental generation back in the neighborhood (especially when she's as good a cook as Cathi happens to be).

She and my uncle are splitting their time between a fantastic condo in Bristol and a home in Dallas; I haven't seen the latest Dallas place, but I can tell you that the Bristol residence is spectacular. Downtown Bristol (the most patriotic town in American, apparently) is adorable and eminently walkable, and Cathi's condo is part of a complex made entirely of salvaged industrial buildings. The view from the pool gives you an idea of what a gorgeous spot this is:

On Saturday morning, Cathi took me on a tour of her favorite local food shopping destinations (more on those later, I promise). That afternoon, we took a (very warm) bike ride down the East Bay bike path, through Colt State Park, and on to Warren for lunch at Blount's clam shack.

We split the nine-inch lobster roll, which came with a side of fries and coleslaw. The lobster itself was great - tender, flavorful (almost definitely cooked in seawater) and cut into manageably bite-sized pieces. The bun was similarly delicious. The traditional, side-cut New England hot dog bun was toasted all over and lined with a leaf of Bibb lettuce before receiving its precious cargo. The lobster was sparingly dressed with a mild mayo, which was the only thing I would have changed. I like a bit of tang in my lobster roll, and would have killed for a squeeze of lemon or a slightly kickier sauce.

Altogether, though, there's nothing bad about this kind of reward waiting for you at the end of a bike ride - am I right?

Sooooooo worth it.

Yesterday started off gloomy, with spitting, noncommittal rain and low, gray clouds. Suitably depressed, I spent the morning catching up on emails, checking in with my tweeps, and charging up my laptop. I trudged out the door at about noon and took the (oddly crowded with children) bus across town, and then the C train down to the West Village.

My destination? Pearl Oyster Bar, the legendary (and legendarily tiny - at least before its recent expansion into space next door) seafood restaurant on Cornelia Street. I'd been hearing tell of Pearl's obscenely delicious lobster roll for years now, but the accompanying descriptions of ridiculously long lines pretty much killed my curiosity.

I figured, though, that a weekday afternoon was probably a pretty good time to avoid the crowds and decided to give it a shot. I was right! When I walked into the restaurant, it was about half-full, and since I was alone, the bartender invited me to sit at any of the open bar stools. I hopped up to a spot right in the middle, pulled out my book, and ordered a glass of Pinot Blanc and a lobster roll.

The lobster roll arrived about five minutes later, accompanied by piping hot shoestring fries. Huge chunks of lobster tossed with mayonnaise, salt, pepper and lemon juice graced a freshly-toasted (and buttered) brioche hot dog bun. Topped with a shower of chives, it was pretty much one of the best things I've ever tasted. I can't explain it - I think it must be either something in the lobsters' cooking liquid or some kind of alchemy, but this salad was just...insane.

I doused the fries with malt vinegar and dug in. I thought the ridiculous deliciousness would wear off as I made my way through the roll, but I was wrong - the very last bite was just as good as the very first. Possibly more so, since it involved the buttered bun.

Now, I'm a New Englander. I have my loyalties, and I am of course of the mind that seafood - particularly lobster and, say, fried clams - are best enjoyed as close to the ocean as possible, preferably at a picnic table within spraying distance of the waves. However. I am not exaggerating when I say this was, without a doubt, the best lobster roll of my life.

I finished the meal off with two mugs of coffee and a few more pages of my book, reluctant to leave the calming rythms of the semi-open kitchen and gentle hum of conversation at the bar. Eventually, though, I packed up my things and headed back out into the gray New York afternoon - which, I have to admit, seemed a whole lot brighter.

Pearl Oyster Bar
18 Cornelia Street
Between Bleecker and West 4th
212-621-8211 (No Reservations)

Paris, part four: Camille, la deuxième fois.

My second visit to Camille was a slightly more sedate affair - aside from a boisterous group of American women, the restaurant was relatively quiet when I tumbled in, fresh from Bar Hemingway, at about 10 o'clock. I was seated at a small table toward the back, and settled in with my book and a pichet (25, not 50 centilitres this time) of my beloved Bordeaux.

I'd filled up a bit on Bar Hemingway's most excellent potato chips, so I decided to forgo a starter and dive right into Camille's legendary (well, to me and Louisa, at the very least) steak tartare. I had to reassure the waiter that I knew the dish n'est pas cuit ("is not cooked"), and said yes to his offer of salad and frites on the side. This was gonna be good.

And it was. It was so good that I almost forgot to pause long enough to take a picture - but that would have been a crime, since you all deserve to bear witness to this most gorgeous dish. The steak tartare at Camille remains the best I have ever eaten - and I've eaten my fair share. The silky egg, the cornichons, capers and onions laced throughout the meat, the earthy mustard: all of these are to be expected, and are fantastically in play here.

But there's something else going on in Camille's tartare that I haven't quite been able to pin down - some elusive sweetness that balances out the tang of the traditional ingredients. This balance of sweet and savory is the same thing that makes their duck so delectable, and is, I think, is the thing that makes Camille so exceptional. You don't expect a neighborhood joint to produce something this subtly and intriguingly seasoned - it's a pretty impressive feat.

Oh, and the fries? Cooked in duck fat, and completely sublime. Ditto the simple salad, bibb lettuce tossed with a house-made vinaigrette.

Finally, to finish things off nice and proper, I ordered chocolate mousse for dessert. Camille's mousse is dense and rich, made with bittersweet chocolate and not a whole lot of sugar. Which is, for me, pretty close to perfection. I tried to solider through, but only managed to finish about half. My adorable waiter was a bit disappointed, I think. I promise to try harder next time!

There's nothing wrong with a burger...or three.

My recent travels have presented me with the opportunity to eat lots of great meals: ris de veau at Bouchon, coq au vin at Bistro Jeanty, steak with Bearnaise sauce as prepared by Nick - and quite a few burgers.

Hamburgers, not cheeseburgers, you understand. Though I've warmed to cheese over the last couple of years (I hated it with a flaming, burning passion from early childhood - odd, given my willingness to eat almost anything else.), I still don't like it on my burgers. So don't even ask.

The burger is perhaps the quintessential American food, something that rang true with me as never before on my trip to Strasbourg last year. Louisa and I met an incredibly charming (I'm swooning at the memory) French man at a bar near the cathedral who had attended UT Austin for university.

By the end of it, he said, people didn't believe him when he told them he was French. He himself only realized how truly Americanized he'd become when he mastered the art of driving while eating a hamburger. And I believe it - I picture him, from time to time, cruising down a two-lane, rural Texas highway, burger in hand, the wind in his hair (because, of course, he's driving a red convertible), and think: "Good lord, how American."

The freedom of the open road epitomized by a hand-held meal. Like Henri*, I associate burgers with driving and travel, and so am not terribly surprised that my first lunches upon arrival in Norwalk, Fresno and Calistoga, respectively, were hamburgers all.

First up, H n' B's Hop in Norwalk, Ohio. I admit, this was my first old-fashioned hamburger hop ever. As Louisa and I pulled up, I looked around for the waitresses in bobby socks and roller skates, but, alas, you now go inside to order off of the hand-written menu.

I went for the hamburger meal (with fries) and a small vanilla shake. After all, I was on vacation, people. Louisa ordered the BBQ beef sandwich and sauerkraut balls, an Ohio specialty of which I'd been ignorant before my visit (look for a separate post on those later). We grabbed a table in the dappled shade of the Hop's wooden canopy and waited patiently for our food and drinks.

They called our names, and we ran up to the counter, salivating. Now, I know it doesn't look like much, but trust me, this burger was awfully good. Straightforward, with robust, beefy flavor, and just the right size. I'm sure I'll get hate mail for this one, but I really don't like a thick hamburger patty - they're hard to eat, messy, and don't leave enough bite clearance for the good stuff, like tomatoes, pickles and onions. The condiments on this were good, but the beef was the standout. Not surprising, given I was in the Midwest, land of excellent beef (though too often also the land of excellent beef overcooked to point where its excellence goes bye-bye).

The shake was thick and delicious, rich and robustly vanilla, and definitely not light on the ice cream. Just the way I like it. Needless to say, I was quite full as we tottered back to the car. Oof.

My next hamburger experience came at a restaurant that is, frankly, the standard by which I judge all other fast food burgers: In n' Out Burger. If you are not yet familiar with In n' Out, you must live east of the Mississippi or somewhere outside of the States. If this is the case, I advise you to buy a plane ticket to parts west as soon as possible - they've got stores all over California, and a couple in Nevada, I think. Go. Go now.

Why are their burgers so good? Well, they're delicious. Oh, ok - so, the meat is never frozen. It's fresh. The veggies? Ditto. Including the potatoes, which are peeled and sliced into tiny little french fries right there in the store. Right there in front of you!

Whenever I visit my mom in Fresno, I make every effort to visit In n' Out for a double meat with fries and a Diet Coke. It just makes me smile. Some people don't like "secret" or "special" sauces - not me. Condiment-loving fiend that I am, I just can't get enough. Onions? Bring it on - I'm not kissing anyone tonight. Pickles? Marry me.

I am, however, undecided in the matter of In n' Out's fries. Yes, they're fresh and taste more like potatoes than any other fast food fry I have ever tasted in my life. But they're a little bit...soggy. Like someone forgot to teach the In n' Out folks the old fry 'em twice trick. But I get them anyway, because I'm a sucker.

Finally, a visit to Taylor's Automatic Refresher in St. Helena. I'm sure it's not the case, but I wouldn't be surprised if people trying to get to Taylor's is the reason traffic in St. Helena is so maddening around lunchtime - it's that good, and that popular. Don't be fooled by the picture on the website - it's mobbed around the clock (though I managed to escape the worst of it by going for lunch at 2:00 PM).

I ordered a hamburger, fries, and (gasp!) a Diet Coke, then grabbed a seat at one of the picnic tables to wait for my name (Megan B.) to be called by the cute boy manning the microphone. The total (around $10) was the highest by far of my three hamburger outings, not surprising given the locale (Napa Valley) and the clientele (those who prefer their down-home food come with upscale trappings, including gourmet pickles and bottles of wine).

Let me start with the fries - Taylor's fries were, hands-down, the winners in their category (for this go-round, at least). Crisp, perfectly salted, and piping hot, they tasted of potato and of summer, and tasted great dipped in mayonnaise (my ultimate test, as ketchup is awfully acidic and can mask weak potato flavor).

Finally, the hamburger. This was a hamburger worthy of its price tag. The Taylor's sauce is mustardy where In n' Out's is ketchupy, and the deeper flavor goes well with the as-close-to-cucumber-as-you-can-be-and-still-be-a-pickle new pickles (my favorites). The toppings were around the burger - the lettuce and tomato below, pickles above, and I enjoyed this pre-packaging of the tasty meat. Not quite as purely beefy as H n' B's, it was still well-seasoned and tasty. Plus, they asked me how I wanted it cooked - and managed medium-rare, even with a satisfactorily thin patty. A feat few can manage, friends.


*Not his real name, but we never asked what it was, and it seemed to suit him best.