New Age Mozz Stops Complaining about the West Coast

If you tire of detail, intricate narrative, or fascinating anecdotes easily, I recommend against eating amongst the anthropologists. However I find them to be the best of company, and hearken back to the cultural universality of manioc root on a weekly basis. This past week saw the divine summit of all things anthropological in San Francisco at the AAA conference, and your humble Mozzadrella was fortunate enough to attend.

I actually hadn’t been to the Bay Area—brace yourself for the geek quotient here—since high school, when I went to a Model United Nations conference in Berkeley, and THEN summer economics camp in Palo Alto. It’s a miracle I manage to dress myself, even though my style these days screams “professional kickball player.” At least that’s what the burlesque “ladies” at Aunt Charlie’s Lounge told me.

Though I really didn’t stray from the “Tenderloin” area where the conference was being held, the food impressed so much I will no longer vow to set all of California alight. I had been dreaming of Salt House, an industrial/rustic-chic haunt, and its braised short rib for three days. Though the cavernous interior amplified sound—we could barely converse with the people next to us—I had the most delicious cocktail I’d ever sampled. The “New London” features cold Hendrick’s Gin with a kaffir lime-ginger syrup, and a chili-cardamom salted rim. I swooned. I exalted. I had two.

I admired the sweet delicate quality of the roast beet salad, but the braised short rib with mustard crust sent me reeling. As you raised your fork to it, the meat fell apart like a warm savory bloom. As it was served atop brussels sprouts and fennel, my appetite waived away all sense of reason or discretion. In that moment I began to see the reasoning behind elastic pants.

After I recruited Tiny and Mark, I insisted upon Vietnamese food whilst in Pacific time. We went to Mangosteen, also in the Tenderloin area, where the quail was served table-side, flambé-style, the skin snapping with searing crispness. All of our fresh rolls were delicious, and will the Pho was a tad waxy, and the décor a little 7-Eleven, I’ll be thinking about that quail in the months to come.

I still find San Francisco strange—the constant smiling from strangers made me wonder if I was suffering from early-onset dementia—I did take squealing happiness in the Ice Cream Parlor/Laundromat down the way from our hotel. Genius!

Fresh Mozz Phone Home!!!

I never thought I’d suffer from homesickness. I left the continent at 18, quickly locked down an apartment on Ave. Emile Zola, pivoted to the highway oases of Iowa, then motored (once via Greyhound) to freespirited and unleashed Montana (see below for details).

When people would ask me about home, I’d rail against the oppressive white sky of winter, the shabbiness of the Chicago Tribune, the toxicity of Cubs fans and their pickled valor.

All of a sudden, I miss Chicago. A lot.

This weekend, the El ran effortlessly (for me, at least). I shoveled deepdish to my face twice, saw Peter Sagal MC Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me with grace and poise, ate ice cream with Tiny in Bridgeport, drank Lienie’s where it was cheap and readily available, got a driver’s license (heaven help you!), hit the Botanical Garden, was smug about the Art Institute, and strolled along the Lake. It was damn near perfect.

One of the best treats about going home is staying with Adrienne in Andersonville without being formally invited. I love the books, food, and furniture stores in that neighborhood, and she totally called me out on my lust for a distressed dresser: “It’s not ‘distressed’ Vanessa, it’s OLD. You’ve been living in Brooklyn too long.” Woof!

For sure Andersonville has a colorful bent, but it also has a distinct Scandinavian vibe (hence the functionalist/modernist furniture galleries) and the Swedish Bakery peddles solid kolachki, brioche, and imported dry goods.





(I’ve never seen these at IKEA. Maybe in the IKEA of my dreams?!)

The wholesome bakery assistants, who are pert in a sort of militaristic way, deftly swipe, box, and tie pastry with a precise economy of movement.

Later in the afternoon I went to visit my intellectual nemesis Dave, who has again outpaced me by taking up residence at Pastoral, an artisanal cheese shop in Lakeview.

Pastoral puts cheese front and center, but they also assemble sandwiches, sell cured meats, fresh crusty bread, and wine.

I caught up with Dave with he was rolling Prosciutto San Daniele (more delicate than the only slightly more popular di Parma).



Other identifying feature to note viz cured meat: San Daniele prosciutto is sold WITH the leg, which is referred to as a “trotter.”

Since it pays to be difficult, I asked Dave for a sheepsmilk with bite and character, the item with the bizarrest backstory, and for a series of action shots.

Item: Jamon Iberico is a Spanish cured porcine product with a production story that edges upon myth: the black-hoofed pigs feast only upon chestnuts to foster their exquisitely marbled tissue. At $89.99/lb, that fat should be salty silkworm spun through the meat!

Since Dave has taken such an intimate interest in all things fromage, I plan on peer pressuring him to guest blog here soon. All of his fierce food knowledge is going to waste in that lil blonde head of his!

For kicks, one of my fav photos of MT: the iron herd bull on the front lawn of the Montana Historical Society.