Friday, March 22, 2013

Appetite for Idaho Favorites List







If I like an eatery, I'll write about it.
If I don't, I won't.
That simple.

I don't like them all. About a third of the food I've tried doesn't do it for me, and that's okay, it might do it for someone else. I figure the inferiors will weed themselves out, while I'm steering you towards the good stuff.

Before trying a place, I avoid food reviews and ignore anything negative I've heard. I want to discover a potential new favorite for myself, and like it for my own reasons. My advice: 'Own your own palate.'

That said, if you want to know what the Appetite for Idaho gal likes, here is my ever-growing list of faves:



Aguillila Taco Truck –Nampa in front of Commercial Tire
Alavita-Boise
Backstage Bistro- The Village at Meridian
Big City Coffee-Boise
Blazen Burgers- Nampa (for their real ice cream shakes, only $1 after 8pm)
Bleubird Cafe-Boise
Blue Sky Café-Nampa
Buffalo Gal-Donnelly
Café de Coco-Nampa
Cafe Vicino-Boise
Chapala on 12th Avenue in Nampa
Egg Factory-Nampa
Epi’s-Meridian
Flatbread Neopolitan Pizzeria-Meridian, downtown Boise, Bown Crossing
Fork-Boise
Guido’s New York Style Pizza-downtown Boise
Gramercy-Meridian
Sa-Wa-Dee –Meridian
Saint Lawrence Gridiron-Boise/Treasure Valley area
Sino Buffet-Nampa
Superb Sushi -downtown Boise
Tango's-Boise
The Sushi Bar McCall
Taj Mahal-Boise
The Chocolat Bar-Boise (because I could make a meal out of their candies!)
The Orchard House-Marsing
Twigs





*For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here. eBook available on AMAZON.COM





And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!


Friday, February 1, 2013

The Orchard House: Comfort and Contentment

The Orchard House: Comfort and Contentment


The Culinary Club (aka the Foodies) consist of three flavor-lovers.

I'm beginning to see my role in the configuration. I want to write about the food, of course, but from me you'll always get the storybook version. What leads up to it, thoughts and feelings while there, and what's lingered after the fact.

I'm the touchy-feely, warm fuzzy one...
I can accept that.

The three of us met in a Nampa parking lot, piling into my Jeep for a ride through the snow, ice and (O joy!) thick fog. I chose to take the scenic route down my beloved Lakeshore Drive, just off Highway 45. The home I'd moved (from out by Boise Towne Square) and planted on seven acres, remodeled and re-constructed with my former husband was on Lakeshore Drive. The area is embedded in me, and I hope to return one very triumphant day. We'll see how that goes.

I played tour guide, pointing out the friends' house that held annual Christmas tree burns in March every year, with flames jumping higher than their rooftop when teenagers piled on ten trees at once. In the fog, we could barely make out an outline of the house on the corner.

I told Sarah and Deb about the closed-down cafe, where Lakeshore legend had it that a cougar once crashed through the big front window, alarming cafe customers. The legend has never been confirmed, and I don't recall now where I first heard it, but it's fun to tell.

I motioned to the house that had the dog that battled with our dog. The owners and I had words, then months later laughed about it over a plate of cookies. They gave away their dog, our dog died, and we remained friends.

My heart beat faster as we approached our old property. The trees I'd planted, the gazebo my then-husband had built for me, the exterior paint I'd exasperated over, finally deciding on 'Sunny Beach', the kids' fort... I'd loved that place, and I always will, but it was shrouded in fog and we couldn't see a thing.

"There it is," I told my friends, then quickly realized I was pointing to the neighbor's house, not ours. Fog factor.

Memories all the way around the lake as I remembered early morning bike rides out to Walker Lake or Riverside roads, summers of smelling the freshwater air, and a much slower-paced life than the one I'm living nowadays. There were days I'd avoided taking this very route for just such reasons, when the emotions were too poignant to take, but the thick white mist and always-intriguing conversation of Deb and Sarah distracted me just enough to be delighted versus slightly depressed.

We drove past Ste. Chapelle winery, where I'd spent many contemplative moments overlooking the Marsing valley below and planning my life and/or praying for guidance. Although not a drinker of wine, this is my favorite spot for those activities.
 

Due to low visibility, we almost missed our destination, the Orchard House. Once again, nostalgia hit me when I remembered my friend Lisa and I sitting over a bowl of soup and a heart-to-heart chat at this same dwelling when it was 'Cooky's Famous Potato House' years ago. Now I was there with new friends, new restaurant owners, and really, a very different and new life. The thought stuck and encouraged me. I was cold from the damp, hungry, and ready for what I hoped would be an amazing brunch.  According to one Sunset Magazine article featuring the place, we were in for a treat.


Combine the wooden paneled walls, tin stamped ceiling, white sparkling lights, and vintage-y country decor, and you'll come up with one word: relax...and yet, there was something more. I didn't put my finger on it until just now when I looked up the healing properties of wood. This is what I found:

The element of wood is closely linked to new beginnings and renewal.

How fitting that we should have a brunch so close to the beginning of the year...here, surrounded by wood, and having just passed my old home with its many connections. Perhaps the day, the occasion and the element were assuring me it is now time to move on into future happinesses.

I expected down-home cooking from the Orchard House, but got something else. It was down-home, home-made, and comfort-style, all right, but with a twist. Within my Portabello scramble were eggs, an earthy spinach, and the delightful depth of asiago cheese. I wouldn't have been surprised if it had been infused with a rich consomme of some sort, and/or possibly white cooking wine. (It all cooks out, right?) At any rate, it was freaking delicious.


Sarah chose an omelette (also tasty when she offered me a sample) and Deb stuck with the traditional bacon, eggs, toast and hash browns, explaining that the day seemed to call for that. Could there be anything more homey than being surrounded by a Grandma's cabin-feel, people all around us talking, laughing, eating, and our table filled with plates of culinary comfort? I think not.

My scramble was flanked by four hearty sun-dried tomato and herb slices of bread, toasted to perfection and glowing with just the right amount of butter, as well as colorful slices of tomato. I chose an herbal tea that (reminiscing, once again) was the same tea I'd had at my sister's on a cold rainy day in Seattle. Combined with my dear Foodie friends, the Orchard House atmosphere, and the warming mug of licorice spice tea, I was fast entering contentment zone.


A constant plus for our CClub meals is the conversation. Sarah,Deb, and I are never at a loss for things to say. Each from differing backgrounds, the diversity and open communication enhance every single shared meal.

Some bonuses during our visit: My friend and salon owner Talie Elordi and her family were there having brunch, also a cheerful-looking woman who sat nearby dining alone grinning, clearly enjoying each splendid bite as she leisurely paged through the local paper. Many times I'll frequent a place with my only companions being a journal and a book, so I observed with the happiness only a part-time solitude junkie could. Orchard House owner Sherri McCoy approached, chatting for a bit with the opener, "I see you three taking pictures, are there any questions I can answer for you?"

Sherri is among the few restauranteurs that have thus far paid us any mind, but then again we were pretty obvious with the picture-taking. I think it's safe to say we prefer to remain fairly anonymous foodie bloggers, but her joining the conversation was a definite plus. What she shared was entertaining and real; we enjoyed her comments immensely. When asked if Sunset Magazine's article put them right into stardom, her reply was, 'Not really.' Same with 'Diners, Drive-In's, and Dives'. Some notoriety where every now and then a diner mentioned that they're checking it off their D,D and D list, but for the most part, their lifeblood was from locals and the neighboring orchards' fruit-seekers.


It has become tradition to visit Marsing orchards, and then the Orchard House. The Orchard House chef, Rubio Izaguirre had no prior restaurant experience. This is one of the things  I suspect makes his work so amazing. Low on ego, high on talent, and an obvious love for his art.

The perfect storm for satisfaction was created last Saturday. Old and new, past and present, damp and fog, comfort and cheer and contentment on a plate. The Orchard House is bound for tradition for the Foodies, and as for myself, I intend to return, especially on the very next contemplative, cozy, foggy day.




 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Becoming Idahoan



You might think, given the fact that I write so much about Idaho, that I was born here, raised here, and have always loved it here.

Nope.

My parents dragged us, quite against our will, from the Eastern state my siblings and I had spent over a decade living in. We were fifth generation Easterners, with ancestors originally hailing from parts of Germany, Holland and England. Our grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins all lived back East. So did our friends and neighbors. Moving to Idaho hadn't been on our top list. For years after we'd moved, we wanted the parental units to return us to our former state.

Adjusting was difficult. The Idaho climate was colder and drier. My skin cracked and bled around my eyes, ears, mouth and nose from the harsh, crisp air. The first year we spent in a tiny Eastern Idaho town, it got down to -40 degrees. We'd never seen--or felt-- anything like that before. It was so cold out it hurt.

And the wind...sheesh.

What my parents delightedly commented on and enjoyed as a gentle breeze in July turned into a roaring rage in October, and didn't stop roaring until late May, where it decreased to a constant irritation that never, ever seemed to go away in that valley. Years later I would read about such a wind in Alex Haley's book Roots  that swept their small village, causing normally docile people to become testy, which caused conflict between husbands, wives, siblings and villagers in general. Married people separated, children didn't speak to parents, and roommates moved out. Everyone was irked by the wind that came and wouldn't leave. Then, months later, the wind suddenly stopped and people began to like each other again. A great story, except for in the little town we lived in, that breeze never left. How the people kept their calm, I'll never know. Thinking back, some didn't.

I wonder if it was the wind's fault.

When I moved to the other side of the state, it was with shock that I witnessed snow falling straight down, instead of the customary sideways style of the former windy valley. I cut way down on the hard core hairspray use, too, since my hair now began to stay put.

Blending in with the Idaho culture wasn't easy, either. We had Eastern accents, mannerisms, and a non-Western sounding last name. Our grade school back East had been among the costliest in the area, brand new, with the children producing television and radio shows, and completely costumed, elaborate plays. We were taught not to be prejudiced, the special education students were integrated into all of our activities, and our physical education did not include anything anywhere near competitive. Instead of basketball, we waltzed together and bounced balls in time to choreographed routines.  We were young ladies and gentlemen who were required to stand in the corner if we used improper grammar, or dared to utter words like 'ain't'.

My first day at school in Idaho wasn't anything like that. On that first day, I was shocked to find that we held class in the basement of a rickety old schoolhouse, one that, incredibly, had the Teton Flood waters rushing through it just years before. I guessed that they had dried it out and reused it. The floors were uneven and wavy from the water damage, and it smelled a little like flood mud.

At recess, someone asked me if I wanted to play 'soft ball.' I'd honestly never heard of the game, but figured 'how hard could it be?' I found out when I reached my right hand out to catch a ball that had just been hit by a batter while I was in the outfield. It hurt like Hades and was numb for days afterward. Competitive and painful...what was the deal?

After the game, two boys had a fight out on the blacktop. Everyone stood around, watching and yelling. Once again, I was shocked. Back East, we'd have been expelled for such behavior, maybe even kicked out of school for good. Even just observing would have rendered us as guilty. An adult was nearby, but that grownup chose to let the whole thing play out naturally, with no intervention. It was then that I realized I was in an entirely different world, the... Wild West.  It was a place that would require a thicker skin than I currently wore, and no small amount of mental toughness.

Idaho was about to make an Idahoan out of me.




 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Saint Lawrence Gridiron: Well Done.

I usually know when someone's pulling my leg.

"---and then he told him, 'Turn me over, I'm done," said Chef Brian Garrett, as he leaned over the high, high window of the Saint Lawrence Gridiron's food truck. He was giving us an explanation of his business's name.

"---and that's why he's the patron saint of cooks and chefs," the rolling restaurant owner concluded.

I looked over at my foodie friend, Sarah, who'd randomly agreed to join me for lunch. She wasn't grinning. I looked back at Chef Brian, but his face gave nothing away. On the tip of my tongue was a big, 'Yeah, right,' but I didn't say anything.

We were at the corner of 11th and State street in Boise for lunch, the Gridiron's location of the day. The flow of customers leading up to the window never ceased; a very good indication of the food quality.



We assessed the menu board. What was that? Could it be?

'Poutine' jumped out at me. My Canadian friend Vaun had been talking about it for years. Fries, a special gravy, cheese...what's not to like?


Sarah, who'd never tried poutine either, said she'd split an order with me, as long as we both ordered a sandwich so that we could sample not just one, but three menu items in one shot. We're frequently strategic like that.

I got the Boise Cheese Steak, and Sarah ordered the Smoky Loaf Sandwich to go with our gravy-covered fries.



Intending to sit at the cafe table out in front of the Gridiron, to soak in the whole experience, we found that we failed miserably at it. We made a beeline for the shelter of my car.

"I enjoy food much more when my teeth aren't chattering," said Sarah. I heartily agreed. Now, for the task at hand. Crispy fries, 'Chinden Sauce', drunken cheese sauce, brisket and Gorgonzola cheese sat between us on the console. Civilized dining was tossed to the brisk Idaho wind as fingers were used on this dish.

"What is that darker sauce?" I asked, between bites, "It's got so much depth, it's hard to tell. Drippings? A condensed au jus? I just don't know."

"...It tastes almost like it's got balsamic vinegar in it," said Sarah.

So different, so difficult to pin down.

My Boise Cheese Steak sandwich had a spice-rubbed brisket, drunken cheese sauce and pickled vegetables. The meat was tender, and the spices had a kick I appreciated. I thought I detected some chili powder in that rub.

Sarah's Smoky Loaf Sandwich was a hearty slice of moist meat loaf on a bun with Gorgonzola, aioli and also pickled veggies. We both agreed it was the texture that sold us, paired with the flavor. Had it been any juicier, it would've been too mushy. Had it been any drier, we discussed, it would've been...

"...Too dry," we both said at the same time. Egads, we're almost acting like food critics now.

There were no leftovers, it was all happily devoured. A meal like that on a chilly Idaho afternoon is just the thing for culinary appreciatives.

We snapped a few photos of the food truck, then picked Chef Brian's brain.


"I wasn't sure about the name," he told us, "but when I heard the 'turn me over, I'm done' story, I was sold,"

I once again had the uncomfortable feeling we were being had.

"What was the darker sauce on the poutine?" I asked, wanting to change the subject.

"It's got a fermented bean paste base," Chef Brian told us. I looked at Sarah, who'd been on sort of the right track when she'd mentioned balsamic vinegar.

"I borrowed that from Asian cooking," he added.

How clever to cross lines of culture in culinary creativity. I love it when chefs do that. And it was tasty. Who knew I'd be eating fermented bean paste on this day...and like it?

Chef Brian confirmed that the brisket had ground chili powder in the rub, but offered us no further clues as to the other ingredients. He just leaned over the high, high window with a knowing grin on his face, not divulging.

We took a few more pictures and parted with a friendly wave.

Later, I asked Sarah, who'd studied religion extensively, what she thought of the barbequed saint story.

"It sounded like a typical saint story/myth. But I'd definitely want to check it out," she replied.

Hours later, I was looking up 'Story of Saint Lawrence'. There appeared links upon links of 'St. Lawrence Martyr', 'St. Lawrence Cathedral', 'St. Lawrence University', etc. This Saint Lawrence guy was certainly well-known. Had I been Catholic, I'd have been a lot more clued into that.

Then, I saw it. The story of Saint Lawrence, martyr. 

It seems that the Prefect, having a fit of anger sometime during the year 258, sentenced Saint Lawrence to a torturous death by gradual, sure burning. Saint Lawrence was tied atop a grill of iron and slow-roasted. The story has it, however, that through his love of God, he was protected and didn't feel the pain. He was comfortable enough to have said to the nearby judge, "Turn me over, I'm done on this side!"

Chef Brian hadn't been making it up, it was all true.

And now, like me, I'll just bet you'll never forget the name of Saint Lawrence for as long as you live.

Which is good, because for some of the most incredible food on four wheels you've ever had, St. Lawrence is a name you're going to want to remember.


*Follow the Culinary Club on Twitter @Amy_Larson, @IdahoFoodie and @EatingIdaho.



 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!

Monday, December 10, 2012

IdaSnow

Thwap!

In the event of a snowball war, that's a sound we absolutely love to hear.

Unless, of course, we're the recipient of the frosty missile.
In that case, the name of the game is revenge, and how sweet it is when we get it. There's nothing like the sight of seeing a former assailant wearing an unintentional snow collar to make a winter's day.

Wikipedia defines the snow war like this:

 "A snowball fight is a physical game in which balls of snow are thrown with the intention of hitting somebody else."

---I know, I'm smirking too.

Years ago when the snow flew out at the former country home, we'd get out the four-wheelers and drag brave inner-tubers around the pasture, often flinging riders into the soft drifts amongst shrieking laughter. First-timers were the best to mess with, they had no idea what they were getting into. Hot chocolate and some serious snacking followed, as per tradition, and we'd get a roaring fire going in the fireplace to help us thaw out.

Snow can be illusive in the Treasure Valley these days. No matter how many creative snow dances we do, we're still left hoping for flake-laden storms. When it gets to be December several of us begin to get a little desperate. The other day the neighbor kids got up first thing in the morning to attempt sledding down what was barely a slope on a skiff of what might have been snow, but what more likely was just a thick frost. Many residents take matters into their own hands by loading up vehicles with tubes, ski pants, toasty beverages, snacks and a shovel (if they're wise) and heading to Idaho City. There's usually snow there this time of year. Even if it's a week old and covered in a layer of gray road dirt, if we can sled on it, we'll take it.



 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!



Monday, November 26, 2012

Idaho Potato Faux Pas

When the parental units told my siblings and I that we were moving to Idaho, I was only ten, and got Idaho confused with Iowa. Since that wasn't too far away from Pennsylvania where we lived, I told the friends I was leaving that we'd see them every now and then.

Just about the time we hit Illinois by car, it began to dawn on me that Idaho was a ways away.

Lots of things about the state I didn't have a heads up on. I envisioned everyone with horses in their back forties, living on ranch/farms. I found that it wasn't as rural as I'd expected, although our next-door-neighbors who lived in town did have a dry farm for potatoes up in the hills.

What I really would've appreciated a heads-up on was the fact that potatoes were really BIG in Idaho. People grew them, they ate them, they had them on their license plates. I was only ten and unaware, and no one sat me down for the Potato Talk.

Which is why the major social faux pas occurred.

Our new Idahoan neighbors invited us to dinner at their home. I had no idea what was cooking in the kitchen when we walked through the door, but it smelled delicious. While the woman of the home was bustling over last minute preparations for our meal, the man of the house made conversation with us in the living room. He asked each one of us a question. The one he sent my way was, "So, do you like potatoes?"

At ten, I was no less painfully honest than I am now. I thought about it for a half second, recalling my experience with potatoes in the past. My mother, who, bless her heart, was an uncreative cook, had often boiled potatoes until they were a colorless gray and covered them with a bland, saltless gravy. The texture all-round was actually pretty gross.

"No," I answered, "Not very much."

Insert here an image of the clock on the wall stopping, and several adult mouths falling open. In one fell swoop, I'd not only just insulted the cook (who had made us baked potatoes with an array of toppings to choose from, expecting to delight us with our very first introduction to Idaho potatoes), the man of the house (a potato farmer), and virtually the entire state, who took tremendous pride in their product.

Oops.

Decades later, negative memories of watery gray blobs with flavorless gravy are long gone. Nowadays, I do like potatoes. Famous Idaho potatoes (refer to some of our vintage license plates), I've learned, are best baked, broiled or fried (my preference). The perfect potato is all in the preparation.





 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!



Friday, November 23, 2012

Wilson Ponds Walk

Wilson Ponds in Nampa holds the curiosity that can only belong to wilderness that's been planted right in the middle of suburbia.

On a windless morning or evening, you can hear Skyview High School's marching band practicing out in their parking lot, less than a mile away, while at the same time viewing native grasses,  and marshy areas with a plethora of cattails. A strange contrast among   nesting birds and burrowing critters who find their homes at the Ponds, but the animals are no doubt used to the music by now.

Although this morning had a crisp autumn bite to it, when blogger Erica Diamond suggested a sunrise walk via Twitter, the idea was planted with no turning back.

I've walked at Wilson a time or two, and have begun to notice some regulars. A man with the name HENRY solidly announced on his ball cap. (Is this a brand, or is this his actual name? I haven't been bold enough to inquire.) This morning I saw an older gentleman with a woolen cap, side braids and pom-pom moving with him as he took each determined step.

"Are you wearing enough clothes?" he asked me, a rather personal question, but I was game to answer.

"You warm up once you get moving fast enough," I told him.

"Bah!" he said, swatting his hand into the air and walking away.

Henry was next on the paved pathway, smiling and nodding like the last time, but not speaking, also like last time. I passed the Duck Tree where I once noticed a dozen ducks perched. I have questions about this, not knowing ducks liked to hang out in trees or hold onto branches with their webbed feet.

I encountered the man with the pom-pom hat again on the return.

"Warming up yet?" he asked. Then he said, "You should talk to that guy over there," and he vaguely gestured with his hands over 'that-a-way', "He's ninety!"

He paused, then shared, "I'm eighty and he's got ten years on me."

Safe to assume he was saying that the ninety-year old was out walking, too.

"I plan to live until I'm at least ninety-five," I told the Pom-Pom Man.

"Keep walkin'!" he told me with a smile and nod of his woolen-covered head as he walked away, calling, 'Have a good mornin'!' over his shoulder.




 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!