Wow. We no longer have to picture Hal Holbrook. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein confirms that former FBI deputy director W. Mark Felt was "Deep Throat". Who will be this administration's Deep Throat? Who would put his duty to the United States and to the American people above his loyalty to BushCo? Does this administration contain anyone with that much fortitude and courage? (The 8 Ball says, "Signs point to no." Sigh.) Quotes of the day. You can say that again.
[ Link to today's entries ]
A thought for the holiday. An editorial from the Minneapolis Star Tribune, which is, as was pointed out at dKos, right in the middle of Norm Coleman country:
More in the comments. [ Link to today's entries ]
Lilette. It's become somewhat of a tradition on our Jazzfest visits to have one big blowout dinner with my siblings and siblings-in-law, which has on occasion gotten a big raucous. (We're still quoting the incredibly rude woman from New York in the incredibly crowded bar at the Pelican Club several years back. It was impossible to wait in there without brushing up against people. My sister Marie brushed by someone, who whirled on her with a look of intense hatred. Marie said "Excuse me," but she responded to that by bellowing, "Would you mind not ramming into me?" I replied, "Hey, it's very crowded in here, let's all just relax, okay" She responded, "Fuck you," and the rest that went on from there was, shall we say, history.) This year we managed to avoid verbal (and nearly physical) fisticuffs, and had a really fun dinner at a place my sister Melissa had been raving about for ages -- Lilette, on Magazine Street between Louisiana and Napoleon. "I'll go there with you anytime, she'd say. Okay kiddo, you're on. Lilette is one of the prime examples of my annoyance at not being able to get home as often as I'd like; I should've eaten here ages ago, as it's been open for nearly five years now. One day, perhaps, finances will allow, but at this point it is better late than never. Chef John Harris' cuisine is primarily French with some Italian influences, and only a hint of the Creole dishes of New Orleans. This is good; as much as I love Creole food, if every restaurant in the city cooked Creole (as some people seem to want), it'd get pretty boring pretty quickly. Lilette features very creative, high-level bistro cooking and flavors that tend to elicit my favorite reaction -- the old moaning-and-pounding-on-the-table. We couldn't have had a better start. Lilette prides itself on its superb cocktail menu, including several house originals -- y'all know we're all over that. We began with their house special, The Lilette Cocktail: Lillet Blanc, soda, a dash or two of Madagascar vanilla extract and a few snips of fresh vanilla bean, served tall with ice. It's light, refreshing and absolutely lovely. I went on with another house original, the Linstead: Bourbon, Ricard, lemon, lime and pineapple juices and a touch of sugar. Pretty good, although I'd have to try one more and decide whether I'd order that one again. Now, for dinner: 
For my appetizer, I listened to Melissa, who kept repeating, almost as if chanting a sacred mantra, "Get the toast, get the toast, get the toast ..." Who am I to argue? White Truffle Parmesan Toast, with wild mushrooms, marrow and veal glace. Holy bejeebies, this was good. I was so stoned just from the aroma coming off the plate that I neglected to focus the camera properly, as you can see. The toast was drizzled with white truffle oil and Parmigiano-Reggiano, under the broiler, then draped with the intensely flavored demiglace and mushrooms. As if this wasn't rich enough, chunks of veal marrow mingle with the mushrooms for a blast of fatty goodness every few bites. Oh my. 
Wes and Jeff got the Boudin Noir Lilette with housemade spicy mustard and cornichons. This wasn't Cajun-style boudin, this was French blood sausage, no rice, a very earthy flavor (in case you're wondering, "earthy" is a compliment, not a euphemism for "nasty") and rich rich rich. The "spicy mustard" is a bit of a misnomer. It isn't "spicy" the way you might expect; it's more "thermonuclear" (this is also a compliment). That mustard went straight up my noise and out the top of my head, leaving an approximately three-inch hole in the top of my skull. (This is a good thing, believe me.) This isn't a dish for everybody, but if you like intense, rich flavors, don't miss it. In fact, you should get each of the two above starters and split them ... oh hell, just get them both for yourself. They're not all that big. On the second visit, begin exploring the other starters. I was trying, oh so feebly, to "behave" myself on this visit, attempting to opt for dishes that were either smaller or less heavy. I had a grilled seafood entrée coming, and I felt a bit of a hole in the meal approaching. I scanned the menu to see what else I could add, and something wonderful caught my eye. I asked the waiter that given the dishes I had already ordered, would splitting this one extra dish make me into a big ol' pig? He politely assured me that it would not, so ... 
Braised veal cheeks on baby greens with horseradish vinaigrette. One of the finest expressions of meat, in three little bits, that I've tasted in a long time. Impossibly tender, so much so that I almost expected the morsels of veal cheek to start oozing into a puddle, but with a good, meaty texture. Marvelous flavor, and just a hint of horseradish in the vinaigrette; you don't want to overpower meat that tastes like this. 
I was actually quite well-behaved for my main, and had an entirely new experience. Grilled Kaijiki with fava beans, grape tomatoes, grilled ramps and lemon vinaigrette. Kaijiki is Hawaiian marlin, and as I don't know any deep sea fishermen this was the first time I'd ever tasted it. It reminded me of swordfish, very tasty, but with a meatier texture. Chef recommended it medium-rare, which was perfect, and that light lemon sauce was a perfect foil for the flavor. I love fava beans, and was happy to have the ramps (sort of a wild spring onion), which were just in season. Look ma! No cream sauce, and not battered-and-deep-fried! Along with that I sipped a lovely Zardetto Prosecco Brut N.V., which was the perfect accompaniment. 
Wes and Jeff opted for the same entré -- Seared Kobe Beef New York Strip Steak with roasted potatoes, mixed mushrooms and gremolata. "Wow, I've never had Kobe beef before," Wes said, after having heard of it many times, and watched various Iron Chefs prepare it on TV. He's a beef lover and was intensely curious, but then there was the price ... $38 for a six-ounce portion, and $70 for a 12-ouncer. Six ounces of beef is quite enough, actually, so that's what they went for. The verdict? Very, very good ... and yet, they still weren't sure it was worth the money. Wes said he was glad he'd ordered it and tried it, but he's had less expensive steaks he's enjoyed just as well, and Jeff said, "Y'all might call me a heretic, but I enjoyed this less than the last New York strip I had at Outback Steakhouse, which was a lot cheaper." I had a taste, and it was very, very good. Would I order it myself sometime? Maybe. (Wine was a Bordeaux, Château Greysac Medoc '00.) 
All the fat and calorie points I saved during my marlin entrée went out the window during dessert, which was another one of those "ya gotta" dishes. "Ya gotta get the pear and goat cheese," said Melissa. Okay, I'm easy. Quenelles of Goat Cheese with Poached Pears, pistachios and lavender honey. Wow. Um, wow. The tangy goat cheese was lightly sweetened and mixed with crème fraîche, and the lavender honey was the crowning touch, so sweet and aromatic, and it reminded me of a painting of a lavender field in Provence we had seen at a gallery on Julia Street earlier that day. So simple -- maybe six ingredients, not counting the poaching liquid -- and absolutely gorgeous. I'm ready for my next visit already. August is shaping up to be a good visit ... Dad's 70th birthday, Café Adelaide, Marisol and Lilette? Just over two months to go. Anatomy of a cocktail (or two). In a recent issue of Cheers Magazine Gary Regan, who missed being behind the stick, begins tending bar at his local, Painter's Tavern in Cornwall-on-Hudson, New York, and concocts two new Scotch-based cocktails for his customers, both of which look very much worth a try. UPDATE: Bad link to the article now fixed. Hypocrisy. Via Wes, who asks, "If we style ourselves as defenders and promoters of democracy, why are we selling weapons to countries that are, at best, undemocratic?" Or worse; Uzbekistan is ruled by a despot, who mows down opposition protests and has been known to boil political prisoners alive? Yep, we love to be allied to them, don't we, George? [ Link to today's entries ]
Troublesome? Um, worth the trouble, bra. I subscribe to New Orleans food writer Tom Fitzmorris' New Orleans Menu Daily and read every issue. I generally enjoy it, but man ... sometimes I wonder what planet he's on. For instance, today's list -- I agree that many foods are troublesome to eat, but some of his comments about them are jaw-dropping. (My comments are in italics after each entry.)
Okay, I will say something. Have you actually heard of the revolutionary technique of spearing tubular pasta with one's fork? Try it sometime. I've been doing it since I was three, and lemme tell ya, it works. Also, do not ever eat barbecue shrimp without peeling them. The ultimate trip... through the films of one of the world's great filmmakers, that is. Taschen has just released The Stanley Kubrick Archives, a spectacularly beautiful, comprehensive and altoghether huge (11" x 16" and well over 10 pounds) book that'll take up half your coffee table, and which I was recently astonished to receive as a gift (thanks, hon!) It's the last book a Kubrick fan will ever need, with the first section feature full-page stills from all of his films, plus interviews, essays and analysis and, best of all, innumerable items from Kubrick's meticulously thorough archive. Apparently he kept everything, on practically every movie.
It's one of the most amazing books I own, and I'll have months, if not years of enjoyment from it. There's also an article from the Guardian on the book, the archive plus an interview with Kubrick's widow Christiane that's worth reading. Quatres étoiles! Chef Eric Ripert of Le Bernadin in New York talks to Newsweek about his restaurant having received its fourth consecutive four-star rating from the New York Times, and more. This one's on my list with Babbo and several others, if we can afford it, when we finally make it to New York. (I can't believe I've never been there.) Moan and pound on the table. That's one of my reactions to culinary ecstasy, and ... well, if anyone develops cheap or free teleportation between now and mid-June, please let me know, as I'll have to resist the temptation to otherwise spend too much money flying home on June 12 for one single meal. From Poppy's journal I snagged the dégustation menu that Chef Pete Vasquez is preparing at Marisol in honor of her new novel Prime. It's apparenltly similar to the dinner he did in honor of the publication of Liquor last year, in that then all the dishes were based on the title ingredient; this time, it's all beef, baby. Oh Gawd, does this sound great ...
Le *faint*. The only thing I'm a little iffy about is the brains. I've had 'em before and I'm not that big a fan. It's probably the creamy texture that gets me, although if Chef Pete can get 'em crispy, that'd probably be a help. (They've also got about 10 times the amount of cholesterol you should have in a single day in a single serving). However, from everything I've been reading and hearing, I'll eat anything Chef Pete puts in front of me. It's all just wishful thinking, though, 'cause I won't be able to go, unless we can ... Beam me over! Or I'll buy a gris-gris bag that'll win me just enough of a lil' lottery prize to get me there and back in a weekend. Mmmm, speaking of lengua ... That's Spanish for "tongue", by the way. Yeah yeah, I can hear you now. Ewwwww, tongue! It was in a cow's mouth! (Big deal! It was washed off. Ham was next to a pig's ass!) Tongue is actually quite delicious, and isn't tough like you might expect. Properly cooked with a long braise it's very tender, richly flavored and insensely beefy. Most often in Los Angeles you see it in tacos de lengua, as mentioned above, although I have no idea what Chef Pete's will be like. One of my favorite tongue dishes locally is the thinly sliced tongue in a spicy red sauce at La Luna Negra, the excellent (although frequently too crowded to get into) Spanish tapas restaurant in Pasadena. That plus the tacos was the bulk of my lengua experience, until last weekend ... Our friends Moisés and John invited us over for mole de lengua, and at the very mention of that my eyes lit up. I'm a mole fanatic, and I'll eat just about anything as long as it's swimming in a mole sauce. I've had at last a half-dozen or more different kinds -- red, black, green, from Oaxaca or from other parts of Mexico. A thick, rich, extremely complex sauce which might just put many French sauciers to shame, can contain upwards of 30 ingredients (including chiles, nuts, seeds and frequently chocolate) and usually takes all day to make, mole is one of the many aspects of traditional Mexican cuisine that elevates it to the same level of any of the finest cuisines in the world. 
I'm still trying to take off the weight I put on in New Orleans (5 pounds to go), so I toyed with the idea of being good and asking for a small serving, maybe only one slice of tongue. One whiff of this stuff and I knew that'd be amusing foolishness. This was reinforced when he put my plate in front of me. 
Moisés' mole was thick, rich, nutty, hot, deeply flavored and with a touch of bitterness from the charred dried chiles and God knows what else. The lengua was as tender as meat can get before it starts falling apart into "debris". It might just amaze how you good this is, how good beef can be. It ain't all just steaks, baby. 
My only concession to being "good" was only eating about half the rice, which was plenty. (Rice is about 2 WW points per half-cup.) I didn't need any dessert. Even though I've still got some mole Teloloapan in my fridge, and some black Oaxacan mole on the from Mary (who picked it up for me at Grand Central Market when she was looking for my carnitas tacos from the other day), and I can always pick up mole paste at Guelaguetza on the way home ... I'm feeling a compulsion to spend a day making this at home sometime. I'd love something that tastes this great to come from my own hands. [ Link to today's entries ]
Cocktail of the day. (Congratulations, you nutty kids!) Felicitations, much happiness and biddings of long life go out to our good friends Chris and Mary Jane, who got married last Saturday on a perfect, beautiful day. We were honored that they asked us to come up with a new cocktail for the occasion, which would be served to the wedding guests. Mixological duties fell to Wes this time, who had been knocking around some ideas in his head for a while and eventually came up with this gem, which is a relative of the Footloose Cocktail and was a big hit at the reception. Even people who don't normally quaff cocktails loved this one.
Not to be outdone, the groom had a drink named after him as well. "The Christopher Michael", however, was a bit simpler, and was described thusly on the menu: "A bottle of beer." Natch. Congrats, youse two! 'Cue! Via Wes, who sends along Slate's David Plotz's tale of barbecue mania and pilgrimage. He's a man after my own heart, a man who once licked his own wrist days after spending time in a smoke-filled Estonian sauna, because he could still smell it on him; "I'd been barbecued." Wes noted one interesting political idea about 8 grafs into the story:
You paying attention, Howard? Then there's this bit of moan-inducing description: Stehney invited me and Stephanie back to the kitchen. He grabbed a "burnt end" that had just exited the smoker and asked one of the cooks to chop it up for us. The "burnt end" is, after jazz, Kansas City's most important gift to civilization. Some great Kansas Citian of the past realized that the ends of a barbecued brisket were the fattiest, saltiest, smokiest chunks of meat on God's own Earth. Every barbecue joint in KC -- and practically nowhere else -- sets aside its burnt ends, chops them up, and serves them with a little sauce. It is a profound experience to eat them. Stehney, Stephanie, and I stood around this particular burnt end and snacked it into oblivion. Stehney talked obsessively and eagerly about the precise way to cut a rib, and the exact temperature at which a burnt end reaches perfection. [...] Oh my Gawd. Wes says, "I want me some burnt ends more than I want world peace, almost. It's close. (One quibble here, though -- Kansas City has a great jazz heritage, but this guy makes it sound like civilization wouldn't have jazz if it weren't for Kansas City. Actually, as we all know, civilization wouldn't have had jazz if it weren't for New Orleans. He should've said "its jazz" rather than merely "jazz." Yes, I'm that persnickety.)
What a po-boy is supposed to be. Second day of Jazzfest we rested; in fact, we didn't go to either Saturday. We'd be back on the first Sunday, but before that the order of the day was leisurely strolling, shopping, drinking and, of course, eating. I had never managed to get Wes to Domilise's before, which was an odd omission. I spent many of my college hours in there quaffing beers and devouring poor boys, which are among the very best in the city, some of which are quite unique. Frequently invoking the cliché of "better late than never," off to Annunciation Street at Bellcastle we went. 
Doesn't look like much, does it? (Person standing in front of da place, i.e. Wes, excepted, of course.) Ah, that's the deception of the New Orleans neighborhood restaurant; it might look like a dump, but the food within might well be some of the best in the city. Surely you've learned this lesson by now. 
The menu looks deceptively simple and run-of-the-mill (click the picture to enlarge), but if you know the food well or if you ask the right questions, the gems emerge from the rock. What looks deceptively like "hot smoked sausage" is just that, but if you ask for it it comes swimming in a chili gravy that is so good in combination with that sausage that you'll be in the troposphere before you know it. Fried seafood also can be augmented by a ladling of brown gravy, and that day the fried catfish with gravy was the recommended combo. We got two small poor boys, knowing that we'd be having a Gargantuan meal later in the evening, and traded halves. Well, we thought we'd trade halves, but we each liked what we had ordered so much that we ended up trading bites instead. 
Some of the finest examples of the poor boy maker's art, these are. Actually, the only disappointment with mine is that it wasn't sloppier; lots of the time the gravy is dripping eveyrwhere, oozing out the sides of the sandwich along with the yellow and Creole mustards and down your chin and onto your shirt and pants and just about everywhere else. I actually managed not to get it all over me this time, so I feel I missed out on something. Fortunately, it tasted fantastic. Incidentally, these are indeed smalls; the large size has three pieces of that size. I didn't see Miss Dot Domilise there, although it appeared to be her daughter and perhaps granddaughter making poor boys there that day. Miss Dot would be in her 80s now, and I hope she's doing well, and having a well-deserved rest after making hundreds of poor boys every day since long before I can remember. If you've never eaten here, you're missing out. Compromise. Yeah, it pretty much sucked, and means that right wing nutcases Priscilla Owen, Rogers-Brown and Pryor will be appeals court judges now. It's a good sign, however, that the right wingnutosphere is apoplectic, and radical cleric James Dobson, whose puppet Senator Bill Frist is firmly ensconced in his pocket, had this to say: "This Senate agreement represents a complete bailout and betrayal by a cabal of Republicans and a great victory for united Democrats. Only three of President Bush's nominees will be given the courtesy of an up-or-down vote, and it's business as usual for all the rest. The rules that blocked conservative nominees remain in effect, and nothing of significance has changed. Justice Clarence Thomas, Justice Antonin Scalia, and Chief Justice William Rehnquist would never have served on the U. S. Supreme Court if this agreement had been in place during their confirmations. The unconstitutional filibuster survives in the arsenal of Senate liberals. "We are grateful to Majority Leader Frist for courageously fighting to defend the vital principle of basic fairness. That principle has now gone down to defeat. We share the disappointment, outrage and sense of abandonment felt by millions of conservative Americans who helped put Republicans in power last November. I am certain that these voters will remember both Democrats and Republicans who betrayed their trust." I can't wait until they find some dirt on this dirtbag, and take him out of the political scene. Meanwhile, Kos advises us to look at the cold, hard facts:
Now, depending on what the definition of "extraordinary circumstances" is, and who thinks they get to define that with certainty, we could be in for this fight all over again. This is yet more demonstrations that the Republicans do not want to govern; they want to rule. Vote Democratic in 2006. [ Link to today's entries ]
Cinnabar, 1993-2005. Our favorite area restaurant closed last Sunday night, and we had our final meal there a week ago tonight. We're very sad. 
Cinnabar, owned by siblings Alvin and Flame Simon and helmed by their "Magic Chef" Damon Bruner, served its last meals and drinks last Sunday night after 12 years of business in Glendale. Although they did great business on weekends, they couldn't get enough people to come during the week, and made the decision to close several weeks ago. We first found Cinnabar via Dr. Cocktail, who recommended them to us as a great place to get well-made and classic cocktails (one of the few). Our first visit there was just to drink, and we weren't disappointed. They were one of the only places in Los Angeles (if not the only one) serving Sazeracs. Their cocktail menu included classics like the Sidecar, as well as 1930s-era cocktails from New York and tropical concotions from Cuba (such as the Hotel Nacional Special). The bar itself had some history as well; it was rescued from the now-demolished Chinatown bar Yee Mee Loo's, and according to Doc, it was once a prop in a 1930s-era movie. 
As we were drinking during our first visit some other people sitting next to us at the bar ordered food, and as soon as it was set down in front of them the aroma wrapped around our heads and nearly drove us mad. What we were smelling was perhaps the restaurant's signature dish, the Spicy Lemongrass Bouillabaisse, which I'll describe a bit later on. It was a dish that (as far as I know) Chef Damon had inherited from his predecessor, but it led us straight into the rest of his own wonderful cooking. We quickly became regulars, and not just for drinks. We loved ever single dish we ever ate there, and when I was trying to behave myself during my major weight-loss period, we could still dine at Cinnabar because many of their entrées came in what they called a "half-order", which was more like two-thirds, and was a perfect amount of food. We got to know the owners, bartenders and servers, and were happily greeted by name whenever we arrived. When we sent friends there, and they said they were friends of ours, Flame once exclaimed, "Oh, Chuck and Wes! I can hardly keep those two out of here!" We felt at home there, we felt happy there, but apparently we (and many others) didn't go there often enough. As they say, I suppose all good things come to an end. (Goddammit.) As it turned out, though they were always busy on the weekends, they hardly had anyone coming during the week. Special events held on weeknights always sold well, but it apparently wasn't enough. Several weeks before we left for Jazzfest we got an email from Flame via their mailing list, saying that from then on the restaurant would be closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, and we thought that was a bad sign. Then, while we were at Fest, I checked my email and, at the bottom of the message about their upcoming Mother's Day event, was this: What else is there to say? We immediately emailed some friends and made plans to have two more dinners there, on the next two Saturdays after we got back from New Orleans. The first Saturday's dinner was with Dr. and Nurse Cocktail, and unfortunately I forgot my camera so I have no pictures of that meal. Fortunately, though, Doc had his Treo phone/PDA camera with him -- only 640x428 resolution and no flash, and we were in the dark, but we made do. Almost everything we had that evening was ordered the following week as well, with a couple of exceptions, including one of our favorite Cinnabar desserts, simple yet lovely: Chocolate Fondue, a little ramekin of a dark, dense sauce consisting of lots of melted chocolate and cream, kept warm above a votive candle, with fresh fruits for dipping. 
There was one other notable dish that night, served when it was far too dark for the camera phone and which we didn't order the following Saturday, so no pictures. My description will have to do: Northern Pacific Oysters, half a dozen on the half-shell, topped with an ice-cold pickled ginger and sake granita. This was one of Wes' favorite dishes at the restaurant; he never ceased to rave about it. Usually he just had one, as an intermezzo during one of Damon's tasting menus (five courses, typically, for about $45). This time it was a whole plateful of them, and he and Doc gobbled them down. I, alas, thought I would not. I love oysters in every form -- fried, broiled, baked, stewed, in oyster dressing or gumbo or other soups -- except raw. I just can't do the raw oyster thing, as much as I want to. Maybe it's something I can build up to throughout my life, but right now and for the last 30 years I just haven't been able to do it. I did end up having one ... and the flavor was wonderful, but there's just something about the texture of a raw oyster that's still off-putting to me. I must get to work on that. The mood was more jovial than we had expected. We were delighted to dine with Ted and Janet, of course, but when Flame came by our table she seemed to be in a great mood. It seems that she, Alvin and Damon had been discussing the possibility of closing for a long time, and made the decision to close a year ago; it was only a question of when, and when was announced with just over three weeks' notice. That made it more jarring for us, but she seemed to have made her peace with it. That made us feel a bit better, but only a bit. What made us feel the best was the grand company, the terrific drinks, and the fabulous food. The following Saturday we returned for what was to be our last meal at Cinnabar, and this time forgetful eejit Chuck didn't forget the camera. Robb and Jaason joined us, and the meal was on. Oddly enough, in all the years we had been dining there, Wes and I had never tried the drink that Cinnabar inherited from Yee Mee Loo along with their bar, perhaps because we're skeptical of blue drinks in general (unless we're really in the mood for one, which is infrequent) and more so of drinks named after toilet cleaning products. However, since this was our last chance, we had The Infamous Yee Mee Loo Tidy Bowl: 
Yep, that's one blue bleepin' drink, all right. Doc was right; it was the least of the drinks on the menu. What did it taste like? Blue. And rum. And a little citrus (the blue curaçao, of course). Blue rum drink. That's about it. But now, we can say that we've had one. Time for a real drink after that -- the Cinnabar Negroni. Former bartender Jason (we think) came up with this variation on the standard Negroni, which is equal parts gin, sweet vermouth and Campari, and we find the variation to be superior. Not only do we find it so, but Gary Regan found it to be good enough to publish in his book New Classic Cocktails, immortalizing it in print forever. Here's the recipe, with our latest bitters specification:
That, my friends, is a kick-ass drink, a kicked-up Negroni that'll tickle your palate as a near-perfect aperitivo to your meal. Make your Negronis this way and not only will you like it better (I predict), but you'll help keep the memory of Cinnabar alive. Okay, our palates perched and ready to go, we dove into the menu. The signature appetizer at Cinnabar never appeared on the menu, for some reason. We didn't care; we always knew to ask for it, and in fact we ordered it nearly every time we dined there, often splitting it before each ordering our own starters. If we'd forget about it, our servers Jessica or Chris would always remind us. These were the No-Ri Rolls: Slices of sashimi-grade tuna rolled up around a spear of asparagus with a strip of nori (seaweed) on the outside, then dipped in a tempura batter and fried just long enough to crisp up the batter and cook the very outside edge of the tuna, leaving most of the tuna raw. This was served with a spicy mayonnaise-based dressing and shredded carrots and daikon with sprouts. 
So simple, yet so wonderful in flavor, the whole far surpassing the sum of its parts. Such a lovely thing deserves a close-up, I should think: 
I felt like splurging. This was to be our last meal there, so let's not skimp on anything. I had tried just about every starter on the menu save one, primarily because of its expense. As it turned out, $15.50 was a pittance for what may be the best thing on their starter menu; as gorgeous as all the dishes are, this one absolutely knocked my socks and shoes off: Pan-Smoked Lobster, with baby field green salad, soy sauce, ginger and scallions. The lobster was amazing, slightly smoky and impossibly tender, just as tender as the butter-poached lobster we had had a few months back, courtesy of the recipe from Chef Thomas Keller of The French Laundry. I daresay that I may like pan-smoked lobster better than butter-poached. The dressing was spicy-tangy-gingery; in my humble opinion, a Platonic dish. 
Robb and Jaason split a dish that we ordered the previous week, one that we had enjoyed very much: Spicy Sizzling Calamari Salad, with cilantro, mint, peanuts and lime juice. It's so nice to have calamari not-fried, which is how so many places prepare it. This was stir-fried in a wok, Chinese-style, but with Thai flavors and seasonings. Beautiful. 
For my final entrée I chose something that had appeared on and disappeared from the menu at various times, and I was glad to catch it one last time; it's one of my favorite salmon preparations ever. Sesame-Crusted Wild Alaskan King Salmon, with wasabi mashed potatoes and lobster coconut-curry sauce. This, along with dishes like the bouillabaisse and lobster, are perfect representations of the California-French-Asian fusion that's executed so perfectly by Chef Damon. The black and white sesame seeds provide a perfect crunchy crust and creamy, nutty flavor; the salmon is perfectly cooked; the broth, based on a classic French lobster stock becomes Asian-tropical with the coconut milk-based mild Thai-style red curry sauce, with an up-your-nose zing from the wasabi in the potatoes, but not so much as to cause the exquisite pain I usually seek from wasabi and horseradish, with the potatoes anchoring the dish in creamy, American comfort food. And it's all perched atop some kale, green beans and a stack of batonnets of other veggies, so that I'll grow up to be big and strong. 
That was washed down with a glass of Sonoma Pinot Noir, the name of which sadly escapes me, but a Pinot was perfect for this dish. Wesly couldn't have anything as his final Cinnabar meal other than the restaurant's signature dish -- the Spicy Lemongrass Bouillabaisse, with fresh crab, sea scallops, rock shrimp, lobster and fish of the day, with glass noodles in a lobster, lemongrass and Asian lime leaf broth. It's absolutely amazing, incredibly aromatic, spicy indeed and delicious in the same way a good gumbo is, with many layers of flavors playing off each other like musicians in a symphony orchestra. It killed me not to get this, but I was in a mood for something else. I had the perfect solution, though -- I had Chris ask Chef to pack up an order of it to go, and I'd have it for lunch the next day. I couldn't let it pass me by either, 'cause it's also a Platonic dish. 
Robb had a dish that I had been very fond of, variations of which appeared on the menu now and again, and of course, the dish is made magical by the very first words that describe it: Bacon-Wrapped Swordfish Medallions with garlic mashed potatoes and whole-grain mustard cream. My own particular favorite rendition of this dish featured bacon-wrapped medallions of monkfish, which I love even more than swordfish. 
Jaason had what I had last week with Doc and Nursie, although then it was too dark to get a decent picture with the camera phone. My splurgey mood last week (although the dish wasn't really expensive) was to have something truffley, and since one of my other favorite fish was being served in a truffley manner, it was a no-brainer: Panko and Herb-Crusted Alaskan Halibut with grilled celery root purée and black truffle cream. "Cream sauce!" shrieked my inner WeightWatchers counselor. "Cream sauce, cream sauce!" "Feck off," I retorted to my inner WeightWatchers counselor, and beat him over the head with my inner rubber truncheon until he retreated into my inner coat closet, whimpering and cursing, whereupon I then locked him in. Presumably Jaason had no such inner struggle. 
They looked at and ate the food, and saw that it was good, and after the third course, they rested. (Then we had Chris take a picture of the table, and I had a dopey look on my face.) 
Okay, enough rest. Time for dessert! They mostly speak for themselves, such as Wes' choice: Lemon Bread Pudding, with green tea ice cream, raspberry and mango sauces. That's a glass of late harvest Riesling next to it. 
Jaason got another old favorite, and the one with the best name: "Chocolate Air Cake ... on a Drunken Cloud". A light-textured, almost fluffy but rich chocolate cake with a densely chocolatey topping, atop a Grand Marnier-flavored whipped cream. Oy. 
Robb got another favorite (but they're all our favorites ... how the feck do we have a favorite when they're all our favorites?): Warm Banana Spring Rolls with chocolate sauce and vanilla bean ice cream. 
Finally, mine; the only one on the menu I had never tried before, and finally ordered at the recommendation (urging, really) of our server Chris. I'm really glad I listened to him. Rustic Apple Tart à la mode, with caramel sauce, sort of the poor man's Tarte Tatin and incredibly tasty. The 20-year-old Taylor Fladgate tawny port I drank with it as lovely, lovely, lovely. 
And with that, we were finished. I managed not to cry, as I feared I would. I also managed to have as wonderful a Cinnabar experience as any I'd had before -- great drinks, great food, great friends, in a warm, friendly atmosphere. Places like that are damned scarce these days, particularly right by your neighborhood. Flame and Alvin are done, apparently, but |
