I visited Ox & Stone as a whimsical choice. It stands in the most fashionable area of the city on Alexander in the building that Bamba Bistro used to occupy. It never would have crossed my mind, but after having a conversation with the friend of a friend, I decided to start putting my apprehension aside and try unusual things.

Side note: I recently went back to my omnivorous state after being vegetarian for three years. I was completely set against eating meat and still believe that it makes sense in many ways. But that is not what this article is about. It’s about delving into new ideas around food. And I needed to make that change in order to continue with my career.

The experience that I had at Ox & Stone was exceptional. Each item was impeccably prepared and authentic to the Mexican culture with a bit of American influence. It was unique without being ostentatious. My friend (another adventurous eater), and I arrived at the restaurant in a rushed state after being fifteen minutes late for our 8:45 reservation. As I apologized relentlessly to the manager, he smiled and led us into the beautiful dining room. The ambiance reflected an 1800s Mexico. Sconces on the wall hung with graceful chandeliers dimly lit to emphasize the brilliance of the food. Despite our tardiness, we were given a larger table than we needed or deserved. The manager himself watered our table right away, and shortly after, our server greeted us. She was friendly without being overbearing, and knew her menu very well. I asked for a “mocktail” and he ordered the Hemingway, a rich white rum based drink. The bartender chose a muddled strawberry and strawberry leaf drink with soda water. I was surprised as I sipped, noting that while it wasn’t sweet like most non-alcoholic drinks, it was unpredictably satisfying.

On to the most important part: the meal. I first asked our server for suggestions, and she chose the expected “customer favorites.” I’ve had enough favorites. I’m done with butternut squash soup garnished with some sort of nut, sage, and browned butter. I’m finished with beets and goat cheese. I’m over the apple walnut salad. So I replied to her suggestions by asking what her favorites are. And those made up my choices for the evening.

I started with Pozole – a Mexican hominy soup with lots of fresh jalapeno and herbs. It was clean and bright, useful for cleansing the palate. Going with my no-bounds theme of the evening, fried pigs ears were next on the menu, served with (both house-made) barbeque sauce and aioli. I was no doubt afraid for my first cartilage-consuming bite. But tearing into the shattering crispness, I abandoned all my fears. And after dipping the slice into the spicy mayo, I was in love with this foreign food. The mayo added to the richness, while the clove-spiced ketchup, with its acidity and complimentary sweetness, made my lips pucker. The calamari was fried in a cornmeal batter, and then served with an avocado crema and their spicy house hot sauce. It seemed deliberate that the flavors were all meant to heat then cool the mouth. I then tried the Chile Rellenos. A fat Poblano chile peppers were roasted, filled with Oaxaca queso blanco, then breaded and deep-fried in a course masa flour batter. The sweet chile sauce once again demonstrated the perfect spicy-sweet balance so common in Mexican cuisine. The richness of the cheese was cut by that salsa and completely changed the character of the dish.

We then tried a special. Seared snapper with a black bean purée, smashed plantains, and garnished with sliced red onion and tomatillos cut into wedges. I’ve always been obsessed with the sides accompanied on a plate – and these did not fail to impress. The black bean purée was blanketed at the bottom of the plate. Its smoothness kept deceiving me and I thought I might have misheard our server. The skins usually present in any bean purée were simply non-existent. The plantains were sweet and pillowy. The snapper sitting prettily atop the mashed plantains had the perfect crispy skin we are always searching for. It was seasoned with just enough salt so that it left my tongue singing, wanting more. And in the nature of the rest of the dishes I had already indulged in, the raw tomatillos and sliced red onion left me refreshed and entranced by the meal that lay behind me.

My stomach protested so much at even the mention of dessert and I decided it would be a perfect reason to visit again. Unexpected turned out to be exquisite. And I’ll maybe even try the crickets next time.

Ox & Stone
282 Alexander St.
Rochester, NY 14607
Phone: 585-287-6933

Comfort food: pork chops with applesauce, roasted chicken, pot roast, steak and potatoes. Most of these classics include meat. Now restaurants are coming up with inventive yet classically comforting ways to use food that was once seen as only a replacement for the "real stuff." Instead of using tofu as merely a protein source, we are starting to see the use of it in dishes, accentuating the product rather than covering it up with sauces and encrusting it with spices. More restaurants are tending to the population that may not lead vegetarian lifestyles, but want to eat healthier or be more spontaneous with their meal choices. Asian cultures use these "substitute" proteins as a very large part of their diet, and the US is finally jumping on the bandwagon realizing that it can be interesting. I just read an article on the chef at my last internship site, Grace (Portland, ME), plating tempeh with braised collard greens, carrot marmalade, and lime pickle. Some are too close-minded to see the beauty in a dish like this.f As children, we are told to try this and that, making faces at the green things and smiling at the ice cream. But even as adults, we need to remind ourselves to test new things. Food is all about experimentation. 

Right now, I'm trying to come up with a new dish to replace the Curry plate on the menu that is past its prime. I thought of an Indian recipe I've made in the past: kitchari, an ayurvedic dish loaded with good things for the entire body. It is fragrant with spices, yet each and every one can be differentiated on the palate. I want to pair this with braised chard, and a date-tamarind chutney. When trying to brainstorm the dish that would fit most with our menu, I thought of doing a crispy tofu tikka masala dish. I then presented this idea to Annie, and she said that the population coming to Greens generally does not order anything with tofu. And to that I say, let's make them enjoy it! Let's do something so good with this product that they want to order it. We could introduce it first as an inexpensive first course. Maybe I'm crazy and maybe this idea is completely out of the spectrum of good business practice, but there has to be a way to educate this country on the wonders of vegetarian protein. What better way than to give them the opportunity to put something in their mouth!

Below is the article from Flood's Tempeh dish, and a picture that I took (stole) from the site.

http://www.pressherald.com/2014/10/22/vegetarian-kitchen-tempeh-remains-unfamiliar-to-many-american-cooks/

While I've been busy working away, I haven't kept up with my internship homework required for finishing my program. So today, while on the bus going back to San Francisco from Truckee, I decided to dedicate this trip to the task.

I started the internship with more confidence than I've had in the past. My first day at Grace I spent cowering in the corner anxiously awaiting what daunting task my chef asked of me. It took me four times and two dozen eggs to make an aioli for goodness' sake! (…And even then, I relied on poor Flood, the Chef de Cuisine, to make it for me.) But this year I chose to make myself seen and heard - I would no longer be a mouse hiding for fear of being incorrect. 

I met Dana, an extern from the CIA in Poughkeepsie, who I had exchanged emails with before and who would be training me. With her black bandana tied around her thick dark brown hair and big eyes with thick lashes, she screamed confidence. She led me to her station, the "hots," that I would be helping with that night. We started by rolling out pizza dough to be assembled with blanched kale and spinach, chopped Greek olives, tomatoes, red onion, asiago, and feta. I was so glad knowing that she would be leading me, a young woman whose brightness shone in each dough she rolled out, in each olive she chopped. Everything looked so easy for her as she chatted to me about the environment of Greens and how she felt about those she worked with and the food she created. Everyone seemed to communicate with ease and a functionality that was clearly practiced. Chef Denny, my sous chef for the evening, explained how the kitchen worked, but allowed me to learn organically, or with the help of Dana. This freedom would follow me throughout the rest of my time at Greens and I believe, helped me gain a better understanding of both the kitchen, and my own strengths and weaknesses. 

With merely an hour left before the required break time (a new concept!), Dana put on the Rancho Gordo beans and tomatillo sauce to be seasoned and heated before settling in the steam kettle for service. We then set up the station, quickly slicing avocados, gathering utensils, and getting ready for "test plates." Annie and Denny would taste each dish to ensure its quality every night right before we went on break, then give us a commentary on their thoughts, whether it be praise or needed areas of improvement. 

In the coming days, I would learn how difficult finishing up the pizzas would be. Rolling out the doughs alone took such a long time for me. It would take me another three weeks before I really was able to get my station set up in time without needing help from another cook. The frustration I felt in this kept me from enjoying my time at the beginning of service, at 5:30. I felt completely hopeless and disappointed. I constantly doubted myself, saying, "I should have been faster! I should have been more efficient!" Ironically, when I started accepting help and advice, I was able to quiet my mind and therefore work with a speed I had not seen in myself, even while at NECI. 

At NECI, I always felt down-graded, as though I was less than other students. I was never able to keep up with them, despite my making lists and obsessive organization. In fact, this seemed to hold me up more, as I was constantly interrupted by my own pressing thoughts. Now looking back, I felt that I was never given enough time to feel comfortable enough with my station. I was always a step behind because I naturally need time to adjust to change. I have never been one to blindly jump in; I always want to fully understand and plan for the tasks ahead. My perfectionism, while helpful in some circumstances, has always been an issue for the pace at which I work. 

Now that I have become accustomed to all the parts of the station Dana has taught me, I can finally breathe and feel proud of myself rather than putting myself down for being too slow, too careless, too untimely. I thank Dana for a lot of this progress. She helped me to understand that everyone is like me at first, unsure of oneself, maybe asking too many questions. And I will get to a better place, it just may take a few misshaped doughs, a few pots of beans with burnt bottoms until I get to a comfortable point in which my confidence gleams like Dana's does. Ultimately, I have learned that I will get there - even if the destination is far away and my steps are slow - I will get there. 

As I have progressed with work, I have failed to do something that I love with all my heart: write. The past two weeks have brought pressure of an unequivocal sort. I have the same schedule every day waking up to the sirens below or the hair dryer relentlessly screaming  in the room beside me. I trample downstairs to the tiny gym and try to energize my sore self for the day ahead; the day that brings running and shouting, drenched in sweat, pulling the rope of concentration until its thread nearly breaks. I am proud to say that I can run a station independently at this point. Though I still struggle to be sure of having each ladle in place, each herb chopped, each ramekin filled in time for 5:00, I am like the turtle, finally catching up to the rabbit. Slowly, I tell myself, I will get there; I will get to the point in which break represents the cool breaths I take with the knowledge of preparation being finished - a new piece of the day in sight. 

I am sometimes told I move too fast, spinning around, physically imitating the thoughts in my head. And then I hear a voice beside me, Mr. U., telling me to slow down and breathe, telling me to listen and silence myself. Mr. U. has been working at Greens for years, extending the length of his employment not for the money or convenience, but because he loves his job. He began working at the restaurant about thirty years ago, when Greens was just emerging as one of the finest vegetarian places in the States, beside Moosewood in Ithaca, NY (a mere two hours from my home in Rochester; why I have failed to visit escapes me). Mr. U. seems to perfectly exemplify the Buddhist mentality he has towards life. He moves slowly, but with precision and grace. He desires to learn despite his deep canyon of knowledge. I look to him and see a wise man with peace engrained in each pore. When he teaches me how to season the beans or set up my mess of a station, I listen with the intent to soak up each word like bread doused in the sweet eggy custard of french toast. I look to him for guidance in the crazy world of a restaurant. Mr. U. reminds me of why I love the food I create at Greens: I am making something beautiful for the enjoyment of another being. He seems to pray with each dish he creates - only wishing for the love one will receive and thanking the world for the love he receives. In the middle of chaos, I glance beside me at a man with a smile beneath his lips and am reminded to regain my serenity.

My station has now become busier than ever. Along with the pizza (now it is fresh fig and goat cheese with walnuts and caramelized onions - my favorite, by far) and Spanish pupusas, we've introduced a new dish to the ever-changing menu: the Curry. On the plate lies a glossy sauce of coconut milk, cilantro, spinach, and Indian spices. I sear a round cake of coconut risotto yielding a crispy outer shell and place that on the outside of the plate. Next, I sauté green beans, snow peas, and yellow wax beans with olive oil, shallots, ginger, and (of course) salt, only slightly caramelizing the vegetables'  skin. I spoon a relish of cucumber and tomato, the heady perfume of thai basil playing with one's senses, inviting guests to question the lesser-known herb. I angle grilled eggplant (shout out to Aunt Patti!) and summer squash on the risotto cake. Garnishing the plate goes a crumble of spiced peanuts and toasted panko breadcrumbs - this always reminds me of the streusel at the top of my mother's apple crisp; we always look forward to the crack of it in our mouths. And now I want a bowl of apple crisp. Perfect. 

At last, I am beginning to find comfort in the kitchen, regardless of the loud clanking of plates, the smells of hot oil, the roar of orders, and my thunderous reply. And while all of this is happening, I forget what the real world is like, for this four hours of service, I am strapped into the seat of another reality, where only aprons and kitchen-speak exist, singing pans replace crickets and windows are the only escape. Within this four hours, I am only like a worker bee making sparkling honey for my queen. Instead though, I am Abby, and I have thousands of queens - all who enter through the heavy oak doors of Greens. 

Changes are happening within myself. I see the world around me through different eyes, the eyes of someone a bit more enlightened than last year. Then, I loved the city, being entranced by the danger and excitement of loads of people surrounding me. I used to dream of running through the busy streets in heels, heading off to a fashionable office job and going to dinner at a beautifully adorned restaurant. Now that I have been introduced to city life, my vision of it has been altered. The streets are busy, yes, but they are dirty, filled with drug addicts and garbage. The office job will only be in years to come. And the dinners can only be afforded by those who make millions a year because the price of living here is equal to the skyscrapers in which they inhabit. While I once viewed San Francisco as a picturesque image of sunny avenues and gorgeous people, I now hear the deafening car horns, the screaming; I smell the cigarettes and exhaust; I see blankets balled up on the sidewalk waiting until nighttime when some homeless person needs to sleep. 

Each time I escape to Truckee, I am immersed by nature. I see trees and water all around. And best of all, it is quiet. I never valued silence so much until I went to San Francisco, and to be able to abandon that is blissful. Now, instead of the ideals I held in the past of being a person constantly in a state of hurry, I feel an ever-growing need for the tranquility of the wild. While Mr. U. has led me to recognize when I need to breathe and cease thinking for even thirty seconds, I have learned that subjecting myself to the life I would endure in a city would be suffocating and completely negate the way I strive to live. Of course I will make every effort to seek the good in San Francisco, but I will no doubt look forward to each weekend I spend in the euphoria I experience in Truckee.

Here we are. I feel like I've been here far longer than a nineteen days. I'm finally beginning to learn the complicated, but easy! (I am told…) bus system. And getting around has made me a more confident San Franciscan (can I say that yet?). I do admit, I am an annoying newcomer asking people constantly for directions, but I do make it to my destination. 

Saturday was by far the most stressful night of the week. The Prix Fixe menu was repetitive for the hot side (the station I had trained for) as we only had to prepare the Poblano Chile, but was an absolute train wreck for the cold side. While this station prepared solely the Garden Salad, it was responsible for plating each and every dessert. And because of this special Saturday night menu, each person's meal includes a dessert. The person working on the station was incapable of working with efficiency and organization, and I was responsible to assist him in scooping each sphere of ice cream, carefully moving each piece of cake to a clean plate, then drizzling each sauce on the correct plate. While desserts may seem innocently sweet, they have a dark side in the restaurant. We have to prioritize first courses, but not let desserts get too far ahead of us. Anyway, Saturday was torturous. And I came in the following day hoping for a more peaceful night, which I thankfully was able to receive. I stayed up far too late that evening, talking to Mason. He and I are now seeing each other, and I visited the next day, waking up at 5:00 AM to catch the Greyhound to Truckee, where Mason lives in a house with three other [crazy but hilarious] boys. After 5-and-a-half hours, sitting in the leather seats of the bus, listening to a man snoring loudly, I arrived in downtown Truckee. I blushed as Mason gave me a dozen fragrant pink roses, my first bouquet from a boy. Small-town restaurants, including the Bar of America (the one with the crappy pizza dough), Mexican joints, a famous diner (Jax at the Tracks), and a few expensive places filled the streets with plenty of people roaming around enjoying the sunshine. I realized then how much I missed the bright blue skies and warmth of the towns of California, rather than the smog, fog, loud cars, and tall buildings I was experiencing in San Francisco. I love it in this city, but I cannot see myself living here forever: I could never be one of the many elderly people sitting on the red plastic seats of the lurching busses. City life is just not maintainable for someone like me: one who values nature just as much as culture. A mixture of the two is my goal for the future. My ultimate dream is to live in the lavender fields of Provence amongst gorgeous food from the marché and  levain from the boulangerie which I would pick up every day and cook for my family. But, this wishful yearning would be far into the future, like the Provençal vines that need time to hone before transforming into wine.  

We went to his house and there I met Dave, Mason's best friend. He, being a very talented cook and all around intellect was incredibly interesting to talk to. He shared with me his French Laundry and Bouchon cookbooks and their shiny pages, then speaking of Thomas Keller's innate OCD. Mason and I left and stopped at Safeway for some of GT's Synergy Kombucha (one of the many things I became addicted to at the Hunger Mountain CO-OP in Vermont). Following that, we visited Reno to pick up some much needed pepper spray; those crazy people scare me so much when I walk home after work, when the homeless and deranged roam the streets searching the trash for food and hunting strangers for a feel-up. Cabela's was like a department store for those who, instead of preying on people, hunt for game. Not only did they sell guns, they sold homemade fudge and roasted cinnamon-sugar-coated almonds! It was a very...interesting experience. The stuffed exotic creatures for the jungle prompted my eyes to water, and I was reminded again why I have chosen to be vegetarian. Later that night, we went to the Drunken Monkey for dinner, where we shared an avocado and cucumber maki roll (Mason was nice enough to order something vegetarian). He had the shallot chili chicken in which the chicken and vegetables were sautéed in a roasted shallot and chili sauce. I chose the singapore street noodles; rice noodles cooked in a broth of cumin, turmeric, and basil. The pungent spices sang in my mouth and each time I cleaned my palate with water, I felt as if it was a new experience all over again. My expectations of the dish, although different than what I had thought, were triumphed. My tastebuds crave another visit. 

The next day, Mason and I woke up at about 5:30 AM. We both were just so adamant on spending the maximum amount of time with one another, so off we went by 8:00 to enjoy more of Truckee's offerings. Mason took me to Kings Beach later that day; the soft rays of the afternoon sun hit our skin with the sweetest touch. We took pictures as I dipped my feet into the shallow cool waters of Lake Tahoe, so fresh and clear. We were hungry and went to the restaurant Mason's friend works at called Old 40. Trent is the head chef there and creates refined diner food. I ordered the Fakie Scramble. The name suggested something…well, fake. But the tofu it was cooked with was far from the flavorless soy product we have all come to know and hate. It was spiced and seasoned, then cooked with vegan sausage, and served with sourdough and fruit.  And this fruit was not soft and coated in syrup, as many diner "fruit cups" are served; it was bright and fresh and naturally sweet. Mason had the "special." I can't recall exactly what it was, but I do remember that it was smothered in a creamy hollandaise and served with the crispiest hash browns I have ever seen. Well done, Trent. He and his girlfriend, Melissa, invited us to go fishing with them after Trent's shift ended. We happily agreed and proceeded to Donner Lake. I immediately jumped in the water, just as refreshing as it had been the first time I went to Lake Tahoe. Melissa caught a Rainbow Trout and I held it in my hand, following her directions to squeeze in order to stop the fish from slapping around. Like Lenny in Of Mice and Men, I squeezed too hard, feeling a bone snap, and crushed the poor fish! We tried to rehabilitate it, but failed as it floated to the surface of the water. Mason cut it and used it as crawfish bait, which we were catching for dinner: gumbo. We left and I ventured into peeling crawfish, which are surprisingly similar to lobsters, much to my surprise. Trent made a roux, which he darkened for the quintessential toasty flavor that always accompanies gumbo. He added shrimp and lots of spices, then we cooked rice to go with it. Although I didn't eat the gumbo, the smell rising from it was enough to fill me. And the rice was cooked well and was buttery, satisfying my moaning stomach. We went to bed late that night, despite our needing to leave by 6:00 AM for my Greyhound home (very bizarre to call San Francisco my home). 

We said goodbye again and again, until finally, it was time for me to leave, and I continued on my six hour trip back to the city. And as soon as I left, I booked another ticket for the next week, so eager to go back to this magical place. 

So, it's been three days since my last post (sorry about that, Mom). I've been enjoying my time at Greens to the absolute extreme. My passion and willingness to grow at this place is so real, it is almost tangible. I sometimes catch myself, furrowing my eyebrows with concentration, devoting myself fully to achieving perfection, and sacrificing my clean white apron in the process. 

I am amazed every day at my progression, even by the hour. I dance every night at work, moving from each dish to the next. Plating one item, then putting another in the oven. Thinking one step ahead, and constantly moving my feet, my entire body, with ease, not even thinking of the pain in my back, my feet, my legs. I feel weightless at that point, and every step is one towards a goal. My chefs anchor me, as they call out orders and I call back, like an African question-and-answer chant. I am not phased by the sounds of clanging pots and pans around me, only hearing them as background music, supporting the singing vegetables, noodles, and curry in pans. We cannot see them, but our audience waits outside to judge the expression of our love for this food: the final decree. 

There are so many parallels between Grace and Greens, these parallels opposing one another's characteristics. There are on total opposite sides of the U.S., one in Portland, Maine, the other in San Francisco, California. One serves an abundance of meat, enriching with delicious fat, while the other is completely vegetarian, with a relatively healthy approach to cooking. Both are very large restaurants with beautiful views, one the inside of a church with pews and cathedral ceilings, an organ; the other filled with tables carved from the giant Redwood trees growing in the forests of the surrounding area. Both are beautiful in there own entirely different ways.  And I believe this certainty allows me to be a better cook, and a more adaptable person in general. 

My chefs are so caring and willing to help. Chef Denny briefly explained what I would be doing my first day, and that basically was to assist Dana, the extern from the Culinary Institute of America in Poughkeepsie, New York. I would be helping prepare the Greek pizzas,  consisting of sliced red onion, blanched (and fervently squeezed with layers of cheesecloth, then seasoned with rosemary and lemon zest), asiago cheese, chopped Kalamata olives, diced tomatoes, and feta. On the station we would be plating the Poblano peppers stuffed with corn, quinoa, goat cheese, and herbs, and serving it alongside beans, tomatillo sauce, a bright salsa, crème fraîche, and a fan of buttery avocado. We would also be composing a dish of pupusas, or a thick, soft, handmade corn tortilla, filled with summer squash, spring onions, serrano chilies, pumpkin seeds, smoked cheddar and cilantro. Complementing this would be salsa rosa, pickled vegetables, herb salad, and more California avocados. Most of the produce here is from organic, local farmers. All of the fruit and vegetables are so beautiful. The close connections with the farmers can be easily viewed each time they drop off their orders. They come in with a cup of coffee in hand, everyone greeting and thanking them for their care in the products they present each week. Ed greeted me yesterday, saying hello, and introducing himself as the peach man from Blossom Bluff Orchards. We grill his peaches simply, only drizzling with Snyder's (another bee farmer's) honey, Belweather Dairy's fromage blanc, and watercress. This dish demonstrates the rustic approach in which Greens has created their menu. No, the restaurant does not create gastronomical experiments, but they choose wonderful ingredients and showcase them with simplicity, not having to try because the components of each dish speak for themselves. 

I am so delighted to be a part of this kitchen: one that resonates with the ways I feel about food. While I appreciate modern gastronomy, I don't wish to make it a part of each day. I do admit that sometimes I feel intimidated by my colleagues at school who masterfully plate dishes with a magnifying glass and tweezers in hand. But then I think back to my own beliefs. The roots of my life are shown through my cooking; it is comfortable, not cocky, and create memories through the food and the love the chef puts into it, not the chef who morphed the food into something it is not meant to be. 

The positive re-enforcement I receive from the chefs and line cooks around me appease something that has always been inside my heart. I cannot silence my need for feeling respected and appreciated. This only motivates me to move forward and work even harder. I am exhausted at the end of every shift, but am ecstatic to be well-liked. I only hope I can impress them further. Everyday my goal is to improve. And I will get there. I know I will. 

I chose the title of this post because of a book I read by Lisa See with the same title. My cousin, Chuck bought me her new book, China Doll, which I am so excited to delve into. Dreams of joy refers to the path I'm taking right now: changing my dreams into actualities.

Monday, my new friend and roommate, Marion, took me all around the city. We first went to Japantown. She showed me all the stalls filled with people shouting in Japanese, forcing me to practically fall over. Even the banks were employed with Japanese men and women and as I pushed open the door to ask if there was a bathroom I could use, she politely directed me across the street, behind a bakery. Little did I know that she was pointing to the town square. Marion and I walked quickly across the chaotic road and entered the square, where we saw groups of elderly men and women sitting on crates and cardboard boxes, playing cards. 

I tapped my foot waiting in the long line for the dingy bathroom with only one working stall. All of the sudden, I felt something warm hit my arm. And as I looked down, I felt something else hit the top of my forehead. Then I realized: I had just been hit by the droppings of a pigeon! I screamed "EW!" at the top of my lungs, and the other women laughed. All I could do was join in. It really was hilarious. A bird just pooped on me, for goodness' sake! I scrubbed my arm in the tiny bathroom sink with an old abused mirror and no soap. Could the day get any more interesting? Marion waited for me outside, and I told her. She was astonished and the Israeli man with his adorable three-year-old said, "They say it's good luck!" And I again laughed: one of my first experiences in San Francisco, and I was pooped on! It must have been fate!

After that experience, I was ready to move out of Japantown and somewhere new. So she suggested Chinatown and I was captivated. I had been to New York City's Chinatown with all it's fake designer bags and begging men who whispered "Prada, Dior, Gucci" under their breath. But I've heard many good things about San Francisco, and one of those is its Chinatown. Food was everywhere. Shops were filled with it, priced at numbers one cannot imagine. I picked up some fruit at a bustling shop where no one spoke English. I saw a sign for 49-cent strawberries. Say it isn't so! I thought I misread, but motioning to one of the store's workers, he verified the price doing the universal language of hand motion. Marion and I happily walked out with our purchases. (An aside: I tried the strawberries last night and they were absolutely delicious.) Marion chose one of the many bakeries and picked out two egg tarts and a lotus bean roll. The way they were made showed the craft and experience these women have; they have been doing this for their whole lives. We went in store after store, most of the time not buying, just looking. And while I did see some cheap luggage, there was not a faux bag in sight. Unlike New York, these people were not pretenders, but seemed to have a different West-coast air about them; a genuineness that comes from the ease of the Pacific waters. 

Marion and I walked out the gates of Chinatown, and amazingly, across the corner was an extremely different area. Men and women in business suits and heels walked with a purpose and destination. Haute couture appeared on mannequins in shiny glass windows. Security guards sternly eyed the crowd. Tourists were looked at annoyingly, separating those who knew the city, and those who didn't (me). I felt rejoiced to enter a place that I knew: H & M. Phew. 

We went in some more shops, and even though my feet were screaming in pain, I wanted to explore more. Realizing that we had ignored our hunger for long enough, we went to the King of Thai restaurant. She ordered the Green Curry with vegetables and steamed rice, while I ordered (my favorite) the Pad Thai. We split each, and both were delicious. The curry had a heat that was welcomed with the flavor of the coconut milk sauce. Over the rice, it made a thick sort of con jee, rice gruel, something that I learned from reading Lisa See's books. My pad thai proved to be all that it claimed. Stir fried rice noodles were accompanied by chopped eggs, and marinated and fried tofu. It was seasoned with garlic, shallots, red chili powder, and soy sauce, and finished with bean sprouts and peanuts. I quickly sprinkled more peanuts from the center of the table and enjoyed the dish, filled with each sense of taste: salty from the soy sauce, sweet from the palm sugar, umami also from the peanuts, sour from the garnish of lime, and bitter from the herbs. It was by far the best pad thai I have ever eaten. But then again, it seems that California is the paramount of all foods (except of course, pizza [insert laugh]). 

Marion had to leave for her class at the gym, but I laid down in bed and thought some more about this city and all it's offerings. I was dreaming of Joy. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and energetic. Today would be the day that I finally got to meet Chef Annie Somerville, the person I would be working with all summer to learn more about the kitchen, as well as myself. 

I spent a few hours Skyping my friend, Mason, and finally got myself dressed up for the tour of Greens. I slipped into my sheer pink blouse, teal pencil skirt, and brown wedge heels. I dared to walk to the bus stop with my phone attached to my ear, asking Mason for the thirtieth time where I needed to go. The bus was filled up to the extreme with people of all sorts: different races, classes, and cultures. I rushed off the bus, grabbing my (quintessential) decaf-venti-iced-americano-light-ice, and spinach-feta egg white wrap. I grabbed a bus to Fort Mason, where I searched and searched (in my 5-inch sandals, mind you) for the restaurant, until I found a woman who looked sane, and knew where she was going. I thanked her when she told me to just "go down that hill." And a hill it was. In fear of falling the entire time, I walked down the steep stairs. 

I screamed inside with delight when I saw the "Greens" sign. And I even was ten minutes early! I did it! (Acknowledgments to Mason, the bus driver, and the power-walker who pointed me in the right direction.) 

Annie's happy face was so welcome after my courageous trip to the restaurant. She held out her hand to shake mine, and I embraced her instead. I'm more of a hugger anyways. She led me into the kitchen where I met many Mexican men by names like Carlos and Edgar. They prepared brochettes with undeniably fresh tofu, mushrooms, peppers, and corn. The line cooks were sautéing and grilling, while Marina, the lunch sous-chef, expedited orders. Everyone was working hard, but, like the last time I entered the kitchen, smiling brightly. 

Annie and I ended my tour with her talking to me about my experiences. She reassured me that every question is a good question, even if that question has been asked before. She also said that there are plenty of people to support me if I ever need help. I silently sighed in joy. The feelings I got being around her made me lose my fears of working in a restaurant again. My feelings mattered in this kitchen. This place was not one of fear, but one of learning and growing. 

I met Todd Erickson, the man who Annie introduced as, "the man who does everything." This is the person who I would be communicating most with. He was generous with his directions about scheduling and told me ways to get around this big city, sharing personal experiences he has had during his travels in San Francisco. My intuitions were so strong, telling me to move forward and continue this path. 

Before we parted, Annie invited me to go to the farmers' market at the Ferry Building at some point. I was honored. She continued having me shake the hands of new faces, happily greeting me with a "hello!" I left the doors of Greens feeling all the more energized and excited to start the next day. 

I then thought I should take the time to enjoy more of Fort Mason and visited the reader's donation center, where money was raised to support the library system. The clerk who checked out my new book, Elsewhere, a memoir by Richard Russo, was also from Rochester - another new friend. What are the odds that I would come poop-to-arm with a pigeon one day, and the next, meet a woman from the same town? The world sure is a mystery…

I then strode over in my impractical shoes to the Museo Italo Americano, where I gazed at the art of modern Italian artists in this city. Although I only was able to buy a Florentine wallpaper, the woman behind the desk spoke to me with a beautiful Italian accent, not hurried or rushed despite her work. She helped me find my way to a spot that I could sip a smoothie and look at my new pamphlet for Italian classes. And that is what I did when I found The Plant, an organic health food café. I ordered an açai berry protein smoothie with hemp seed and kale, along with a salad I chose all the ingredients for. In my opinion, dressing is what differentiates a good salad from a bad. It could be a very simple lemon vinaigrette, as I had. But if there is too much (which is often what happens), the greens are sabotaged and turn into limp vegetation. But this was perfect. 

And so on went my day. When I finally (and proudly) found my way back to my apartment, despite the lack of battery on my phone, I tore off my sandals and changed into my new Gap Body hoodie (for $15!) and leggings. What a day. And to do it all over again would be my pleasure. 

I heard the screams inside my head telling me to run back to Roseville with Chuck and Jeanine: to just forget about San Francisco entirely. To hide away from life. But I could not turn back at this point - I knew that much was true - even after seeing my filthy unkempt apartment. I entered the musty basement and rode up to the seventh floor while Chuck pushed the cart filled with all the items that would be the only sign of my life before. I twisted the key, and the lock clicked. As I opened the door, I saw the scratched walls, and immediately entered my new room. Black spots stared at me from the matted carpet, worn from years of negligence. The windowsill was covered in an ashy blackness, and opening the drawers to my plastic "dresser," I found black hair and dust. Black seems to have been a theme in the apartment already, leaving me to dreading the blackness of my future in San Francisco. We traversed through the tiny apartment until we found the kitchen. We found a cooked and sliced acorn squash sadly sitting on the counter, dishes waiting to be washed in the sink, and electric burners atop a stove meant to be white at one point. The refrigerator proved no better, filled with Asian market products, dark because of the lack of a lightbulb. Immediately, my thoughts were that I will never be cooking in that place. Enter the bathroom. I see a vanity topped with makeup, beauty products, and toothpaste; and a mirror streaked with water, soap, and other unknown substances. Next to that stood the tub. Mold coated the textured glass doors and the inside was painted in soap scum and yellowness. I dreaded the life I was soon to have here. If home is where the heart is, I think my heart, like the rest of this place, will be blackened too if I continue to live here long enough. I reluctantly set my suitcases on the scummy floor and left, choosing not to think of the moments ahead.


Chuck and I walked in silence to the car, where Jeanine was waiting. I felt like crying, like being swept in my cousin's' arms and taken back home. I am almost twenty years old and I still feel this way. I took several deep breaths and thought to myself, yes, this completely goes against the way I am, staying in an uncomfortable place. But I am coming to realize, now more than ever, that in order to ever be happy, one needs to experience the parts of life that aren't so pretty, and then make them beautiful. 

So we moved forward, driving down the crowded streets to Fort Mason, where I would soon be spending the majority of my time. We walked down the path and my heart jumped when I saw the dark green sign (fittingly) labelled "Greens." The doors opened and inside were polished tables made from sanding redwood trees. The high ceilings shined with the light from the wall of windows where the boats on the Marina sat upon the San Francisco Bay. It was apparent that, despite my living situation, I would at least be able to come to work and view the loveliness of the bay, breathing in the clean ocean air, feeling the Delta Breeze wash over me. We were seated and across from me, laid over the huge expanse of wall was a mural, simple in its scenery but showing all the colors of the San Francisco sky: blues, pinks, and greens. I took the menu and read the brunch choices, my mouth tingling with the anticipation of tasting this food, so detailed in its preparation and ingredients. I stupidly ordered an option that did not even require cooking, save the slow-roasted almonds. But my cheese from the Cowgirl Creamery in Point Reyes, Marin County, berries and honeydew, and walnut levain definitely satisfied me. Chuck ordered the Pinnacles Scramble, a Mexican-inspired dish with scrambled eggs, potatoes, chilies, scallions, cheddar, and cilantro, served with corn tortillas and black bean chili, then dolloped with crème fraîche, and sprinkled with pumpkin seeds. Jeanine ordered the Merguez Poached Eggs, with a summer ragout of zucchini, carrots, English peas and corn, onions and garlic, served alongside crispy grilled polenta (with the char-marks and all), and garnished with goat cheese and cilantro. The freshly-squeezed orange juice was by far, the best I've had in my life - tangy, not overly sweet, and concentrated, with fine pulp. 

When the check came, I asked our server, Jenna, if Chef Annie or Todd, the kitchen manager, were in. Although she came back with a no, she led me into the kitchen where I met Matt, one of the sous-chefs. I was immediately overjoyed to be witnessing a regular Saturday Brunch at the restaurant, and seeing only smiling faces. Everyone was visibly working hard, but looked happy nonetheless. I have a good feeling about this. 

After the glitter of seeing Greens fell to my feet, we walked to the parking lot, bringing me back to my senses about the state of my apartment. As much as I tried to ignore the feeling of disgust pitted in my stomach, it kept creeping up on me, like the goosebumps I felt on my skin as we walked along the chilly Marina. The Bay was brimming with people celebrated the Fourth of July, playing bocci, eating the quintessential hot dogs, and laughing loudly. The fog hung low overhead and I saw the Golden Gate washed with a thin cloud of white. 

I stopped at Safeway to pick up (lots of) cleaning equipment, and headed back to the dreadful O'Farrell Street apartment. I kissed goodbye to Chuck and Jeanine, thanking them over and over for their support and hospitality, and got to work. Armed with purple rubber gloves, Method multi-purpose spray, and a roll of paper towels, I got to work, scrubbing, wiping, and scrubbing again. Organizing my clothes, I folded everything into neat packages, and lining up my shoes in the closet. The Buddhist goddess of love and compassion I hung carefully on the wall, along with my window hanging woven with bright yellow, orange, red, and green. My bed was dressed with new sheets covered in botanical leaves and blankets. This room began to look more like a place of comfort rather than horror.

I then met my roommates, three out of four sweet Korean girls. As they continued talking to me, I felt much better and some of my fears were silenced. As I stood evaluating the work I did, I realized that I completed a huge feat in the self-progress. I was able to persevere through the situation I was given. By no means is this place perfect, but now it is a haven for me. And that will have to do for the time being. 

Two days ago, I stepped into a small Indian restaurant where I was to meet Chuck's friends, Ben, Carole, and Karen. From the outside, I saw an outdated maroon awning  with the name"Mehfil" traipsing its surface. I was disappointed in my cousin's choice, as I was used to the delicious places he always took me to. And, yes, I must admit, I do judge restaurants by the outside. Plus, this was a buffet. Really? I was then imagining an overcrowded joint filled with parents trying to take their screaming kids out to eat (or rather, shut up and sit still) for a dinner filled with sweet-and-sour chicken with that artificial red we have all come to know and love, the doughnuts rolled in loads of sugar, and the pieces of cake that look like they have been manufactured out of a plastic factory. If we want to lie to ourselves to say that it's not so bad for us, we may get an iceberg lettuce salad. Maybe. 


So after that rant, you can see my disgust towards buffet-style restaurants. But this proved me entirely wrong. After a swim that day, my body was exhausted and in serious need of food. I stepped in line expecting the worst, and instead, my nose proved me wrong. I inhaled the scent of curry, remembering recipes I have made in the past with the wondrous mixture of spices: da'al, kitcheri, vegetable curry with coconut milk… I ladled generous amounts of the mustard-colored stews filled with slightly crisp vegetables, the spinach paneer, and the samosas. I was in vegetarian food heaven. I finally gave up to my plate as I had stuffed so much onto it that I was afraid of it falling. (Another reason being that I was embarrassed at the amount of food I would be bringing to the table - and already planning for seconds of the items I missed.)

I sat down on the plastic-upholstered forest-green seat, and began to moan inside at the food going down my throat. The da'al was creamy and somewhat sweet. The spinach paneer had a lovely softness that, when spooned onto the homemade na'an, tasted more velvety, and made me question what the family put into this to make it so smooth and buttery. Speaking of the na'an, it reminded me of my mom's pancakes, browned from the ghee. I am reminded again at my need to make this. The samosas were undoubtedly the best I have ever eaten. They took on their distinct coriander flavor and contrasted every other delicacy with a thick, fried crust that snapped in my mouth as I lovingly chewed. I refreshed my palate with a bright mango lassi. The color implied its freshness as it cooled my mouth, preparing it for another bite of the exquisite food. 

I completed the meal with gulab jamun, a fried dessert made by simmering full-fat milk for hours leaving the milk solids, then rolling them into balls and immersing them in a saffron honey syrup. How can that not  be good? I tried this with gajar ka halwa: a grated carrot dessert with cardamom, cinnamon, pistachios, almonds, condensed milk, and sometimes vark, an edible gold leaf. I washed all this down with a milky chai tea. It was absolutely impeccable. I was extremely full, but it was worth it for the experience in which I partook. And now I know why Chuck and his friends visit this restaurant for its Tuesday night buffet. Americanized mass-produced food waiting in greasy steam-tables it is not. This food is Indian splendor.

As I stared out floating in the endless enigma that is Lake Tahoe, I laughed to myself. I swear, I'm not crazy (well, maybe a little), but I could not imagine that this was a real experience. I viewed it instead as a false utopia; this kind of beauty could only be present in the imagination. I felt the chills on my arms and legs from the chilly water, and glancing beneath me, I could see my feet gliding allow the fine sand. And then I knew: this experience was palpable ecstasy. There would be no way to explain any of it to an outsider; it would be as if I was Alice in Wonderland, waking up from a dream that was reality - unbelievable, yet completely true.

The mountains shone a bluish-green in the distance, fading into nothingness. And beyond that, I could see the outlines of more peaks and valleys. The breeze that danced on the water smelled clean and sweet, like sheets that have been hung to dry outside. 

We stayed there for hours, until I finally gave in to Chuck and headed on the road to Emerald Bay. Mrs. Laura Knight purchased the land in 1928 and designed a 38-room Scandinavian mansion on the bay called Vikingsholm; although I was too exhausted to make the mile trek to view it up-close, I now regret my lack of perseverance, as the pictures I've seen today are absolutely stunning. I imagine large parties filled with guests sipping Gin Sours and Mint Juleps, and I wish I could travel back to the 1930s, when this land was an unknown treasure. 

After taking lots of pictures (of course) and meeting people doing the same, we went to The Bar of America for dinner and both ordered pizza, he having one topped with blue cheese, arugula, granny smith, and pecans, and I having a classic Margherita. Both were good, but I missed my place in Rochester, Rocco. While Chef Mark's crust at Rocco is crispy, chewy, and slightly charred, this was pastry-like with a sour, almost over-proofed flavor. I was again reminded that I need to steal his recipe! But the day made up for this. And I was again amazed at the server's' positivity as she took the time to chat, rather than rushing off in annoyance at my over-talkative excitement. 

We eventually left, getting home at around 10:30. I took a shower, washing all of the dusty Tahoe air off my sandy skin. But my mind seemed to keep rattling and running through the film of the day. And then, like a wind-up doll, I stopped and fell asleep, dreaming of the sun.