Sam’s Cafe, Tiburon

One fine Monday holiday morning Alex and I took the ferry from San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf to Sam’s Cafe at Tiburon, another place Alex likes to ride to for brunch sometimes.

We stepped ashore after a glorious ferry trip across the bay, past the Golden Gate Bridge, in brilliant sunshine. There were lots of people getting off with their bicycles and plenty more seemed drawn to the various, prominent cafes. I followed Alex past them all, turning left at the main street and in through a door to what looked like a small bar, with no view of the harbour. However, beyond the bar and past the indoor tables we walked, out through another door, along a short bridge to a huge deck, entirely covered with tables and people already enjoying coffee and food aplenty. Since this was the only way to get to this deck, I was amazed that all these people knew it was there! Although, if your yacht was moored at Tiburon, you’d see it alright.

Strangely, there were no umbrellas and no shade of any sort. Luckily, Alex had booked a table and we sat down to look at the menu in the pleasant sunshine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The menu seemed very unusual and most interesting. I mean, I have never heard of a crab and shrimp omelette, never mind it being served with a choice of potatoes or fruit. I didin’t know what Hangtown meant and what does “Eggs any style” mean??

Then things got even more interesting! Ok, so now there was Korean kimchi with scrambled eggs and rice….. and roasted poblano…. what’s that? Huevos Rancheros, I was lost with that one but black beans seemed an odd thing to put with cheese, salsa and scrambled eggs!

I went with the one I found most unusual, Roasted Poblano and Alex had the crab and shrimp omelette. The coffee was not espresso but drip filter and topped up endlessly. Everything was beautifully and freshly cooked. I was part way through the delicious scrambled eggs with tomatillo salsa folded through and fetta on top, when I discovered a large, roasted, green capsicum underneath. “Ahhhhh” we both said, “that must be what roasted poblano means!”

Alex’s omelette was packed full of crab meat and shrimps; possibly the best omelette ever. My plate had a piece of folded bread….. like a cross between a pancake and a flat bread, which I assumed was for scooping up the thick and saucy black beans. Whatever the strange combinations were all about I don’t know, but it was all thoroughly enjoyable, especially out there on a deck over the water (even though the tide was out), with my fabulous son Alex.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We walked a few streets of Tiburon, a delightful little town, and came upon this artist doing a wonderful job of capturing the character of the place.

 

We found this incredible spice shop too, where I bought a very solid, very interesting salt and pepper grinder set and a good, southern spice rub, for Hugh.

 

 

 

 

 

Fred’s …………. and Sam’s and Moe’s

Commonly in San Francisco, it seems, eateries are named thus and I ate at three of them. The first was Fred’s Coffee Shop. It was my initiation day to the highways of San Francisco with son Alex and daughter-in-law Jing and I was ushered into the front passenger seat to enjoy the views and converse with Alex, the driver. I found conversing calmly, whilst going on the opposite side of the road than I am used to, at 65 miles an hour, on a 5 lane highway, with hundreds of other cars at close proximity, difficult. Moreover, at times there were highways crossing above and below us and there were exits to navigate from time to time, which Alex did expertly, using google maps on his smart phone, safely secured to the windscreen. You see, where I live, things are slower, the traffic is w-a-y less and roads are called highways when they have 2 or even 1 lane!

On the outskirts of Sausalito we parked the car and I was relieved to be on my feet. I wondered why there was a crowd of people on the footpath in front of Fred’s Coffee Shop and soon discovered that by 10am on a weekend, the place was full and there was a waiting list. Oh lalalala, I was learning fast about life in San Francisco. I noticed, while we stood waiting for an outside table, that I was the oldest person there. Nice; I love being amongst people younger than myself and do get frustrated that where I live this is so often not the case.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After about half an hour we had a table and I quickly chose from the extensive, double sided, breakfast menu….. Swedish pancakes with fried banana, candied walnuts AND berries (the menu said OR) plus a latte.

                  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The latte was HUGE but really excellent, as was the plate of pancakes. Did I eat and drink all that! YES! No wonder Fred’s was the place to be on a Saturday morning. Alex and Jing often ride there on their push bikes and avoid the highways, taking a scenic route through the giant redwood forests.

The whole 2 weeks I was in San Francisco, I did not find as good a coffee as this until I went to Tartine on my last day. One day I even caught the ferry back to Sausalito and walked and walked to get to Fred’s Coffee Shop but I did not realise it closed at 2.30pm and I missed it because I had spent the day wandering the beautiful back streets, beforehand.

At the end of our day, we headed home….. with thousands of other people, at times almost coming to a standstill!

Cocoa and sugar

I thought I knew a thing or two about good chocolate. I have always been quite a chocolate snob; I will not touch milk chocolate or “white” chocolate, instead opting only for dark, strong chocolate, and none of those highly decorated but tasteless chocolates so many small producers make.
One day in San Francisco Alex and I were walking the streets and needed to find a toilet. We came across a likely looking cafe so decided we’d have a coffee and use the loo, if they had one. I sat at a table, while Alex went and looked for the bathrooms. While I sat there, I read a leaflet on the table and realised we were in a chocolate factory, called Dandelion.

Dandelion Chocolate is a bean-to-bar chocolate factory in the Mission District of San Francisco, just down the road from Tartine, the famous sourdough bakery we had failed to get into because of the queue. The info said “….we roast, crack, sort, winnow, grind, conch, and temper small batches of beans and then mold and package each bar by hand. By sourcing high quality beans and carefully crafting tiny batches, we try to bring out the individual flavors and nuances of each bean.” “Cool, lets see how good they really are!” I said to Alex, thinking I knew about chocolate. So off he went and ordered hot chocolates and a little treat.
Well, there were several hot chocolates to choose from and whichever Alex chose was simply the best I had ever had, by a million miles! For our treat, Alex chose 3 miniature brownies on a card which explained that each was made with the same ingredients, just using chocolate made from different beans. We cut them in halves. I started at one end and Alex at the other. One bite in and we both exclaimed “wow….. incredible!” Then to the middle brownie…. and ohhhh so remarkably different but equally as good. The third brought the same response. I realised that these people knew more about chocolate than I thought possible.

I went over to their display and read about what they do. They take so much care to choose ethically too. (You can find it all on their website). Hugh makes great brownies, fabulous brownies, but clearly the way the chocolate is made and where it comes from makes fabulous brownies into stellar ones so I bought two little bars of chocolate to bring home for Hugh and I to share and compare.
Dandelion bars only have 2 ingredients, cocoa and sugar; nothing else. The bars are both incredible but so different….. and the only difference is the cacao beans. Each night I have one tiny piece. It is all you need as the flavour lingers on and on.

If ever you are in San Francisco, you must go to Dandelion.

Chez Panisse

Here is my assessment of lunch at Chez Panisse Cafe today.... and why I booked to go again tomorrow! Of course the food was great but so it is at lots of places here. What set this way, way apart from anywhere else I have ever eaten was the service. Here's a detailed run down of how a good restaurant can become great, and famous for many years, even without a view or other amazing setting....

The moment I walked through the door I was greeted and shown to a table, the menu slipped onto the table as I wrestled with my bags.

Seated and sorted, a waitress arrived within seconds, with bread and butter, asking if I would like water; still or sparkling. She then brought a jug of it and a glass immediately, without seeing to anything else. I noticed at least 4 waitresses, for just my end of the cafe, which had about 10 tables of 2 - 4 seats. Maybe the same ones served the other end too, but the open plan kitchen was in the centre, so I could not see. Nice idea, divide the diners in half by putting the kitchen between. Makes a more intimate space.

There were 5 chefs in white jackets, in the kitchen, calmly and quietly doing their stuff. There were 2 other blokes in black t-shirts, seeing to the dishes and stuff, I think.

After a few minutes of my consulting of the menu, she came back and asked if I had any questions about the menu. I said I was just having entree and dessert and ordered the entree. But, I said I would like a few minutes to enjoy the bread and butter first. No problem. Nothing written but all taken in. My entree arrived a pleasant couple of minutes after I finished the bread.... but first she used a nifty tool to remove all the bread crumbs from the table.

I had mixed chicories, with super thinly sliced radishes, torn croutons, a light anchovy dressing (all my words).... In winter, chicories are not bitter and are so colourful, crunchy and wonderful but no-one I know eats them as much as I do and I had never seen a dish offered that was entirely chicories, so I was keen to have it. I really enjoyed it.

By now the cafe was filling fast but never did I receive less than perfect service and never did I notice her watching to see if I was ready for the next bit. She removed my plate and, without asking, left me for just a couple of minutes to think about dessert. I said I would have the almond cake with meyer lemon creme fraiche and huckleberries, as I have never had huckleberries. She told me about the native berries and that these were grown close by (I don't remember where but she did tell me). I heard her answering other people's questions and she (and all the other waitresses) knew everything about every ingredient; pretty amazing since the menu changes every day.

Being a connoisseur of fine desserts, I was ecstatic with this one; so simple a description but such amazing flavours with the hint of almond essence in the light, soft, delicious cake just so good with the sharpish, delicious, poached huckleberries and the meyer lemon creme fraiche. They even made a good latte, a rare treat in this land of drip filter coffee! (But not as good as The Lotus :-)

I was so impressed I booked again for tomorrow, when I will have a main course.... and maybe another dessert. Today they had clams and shrimps with saffron and other things, cooked in the wood fired oven.... I rather hope it is on the menu tomorrow again.

I paid US$40, including tip and taxes. Sure, I did not choose fancy things and that may seem expensive but with at least 10 people working that small cafe, what I received was a perfect, flawless experience and I can't wait for tomorrow!

ps I would have taken more photos but on the menu, in small print at the bottom, it asked for you to please not use phones or computers whilst there... I have borrowed a laptop to write this as it is so hard on a phone. I don't think I will ever travel again without a laptop, when I so love to write!!

The first decent bread I have come across yet in the USA!

Chicories and radishes in a pretty and delicious salad.

Maybe tomorrow I will skip savoury and have 2 sweet dishes, if they are as good as this :-)

Barefoot in bathers

I headed to Henley beach for a swim yesterday. If there is a specific place I call home, it is there. I parked my little red hire car in a row of hundreds of others, walked down a short, sandy path and dropped my towel, hat, clothes and car keys on the beach. As the sun spread silvery rays onto the calm sea, through some rare dark and stormy clouds, I dived into the cool water at the end of a 40C day.

As I floated about, relishing the moment, I looked back at the houses on the other side of the road. In my mother’s childhood, there was no road and this was a sandhill where her mother told her to watch out for strange men who camped in the sandhills. In my childhood it was a place you could rent a cheap house. Now it is millionaire’s row but still many of the old, stone and brick houses remain. If I had enough money I would buy one of them because it is still a wonderful place.

There is not much need for a towel on such an evening; Adelaide air being so totally dry. I donned my ancient beach shift (a word we never hear these days!) and went for a walk. Families dotted the beach and the shallows. Children pushed little trucks along the sand, others had buckets and spades. Lads of all ages threw or hit or kicked balls of all sizes and shapes in games whose rules were defined by lines drawn by toes, in the sand. I had to walk through a game whose boundaries clearly included the first 50m of the sea as well. Many languages were being spoken, many skin colours shone and I was so happy to be amongst them all because that is Adelaide; full of the richness of diversity, all seeming to co-exist happily, as it should be. I saw only one person on a phone.

As I walked along in the shallows, the main sound was the lapping of the sea on the shore. Dogs trotted happily along with their owners, some on leads, some enjoying a moment of freedom to splash in the water. There were no boat engines, no radios, not much sound besides the sea, laughter and quiet chatter. A couple of sailing boats drifted slowly by in the very light breeze.

I think that the peaceful diversity of Adelaide’s 1.5 million people is due in part to a climate that brings everyone together on the very long beach. There, it matters not how powerful you are, how rich you are, how old or young you are or where you were born. Everyone feels good at the beach at the end of a very hot day. Fashion is definitely absent in the heat and everyone looks pretty much the same when they are lazing about in the water or sitting barefoot in their bathers on the beach!

All along the coastline of Adelaide you can still get a park right by the sea, still find a large space in which to plop your towel and still not have to worry when you leave your keys and purse under your hat. You can get fish and chips or a coffee at Henley Square, where a grassy piazza stretches along the beach front and huge shade sails provide a place for people to wait, in sandy feet, messy hair and wet bathers for their chips to be ready. I am taking my mother there for her birthday and together with a brother and a son or two, we will have fish and chips. She lives not far away and loves Henley Beach too.

My hire care always needs to be well vacuumed at the end of my stay in Adelaide!

Integration brings integrity; making it work for Tasmania

Tasmania is a magnet for rural tourism. Why? Is it because of the scenery? It certainly isn’t because of the facilities or large resorts. Is it because of the non-existent raging, city night life or sprawling shopping malls?

I rent out a room in my house on Airbnb and I meet the tourists who read my profile on the website and choose to come and stay in my old cottage on an organic, rural 1 acre in the town of Cygnet. I hear what they say when asked why they come to Tasmania. I see the streets of Cygnet literally full of tourist vehicles all year round and I have a stall at the Cygnet Market which provides most of my income because, even for a town of 1,000 locals, this market is what people want to experience.

Everyone with excess produce in their gardens offers it to the girls at The Lotus Eaters cafe who cook the most amazing stuff, using food grown within a very small circle of the cafe. It is always full of people, all year round. In winter you see people in their coats and scarves at the outdoor tables, hands around hot cups of coffee and their famous chai, because this is what they come here for, not to sit in the air conditioned environment of a shopping centre or resort. There is no view from this main street cafe, but there is more atmosphere and warmth and genuine soul than any view can give.

Then on the other side, I listen to the radio and hear how “experts” say that Tasmania needs to catch up with the mainland of Australia and provide more facilities and exciting things for tourists to do and it makes me want to scream! They say we need to build more roads, big hotels and a cable car to the top of Mt. Wellington. This is segregation; dividing tourism off from the everyday life of ordinary people and is expensive and unsustainable in a tiny, cash-strapped state.

I hear about Tasmanian agriculture and how so many fruit orchards have been ripped out or fruit left to rot because of cheap imports. I see that the major supermarkets sell apples from China, when not that long ago, Tasmania was called the Apple Isle and exported all over the world. And yet, local fruit growers have set up roadside stalls and they are patronised by locals and tourists in huge numbers as are all farmgate operations. Every road around here has properties with small groves of  mixed orchards, wood lots, a few animals and a vegetable garden. Many are new or have new owners who can see the wood and the trees! And this week has been Agfest, a rural show of mammoth proportions, visited by anyone and everyone who can get to it, from all over Australia.

The experts are segregating, not integrating. They look at figures for tourist spending in other places and think that this is relevant to Tasmania. They don’t spend a couple of weeks as a tourist in Tasmania and actually see for themselves. Tasmania is unlike most of the rest of Australia in that it is decentralised and people live in nooks and crannies all over it. The “cities” are small; the capital and biggest, Hobart, is only 250,000. It is more like south west France, with very rural villages every few kilometres. And, like rural France, that is exactly what people come to see; rural, everyday life supplying excellent quality, local goods and services in rustic villages and markets.

Everyone wants to go France; where every facet if life is integrated; ancient buildings are not museums, they are loved and lived in. Markets abound with local food and the French people themselves would not buy food grown elsewhere if it was grown locally. Rooms on farms and in rural homes are on every visitor’s list of accommodation. Every tourist to France goes to the markets and villages to see the real French way of life; and so it could be in Tasmania.

Integration means business is life; farmland has tourism in its agenda; farmers integrate ideas with neighbours, instead of competing, to provide diversification; people live and work in their own town, using the shops and services; cafes cook and shops sell what is grown locally; artists use local materials; nothing is dependent on one big industry. Using very little from outside means a low earth footprint which, in itself, is worth advertising for tourism and makes for a sustainable future. I think this is how Cygnet is developing, almost accidentally, and I look forward to the blinkered government and local authorities staying right out of it’s fabulous future!

Sydney is buying and shipping thousands of tons of sand per month from northern Tasmania for making concrete for developments. Is this how Tasmania should be making money?

Integrate not segregate is permaculture principle 8

                   Many hands make light work

Ephemeral, forever

There was something very special about the corner of a river I visited today, by kayak. Although the scenery across the bay, on the approach to the river entrance, was of spectacularly rugged mountains, shrouded in various veils of rain, and was more dramatic than anything I had ever seen by kayak before, it was at the farthest reaches of a lovely but insignificant little river that I found what was to me the most beautiful spot on this amazing planet!

And now, some hours later, in a warm and dry lounge room by the sea, with a cup of coffee in my hand and kayaks safely stowed in the shed until another day, it still haunts my soul; not something I would normally say! If I were at all artistic I would sketch it so it does not slip from my memory. However, words are my only craft even though a poor writer I am indeed.

Majesty, beauty, light-defying reflections, hues of every shade of green, every shape and size of plant, massive fallen trees covered in moss and lichens and ferns disappearing into the depths of the river, the smells of the earth and a sense of wildness unique to remote corners of Tasmania have become my playground these last few months. It was natural to once again drift serenely through such scenery, in awe of nature exerting its dominance over a landscape starting only a few hundred meters from a camping ground full of Easter campers.

As I approached another bend I could hear the tinkling of the river rippling over a shallow bed of stones and soon the silver sparkle of the moving water drew my eye to the nearby bank in search of a place to stop and enjoy the play of light and sound on this day of dark, rolling clouds. Up until now the banks had been either of huge, steep, moss covered boulders which had managed to resist the raging winter flows of thousands of years, or were of densely matted vegetation and tangled tree roots, intertwined with fallen giants of tree trunks often spanning the entire width of the river.

Here, however, was a triangle edged on the long side by an old, sunken log, the whole being filled with worn, round rocks from fist to football size. One short side was formed by the river bank where the tree had fallen from some long time ago. The rocks were smooth and washed clean by the river but, as the water level is low at this time of year, they were exposed. The other short side was of shingles and sloped gently to the water’s edge. Into those shingles had fallen seeds from the plants of the surrounding forest and a little, summer garden had sprung up, sure to be soon ripped out and washed away with the first big rains of winter. Ephemeral, fleeting as a butterfly, nature’s garden was perfectly designed.

Then a light breeze caused movement above the little garden and I noticed that a tree had once upon a time fallen but been suspended by the river bank, its gnarled and splintered end hanging out above the river. Growing in the crevices at the end of that beautiful old trunk, directly above the summer garden in the shingles, was another, almost identical garden. My heart skipped a beat.

The high banks of a beautiful Tasmanian forest, the sound of the water rippling over the shallow river bed, combined with the rocky beach formed by an old log and the double gardens, one hanging above the other, together with the still water cocoon I managed to nestle my kayak into, totally enveloped my senses.

As we left, the rain began to fall in earnest and soon the river will begin to rise once more. It won’t be there when next I paddle that river; this fleeting picture of perfection.

Breath-taking Tasmania… 5 days by kayak and on foot

It was like paddling a kayak through a mirror reflecting a rain forest so dense and so full of diversity that we felt the silence fill our senses and it was hard to tell where the surface of the water was….

Nothing between me and South Africa… paddling to Ocean Beach, down the Henty River in the unusual and glorious, summer sunshine where 3 days without rain is a very rare treat!

And paddling on Lake St. Clair, where wilderness meets hydro- electricity…. see the pumping station, built in the days when beautiful architecture ruled.

Shadow Lake…. a full day’s walk up to a hanging lake through another magical forest…

where I had never seen so many fallen trees, many from the storm I wrote about recently but many more from the long life of this forest…. this one had had a slice cut out to make way for walkers.

You can see more photos here.

Hughsli again…. well why not? He is my son!

He works on the preserves and bars and cereals for days, weeks even, then as the weekend draws closer he launches into fresh dips, salads and chocolates. Then he gets up at 3am every Saturday and Sunday (market days) and finishes baking the most amazing cakes, tarts, croissants and breads.

He was so kind; asking me to spend a day in kitchen with him, knowing how much I would love that. Evidently I talked too much (what mother who misses her son, doesn’t talk too much when with him?) and once I made a mistake with resetting the scales but, for my first go at being very accurate AND doing what I am told, I thought I did alright. But get up at 3am the next morning, I did not!

I arrived at the Farmers’ Market much later and saw the joy on his face, heard the jokes with his customers and thought of my many wonderful visits to similar markets in France…..

France….. a cheese man….

Adelaide….. Hugh, his own man…..

Just take a wander through some of the range he took to the market that day, for The House of Hughsli stall….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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