Chile con Bulli

What’s left of the Anaheim chiles I failed to photograph earlier.

Charred, peeled, and braised in soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, and sugar.

I bought this today, too, by the way.

I’m excited and troubled by the new el Bulli book. Excited because I’m a chubster harboring forbidden love for this faraway restaurant I’ve never been to. I know you do, too. (Oh man, did you see how happy Marc Summers looked eating nuclear cod sperm on aluminum toast points on Unwrapped en España? OoooOOOoooOoeee.) It says right on the cover that 2,000,000 people request 8,000 dinner openings each year. That doesn’t even count the remaining millions of us civilians who don’t register our secret futile requests for a spot in Señor Adrià’s warm marsupial pouch.

I’m also troubled for a couple reasons. Uno, the bookstore (okay, Costco—troubling in itself) where I bought the book had a display copy that I was perusing, and the thing is sort of ridiculous, self congratulatory, and a little French Laundry Cookbook –esque in its (in)accessibility. Maybe I’ll feel differently once I get into the thing, but right now I fear that it’s a designer imposter version of the original eB cookbooks. Dos, it weighs like ten pounds and I have to carry it back to San Francisco. Woof.

Not Snarking Laguna Beach; MSF in brief

I’ve been bestowed with the task of finding and reserving a table for dinner tonight in Laguna Beach. I’m going to avoid getting too snarky about the food in Orange County, or the pervasive use of Comic Sans on every online menu, or the McCain/Palin stickers and Yes on 8 yard signs that make it sad to imagine venturing outside. Suffice to say, when it’s a sunny 80 degrees in San Francisco, SoCal ain’t got nothin’ on SF.