PF Chang’s

I am usually not one to go to chain restaurants, but an unused gift card for PF Chang’s led me to this well-established restaurant.  PF Chang’s is known for upscale Americanized Asian food.  The architecture of the restaurant was actually constructed to ressemble an Ancient Chinese village, complete with large replicas of terra-cotta horses and soldiers.  The dining experience could be likened to eating in the Ancient China museum exhibit, minus the museum, the history and a few hundred authentic terracotta soldiers and horses.  I will admit that the atmosphere was nice.

The problem was that we decided to go to the restaurant on a Saturday night and to make things worse, we went on a Prom night.  Having thought ahead, we made reseverations for 7:30 p.m. thinking that the crowd would have dissipated by the time we arrived.  This is Lone Tree, after all, and in this cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood of Denver, the average dinner time is 6 p.m.  Unfortunately, this was not the case.  We walked into the restaurant and immediately noticed the excess of tux clad teenage boys and a blinding assortment of prom dress colors.  We approched the hostess (trying as hard as possible to avoid the peppy years of high school we had left behind (thank God!)) and told her we had a reservation for 7:30 (it was 7:25).   She dutifully handed us a vibrating beeper contraption and told us they were running 15 minutes late with reservations.  It was no big deal – we could wait 15 minutes.

Around us, people were crammed into every corner of the room.  Everyone was waiting, armed with a vibrating beeper, waiting anxiously for a table.  The large bar in the very center of the restuarant was packed with people.  It was loud.  15 minutes later, still no table, but we were patient.  We continued tapping our feet as our hunger continued to grow.  No one cared, as it was too loud to hear our stomachs groan.  It was 8:00 and still no table (I remind you that our reservation was at 7:30).  We waited another 5 minutes before approching the hostess.  “Oh, it could be another 10 minutes,” she said nonchalantly.  It was apparent that this had happened before.  8:15 and I was about to run into the kitchen screaming like a madwoman. (Hunger can do that to a person, espcially a person who was expecting to eat at 7:45/8 at the latest.)

The problem was actually not the wait.  I am usually a pretty patient person, but a 45 minute wait with reservation seems a bit ridiculous to me.  I looked around me and the crowd of people waiting was only getting larger and more anxious.  The problem was that I was sure that almost everyone waiting had a reservation.  The restaurant, victim of its own sucess, had apprently overbooked reservations.  The hostess insisted that they usually kept reservation times, but I had serious doubts as I looked from the people crowding the entrance way of the restaurant to the people having a drink at the bar.  PF Chang’s had obviously adopted the ‘if you leave, you leave; there will be plenty of people who will stay’ mentality.  And people did stay indeed.  The bar was packed (where the restaurant generated mass profits by making people (with reservations) wiat; the waiting area was packed.  And there were even people who were leaving out of frustration.  I was thouroughly irritated, but we decided to wait it out.

8:26, one hour after we arrived, the red lights on the beeper were blinking.  FINALLY! As we were being led to our table, an irritated man slammed down his beeper and said, “This happens everytime I come here, reservation or not!”  He stormed out of the restaurant (just as I would have done if my dining mates did not insist on waiting).  Needless to say, the staff was unphased.

We were led to our table with an insincere “Thank you for your patience” from the host.  Every word was spat out with insincerity and a shrug of indifference.  We were given our bill before we had even finished our meal and our plates were cleared a second after we finished our last bite of food.  I know it’s all about efficiency and speed in America, but give me a break!  I do not appreciate the waiter waiting tableside to take away my place as soon as I swallow my last morsel of food.  The PF Chang’s staff was obviously quite accustomed to this sort of ancy, irritated, and high-speed atmosphere.  No one seemed to give it a second thought.

I will say that the food was good, different from normal Chinese fare.  But unfortunately, the bad service is what will stand out in my mind.  A restaurant of that size and reputation needs to learn how to keep reservations and not overbook.   And if a wait is necessary for those who took the time to reserve, a complimentary drink or appetizer would be much appreciated.  And note to the hostess, please do not tell us the wait is 15 minutes if it is really 60.

So feel free to join me in a boycott of PF Chang’s until service is improved.  Or better yet, just go to independent restaurants where the fare is original and the people friendly.  You will leave the restaurant thinking about the atmosphere and the food and not the long wait and poor service.

Artichoke season!

Comment ca se mange, un artichaut?

Quite a common question for anyone who has never eaten an artichoke before; It is quite a daunting little vegetable. Do you eat the whole thing? Do you take off the leaves? Which part is edible?  Where do you begin?  The questions go on forever. Due to the intimidating form and shape, I always passed up the fresh archichokes for canned or pre-marinated hearts.

The first fresh artichoke I actually ate was during my junior year of college when my roommate suggested we buy artichokes because were on sale (in Colorado, one dollar an artichoke is cheap and quite a rare occurrence). I had never eaten a whole, fresh (not canned, jarred or frozen) artichoke before, but unwilling to compromise my foodie pride, I acted like I knew exactly how to eat and cook this strange plant. Lucky for me, my roommate took care of the preparation. My only job was to eat the green thistle set on the plate before me.

I stared at the archichoke for a moment.  Where do I begin?  I glanced up discretely at my roommate and her boyfriend who were “eating” the leaves of the artichoke.  Following their example, I pulled a leaf off, dipped it in the prepared sauce and put it in my mouth. I chewed and I chewed and I chewed some more. It was fibrous and tough. After maching the leave into a somewhat manageable pulp, I swallowed. That was an effort. I pulled off the next leaf and reluctantly put it in my mouth. Chew, mache, chew.  And once again, with a little hesitation, swallow.  Two leaves down, and a whole artichoke to go.  This was going to take a while.  Were the fiborous, green bracts I had been eating even going to be able to pass through my digestive system?  After eating a few more whole leaves, I was getting distressed.  How was I possibly going to finish eating all the leaves?  It was likely to be a disheartening experience.

Then, I noticed the growing pile of discarded artichoke leaves on the plates of my roommate and her boyfriend.  They, in turn noticed the lack of discarded leaves on my plate.  “Did you eat the whole leaf?” my roommate asked.  I hesitated a moment.  I could lie, make up some irrational excuse (i.e. “the dog ate my bracts” (no, we didn’t have a dog) or “I just added my pile to your pile” or “it was so good, I couldn’t resist”).  Unfortunately, I don’t think that fast on my feet.  I had to tell the truth.  I chewed, mashed and swallowed entire artichoke leaves. Yes, I admit it now – my virgin artichoke experience was quite embarassing.   Now, just imagine how awkward it would have been if I had tried to eat the choke.

My roommate patiently showed me how to pull off the fleshy part of each leaf.  My whole perception of the artichoke changed.  Why had I never eaten a fresh artichoke before?  When I had eaten all the green leaves, I  arrived at what is known as the “choke.”  It was like hair and did not look too terribly appetizing.  I examined the choke a little and was yet again perplexed.  Now, how do you eat this?  It was pokey and coarse.  I was beginning to devise a method of eating this part of the artichoke when my roommate grabbed what was left of my thistle and spooned out the fuzz.  “You don’t eat that?” I asked.  “Of course not,” she responded. “That’s the choke.  You would choke if you ate it.”  Needless to say, I was a bit relieved.

Before me, only the heart remained – the only entirely edible part of the artichoke.  I ate it in small pieces in order to savour each bite and take pride in the fact that I reached the heart.  And the heart, my dears, was well worth all the bract maching and choke scooping.

Artichoke season is a wonderful season – the beautiful green and slighly purlish thistles lined up neatly in the product section of the grocer and the sound of squeaky leaves.  I love artichokes now.  After my first experience, I have since eaten many more.  All you need is a little patience and a friend who knows the way to the heart.

Cooking for one (or the joy of asparagus)

I have to admit that cooking for one is quite a difficult feat. I usually end up with tons of leftovers and (unfortunately) vegetables that I cannot finish before they start turning into black slime. As a single woman, unless I decide to eat large salads for lunch and dinner for 3 days straight, I am not going to be able to finish an entire head of lettuce by myself. So, to avoid throwing out perfectly good produce, I have recently gotten into the habit of going to the grocery store and buying only 2 or 3 vegetables and eating them all week (it is really a budget-friendly solution). Now, this may seem quite boring but it is really quite interesting. It makes you think about all the different ways you can cook vegetables to bring out their rich and complex flavor.

As asparagus is beginning to sprout up in the grocery stores at quite attractive prices, I decided to make asparagus one of my main vegies for this week. I also picked up some mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes. Since asparagus tends to lost its freshness after a few days, I knew I would have to eat quite a lot of asparagus to finish the 2 pounds I bought. You would think I would get sick of asparagus after a few days, but I found quite a few ways to incorporate this versatile vegetable into my evening meals.

Here is a sample of my asparagus-centered week:

Sunday- blanched asparagus tossed in olive oil and topped with feta cheese and sun-dried tomatoes

Monday – Chopped blanched asparagus spears in a cheesy pasta salad with peas and sun-dried tomatoes

Tuesday – Oven roasted asparagus with garlic and parmesan

Wednesday – Crepes filled with asparagus, mushrooms and cheese topped with cilantro

Thursday – Asparagus and ham quiche

Friday – Udon noodles with sauteed asparagus, brocolli, cabbage, chicken and garlic

What can I say? I like asparagus!

Of Bulk and Budget

When I was living in a 16 sqare meter (172 sq feet) studio apartement in Paris, I had a mini fridge with three shelves and a freezer that was hardly large enough hold a box of frozen peas, but it was plenty large for me.  In fact, most of the time, my fridge was half empty.  I went to the market or the grocery store every 3rd day and bought produce that was fresh and appealing.  My fridge was half empty because it was filled mostly with dairy with an occasional cut of meat and the typical condiments that one keeps refridgerated.  I kept most of my fruits and vegetables out on the counter to use either that day or the next.  It was a simple life without large wholesale warehouses and gigantic supermarkets.  I went to the market and bought what was in season (and thus resaonably priced).  And for some reason, I was able to cook for myself without having to worry about leftovers or rotton produce.

Now, I have a large American refridgerator equipped with a meat/cheese compartment, an egg tray and a little place to hide the box of baking soda (to hide the smell of that tupperware filled with who-knows-what).  My refridgerator now would be the size of my kitchenette in Paris.  It is huge!  And yet, strangely enough, (while my mini fridge in Paris was always half empty), my big white American fridge is always full.  There is a 5-pound bag of carrots on the bottom shelf, far too many eggs for my egg tray, a extra-large jar of peanut butter and everything else you can possible think of.  The shelves are literally overflowing.  It is more food than even I can eat (and believe me, I can eat freakishly larget amounts of food).   And yet, I still find myself going to the grocery store as if the food I already have is not enough.

As I was searching through my fridge the other day, digging through the 5-pound bag of carrots, it hit me: I had become a bulk shopper.  It is after all the economic solution.  I can buy twice as much for exactly the same price.  It’s the mentality of the hundreds of people who crowd the nearby Costco store every weekend.  I jump into my car and head to costco where I can buy a pound of blueberries, a 10-pound bag of potatoes, 8 porkchops + 2 free, a pound of sliced provolone cheese, a box of 24 (yes, 24!) frozen pizzas  and condiments and spices to last me a lifetime.  It is really quite thrilling…that is until I go home and try to fit everything in my fridge.  And then the real adventure begins: consuming everthing I just bought.  I open my freezer and frozen porkchops fall on my head.  No matter how many carrots I eat, I still seem to always have half a bag left.  And frankly, after eating 2 pounds of carrots, I can hardly even stand the sight of the orange, pointy roots, let alone the bland, stale, refrigerated taste.  I make a disgusted face at the food in my fridge and go, yet again, to the grocery store.

It is a vicious cycle, but I am beginning to realize that buying bulk may not be the most economic way to shop on a budget.  I do, after all, end up throwing away at least 2 pounds of spotty, mushy carrots after a few weeks.  My meat tastes like freezer burn and everything has lost its fresh flavor. I buy and I eat and I believe I am saving money, but I wonder if I have sacrificed quality for the quantity.  I can eat and eat; I can warm up frozen pizzas, pop some frozen pot stickers in the microwave.  But I am no longer satisfied.

I think back to my days in Paris, in my small Parisian kitchen (if you can even call it that) and the pleasure I took in eating.  I didn’t have a microwave.  My freezer could hardly hold a small box of frozen peas let along 8 porkchops or 10 frozen pizzas.   Everything had to be fresh; there was no other way.  I would have never been able to fit a Costco-size anything into my little mini-fridge.  And so, I went grocery shopping more often and as a consequence, I often had fresh, staisfying meals.  I bought fresh asparagus in the spring, tomatos in the summer and rich squash in the fall and the winter.  And food made me happy.

Because I think I was healthier in Paris, I am slowly trying to empty out my Bulk American fridge.  I am trying to revert to half-empty refrigerator syndrome and eat as fresh as possible.  And I might even be able to save a dollar or two in the process.