(In our so-tardy-it-shouldn’t-count second entry for Paper Chef, we stick close to home for our tale of Independence. How close to home? Oh, about 400 yards up the road. And as for that tardy thing — what was it the late, great Douglas Adams once said? Oh yes: “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” Words to live by.)

So, Independence Day, yet again.

You probably thought we Yanks were done with those pesky Brits back in 1776. Wrong. ‘Round these parts, sovereignty didn’t get settled till almost a hundred years later. We blame the pig.

The roots of our story can be traced back to Article III of the Treaty of 1818: the joint occupation of Oregon Country by the United States and Great Britain. How the treaty signers thought two countries vying for land claims and navigation rights would resolve any boundary issues is anyone’s guess, but nevertheless, the increasingly tumultuous Oregon Country free-for-all continued for 28 years, until, in 1846, the two sides determined they’d had enough. They signed the Oregon Treaty on June 15th, set the border between the US and Canada at the 49th Parallel (excepting lower Vancouver Island), and that was that.

Or so they thought.

Trouble is, the folks signing the treaty were, to put it bluntly, cartographically inept. The border between Canada’s Vancouver Island and the US mainland, they said, should lie down the middle of the “major channel” through the islands. Easy to say if there’s one major channel.

Not so easy if there are two.

And not at all easy if both Yanks and Brits are enjoying the resources of the group of islands that lie in the middle.

And so, while politicians squabbled over maps and over which strait was “major” — Haro to the west or Rosario to the east — settlers arrived from other parts of the continent and soon American “squatters” (as the British preferred to call them), had laid claim to land just a stone’s throw from the sheep runs of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s Belle Vue Farm at the southern end of San Juan Island.

And for the most part, the sheep ran along their runs, and the handful of Americans eked out a living on their tiny parcels of land (which the British insisted were most decidedly not theirs), and all was, if not calm, at least not explosively tense.

Until the pig entered the picture.

For sheep will trot right past a farmer’s potato patch, even if there’s nothing much for fencing in their way, but pigs, or more specifically Berkshire boars? They’re born for rooting, and when they sense potatoes, they have at it.

And having at it was just what one particular Hudson’s Bay Company pig was doing in Lyman Cutlar’s potato patch on the morning of June 15th, 1859. And Cutlar had had enough. He grabbed his rifle and shot it.

Charles Griffin, Belle Vue Farm’s manager, was not pleased in the least. He demanded exorbitant compensation. Cutlar, being an obstinate sort, refused. Griffin, being equally obstinate, demanded Cutlar’s arrest. A blink of an eye later, the American settlers on San Juan Island (all 18 of them or so) had armed themselves and were demanding military protection.

In July, the first American soldiers arrived. In August, British war ships. By the end of the summer, the count was Americans: 461, British 2,140, and — most happily for all involved — not a single casualty of war.

Except, of course, for the pig.

This peaceful standoff — so peaceful that troops from both sides celebrated holidays together and held sporting events on the prairie at American Camp — continued for 13 years. In November of 1872, the Royal Marines withdrew from English Camp at the north end of the island, not because they’d been defeated in battle, or even because the Crown had called it quits. No, in fact, the American and British governments did what governments do so well in border disputes such as this: they passed the buck. They turned to Kaiser Wilhelm I of Germany and said, excuse me, could you figure this one out for us?

And, after a year of meetings by his three-man commission in Geneva, Kaiser Wilhelm did just that, and ruled in favor of the United States.

These days, the Pig War is serious business. We’ve got our two National Parks, the 4th of July Pig War Barbecue, the Pig War Museum, Encampment, over a dozen books about the subject, and no doubt a good forty other things I’ve forgotten. Truly, there’s a bit of a porcine glut in these parts.

Even so, when it came time to commemorate Independence Day (or rather the San Juan Island version with all its local piggy trappings) we couldn’t resist adding our own culinary homage to the mix. And, because we are (as I mentioned in the intro) only 400 yards from where this all happened, I took said homage on a field trip.

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I won’t sit still for it.

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As most of you are aware, it was Mrs D’s and my two year anniversary back on Monday, and both she and I had work-related problems with celebrating on the actual date. We did however get a plethora of great suggestions on what to do with our special day (well, except for the whole maid outfit thing).

I decided that I needed to do something very special on Wednesday to make up for our lack of ability to celebrate on the proper date. First, I knew that I had to get Mrs D to the beach, and second, I absolutely had to cook a knock-her-socks-off meal.

These things came together beautifully when I remembered that we had brought up our propane-fueled camp stove and our wonderfully decked-out picnic basket. Soon the ideas for the food started to emerge. I needed at least three courses, and I knew that Mrs D absolutely adores fish, or more appropriately, anything that lives in and/or breathes water. First I thought about halibut, but then I remembered that we had a gorgeous chunk of salmon brought to us by our good friend, Farhad (long time readers might remember him from our post about the potlatch last year). I found it right where I left it in the freezer.

Then I did some more scouring of the fridge and came up with a half-gallon of home-made brown chicken stock, half a bottle of cheap white wine, a log of herb and roasted garlic compound butter, half a Walla Walla sweet onion, some Roma tomatoes, and the piece de resistance, three perfectly ripe mangoes. Next, it was off to the pantry where I found our customary jasmine rice as well as a small bag of wild rice, a bottle of sherry vinegar (left from our very first post… a paper chef entry), a couple heads of garlic, and one last shallot.

The idea solidified, and while Mrs. D was off at work, I went into action.

I drove out to Wescott Bay Sea Farms and picked up a mixed bag of their world famous mussels and clams. Then I was off to our local market to get the last few things: some organic mixed baby greens, a loaf of artisan bread, one bunch of cilantro, a bunch of scallions, and a small pack of sliced almonds.

And what did I come up with?

A lovely three course dinner served in the picturesque environs of San Juan Island’s South Beach.

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Speak now…

March now…

Vote now…

…so someday our children may do the same.

Photos: Friday Harbor 4th of July Parade, 2006

I wrote this piece back on May 9th, then set it aside for other concerns, and because I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to say. Today, Memorial Day, it seems fitting that I pull it out again and post it, though I’ve always felt it a bit strange that we should set aside just a single day a year to remember the loved ones we’ve lost.

Dad.

One year ago today, early on a Monday of a Paper Chef weekend, Dad, the gentlest soul and the best patient a caregiving daughter could ever hope for, breathed his last breath. I was there, by his side, morning medicine in one hand, my other hand on his forehead.

Chopper had to go to work that day and I had to make phone calls, arrange for the funeral home to come from the mainland, and ready Dad for his final journey.

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Not so long ago, I ducked back into our archives to take a peek at the very first comments left on our infant blog, just over a year ago. Turns out, comment #1 was left by Jen of Life Begins at 30, comment #2 by Kevin of Seriously Good, and comment #3 by Owen of Tomatilla!.

How appropriate is that?

See, here we are, launching into the first Paper Chef since our one year Blogiversary, and not only is Kevin hosting (while Owen takes a much-deserved break), but this month’s theme includes local ingredients, in solidarity with the Eat Local Challenge, organized by Jen! It’s The Circle of Knife Life, Paper Chef style!

Now, some of our more observant readers (okay, okay, everyone) will notice that we haven’t been posting much lately. It’s spring fever, I tell you. It’s going around. The garden calls my name, the pooch begs for serious ball time; who am I to ditch that in favor of slouching at the computer?

But, when Chopper read this month’s ingredients and went on an immediate culinary brainstorm binge, I knew my time away had to end. Chopper cooks and I must blog.

And boy oh boy did he cook this time. Seriously. This food is so damn tasty, I want to head to the kitchen for seconds, thirds, and fourths before I type up another paragraph.

Hang on. Just a sec…

Okay, back.

(Dusts crumbs off keyboard.)

Now, where was I?

Ah yes, the ingredients. For this month, Kevin used his fine scientific skills in Haberdasherdivination to produce these pleasing results:

Lavender
Miso
Chickpeas
Something local

And Chopper, because he loves this style of food (and no, not because we’re trendy, dammit! We’re NOT trendy!), immediately announced his decision to produce a four course tapas extravaganza, with a different local ingredient for each course.

For our local ingredients, we hit three places: the Farmers’ Market, Westcott Bay Sea Farms, and, er, our freezer.

Now, here’s the thing about eating local on the island in May: There’s not a heck of a lot available. The San Juan Island Farmers’ Market (in its weekly, outdoor incarnation) has only been running two weeks now, and at last Saturday’s visit, I counted a grand total of 15 stalls, only three of which were actually selling produce. This time of year, local produce means greens, greens, and more greens, with the occasional baby root vegetable thrown in. Lucky for us, greens at the Farmers’ Market are surprisingly cheap — especially compared to later season vegetables (and to the scary-expensive $6.99/lb bucket of “organic mixed greens” at the grocer’s).

In our short jaunt along the thoroughfare (I’d say main thoroughfare, but at this market, there’s only one thoroughfare), we scored green garlic from Blue Moon Produce, and sorrel and a lovely bunch of baby turnips with greens attached from Thousand Flower Farm. (Total cost for the three bunches: $5.50) Both of these farms are located on Waldron Island, a remote island northwest of Orcas that’s known for its amazing produce. (For a great chapter on the farmers of Waldron, I highly recommend Greg Atkinson’s book In Season: Culinary Adventures of a San Juan Chef.)

Next, it was off to Westcott Bay Sea Farms for clams, because as far as Chopper is concerned a tapas spread just isn’t a tapas spread without clams.

Lastly, we took a trip to our freezer where, among all the other oddities that deny us room for ice cubes, Chopper had stashed a pair of lamb’s kidneys. Yes, local lamb’s kidneys. These particular kidneys came from last year’s farmer’s market and from Local Island Meats, a stand run by the fine folks at Z Lazy J Farm & Feed, which is located just a few miles up the road from us. Chopper had been saving them for steak and kidney pie, but this weekend, they just screamed empanada filling.

Now, how close to home did we find these goodies?

Well, inspired by Tana’s Chefs & Farms map over at Small Farms, I’ve launched Island Local, a map for San Juan County growers and producers of culinary products. So far, I’ve just marked the locations listed above, but I’ll be adding more in the weeks to come. (Now, if I can just get Platial to recognize all these wacky island addresses…)

In case you’re wondering, Casa Belly Timber is just south of the map’s visible area, right below the ©2006.

A quick word about our other ingredients:

We discovered, though it wasn’t much of a shock, that neither of the two grocers on the island carry dried chickpeas, so all of our dishes were made with the canned variety. The miso was from a container of shiro miso paste already in our fridge, lucky for us.

Our attempt to use local lavender in addition to our other local ingredients was thwarted by two things: our own tiny lavender plant that’s not even close to blooming, and the exorbitant price the local lavender farm charges for their culinary lavender. Don’t get me wrong, there are many things I love about the lavender farm, especially in mid-July when the fields are all in bloom, but nine bucks for a container the size of a tin of shoe polish? That’s not one of ‘em. So, our lavender came from an herb and spice distributor and I haven’t the foggiest idea where it’s grown.

Chopper made all four of these dishes at once so we could have a true tapas spread (and I could go a little nuts with the photography). I garnished everything with herbs from our garden, quickly snapped away, and then we dug in. And oh, was it good.

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Tuesday Fox blogging?

Alas, Platelicker and The Cat have been usurped by wildlife yet again. It’s not that they weren’t engaged in entertaining and photogenic activities over the weekend — wait a sec, is shedding photogenic? Okay, scratch that last part. What I mean to say is, our domestic critters had every intention of sharing their charms with the world (we understand The Cat had something rather nefarious up her Kaga sleeve for Saturday), but a glitch in the matrix a series of unfortunate events resulted in our entire house being thrown back into the dark ages (about 1988 or so) for what felt like days on end.

Shocking but true: we were without the internet for the entire weekend.

I thought I was going to die. For about five minutes, and then I read a book.

And I cleaned the cat box.

And we took the puppy to the beach.

And, without posting, we quietly celebrated Belly Timber’s first anniversary. (More on that later: the end of the world as we know it minor internet snafu has prompted us to postpone our tedious, introspective golly-it’s-been-a-year post anniversary celebration until later this week, when we’ve recovered from the horrors of sitting down and engaging each other in actual conversation.

(We’ll be fine. Really.)

Meanwhile, about that fox.

Attentive readers might note that this fox sighting and last month’s golden eagle sighting both coincided with trips to the beach. In fact, the two sightings occurred not more than about fifty yards from one another, and near this same spot, we’ve seen hawks, bald eagles, even a great horned owl on a misty moonlit night. So, what makes this barren bluff such a hotspot for carnivorous wildlife? This mid-winter shot of the prairie across the road might offer up a clue or two.

Ah, lapin. Délicieux. Too bad the wild ones are so stringy.

Tuesday bird blogging?

A quick drive up the road and down toward the beach with the dog, and there, sitting just a few feet from the old split rail fence at the top of the bluff, is a huge bird. Dude, quick! Turn the car around, I say to Chopper, and he does, and I scramble to get my camera ready and within a minute we’re parked and I’m stealthily climbing out — or rather, I’m klutzedly attempting to climb out and set the camera’s exposure at the same time.

And the bird, which I now realize is a Golden Eagle, looks at me from about 20 feet away and then takes off. So I point and click and am completely amazed that I managed to get the entire bird in the frame. (So many times I have tried this and failed.)

Needless to say, the beach jaunt that followed was a bit anti-climactic. Leaping dolphins might have helped, you know.

But of course now I’ve got that Steve Miller song stuck in my head and I keep thinking about the opening lines and wondering if it’s something mystical or if it’s just about looking at the calendar and saying Holy Crap, it’s halfway through March, already? Why the HELL does time keep on slipping, slipping into the future?

We’re edging toward tourist season faster than we’d like, and we’re definitely not ready for it. Oh, sure, there’s a plus side. Soon we’ll be adding hours upon hours to our daily work schedules and soon, like so many islanders, we’ll be busting ass to make up for the lean winter months. Bills will get paid, but our leisure time — our time to putter in the garden or play in the kitchen; our blogging time — will dwindle to tiny portions.

Last summer — our first summer here and our first summer of blogging — we struggled and stumbled and I never quite found the balance that allowed me the unexhausted hours I needed to write with frequency or joy. This year, I’m hoping — no, make that striving — to avoid a repeat performance.

In fact, I’ve got nefarious plans in place for that very purpose. Well, almost in place. Providing I can get anything done before tourist season kicks in.

What was that?

I’m working extra hours this week? Already?

Damn.

Weekend Dog Blogging, the Halloween edition:
Beware the fierce guardian of the ancient temple… she will lick you to death with her mighty tongue!

(Check out Sweetnicks for more Weekend dog blogging!)

Socked in and surrounded by spiderwebs… it must be Fall.

Cattle Point Lighthouse… just a short drive down the road…

This, is ooligan. Ooligan, you ask? What the heck is that? From the name, you’d think it has something to do with Eliza Doolittle cursing out an Arsenal fan, but actually, and obviously from the picture, it’s a fish.

More specifically, it’s a sea-going variety of smelt that lives along the British Columbia coast, prized among the native people for its rich oil. Ooligan (or oolichan or oolican or eulachon) is caught in rivers and bays in the spring, then drained of its grease and dried or smoked. The grease is a precious commodity — a valuable trade good and often the most prized gift at a potlatch.

And the fish, after pressing and drying, can be turned on end and lit with a match like a candle. It’s that oily.

It’s also quite tasty. Especially the head.

How I got to eat an ooligan is a somewhat long story, but I’ll try to make it brief (or at least I’ll try to get to the part about food quickly).

It all started many years back when my father was working with the Samish people (just east of here in Washington’s Skagit Valley). The Samish were struggling to be recognized as a tribe, and thanks to my father’s scholarly input, they succeeded. After my father died this spring, members of the Samish tribal council spoke to us about honoring his memory, and not long after that, the first opportunity arose: The San Juan Nature Institute was hosting a multi-tribal salmon picnic. It was the perfect place for the Samish to present my mother with a gift of thanks for all of my father’s work.

At this point, Chopper and I were just hoping for a chance to attend, but in mid July, just a couple weeks before the picnic, we had the good fortune of running into our family friend Farhad – who was not only the picnic’s organizer, he was also the picnic’s chef. Five minutes of conversation later, Chopper offered his assistance and the two chefs were knee deep in menu planning.

The picnic was to take place at Fourth of July Beach, just a half mile down the road from our house. The prep work was in the other direction, back toward town at the Mullis Community Center kitchen. We met there on the morning of the event and dove in.

First up, 110 bread rolls from a big bowl of homemade bread dough. While we filled sheet pans, Betsy, the third member of Farhad’s crew (and our local health inspector!) set to work on his fish stew.

Farhad’s stew was a traditional style recipe that included halibut, clams, carrots, celery, and the stand-out ingredient of herring roe. Farhad explained to us how the roe is harvested. Sea farmers dig pools along the beach and line them with kelp. At high tide, the herring swim into the pools, and the farmers block their exit. The herring, perhaps confused by their captivity, spawn a second time, covering the kelp with their roe. The pools are then reopened, the herring swim out to sea, and the farmers gather up their roe-covered sheets of kelp.

After we finished with the bread, it was on to the giant cooler of crabs. 28 Dungeness crabs to be exact, all gathered off the beach just a short walk from Farhad and his wife April’s home on Haida Gwaii (the Queen Charlotte Islands). The crabs had all been cooked and then frozen, so it was our job to defrost, gut, and quarter them. (And I have to say that 28 crabs later, I’m now an expert crab cracker!)

In the next room, while we quartered crabs, Farhad prepped the contents of the second giant cooler (and the results of his most recent fishing expedition): King salmon.

Needless to say, all of this made us quite hungry. Fortunately, we had snacks for the crew: three varieties of smoked salmon – maple, alder, and best of all the rich, oily belly meat, smoked in mesquite. I have a feeling I probably ate more than my share.

An hour before the picnic’s start, we drove home for a quick respite, then headed off to the beach. We arrived shortly after three, and since the salmon dinner wasn’t scheduled to start till five or so, this gave us our second break of the day and a chance to attend an ethnobotany talk presented by the San Juan Nature Institute.

I took copious notes during the talk (enough to make for a lengthy post on native uses of local plants… sometime in the future… ahem), and continued my note-taking during a lively round of plant identification on a hike down to the shoreline. If we’d been graded, I would have scored a high B or an A, with massive thanks to all those childhood nature walks with Dad.

Just a few of the edibles we encountered included Pacific crab apple, Sopalali, yarrow, wild beach pea, and below the tide line, nori. I immediately entertained grand thoughts of harvesting our own nori, only to have my hopes dashed by the revelation that to do it proper, we’d need scuba gear and a shellfish permit. Damn.

After the talk, Chopper took to assisting with the dinner set-up, while I attended a second talk – this one on ornithology. After that: meal time!

Chopper and Farhad at the grill; serving dinner.

The glorious fish stew.

A full plate — but leave room for ooligan!

While Chopper stayed at the grill station and attended to the salmon, I patrolled both the cooking and the eating areas, snapping pictures – but not too many pictures. I had to have disc space left for the presentation of my Mom’s gift from the Samish, and for the evening’s entertainment: Haida dancers.

The dancers, led by Haida artist Christian White, hailed from the town of Old Masset on the northern coast of Graham Island, Haida Gwaii. Traditions are strong there; children learn the native language in school, and not only are the old songs passed down from generation to generation, but new songs are written as well.

At the end of the picnic, in true potlatch tradition, the Nature Institute distributed gifts to all the attendees: smoked salmon, seaweed, wooden boxes and coffee mugs, and a beautiful commemorative print of a starfish created by Haida artist April White. Oh, and leftovers. Tons and tons of yummy leftovers.

Oh, and about that gift presentation: I have to say that it went by a bit quickly and I spent so much time scrambling for a good spot to take a photo that I missed the photo I wanted to get. Not too worry though. Two weeks from now we’ll be attending a Samish potlatch and all I can say for now is that the Samish have come up with a way to honor my father that is so incredibly, amazingly cool that I turn into a little blubbering ball of emotion just thinking about it. Stay tuned…

Want more photos? Good, because I got carried away, set up a Flickr account, and uploaded a ton of them. Enjoy!

(Since we, the notoriously last minute, broke our record for tardiness during Dine & Dish #3 and posted a full two weeks late, for Dine & Dish #4 we offer up this Three Act Drama as an apology, and plead forgiveness for any past transgressions. As for our current transgressions, let us just say that we kid because we love. Honest, we do… Sorry, Rachael. We couldn’t help ourselves.)

$40 A DAY
the San Juan Island edition:
A drama in three acts

ACT ONE

EXT. FARMER’S MARKET – DAY

MRS D. strolls down the main aisle. She has the look of someone on a serious java jive. CHOPPER DAVE follows, visibly perplexed.

(Obvious tip #1: Buying your meal at a farmer’s market or outdoor stand saves you even more money because farm vendors hardly ever bother to calculate meal tax!)

ACT TWO

EXT. DOWNTOWN FRIDAY HARBOR – DAY

Mrs. D strolls past galleries, even perkier than before. Chopper follows, lurking in doorways, always at least ten feet away.

CUT TO:

INT. ART GALLERY — DAY

A totally staged conversation

CUT TO:

EXT. GOLDEN TRIANGLE – DAY

Mrs. D pulls up a seat at an outdoor table. Chopper sighs heavily, sets two mugs of beer on the table and joins her.

Chopper buries his head in his hands.

(Obvious Tip #2: Don’t eat at expensive places if you’re on a budget!)

ACT THREE

EXT. MADRONA BAR AND GRILL – ROCHE HARBOR – DAY

Chopper is at the bar. He’s on his fourth pint.

Mrs. D flags a server.

Chopper chokes on a mouthful of beer.

The server points to an item on the menu.

Mrs. D jumps up from the table and takes a step toward the kitchen.

Chopper sits Mrs D back down at the table.

Mrs. D bursts into tears.

Chopper lowers his shades for a moment and raises an eyebrow. He flags the waiter.

San Juan Farmer’s Market
10 a.m. to 1 p.m.
Saturdays at the County Courthouse parking lot on Second Street in Friday Harbor.
Open May to mid-October weather permitting.

Golden Triangle
Spring St & 1st St

Madrona Bar & Grill,
Roche Harbor
2005 Hours:
May 1 thru May 19 open 4 p.m. to 10 p.m.
May 20 thru Sept 5 open 11 a.m. to 12 midnight.

Blame it on the softball stage.

No, not the one that has to do with sugar, but the one that involves guys taking days off of work to whack at balls and slide at bags in the dirt. That softball stage.

Not that I have a problem with softball, generally speaking, it’s just that when Chopper and I plan our day off to include dueling Sugar High Friday projects (Me: truffles. Him: Irish coffee Pot de crème), we don’t particularly like it when that plan is ruined because a co-worker has managed to get every ligament in his ankle torn to shreds playing softball. Is it too evil of me to mention our co-worker’s team lost? I didn’t think so.

So, here I am, flying solo. Granted, Chopper came home for a brief respite between lunch and dinner shifts and spun me some sugar, but the rest of it is mine, all mine, baby.

And, as usual, I got a little carried away.

In honor of tonight’s Perseid Meteor Shower and the comet at its source, Mrs D presents:

The Swift-Tuttle Dark Chocolate Espresso Berry Comet Truffle

The gist of it:

One 3 1/2 ounce dark chocolate bar. It is crucial that this not just be any dark chocolate bar, but one that is made up only of cocoa, cocoa butter, sugar, and if absolutely necessary a bit of soy lecithin and vanilla extract. It should be at least 70% cocoa if not higher. That namby pamby Hershey’s crap just will not do. Fortunately for me, I’m a dark chocolate fiend and I’d already scoped out my scrumptious Eat Local alternative: Terra Nostra’s Organic 73% Intense Dark Chocolate Bar, made just a short jaunt to the Northeast in beautiful Vancouver BC.

Can I just say, at the risk of getting all gloopy and lovesick, that this chocolate bar rocks my world. If I was only allowed one thing to carry forward from the Eat Local Challenge if would be this chocolate bar.

One quarter cup heavy cream. Ideally, this cream should be fresh, local, and organic. Ideally. Sometimes though, the only cream remotely organic isn’t remotely local, and isn’t remotely affordable. Oh well.

A smidgen of unsalted butter. Don’t ask me how much a smidgen is. I think I tossed in about a teaspoon. I think it was because I panicked while lost in the middle of recipe invention and had images of unmoldable chocolate globules. Or something.

Toss these things into a double-boiler. Break the chocolate bar into chunks first. Try very hard not to eat any. When it’s all melty, add:

Two teaspoons of Lopez Island Farm Marionberry Syrup. I am so making waffles so I can use the rest of this stuff. Then I’m hopping the ferry and raiding the farm for more.

One tablespoon of finely ground fresh roasted espresso beans from the San Juan Coffee Roasting Company. How freshly roasted? How about within hours of my purchase. Oh, and the company’s store down on Cannery Landing has some lovely chocolates of their own as well. I was sorely tempted.

One teaspoon of San Juan Cellars Late Harvest Riesling. I know, I know, what’s the point of wine in a truffle? It’s not like anyone can taste it. Well, it’s like this: I came out of the Roasting Company and it was ferry loading time. Translation: No chance in hell of crossing the street for at least ten minutes. So, it was either wait outside or wander into the San Juan Cellars retail store and have a 10 a.m. wine tasting. Like I’m going to pass that up. I left with a bottle of the Late Harvest Riesling and the plan to add a spoonful of it to my truffle recipe just so I could mention the fact that in Friday Harbor one can get a 10 a.m. wine tasting ten feet from the ferry dock.

Mix everything together and try not to panic about whether it’ll harden well enough (or too well). Put a lid on it and pop it in the fridge for a few hours, or overnight if you prefer.

When the mixture has sufficiently hardened, it’s time to get messy. Very messy. I’m all about making truffles the old-fashioned messy way. Or maybe it’s that no one’s ever taught me how to properly make truffles. Either way, I set up next to the sink because I know I’m going to have to wash my hands at least twice for every single truffle I make.

First I set out my supplies.

The pan of chocolate.

A Turkish coffee cup from the same set we kidnapped for our eggy IMBB #16

A jar of Dutch unsweetened chocolate powder that’s been in my pantry for ages so I’ve no idea where it’s from. Pour about a teaspoon full of it into the Turkish coffee cup.

A bowl of freshly picked blackberries. The original plan was to drive to a farm this morning and buy Marionberries to go with the syrup, but then softball happened. So instead, I took Platelicker for a walk and picked blackberries along the way. Himalayan Blackberries are ubiquitous and quite tasty this time of year, but oh those vines are invasive pests! If we could just discipline them to behave themselves around the locals we’d plant blackberries in our own yard instead of rip them out each spring.

A plate to set truffles on.

Now, the messy part. Pull out a dose of chocolate, about the size of an aggie shooter and work it into the shape of a bowl. Right away it’s going to start getting horribly sticky and you’re going to want lick your fingers, but hold off just for a moment. Ignore the fact that some of the buttery stuff has separated and made light flecks in the mixture. It’ll still taste good.

Take a blackberry and place it into your chocolate bowl, then take more chocolate and work it around the top to form the lid, enclosing the berry and forming a sphere.

Drop the sticky ball into the Turkish coffee cup. Wash your hands. Or lick your fingers. Your choice.

Pour another half-teaspoon of Dutch chocolate over the sticky ball, then lift up the cup and swirl it, like you’re swirling cream into your coffee. (But don’t ever put cream in Turkish coffee because that would be wrong.) The chocolate powder will cover the truffle in a nice even coat and then all you need do is lift the puppy out and set it on a plate. You may not even need to wash your hands a second time.

Repeat this till you’re out of chocolate. With this recipe I made three truffles with berries and six without.

Next, prepare the comet’s fiery tail. (Or rather, make sugar decorations for your truffle so it’ll be all pretty for the camera.) Find the smallest ladle in the house and coat the outside of it with vegetable oil. Heat sugar and water over the stove till it reaches caramel stage. Grab a spoon and quickly spin the sugar over the ladle so it creates a lovely, golden, Jackson Pollack mess. Wait till the sugar cools, then carefully remove it from the ladle.

Set the sugar bowl on a plate, place the truffle inside and decorate. I saved a blackberry for a topper, some broken sugar bowl for outer décor, and more of the fabulous marionberry syrup for drizzle.

So, there it is, the Swift-Tuttle Dark Chocolate Espresso Berry Comet Truffle. All chocolaty, all yummy, and all mine. Chopper’s not even home from work yet, and come to think of it, he doesn’t even like coffee all that much and this comet’s got one hell of an espresso kick to it. Yes, it’s all mine.

Hmmm. Maybe softball’s not so bad after all.

Ghosts in the mist: False Bay at low tide.

Since we here at Belly-Timber are all about cheap wines on a cheap budget (Mmm, Gato Negro, baby…), we’ve yet to participate in Wine Blogging Wednesday. It’s not that we don’t like good wine — we love it and cherish it and wish we could take it home and show it a good time more often — it’s just that, well, to be blunt, we’re cheap. If we’ve got thirty bucks to blow on a nice meal at home, twenty of it’s going into Ahi steaks and the ten bucks we’ve left is getting us the largest amount of wine we can find this side of a box. We do not do boxes.

This month, we make an exception.

It’s Local Challenge month and the assignment for Wine Blogging Wednesday is “Drink Local. Real Local. … Drink a wine from the winery nearest to your apartment/house/shack/bungalow/flat/tent.” Lenn from Lenndevours has even threatened to get out the atlas and fact check, just to be sure we’re not cheating. I figured we’d save him the trouble, so I did a little checking of our own with Yahoo Maps’ handy driving directions function and came up with this short list:

1) San Juan Cellars. At 5.3 miles from our home, they’re definitely the closest, but there’s a catch. The location isn’t so much a winery as a gift shop wherein they sell their wines, all of which are made with grapes grown in Eastern Washington, at least 150 miles away. Not exactly what I had in mind for drinking local.

2) Westcott Bay Orchards. A bit too far away for our purposes at 15.9 miles, but they’re worth mention as a unique winery that produces a tasty hard cider from “vintage” European cider apples. They’re on our list to check out in the near future.

3) Lopez Island Vineyards. Yahoo Maps failed me on this one, but I’d say 6 miles as the gull flies. Or as the orca swims. You get the picture. They feature several estate-grown wines and are a perfect choice for a visit … if the visit didn’t involve a full day off and a battle with tourists over space on the inter-island ferry. We’ll be saving that one for later as well.

4) San Juan Vineyards. Ah, here we are, just 8.9 miles from the house, and they grow their own! Time for a quick road trip!

The winery, established in 1996, is located three miles northwest of Friday Harbor on Roche Harbor road. B. of Culinary Fool visited last month and wrote about a camel she spied amongst the cows across the road. We missed the camel, but discovered instead this rather charming cat in the parking lot. A cat who fell deeply in love with the bumper of our Caravan and refused to leave without serious coaxing.

To the right of the parking lot sits the gift shop and tasting room. A century ago, this same building was San Juan Island’s one-room school house. Up the gentle, south-facing slope from the shop’s deck are outbuildings for the wine’s manufacture, a tiny chapel (available for weddings, of course), and beyond that, eight acres of cool-climate varietal grapes, designated for the production of the winery’s two Estate grown wines, Madeleine Angevine and Siegerrebe.

The first of the two Estate grown wines wasn’t available for tasting, so we zeroed in on the second, eager to discover what a truly local wine could offer us — and we were not disappointed.

The Siegerrebe has a citrus bouquet but with hints of spice, and the flavor — spice, honey, grapefruit — was delicate, not overpowering, but sweet enough that we both thought this wine would be best served as an aperitif or with a single, subtle dish (steamed butter clams or crab would be my local choices).

It might seem surprising that island-grown grapes could produce such a sweet wine, except that the San Juans have the geographical fortune of resting in the rain shadow of the Olympic Mountains. With its own collection of microclimates, our island gets just 18 to 28 inches of rainfall a year, compared to a whopping 120 in the little town of Forks on the peninsula’s western edge. Seattle, a part-time rain shadow beneficiary, gets 37. East of us, the Cascade rain shadow provides the Yakima and Columbia Valleys with one of the best grape-growing (and apple-growing) climates in the Northwest, and this is where many Puget Sound wineries get all but a select few of their varietals.

San Juan Vineyards ships regionally; their website lists a number of restaurants, grocers, and specialty shops in the Islands and in other parts of Washington that carry their wines. Where Chopper and I work, we carry the Chardonnay by the bottle, and their 2002 Syrah (a three time gold medal winner) is our house syrah.

We left the vineyard with a bottle of the Siegarrebe for $13.75 and a bargain: a three-for-twenty sale on their Semillon Chardonnay. There’s not a chance those four bottles will last us the month, but we’ve just scratched the surface of drinking locally. We’ve got Lopez Island and some hard cider ahead of us, and, come to think of it, it’s been far too long since we’ve headed down to the pub for a pint of locally-brewed Moggy Mild.

For more food blogging and photos from San Juan Vineyards, check out B’s post at Culinary Fool!

We missed Paper Chef last month. Well, actually, we didn’t: we cooked a Paper Chef meal, but we were then trapped in Portland away from computers for an extra day and lost our chance to post about it. We will soon, just for kicks, and only because the meal contained an edible object of such unspeakable terror that we dare not utter its name. So, so horrible… ph-nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! Ahem. But enough about that. On to August.)

This month, says Owen of Tomatilla, it’s Paper Chef, the Local edition. Bonus points to everyone who sources their ingredients locally. (Bonus points? This is scored on a point system and no one told me?)

To that end, Owen picked ingredients that allowed at least most of us a fighting chance at local sourcing:

Peaches
Dried chilies
Edible flowers (especially lavender — woohoo!)
And (another woohoo!)
A local ingredient of your choosing

Items two and three were no problem. We have edible flowers of several kinds in our garden, and as fortune would have it, we had two bags of locally grown dried chilies left over from a recent trip to the farmer’s market.

Peaches were a bit more of an issue. The farmer’s market doesn’t have much fruit this time of year and the one farm I thought might grow peaches (or at least nectarines) was closed on the day we’d planned a visit. So, off to the grocery store where we broke our 100 mile radius, but kept ourselves in state by picking up a few peaches from Wenatchee Washington, just east of the Cascades.

But what to do about ingredient #4? We had ripe items in our garden, but we wanted something other than a vegetable and Chopper was getting this serious hankering for a Caribbean-themed meal. That’s it, I said, let’s go to the farmer’s market and see if Spot Prawn Guy is there.

The local spot prawn season is short — it only lasts a month or so in summer, but during that time, not only can we find spot prawns at the farmers market, but roadside stands with hand-painted signs announcing SPOT PRAWNS are as omnipresent as signs for charity car washes. (Okay, so we saw only two spot prawn signs and two charity car wash signs during the month of July, but you get the idea…)

During my childhood here in the 1970s, the stands and sales were plentiful. Now though, from what we can tell it’s pretty much down to one guy and his boat and his stand at the Northeast corner of the farmer’s market.

Of course Spot Prawn Guy didn’t tell us exactly where he got his amazingly fresh and delicious prawns (if he did, he’d have to kill us), but we know it’s nearby — probably no farther than Lummi Island, about 15 miles to the Northeast. We did find out we were quite lucky: this was his last catch of the season.

So, other than the peaches, did we stay in our radius? Well, um…. Okay, I admit, it was partly my fault. I had this crazy notion involving yams and the only yams we could find were from California. Yeah, we could have switched to potatoes from the garden, but it just wouldn’t have been the same. Oh, and Chopper used allspice, pepper, and garlic salt. (Forgive us, please!) But seriously, look how close to our kitchen our edible flowers are. See? We even measured:

(I should note that the herbs we used are just out of shot in that second photo, also a mere 16 feet from the kitchen window.)

So, with (mostly) local ingredients obtained and mise en place … er, in place, let the improvisational cooking begin:

And how did it turn out?

Very Caribbean. Spicy, yet fruity and with a definite taste of the sea. I’d say this was one of those dishes I can only classify as “weird but good.” It’s a unique flavor combo and definitely not for everyone, but we liked it well enough to eat it up and contemplate variations on the theme. Oh, and it’s pretty. My camera says thank you for the pretty.

On the morning’s drive to work: Baling Season.

A while back — I think it might have been mid June — on one of those halcyon days where Summer spread like warm butter out ahead of us and we thought we had all the time in the world for summer plans and lazy summer respites, we had this grand scheme. We would, we determined, visit as many local farms as we could and show off our beautiful island. We started a list, even hit a farm or two before things got too chaotic (no, we haven’t written about them yet), but then July turned into The Evil Month That Would Not Die, and our plans fell by the wayside.

Now, as we prepare to slay the Julybeast once and for all, and rejoin the foodblogging festivities, what do we discover? The absolute, most brilliant month-long event that encompasses everything we’d originally planned to do.

Of course I’m talking about being Rachel Ray for a month. Wait, no I’m not. (Shut up, Chopper.)

I’m talking about the August Eat Local Challenge from Jen at Life Begins @ 30. This venture began in San Francisco (Bay area residents sign up on the website Locavores), and has spread around the globe with participants as far away as England and Australia. How does it work? Simple. Check out the nuts and bolts, decide on your level of participation, then answer the following three questions:

1) What’s your definition of local?
2) What are your exemptions?
3) What are your personal goals?

1) Local…

For Bay area residents, the folks at Locavores defined their foodshed as anything within a hundred mile radius. Not having pulled out an atlas and ruler lately, I was quite unsure what our own 100 mile radius would include. Much to my surprise, after a bit of Photoshop tinkering and the best measuring I could muster, I came up with this impressive circle of locality:

Where’s Casa Belly-Timber? Think of us as the dot over the i in Victoria, just a quick dog walk from San Juan’s southern coast. The park’s in the wrong place, but hey, it’s a big world. We can forgive National Geographic a glitch or two.

Thing is, local as defined by a hundred mile radius covers a TON of ground, and in this neck of the woods, a surprising amount of diversity. Just to leave our archipelago takes us, to the west, over the Haro Strait to Victoria, and to the east, through the fertile Skagit Valley on Highway 20, lined with berry stands this time of year. Still within our radius, we’ve the great cities of Vancouver and Seattle and all they bring to the table. Is it any wonder we feel a bit spoiled here?

Spoiled enough, I think, that it’s worth it to take our definition of local down a step further.

This is San Juan County. According to the official county site, we’ve got 176 named islands and reefs (up to 743 at low tide!), a population (according to the 2001 census) of 14,400, and we’re the smallest county in Washington at 175 square miles of land (and a whole lot of water).

As I’m writing this, I glance out the front door and see a van from San Juan Vineyards drive past. Out the windows across the room, the harbor sparkles in the morning sun and scattered amongst the yachts and pleasure boats, I can make out the distinct shapes and gear of gillnetters, crab boats, and the few remaining purse seiners from the fleet that, as a child, I watched make the turn round Cattle Point and out into the strait. Just three blocks up the street, the community arts center’s parking lot waits for Saturday’s farmer’s market, and in a few hours, when we make our five mile drive home, we’ll pass four of the forty two local farms featured in the San Juan Island Farm Products Guide. This little island and her archipelago sisters; this is our true foodshed, and this is where we’ll attempt to gather the lion’s share of our August food.

2) Exemptions…

And this, alas, is where I have to confess to my hideous lack research. My habit, while zipping through the local market on a weekly grocery run, is to scope out bargains, not locally produced versions of cereal, juice, pasta, all the staples we take for granted. I don’t know yet how much I’ll locate and how much of that will be affordable. Our tight budget is such that we may find ourselves faced with far too many karma-draining decisions. We’d love to make island juice or island granola a regular purchase, but our bank account may scream in protest. Even so, the plan is to seek local options when we can and try everything at least once.

Of course we’re not going to find local coconut, local cinnamon, or local galangal, and unlike Gary Paul Nabham in the opening chapters of Coming Home to Eat, we will not be emptying our pantry. So, we will be making a few exceptions for special occasion meals; ideally, those exceptions will not involve much new purchasing of exotic ingredients, but rather, use of stock at hand. Oh, and Chopper Dave and I have a deal: He keeps his single malt scotch if I get to keep my green tea and dark chocolate. It’s a sanity thing, trust me.

3) Goals…

We’ve gone back and forth on this a bit, wavering between a 70 percent or so target, and not setting a percentage at all. I’m the sort who avoids doing math at all costs, so I’m all for not calculating a percentage and instead just saying “let’s try to eat locally as often as possible.” That’s a simple enough goal.

Goal number two brings us all the way back to that grand scheme we had in May: Show off our island. We’re going to aim for at least a farm or two a week, though we can’t promise we’ll get all of our farm-visit posts out in a timely manner. We do still have one off-island trip in the middle of it all (a wedding in Newport Oregon on the 20th), and of course we’re knee-deep in tourist season which means many many hours of work. If we can cram even four farm visits and a few posts about our local bounty into our crazy August schedule, and if we can learn unexpected ways to increase our local food intake in the process, I’ll consider it a successful month.

Chalk it up to “Island Time;” our habit of posting on the wire, or in this case, a full two weeks late. We had every intention of completing our entry for Dine & Dish #3: The Freshman by Monday, July 11th, but a long weekend of hard labor (packing belongings and moving furniture) followed by two double-shift work days and a heap-load of general domestic catching-up got the better of us. After that, well, I suppose the dog’s explanation is as good as any.

But, since we found such an appropriate candidate (first-time restaurant owner, brand new location, new, untested niche on this island), and since we snagged an inside look at the process for this Freshman venture, we couldn’t resist posting anyway. Tardy? You betcha. We’ll see you all after detention.

Steps, just two months old on July 13th, is tucked into an alley half a block from the ferry line in downtown Friday Harbor. You wouldn’t know what to expect from the street; this isn’t one of those places that announces itself to the world with massive signage or gaudy architecture. A simple banner hangs above the door, and the alley-side footprint is as narrow as an office cubicle. All in all, this is a most unlikely place for a high-end restaurant.

Inside, the first thing I always notice is the kitchen, exhibition style, brightly lit, and just a short walk from the door. The kitchen’s the focal point; your first glimpse of staff is as likely to be executive chef and owner Madden Surbaugh as it is a server or hostess.

To the left, a flight of stairs leads to a cozy second level with five tables, a row of balcony-rail bar stools, a server/barista station, and, along the west wall, wine, wine and more wine. I’m not surprised; Steps boasts one of the most extensive wine lists in the San Juans.

The décor is modern (some might call it chic), the music an eclectic range of techno to Tom Waits, and the lighting — including a mirror ball and digital wall art that mixes movie footage with live shots piped in from the various tiny video cameras secreted around the joint — is decidedly urban, not at all like the typical Friday Harbor meal-on-a-deck or meal-with-a-view.

One thing’s for certain: two feet in the door and I am not in a small island town anymore.

A restaurant should transport you somewhere, Madden told me when we stopped by for an interview early in July. Italian villa, British pub, seaside chowder house; it’s all about taking the patron on a journey.

For Steps (and this is me, the patron talking), it’s all about leaving the small town and heading for the city. This isn’t Friday Harbor’s version of fine dining; this is Seattle, Portland, San Francisco. This is high-end chic and it’s not something we’ve seen here before. “I was looking to rock the boat a little,” Madden said, “to get out of the safety zone and see how things pay off.”

Playing it safe would have been purchasing one of the several local restaurants for sale (we always seem to have at least two on the block), or starting another chowder house or moderately generic Mexican joint like the three we’ve got already. Not playing it safe? That’s starting from the ground up: new niche in an empty shell. More than empty, really. Last September, when the process began, this place lacked plumbing and floor drains, and the crew had to cut through sheet rock and steel beams to install the wiring.

When I asked Madden about that part of the process, knowing that there had to be at least one festering bit of construction hell to endure, he immediately nodded at the floor. “We were supposed to open on April Fool’s Day,” he told us. Instead, difficulties with the flooring delayed the opening a month and a half.

My guess is that the delay would not have been as long if this were a mainland venture, but when you’re dealing with Island Time and limited island resources, everything takes longer. The floor’s installation had to wait for a crew who could do it, and meanwhile, equipment, delivered to the island via ferry, had to sit at Friday Harbor Freight for a month. Not exactly a situation that keeps start-up costs down. It’s no wonder that most new restaurant ventures around here take over older restaurant spaces.

But enough about that. (Insert chorus of impatient food bloggers screaming: what about the food??)

While the ambiance transports patrons far from Friday Harbor, the menu is all about strong connections to the local farming community. San Juan Island is rich with family farms and Madden takes full advantage, buying 70 to 80% of his product locally, from fruits and vegetables to beef and lamb, pork and eggs. I asked about local seafood as well, but it turns out he has his flown in daily from Seattle, preferring the quality and selection he can get from his contacts there.

One thing that stands out: the constantly changing menu. The actual menu — and here I can’t help but poke at the design a little; the text is laid out like a poem and for the life of me I can’t read it without putting in dramatic pauses — spells out Steps’ philosophy:

A bonus of small scale daily deliveries and the ever changing menu? Hardly any waste. I missed the exact details (while I was furiously taking notes), but Madden pointed to one small trashcan under his station at the kitchen and indicated they only had to empty it once at the end of each night.

As for the dishes themselves:

Of course everyone’s going to have a different definition of “breaking the bank” so what’s priced accordingly to some might be a tad steep to others. Me, I’m a bit in the latter camp, but then I’m not what you’d call a high-end kind of gal. If I’m going to spend close to fifty bucks on a meal, I want something to take home and call “lunch” the next day.

The menu’s divided into five sections: snacks (price range — on the day’s menu I snagged — $5-9), sides (priced $6-7), small plates and bowls (priced $11-13), large plates and bowls (priced $17-18), and sweets (priced $6-12)

On the nights we’ve visited, we’ve enjoyed black bean falafel cakes, grilled scallops, and goat cheese stuffed pattipans, picking always from the snacks and sides categories (as our bank takes a little less effort to break than the average high-end diner’s).

What’s stood out to me on our visits was the relative simplicity of each plate. Nothing we’ve eaten has had so many ingredients that we can’t pick out almost every individual component. This is not a place to go if you like complex, sauce-smothered dishes. This is more about tasting the squash, the scallop, the heirloom tomato. (And that’s the point, right? Why go nuts with buying local and organic, if the ingredients are lost in the chaos?)

Our last visit included one snack, one side, a dessert (an extremely delicious flourless chocolate cake), one glass of wine (it didn’t take long for me to pick from the huge list: Writer’s Block Syrah. How can I resist that? It was quite good, too.), One beer (Boddington’s, one of Chopper’s faves), and we got out of there with a $47 bill (including tax & tip). It was a light meal, better suited to the later evening hours, when what you really want is to just sample and sip.

As we concluded the interview (conducted during an afternoon prep as Madden and his sous chef stuffed squash blossoms), I asked the question everyone who’s ever considered starting a restaurant wants to know: What advice would you have for anyone crazy enough to do this? Madden easily listed off four points.

First, “make sure you have a solid crew,” he said, “to take the stress off and allow you to focus on what’s needed.”

Second, “find mentors.” No one should go into a venture like this without the support and advice of mentors who’ve done it all before. I’ve no doubt that Madden’s lengthy background (New England Culinary Institute plus years of work in the industry) provided him with excellent mentors to call upon.

Third, “trust your instincts.” An interesting note about that: Madden told us he was advised to make cuts in his budget; compromises he didn’t really want to make. Turns out in the end, with additional expenses (the flooring delay, for one), the final budget ended up exactly as he’d first projected, pre-compromise. This confirmed to him that his initial instincts were right on target.

And on that note, the fourth bit of advice: “stay true to your original vision.” “It’s easy,” he said, “to slip into the trying to please everyone state.” Patrons at new joints can gripe about the most insignificant details — the wall art is weird, the music too incongruous, and so on. At first Madden said he was tempted to listen. Now though, he’s more likely to remind himself of his original goals and brush off the commentary.

Steps is doing well right now, and Madden seems pleased with where he’s at. It’s tricky here, however, and though we wish him well and are impressed with his drive, focus, and infectious enthusiasm, the true test on this island is off-season; the winter months where tourists are scarce and locals tend to stick to their long-time favorites. Question is, will enough locals go a little stir-crazy and want to be transported to the big city in the dead of winter, or will they think I’m on an island, time for a beer and a bowl of chowder?

We’ll be checking in with Steps down the road a little to see how things continue to play out. Will this Victoria Falls sized bungee-jump of a Freshman leap pay off? Check back in a few months and we’ll let you know.

Steps is located on First Street in Friday Harbor, just across from the Pelindaba Lavender shop. Open 5:30pm, every day but Tuesday.
www.stepswinebarandcafe.com

Barfly, you say? Cake. Our default setting is at the Bar.

Front Street Ale House, our main default, sits just a block away from the ferry dock, overlooking the port of Friday Harbor. On the off season, it’s a great place to sit at the bar and jaw with the bartender (and the assistant brewer who’s there more often than not), and collect our all-the-time happy hour discount by wearing our “bar wear” — two quite stylish Front Street baseball caps. (The bar wear, I should note, extends to boxer shorts, though I couldn’t tell you if patrons are required to drop trou to get their discount.)

During the summer, Front Street (along the rest of the town) turns into a hopping, tourist-laden joint, and often times it’s hard to get a seat. It’s still April, but we’re starting to notice this already — packed tables and service that does the best it can to stay caught up.

Though we do default to the bar itself, at our most recent visit we found the bar seats full up and picked a window instead. This allowed me to grab a few quick shots: the beer (which you can order in full liter mugs as well as pints) and the ferry dock, just across the street.

Had I been hungry (I’d just eaten at home) I would have ordered my usual favorite, the “Ass-kicking chili,” but I opted to sit this one out and instead spend the time admiring Chopper Dave’s choice of the day, Shepherd’s Pie.

Yes, the food is pub grub. Very good pub grub, with a touch of the English to it, but still, pub grub. On a line cook’s salary, what more can we ask for? It’s not like the guys slinging the Veal Osso Bucco can go out and eat Veal Osso Bucco on those pay checks.

So, we default to pub grub. In part, also, because it’s comfort food and it’s a good excuse to drink the most(ly) excellent beer.

Our pick for this trip: Moggy Mild — a traditional English mild with a deep, malty flavor and made with equal portions of Fuggle and Kent Golding hops. It’s not a hoppy beer by any stretch, but the hops are still present in the background, and it was refreshing enough to add to our regular repertoire.

In fact most of the beers here aren’t all that hoppy. This could be a disappointment to me — my idea of the perfect beer is one that tastes like I’m sucking it through a vat of fresh-off-the-vine hop cones — but fortunately almost all of the beers brewed by San Juan Brewing have other assets that make them quite enjoyable.

Like the Ale Diablo. It’s made with four kinds of peppers — Anaheim, Jalapeño, Serrano, and Habanero, and believe me, it makes you sweat. There’s nothing better around here on a hot summer day when you’ve just stepped in from a long day at the beach or on the boat.

(Sheesh. Do I sound like a tourism brochure, or what?)

The Ale House, which is right next door to the San Juan Brewing Company facility, typically carries at least six or seven originals on tap, and they rotate in new ones on a regular basis. Next up, for Cinco de Mayo: a Smoked Pepper Ale, and a Mexican Chocolate Ale. Mix the two together, so they say on the promo flyer, and you’ve got Molé Ale. That, I can’t wait to try!

Front Street Ale House & San Juan Brewing Co.
1 Front St
Friday Harbor, Washington, 98250

Typical passer-by at Front Street Ale House: