The main reason I drive up to San Francisco is for Tartine croissants.
I buy too many at a time, at least two plain ones, maybe one chocolate one, and I eat one at a table outside, flakes falling onto the table, onto my lap, onto the ground. I start by biting one end off, then I unroll the croissant from the center, pulling away the layers and folding the buttery goodness into more manageable pieces, stuffing them into my mouth until the croissant is gone and I’m wondering if I should eat another or restrain myself.
Usually, I exercise restraint. Tartine isn’t stingy when it comes to their croissants, so they have heft.
I’m in San Francisco to visit friends, and I’ve taken my puppy with me. He’s calm on the long drive up through central California, and I like to think he likes the one-on-one time with me. When I take him out with me during the day, he gets a stupid amount of compliments from strangers, this pupper of mine, so he gets love everywhere he goes, but he loves me best and never leaves my side.
The way I scramble my eggs has changed several times over the years. I used to do the whole crack-eggs-into-a-bowl-and-whisk-with-milk-and-salt-before-pouring-into-a-hot-pan thing, and then the pan was replaced with a small saucepan, and then the bowl was eliminated altogether so the eggs went straight into a hot, buttered saucepan, mixed together with a splash of milk or cream with a rice scooper, and then the milk went away, too, and then the saucepan was replaced with a small pan and the eggs weren’t whisked together, just the whites, the yolks folded in at the very, very end. Who knows how my method will evolve from here.
Every so often, I read the recipe for Tartine’s croissants in their Bread book. It’s a few pages because it’s a long, involved process, and I like to think that, one weekend, when I’ve got the time and ambition, I’ll finally trying making these.
After I go to Tartine and buy my box of croissants, I walk over to Bi-Rite because I spied dry-farmed tomatoes as I was passing by earlier. I pass a kitchen on my way, and I look over to see Liz Pruiett assembling a tart. (She may have been cutting the tart.) Someone’s filming over her shoulder. I later learn that Julia Turshen and Samin Nosrat were there, too, and I think how cool, what a kitchen to have been in that morning.