Then today: Le Pichet, the 1st Ave cousin of Cafe Presse, home to the best omelet in the city. The two other new-girl interns and I decided it was high time we all had lunch together. Plus, we’re all January babies, so we had to celebrate. So up to Pichet we trekked, taking a place at a sunny little table in the sweetly bustling and surprisingly truly Paris-y little cafe.

Thankfully, all of us are sharers, so I didn’t have to go through the agony of choosing one little thing off the menu. For us three workin’(ish… if you aren’t paid can it count as work?) girls: calamari, pork belly, and a charcuterie plate. The calamari, light and airy and one of my favorite things on earth, atop its opposite, the earthy lentil, all lightened by lemon. Pork belly, cooked into crispiness, set atop a haystack of bright celery root, squash, and greens. Then the charcuterie, all delicious, especially the terrines and pates. Smooshed onto slices of delightfully airy white baguette (…with butter). And then a roasted pear brioche, to cap it off. Obviously.

Jessie and Amanda, my intern compatriots, in blurry form.

Jammed into a 3 ft x 15 ft closet on Madison is Little Uncle, kickin little 5-item-menu street kitchen. Run by a husband and wife team, half which used to be the sous chef at fancy Cap Hill restaurant Lark . As foodie intern girl, I’d read lots about Little Uncle, and knew that they now took cards, thanks to that iPhone card scanner new-fangled thang.

So braised beef cheek bun and pad Thai for Anne it was. Pounded the soft bun stuffed with tender beef and a mini-fistful of cilantro while I waited for my noodles…no time to take a photo. (Wouldn’t want it to get cold or anything.) Then my pad Thai, wrapped in brown butcher paper, secured with a rubber band. Planned to take it back to work, but I honestly could not wait. Stepped up to the stand-and-chow counter, ripped open the steamy package. Inside: noodles tofu eggs bean sprouts shallots green onion, all just a little bit deliciously burnt in that hot wok way. Slice of lime. Packet of crunchy sugar. Packet of hot hot crushed chilies. Smashed the lime on top, getting every last molecule out. Tasted the sugar (sugar? Yes, it’s sugar) dumped some on. Cautiously dipped pinkie in chilies. Yes. H O T. Dumped half of that on. Ate like a frenzied puppy.

First off: the corned lamb salad, which I never would have normally ordered (especially when there’s salad nicoise up for grabs…) but I saw about ten go out while I read the menu, and they looked dang good. Leftover steak salad’s swanky cousin. Mizuna, see-through thin radishes, falling-apart-tender salty corned lamb, and really really spicy hot dressing. By really spicy hot I mean straight chopped little green chilies hot. By really hot I mean G had to ask for a glass of milk hot. By really hot I mean my Sriracha-loving self was feeling the burn hot. Hot. (But in a good way.)

Then the shrimp and bacon dumplings, which I had dreamed of most (shrimp dumplings are my number one favorite dim sum item) were sadly the least interesting. Just dumplings. Good, not great, Genia and I decided. But next up the mussel pancake, with fennel and coconut. Sounds funky, was delicious. Salty, crispy, sea-y. With the tangy pickled fennel, yeah.

Then the rice bowl: white rice topped with spicy kimchi-ed daikon, lemony greens, and heaven-sent short ribs. Genia and I agreed white rice is such a simple, delicious treat (since we force ourselves to love brown rice the rest of the time.) The daikon was cruncy, the short ribs were killer, the greens were a welcome change from the fried goodness. Topped with little spoonfuls of all the condiments–ginger soy sauce, spicy fish sauce, chili sauce, red bean paste.

Then, stuffed, we debated dessert, coming to the obvious conclusion: Yes. And soon a sweet little bell jar was in our lives: red velvet cheese cake, made pink and earthy with beets, nestled in a crumbly walnut crust. “Really too full for dessert” thoughts faded away quickly. Sweetness. I am developing a terrible sweet tooth. Last weekend I had a cinnamon roll and a waffle for brunch. I cannot stop buying Trader Joe’s dark chocolate peanut butter cups. I walk by the Pike Place muffin guy every morning on the way to work and just “have” to buy a muffin. And to top off all this sweetness in my world, Genia gave me a packet of dark chocolate Tim Tams, sweet sweet Aussie gold. And just a little more sweetness, my sweet new roommate Laura baked me a carrot cake birthday cake, topped with almond flowers. Sweetness abounds.

Since Seattle has pretty much stopped functioning with the snow, I was misled by bus schedules and after dinner I found myself waiting for a bus that would never come. So I tromped on home, over the river and through the woods, up a lot of hills and through a lot of slush puddles, thankful for my Idahoan blood. The walk was sweet in its own way–there’s that weird lovely pink snow-glow outside and everyone has their makeshift sleds out, careening down the closed streets. And pretty train track shadows:

Then a few hours playing with my 2 little charges (You can call me Nanny Annie) and their new favorite thing (…and my new favorite thing) in the whole wide world:

Then later on to Bar del Corso. In preparation for interning at Seattle Met, I’ve been doing Seattle food scene research, and everyone is all about Bar del Corso. So we trekked on down to Beacon Hill to see what it’s all about. It is so nice to have foodie friends, friends who get equally jittery about the prospect of a good meal. We arrived to a full-ish restaurant, full for a Wednesday night, and took a couple spots at the par, peeking over into the small open kitchen.

We ordered one of the irresistible specials: deep-fried roman artichoke, then grilled octopus and the requisite margherita pizza. Artichoke… deep-fried, elevated. Crispy leaves made into arti-chips, the heart salty and soft. The octopus was smoky and not chewy, the twirly little tentacles atop a generous handful of warm peperonata, which I of course schmeared on the crusty white bread with joy.

Soon our pizza arrived: thin thin thin, chewy, and charred. That dreamy light sauce made milky by mozzarella. Just enough wrinkled basil. Mmm. I ate my half before Genia even finished her first modest slice. And then, in celebration of Genia’s return from Auz and my relocation and really just becasue we wanted it: buttermilk panna cotta with huckleberry compote. I have a special warm little place in my heart for: A. panna cotta, B. huckleberries. Served simply in a little bowl, with just a touch of buttermilk tang and that special huckleberry magic of sunshine and Idaho mountains and achy backs and stained fingers from a long day picking.

Back to sunny Florida, where I lived on grapefruit and tacos. In March the annual Larkwood International Adventure: Argentina. Spoke “charmingly” broken espanol, wished I was an Argentinian, drank a few gallons of cider, and ate more steak than I have in the past 3 years combined.

Summer finally rolled around and down to Donnelly I went, to work at a bustling little wine bar where I ate about 2 baguettes a day and learned how to make up poetic wine descriptions. Made Grandma eat kale with me and grilled everything I could. (Grilled Pizza!) Revisited my old restaurant and officially realized that I would rather eat, write about, and photograph food than prepare it.

Up to Vancouver, BC for my last semester as an undergrad. Had a few great meals in Vancouver, but mostly did extensive sushi research and ate about 5 muffins a week at my beloved and much-missed corner coffeeshop. With the help of the Killam Foundation, I went to Ottawa and Montreal, and did some serious eating in both cities with my sweet Bali friends Jackie and Bari. Incredibly cool oyster bar action in Ottawa, many beautiful brunches and a few more-than-fantastic dinners in Montreal. Lobster pasta at Liverpool House, housemade salamis at Le Comptoir.

Continued to live on avocado toast, apples, and eggs. I interned at a community garden project and got to actually get my hands in the ground (and eat a ton of ultra fresh kale.) Fell in love with Vancouver Winter Farmers Market, and cried a little as I left Canadia.

But came home to Mom-food, and all was well once more. December was spent sleeping, reading, eating, and being very very content. Momma made minestrone, Camie made Camie Cake, and we had Buddy’s game birds for Christmas dinner.

Now in Seattle, making a list of every restaurant that I must go to and delighting in filling my fridge with Trader Joes. 2011 was a wonderful year, chock-a-block full of happy changes, sweet new friends, thankfulness, yoga bliss, little blue kayak bliss, traveling, love and warmth and good good food.

The sausage was smoky, the kohlrabi puree an interesting flavor within a simple texture. Fried brussels rocked (duh.) Shortrib goulash, yummy, paprika-y. The shrimp were thrillingly sweet, and a welcome contrast to the other dishes. Dumplings were drenched in decadent squash gravy. The beet and carrot salad was light and great–I’m a recent beet convert. Spatzle…salty fried kinda breaded pasta. Yes. MUSSELS. They said “Oh, it’s a big serving.” So we got two, naturally. Dad and I hoarded a bowl to ourselves, wolfing down the shellfish and the hunks of sausage, mopping up the spicy beer broth with thick grilled slices of rye.

And Uncle Ross was with us, so we of course got dessert. All the desserts. Coconut cream in a little pastry bowl with espresso-y chocolate crumble and some sweet little cookies and one scoop each of buttermilk, rum, and maple ice cream. Three votes for buttermilk, two for maple.

Next night, a tapas feast. Chorizo n’ cheese, caprese (a quick jaunt to Italy), white bean almond gorgonzola salad, fried chickpeas (by Joan, maker of the original “crack nuts,” these were just about as addictive,)  mushroom spinach tortilla (my Madre is tortilla queen,) papas bravas (I did contribute, made the bravas sauce, which is a heavenly blend of tomatoes and onions and garlic and wine and everything good,) meatballs, another chickpea dish courtesy of Joan, this one all light and bright with parsley and peppers, and gambas al ajillio (a la Uncle Ross).

Somewhere along the road, the Larkin family decided we’re Spanish. Dad was born in Spain… but I think that’s as far as it goes. But being Spanish has better food perks than being American, so we’re gonna keep on pretending. And to top the night off, an almond cake (by moi, with the help of my friend David) and pear sauce (by Momma.) A really lovely celebration with the peoples I love! (And Joan, my biggest blog fan, gifted me with the brightest best set of tapas-size plates ever, which means I HAVE to make tapas all the time in my sweet little apartment in my new “real” post-grad life.) And here’s nanny Logan with her mini-foodie charges, chowin’ down on smoked gouda.

My three favorite Spanish words: Carnitas, Lengua, Pastor.

Why I love Canada: Asian food.

My three favorite Japanese words: Tobiko, Maguro, Maki.

Then: scrambled eggs with asparagus and cheddar and a side of smoked salmon. Then: French toast made with heaven-on-earth hazelnut bread and topped with what we believe to be extra-tart apple sauce and a big handful of blueberries. Our waiter was trying not to look horrified/impressed with our order. And even more so when he came to clear our plates, and found them totally empty. Later that night we had a massive meal (more on that later) but woke up on Sunday and headed out for another brunch, stomachs growling.

This time at Lawrence, a place we had considered, but was confirmed as a top brunch pick by our Montreal foodie water at dinner. Arriving to a chock-a-block restaurant, we prowled hungrily down the street in search of coffee and a little smackerel to wait our turn, and found ourselves as a deliciously funky café, where we held ourselves over with americanos and lattes and a big peach muffin.

Finally we got the call and rushed back down the block to take our spot at the bar. Not quite hungry enough for three big brunch-sized breakfasts, we ordered just two this time. English breakfast: one perfect sunny-side-up egg, thick toast, a roasted tomato (an idea which I plan to steal and have in my life on a regular basis), house made bacon, sausage, and black pudding. All so good, the rich fattiness of it all crying out for tartness, answered by the tomato. The black pudding…we did our best. But no, not beloved. And our second dish, a sausage and egg roll. Milk bun with a house made (of course) sausage patty, a bit of beautiful cheese, another perfect egg, tomato, and arugula. The McMuffin’s mega posh, very very distant cousin. Also very good.

We contemplated the French toast (topped with pears and cranberries in the Lawrence version) but our extraordinarily full bellies cried out for us to please, for the love of all that is holy, stop. So instead we waddled out and wandered the Plateau for a bit, went for a lovely tour up onto Mount Royal with our excellent local tour guide friends, then… went to the Atwater market for maybe just a tiny little snack. (Here’s Bari, global foodie companion.)

Crossed my fingers and called for a spot at the bar, got a harried yesofcourse, and trotted on down to Rue Saint Laurent. Took my spot at the bar, a ringside seat for the kitchen drama unfolding right there in front of me. Three chefs, one dishwasher, and an array of extraordinarily hip waitstaff diving and ducking and twirling around each other, plating perfect dish after perfect dish, carefully measuring out slices of sopressata, stacking bright tomatoes atop one another, calling out for service, whisking the food off to the awed spectators. I started with a glass of organic Greek red wine (number one reason I like Canada), chosen by my waiter and guide through the all-French menu scrawled up on the wall. Then a plate of charcuterie—a must, seeing as they make the stuff right downstairs.

Soppresata, fennel sausage, chorizo, pig’s head (Yes. And explained by my Francophone waiter, “This is of the pig’s whole head, cooked and chopped.” And yes, shockingly good.), and a little rectangle of terrine. With a healthy dab of house-made mustard, a couple perfect little pickles, and a big hunk of pickled fennel. Took me a while to work my way through all the pork, but I made it to the other side for my next blissful course: poelee de chanterelles, langue de porc braisee, mini raviolis a la puree de racine de persil. I could pick out “chanterelles” and “pork” and “ravioli” on my own, and I was pretty much sold. Then once I got the full translation and realized pork tongue was up for grabs, I was super sold. I love weird animal bits. If anything was to convince me of divinity in this world, it’d be foie gras. Sweetbreads make me want to sing, bone marrow makes me want to dance. I always, always go for the lengua from the sketchy taco trucks. Pig tongue at the 8^th best restaurant in Canada? Yes please.

Another glass of wine, this one a French red, arrived along with my bowl of heaven, chosen and explained in great, kinda indecipherable detail by my very knowledgeable waiter. And then the braised tongue, incredibly tender and perfect alongside the earthy mushroom and rich sauce. (And I swear they were morels…or maybe it was all so good that I just went ahead an hallucinated an once more of goodness…) And perfect little raviolis, all in a sauce of the gods, topped with a very necessary cloud of greenery, just bitter enough to cut the richness of it all. I’m not a very slow eater, in fact, a little bit of a scarf-er, but I savored that dish for a very solid twenty minutes.

Added to the flavors of the plate and the perfectly-picked wine was the joy of watching the three cooks practice their craft; the pantry man careful and deliberate with his many many mixing bowls, the broiler-grill duo wielding hot pans, coloring plates with sauces, timing a million things in their minds. Such a delight to watch this goodness come into being, to watch people do something they’re really truly good at. And a tiny bit of melancholy envy, mostly of their focus and their clear satisfaction. I miss that little jolt of joy when you see a row of perfect dishes ready to enter into the world, made by your own hands. But I got over my little pang when I noticed that all the glorious chefs were sweating like mad, wiping their brows on dirty kitchen towels and sneaking sips of wine out of water glasses. Then I snapped back to reality and relished my position on the other side of the counter.

I hadn’t noticed the dessert menu drawn up on the wall behind me, and hadn’t planned on dessert, with my double pork, double wine meal. But they had panna cotta. Panna cotta, compote de pommes, a la feve tonka, puree de date, sable Breton aux pecans. Apples…dates…cookies…tonka? Not so sure. And it was explained to my little English-only brain, but it was loud and I was in a pre-panna cotta haze, so I just nodded. And maybe drooled. The panna cotta arrived in a little glass, just like Mom makes; just like how its supposed to be. Jelled cream topped with something fruity. Pure, bright bliss. I love panna cotta because it manages to be rich and refined. It’s straight cream, but it’s not overwhelming. It’s the girl you never knew was uber wealthy till you spied her beautiful shoes. It’s quietly decadent. It’s the best. “Was it what you were dreaming of?” my waiter asked. Yes, yes, yes. The pure creaminess cut with the warmth of the apple and date, the silkyness contrasted by the snappy sable. I lingered for a good while longer over my panna cotta and last little milliliters of wine, not wanting to leave the glow of the kitchen, of cooking, of good food, of people all delighting in creating and eating and drinking and savoring and sharing.

But here’s the walk home:

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