Two days have passed, and the feeding has begun. Like a boa constrictor consumes it daily diet of rodents, and small jungle creatures, so too has my rye flour engulfed the 2/3 cup of bread flour it was fed last night. The rye flour was puffy and swollen looking upon its consumption, so there was definitely some fermentation going on. I added the bread flour, stirred to mix, now I wait another two days before feeding number two.

When I stirred the mixture it was very thick. The consistency was definitely more than, “a thick pancake batter,” as the recipe said it would be. I would equate it to a lumpy, dense scone batter, but pancake batter is sort of subjective, right? It alarmed me enough so that I asked Brian, “And just what do I do if this doesn’t work out, and here I am documenting it online, for all the world to see my embarrassment.” His remark, “If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out, and you’ll try another recipe.” So, with much trepidation, I give you Goo Day 3.

I admit it, maybe it has something to do with the fact I am a Bay Area native, and here sourdough is like pablum, but I love sourdough bread. The tang, the crumb, the subtle puckery nature, it makes my heart go pitter pat. To me, even a bad loaf of Colombo Sliced Sourdough makes pretty good toast slathered with butter, and the end piece of a sourdough baguette, still slightly warm, crust shiny and bubbled from The Cheese Board, is sublime.

I had done some reading on baking sourdough bread, and I will be the first to tell you– the task seemed a bit daunting. For those of you who don’t already know this, sourdough bread is made from what else, sourdough starter. This starter is different from other forms of bread in that it is yeast-free, or rather no prepared yeast is added to it. A combination of rye and bread flours, and lukewarm water, is fermented and invigorated for days, and makes the living organism that is a sourdough starter. Many bakeries that bake sourdough bread products, have several containers of sourdough starter that are decades old. When fed and cared for regularly, a starter will last indefinitely. Just think of it as house plant, or a small child.

Recently I purchased the The Cheese Board Collective Works, a fabulous cookbook of the bread, pastry, cheese, and pizza, by the Cheese Board Collective. The Cheese Board is a bustling, amazing cheese shop cum bakery in Berkeley, CA. Besides being an entirely egalitarian, successfully worker owned co-op, this shop also has the largest selection of some truly interesting cheeses, and the most friendly, knowledgeable staff of anywhere I have been. From the more unique, semi-hard cheeses from Spain, to the more traditional, creamy ricottas (they have 5 kinds), to the various types of scones, muffins, and flat breads, I confess, the reason I return to the Cheese Board, time and again, is the sourdough bread.

Inspired by my latest cookbook purchase, and encouraged by my insatiable desire for sourdough bread (and I can’t camp out at The Cheese Board’s doorstep), I decided to make my own starter. The Cheese Board cookbook, in the spirit of “share and share alike” gave me step-by-step instructions to begin my culinary travails. I think what will be the most trying aspect of the process for me will be patience. It takes a minimum of 12 days, to get the starter going– 12 DAYS. I am not the most patient of human beings. But when I think of the living organism that I will have in my hot little hands, in less than 2 weeks, it makes me giggle in gleeful anicipation. Check back in at Nosheteria for the latest thumbnail pics of the starter in its creation. We’ll call this Goo Day 1. It is simply a mixture of rye flour and water. Stay tuned as the feeding begins.

I confess, or Brian does in fact, that his parents do not live in LA proper, they call the Valley home. The Valley is suburban sprawl at its most perverse, where one town seamlessly blends into the next, and north and south of Ventura boulevard delineate the right, from the wrong sides of the tracks. But there are good things to be had in the Valley: the Schindler house, in its dilapidation in Woodland Hills; bookstores with smelly, old copies of Charles Lamb’s collected works; and Dr. Hogly Wogly’s Tyler Texas BBQ in Van Nuys.

The bright green astro turf beckoned me inside, and the smoke from the BBQ lay thick in the air. Carnivores need be the only diners to apply for a plum dinner seating at this local joint. With a quick glance at the menu, of hot links, various types of pork products, both beef and spareribs, chicken, and the brisket, Brian and I, encouraged by our fellow diners, decided to split the two way combination of beef brisket, and spare ribs. When the meat arrived, not swimming in BBQ sauce, but resting haphazardly in a plate of rich au jus, with a small pitcher of sauce on the side, we knew that we were in for a gluttonous treat. The spareribs were succulent, the meat literally falling from the bone, no need to exercise the canines. And the brisket was not the typical fatty and tough pieces of meat; these were prime cuts of beef, fork tender and still juicy.

Now in my history, BBQ joints are not known for their sides, but this was not the case for Dr. HogWog. We selected the baked beans; delicately sweetened with brown sugar, and clearly given a boost with liquid smoke; and cole slaw, tangy yet not too vinegary, nor swimming in heavy mayonnaise-based dressing. These sides were so ideal, we actually ordered more to round out the meal. Each diner was given a flaky, chewy, homemade dinner roll, the size of a hamburger bun, to sop up the liquid heaven that was left on the plate.

When the bill came, wetnaps and toothpicks included, and I sat back, surprised by just how much Texas BBQ was consumed during my dinner hour. And when I read “Was it as good for you?” fadingly emblazoned on the tray, I nodded solemnly in agreement. Dr. Hogly Wogly’s is the best thing to come out of Texas, and one of the best things about the Valley.

When I first started this site, and was diligently searching the web, looking for proper names, I did a search for “nosheteria,” the perfect combination of the words cafeteria (a place many of us have fond, or not so fond memories of) and nosh (a common Jewish colloquialism meaning a snack). At the time, only one result came up on Google, an Epinions rating of a favorite restaurant, Canter’s Deli in LA, mentioning that this was “a late night nosheteria.” And so the love affair was quickly cemented.

I love Canter’s Deli. Not because it’s the greatest Jewish food around (because it’s not), and not because it is open 24 hours a day (although that is wonderful), but because it is what it is– an old school deli, plastic banquettes still intact, with a truly bizarre clientele. To get the full realization of Canter’s, it is necessary to dine there in the late evening hours, when the Kibbitz Room, the attached bar next door is in full swing. The glaring lights of the neon marquee beckon you to come inside for a bowl of chicken soup and a bagel. Cruising past the deli and bakery cases housing rows of rugelah, and towers of babkas in the foyer, it’s not even necessary to request a booth– at Canter’s that’s all they have.

I always have chicken soup at Canter’s, even in late July when LA is suffering through a heat wave that makes the flesh on the back of my arms stick to the leatherette veneer of the banquette. I have had the matzo ball, and it’s pretty good for restaurant style matzo ball soup, unadorned, just a tennis ball-sized sphere floating in the clear chicken broth. But what I have is the dumpling to beat all Jewish dumplings– kreplach. Doughy and thick, eggy, offering the slightest bit of resistance to the spoon, with a plain minced chicken filling, kreplach soup is the soup of champions! Many Jewish delis do not even have kreplach soup on the menu, or if they do it is just a wonton, setting in a bowl of tepid broth. But Canter’s revels in the perogi-like presence of their kreplach, placing it squarely in a bowl of steaming hot, salty chicken broth. When you order kreplach soup from Canter’s, that is what you get, no shreds of white chicken breast meat, not the odd carrot or two floating around haphazardly in broth. You get just chicken soup, with a couple of kreplachs; and you don’t need anything more.

But perhaps what I love the most about a late night run to Canter’s is the ambiance. Now I’m not talking about dimmed lighting, beautiful floral center pieces, and flickering candlelight sort of ambiance. What I am talking about is glaring fluorescent lights, the kind that give you a greenish cast, briny dill pickles replacing the quaint floral center pieces, and hoarse waitresses who have worked at years for Canter’s, barking out “What can I get you?” all whilst wearing the faded “I Love Canter’s Deli” t-shirt. Hipsters, old folks, and the odd celebrity (because it is LA) all dine together under the fluorescent lights, covered with a 1970′s, translucent tiles, reminiscent of hyper-colored trees and leaves. The corned beef is good, the pastrami is fine, and the coffee is diner style and delicious, making no trip to LA complete without my fix from Canter’s deli. And now, since this Nosheteria’s inception, I’ve been able to build a lasting connection to this timeless, old haunt.

No trip to Los Angeles would be complete without a celebrity sighting. And this year’s trip to LA was no different when I saw the perfect “C” level star, Camryn Manheim, strolling down the canals at Venice with her annoyingly precocious son in tow. Ah, I loves me some LA! Last year I had not one, but two celebrity sightings– be still my beating heart. Elijah Wood (a bona fide “B” level celebrity) having a late night nosh at Canter’s deli, and the piece de resistance, not George Clooney, nor Sharon Stone (both “A” levels), but the Oscar Mayer wienie mobile cruising down the 101 freeway, heading towards the Valley. My stomach is a-flutter simply recalling the one-ton giant, lumbering down the freeway, coughing plumes of exhaust, and distributing 100%, all-beef hot dogs to throngs of clamoring kiddies.

This year, I wanted to make the trip to LA as special as the last, so Brian and I whipped out our copy of Los Angeles: An Architectural Guide by David Gebhard and Robert Winter in hot pursuit of programmatic architecture. Programmatic architecture, also known as: mimetic, googie, “a duck,” means a building shaped like what it is selling. This style of architecture is found all over this country, and was especially popular during the 1930′s to the 1960′s. Out of the many places in the USA that contain some programmatic relic from the past, Los Angeles is the mecca of this type of architecture.

The Tail-O-the-Pup, now located on N. San Vicente Boulevard, near the Beverly Center, was moved from it’s original 1946 location, on the corner of La Cienga and Beverly Boulevard– anything to preserve a little bit of true Americana. Forget about the Liberty Bell, the Empire State Building, we want our larger than life, wienies on a bun. Tail-O-the-Pup serves your average hot dog, boiled (or grilled for 50 cents extra), plus all of the fixings: chili, cheese, guacamole. Truth be told, it’s just an ordinary hot dog served from an extraordinary hot dog shaped building.

From the 405 freeway it beckons to you like a beacon of grease and good-eatin’, the enormous donut (it looks like the plain cake variety to me) that is Randy’s Donuts. The ginormous donut is just a sign, but what a sign it is. Talk about making a building work for you! The vertical steel supports of the model, plunge right through the tiny, non-descript donut shop. And the donuts aren’t half bad either. The coconut donut (pictured above) was a delight, a raised glaze donut, rolled in sweetened, snowy white flakes of coconut. Mmmm. A charm from 1954, this is the last Randy’s Donuts around, they used to be dotted throughout Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley.

I think programmatic architecture is the way to go. It just makes everything so much simpler. For instance, who wouldn’t want to buy their groceries from a building shaped like a giant grocery bag, or better yet a cart? Picture it now: driving home and pulling up to your shiny new, car-shaped garage, taking your house keys out and unlocking the door to your sofa-shaped home, no confusion about what is what. Programmatic architecture is the wave of future, at least it was 50 years ago.

I will be out of town for a little over a week. Brian and I will be visiting his parents, and mucking about in LA. But have no fear dear reader, there are new and exciting things for you to listen to while I’m away. You might have noticed that my Menu page has grown. It now includes two new links, Listen to the Noshcast, as well as The Love Theme from Nosheteria.

I have recently starting podcasting, hence the Noshcast. Those of you with an iPod can download my weekly podcasts from the iTunes directory. Look under the food category for the Nosheteria Podcast. For those people without an iPod, or iTunes, you can click on the Listen to the Noshcast on this site, or my feed can be added to other podcasts you may already subscribe to by grabbing the xml file at the bottom of this page. Whew, allow me a moment to collect myself after geeking out.

When you listen to the podcast you might hear a little snippet of music, this is the abridged version of The Love Theme from Nosheteria. Arranged by my equally geeky, but always delightful, husband Brian, it an adaptation of the 70′s disco classic, Everbody Wants to be Bourgie Bourgie, a la Les Paul. So there you have it. Eat like a bourgie, and I will write when I get back.

Soft-shell crabs are bursting with flavor, so unless you are a voluptuary you might want to stay away. But I assume that if you are reading Nosheteria, you must be a true gastronomic libertine, so read on dear reader. Fresh soft-shell crabs are available right now in fish markets, so I recommend picking up a few of these crinkly shelled beauties and bringing them right home, right away.

A soft-shell crab is simply an ordinary blue crab, caught mid-molt, and then enjoyed naked (the crab mind you, not the eater). Once captured, the crab will not form a new shell as long as it is kept out of its natural, salty sea environment. I admit, it can be a bit strange to eat soft-shells, consuming the entire crab almost doesn’t seem right, but one taste of the crisp exterior has me saying, “Bring on the crabs, shell and all!”

For preparing the crabs an old rule truly does apply: the simpler the better. If purchased fresh, from a reputable purveyor, the crabs will be delicately meaty, and literally dripping with the flavor of the sea. Although they can be grilled, I prepared these crabs in a simple dredging mixture, and then fried. I find that dredging and frying, maintains much of the natural juices. Flour, egg, and then a mixture of corn flour and panko bread crumbs, makes up the three-part dredging mixture. Fried for about eight minutes, in a bit of butter, in conjunction with some olive oil, in a scorching hot skillet, makes for a perfect combination of decadence and down-home goodness. Served with a salad to mediate the richness of the crab, makes a truly delectable, mid-summer meal.

I love Mark Bittman, and I love him even more now that I have seen his new PBS show Bittman Takes on America’s Chefs. I have read Bittman for quite some time; and I use his book How to Cook Everything often, both as reference guide and a recipe book. But now that I have seen him in action, paired off against some of this countries finest chefs, I can honestly say that I adore him.

Bittman just gets how the American home chef cooks, or at least how they intend to cook. In his show (in case you have yet to see it), each week he takes on a different chef, either in their restaurant, or another place of their choosing, but always in rather neutral territories. The program is not so much a competition, as in Iron Chef, but rather a show-and-tell. Understanding the intricacies and delicacies of “restaurant” food, Bittman then takes on the chef’s recipes, and pares them down for the home chef. At times Bittman’s recipes are just stripped down restaurant versions, other times they are simply inspired by, and use similar ingredients. But always, Bittman’s food is appetizing and wholly do-able.

Bittman is not a beautiful, arresting man a la Ludo Lefebvre (at least I think this how we are supposed to see him), nor is his technique so impressive that it is intimidating, a la Jacque Pepin (who incidentally I also adore), but with his charm and self-deprecation (always an attractive trait), Bittman proves to be not only a wonderful narrator, but also a stupendous teacher. And he never panders. Unlike some 30-minute queens who shall remain nameless, Bittman speaks to his viewers and readers like they have half a brain in their heads; he is chatty but never condescending. Did I mention that he never panders?

Whether you are a bourgie or a socialite, a novice or an experienced chef, Mark Bittman offers a little bit for everyone. For those that are truly minimalists, to those seeking a tad more from their recipes, to those people like my sister, who loves watching his show but would never think of actually making anything from his program, or any other for that matter, Mark Bittman has the answers for today’s home chefs…And did I mention he never panders.

Rice was never one of those things that I knew how to make. Sure I ate it all the time, and even attempted to make it; but the kernels were not the light, fluffy, individual grains I longed for. I even went so far as to buy Uncle Ben’s converted rice, but it always seemed soupy to me, and each time I pulled out that box, with the friendly-looking, elderly man smiling beatifically at me, I felt ashamed. How could I not adequately make such a staple of diets around the world?

That is when I sought help from my best friend’s mother. She is Sri Lankan, and whenever she would come to visit her daughter at college, she would make some amazing Sri Lankan meal of curries, biryanis, green beans simmered in coconut milk, potatoes pan-fried with black mustard seed– the list was endless. She explained the nuances of rice to me, the ratios, the rinsing, the boiling then simmering, the fluffing, and the waiting. The first time I made rice on my own, I was naturally scared. My hands trembled as I rinsed the rice, I carefully measured out the rice and the water (one cup of rice to one and one half cups of water), mindfully I set the pot to boil, and once reached, I salted the water, turned the heat down to barely a simmer, covered the pan, and waited. It was a heart-wrenchingly difficult 15 minutes, but when I lifted the lid in order to fluff with a fork, what I saw was a thing of beauty– perfect, smooth kernels of rice co-mingling together. So I fluffed, turned the heat off the pan, and let the rice sit covered for an additional 5 minutes, and then ate the fruits of my not-so-hard labor.

And now I am a rice making fool. Since I have lost my trepidation, I try them all. In my kitchen there are always at least 3 different kinds of rice. There is the standard California long grain, slightly plump, and mild in aroma; basmati rice, loose, slender, and always fragrant; and my new favorite– baby basmati rice, or kalijira. Kalijira has all of the aromatic qualities of the basic basmati rice, but has a diminutive, pearl-like quality. Originating from Bangladesh, this rice is more expensive than basmati, and traditionally used in special occasion, and holiday dishes. I love the mouth feel of this rice, it is as if each mouthful is filled with a million tiny beads just waiting to be consumed.

It is true that the most simple of foods, are difficult to execute well. At least this was the case the case for my rice travails. But once mastered, you can truly revel in the technique.

What to do with the leftover steak from the previous night’s dinner? Make The Bourgie Cheesesteak that’s what. Now I admit, I have never indulged in the true Philly Cheesesteak; well I have never actually been to Philadelphia, but taking a trip to one of this nation’s founding cities is definitely on my to-do list. But to tell the truth, a Philly Cheesesteak has always sounded a bit overwhelming to me. Layers of sinewy roast beef, coated in gobs of Cheese-Wiz, and smushed into a chewy roll, makes my stomach hurt just thinking of it. But thinly sliced pieces of beef, pan fried with smoky grilled onions, slices of creamy havarti cheese, all wrapped up in a crusty baguette– now that I can do.

I am a carnivore, steak in itself is a thing of gluttonous beauty. But sometimes, it is too much of a good thing. Usually I can only eat about one-half of a filet before calling it quits. In to the fridge it goes, and then what? It is sliced, and fried into its new incarnation, filling for a cheesesteak. With just a stop off at the market for a crispy baguette, I have meal number two. It is so rare that I actually look forward to leftovers, much less do much of anything of import with them. But now there is the Bourgie Cheesesteak.