Giuseppe Naccarelli opens an ambitious, good-looking Italian restaurant in South Shore Center.
Typecast as a plebeian treat for plebeians ever since they first appeared in the English-speaking world, donuts, formerly and still sometimes known as doughnuts, are cheap and easy to make. A squirt of batter, boiling fat: They’re gloriously inglorious. But they’ve come up in the world as chefs in the trendiest shops and restaurants draw on global traditions, top-quality components, and culture-bending East Bay artistry to transform the lowly donut into pricey gleaming golden gourmet beignets, fritters, crullers, cronuts, churros, youtiao, zeppole, twists, filled pillows, and classic rings.
Legal Eats teaches foodie entrepreneurs the ins and outs of running a home business so they won't be breaking any laws.
Cheese, wine, bread, snacks, and the just-right containers for a picnic.
Three new books on cooking, building, and growing up.
Young Asian chefs and restaurateurs in Oakland love the food of their home countries and their youth, like the salty-sweet street fare from Mumbai’s beaches or the spicy roasted Siamese peanuts sold on Thailand streets. Oakland-based cooks like to do their own thing, often outpacing their counterparts elsewhere. They herald the rise of inventive, new dishes with fresh takes on traditional cuisine. Here are six spots raising the bar, and changing expectations, for what Asian food can be.
Our favorite comfort foods are often those that we ate as kids. So perhaps it’s no surprise that in the case of pasta—one of the all-time top comfort foods—many of Oakland’s favorite versions can be traced back to an old family recipe. We touched base with a few of the city’s Italian restaurants for the story behind their signature pasta dishes (hint: there are a lot of Italian mothers and grandmothers involved).
You can and should eat the flowers making their way onto your dinner plate and into your highball glass.
Tah-chin is an elegant, irresistible Iranian treat.
Kristy looked radiant in her satin gown when I picked her up in my dad’s leased, lemon-chiffon Lincoln Continental. The luxury ride was less to impress—Kristy wasn’t my girlfriend; I was standing in for her boyfriend in the service—than to smooth out the long and winding ride to Port Costa for our pre-senior ball dinner at the Bull Valley Inn. This was back in the culinary dark ages, before the advent of California cuisine, when we called restaurants “fancy” not “upscale,” and a fancy restaurant served French or, more likely in the suburbs, “continental” cuisine.