I’m back from the West Coast, via deluxe Amtrak sleeper most of the way. Old school. The one drawback of train travel is that the menu in the dining car gets a little repetitive by Day 3. But sincere appreciation to whoever came up with the pork in chile verde special–it was genuinely spicy, and tasty enough that I ate it for two lunches. And it even reflected the Western spirit of the California Zephyr on which we rode. The menu may not quote Brillat-Savarin, but there’s nary a microwave pizza to be seen.

In other food news, I resolve to get down with the yeast doughs this year. After being in San Francisco, where you can nom all day on tasty sourdough, I basically got pissed off all over again that I live in a neighborhood where you can’t get a good crusty loaf of bread–and in fact, the purveyors of good crusty bread went out of business.

Also, I got a little misty-eyed in SF when I saw a hippie barista totally rocking his foamed milk, with the air of a craftsman. With due respect to baristas I have known, no one seems to do that job with the same dignity in NYC, because they feel like they’re wasting the talent and ambition that drove them to the city in the first place. A reminder that it’s sometimes a drag to live in a city filled with I-wanna-be-famous! people. Then I remember that’s why I moved to Queens.

And then I remember the damn lack of bread. Back to square one. But I think my first yeast project will be Tartine’s morning buns, in honor of the hippie barista. Off to the bookstore…