Pesach cruises along, about half done. Now, usually, I get focused on the bread. That’s mostly the point, for we don’t eat leavened products for eight days to remember our people leaving Egypt in a rush. (As an aside, and as a reminder that the bible and history often don’t co-exist perfectly—highlighting, perhaps the inherent conflicts between fiction and non-fiction—here’s a piece by Smarya Rosenberg, Passover:  The Real Meaning of Matzah, from thefailedmessiah.com.)

Alas, my focus on bread does not relate to the affliction imposed on my people; instead, it’s the affliction I’m feeling, missing a favored part of my diet and a treasured hobby. Now, I’ve shared a decent amount about my bread world. The reviews are

Pesach aka Passover commemorates the Jewish departure from Egypt. The celebration lasts seven or eight days, and Is Passover 7 or 8 Days? does some explaining about the 7 v. 8 issue. Regardless, we don’t eat leavened products, or those food products that can rise, during this period. (Rabbi Thomas and Marcia Louchheim explain how the Ashkenazi, Sfardim, Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox parts of our people deal with these issues at Legumes and Rice on Passover.)

Anyway, so I spent today doing Pesach baking for the Seder we’re attending on Tuesday, and pizza to get the bread out of my system before I take a week off (from bread.) Seder means order, and for the non-Jews who follow me,

A week ago I was in San Diego aka Heaven on Earth! Last Friday I reported on an excellent dinner at Monello. I did not, however, share the fact that we had weekend guests who arrived, young and hungry, at about 10 p.m. And what do hosts do for young and hungry guests who arrive at 10 p.m. on a Friday night? Feed them!

We walked over to Basic, located in the East Village across the street, almost, from Petco Park’s right field fence. I found Basic years ago, and rarely do I present myself in San Diego without dropping by. (Pictures taken earlier in the week. It’s not sunny at 10:30 p.m., even in San Diego.)

Here,

Monello means “brat” in Italian. Not a very nice name, but there’s a back story. Monello is the younger, less fancy sibling of Bencotto. Thus, brat fits. Both are top-drawer Little Italy food emporiums. (San Diego’s Little Italy, that is.) And I’m here to report on dinner at Monello.

Monello focuses on food with a seriousness of purpose not found in many places. None I can think of, anyway. The sweet vermouth is homemade in the restaurant, and combines an extraordinary mix of herbs and other additions. You won’t want the bottled stuff, ever again! Cured meats are outstanding. (Prior visit.) Pastas are made in-house, and are cooked perfectly. (See below.) The mozzarella cheese last night was made

Blu – A Wine & Cheese Stop is my new favorite place in Tucson!

Time passes, so I don’t recall when I became acquainted with Blu for the first time, but I think it was in late 2012. Somewhere, somehow, I heard about a virtual cheese shop that delivers. Wow! Cool!!!

With my first order I met Tana Fryer, delivery person, cheese monger, and co-owner with her wife, Kelly Fryer (the new Executive Director at the YWCA, a “going places” organization). Maybe “got in early” mattered, but in those early months a quick call resulted in cheese, pretty much on demand. Norma Lorge, Mesch, Clark & Rothschild’s receptionist extraordinaire, sees lots of people and things coming and going (including,

Bialys are not bagels! Not at all!!! Yes, they’re both round. Chewy. Found in Jewish delis. And not the same!

So what are bialys? Show and tell, in that order.

A bialy is a roll, and its formal name may be bialystoker kuchen. They come from Bialystock, Poland. Bialystock is, of course, most famous in the United States for exporting its name, attached to Max, the lead character in the play/movie/play The Producers, written by Mel Brooks.

The traditional bialy comes topped with chopped onion and poppy seeds. No blueberry, honey whole wheat or other flavors. No whole, either, but there is a depression in the middle to house the bulk of the onions and poppy seeds.

I

Ms. J doesn’t eat pizza much anymore. I think she’s a victim of anti-gluten disease, a condition caused by a generalized phobia for anything which a bunch of people are shunning. (Alas, Ms. J feels better than she ever has, and is as fit and trim as can be! So, who am I to talk?)

Me? I’m still a fan, but only when the pizza’s worthy. No late nights with Dominos, Papa John, or Little Caesars for me. And I find myself, increasingly, favoring what I make at home.

I like my pizzas lean and dry, mostly. Barely there with the cheese and less/no sauce, and I’m happy. And, as it is with the soaked salad you asked the restaurant

Ms. J does not love meat. She eats chicken and turkey, likes well-done salmon, and passes on most everything else. Or so I used to think!

A few years ago I fell into the momofuku ambit. Momofuku means lucky peach, and it’s also a restaurant group, started and led by David Chang. (Learn more at momofuku.) I have not dined at any of its 12 locations in New York City, Toronto, and Sydney. I have, however, made two of the highly touted momofuku dishes at home.

We’ll skip Crack Pie for now. It’s a variation on Chess pie, a southern favorite; alas, it’s more complicated, sweeter, and one very fine pie.

Right now, we’re focusing on momofuku bo ssam