Dear San Francisco:
I never cook anymore, and it’s all your fault. Oh sure, you have all those fantastic grocery stores with organic pastas and locally grown tomatoes. But you’ve made it so hard to park near my house, I’d have to walk four blocks or more with my bags of polenta and pico de gallo to get my food home. Even worse and this is where you’re really to blame you make it so easy, and so rewarding, not to cook. Yes, I could stay home and make chicken soft tacos. But why not walk three blocks and buy better ones for a couple of bucks? Why would I stir-fry tofu and veggies alone in my kitchen when my best friend and I can meet for stellar sushi halfway between our railroad apartments? I know what you’re going to say: you give me Rainbow, and Faletti’s, and all sorts of places selling ingredients worthy of a home-cooked meal. But I know you’re teasing me. Because you also give me sag paneer at Dar Bar, and honey lavender ice cream at Bi-Rite Creamery, and super burritos at Pancho Villa. How could any girl with a regular amount of willpower and a serious lazy streak look you in the eye, San Francisco, with your spaghetti and meatballs down the street, and fresh unagi around the corner, and say, "Nahhh … I think I’ll eat in tonight"? It’s impossible, I tell you, and you know it. You taunt me with your whole-food minimarts on every corner, daring me to use my apartment’s vast counter space for something other than mixing cocktails. And then you tease me with your ceviche and your crab cakes and your sourdough-crust pizza. Damn you, San Francisco. Damn you for taking a girl who used to deep-fry her own goat-cheese croquettes and making her someone who can’t remember how to brew her own coffee. Damn. You. (And, uh, thank you.)
Feast 2007 editor
PS Want to meet somewhere for dinner later?