Food & Drink

Grub

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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4
Grub

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE When cultural historians of the future gather to argue the question of when and where Valencia Street finally jumped the shark, they might find themselves concentrating on the changes that came to a single block, between 18th and 19th streets, early in the presidency of Barack Obama. They might, in particular, find themselves considering a place called Grub, which sounds like a greasy joint of some kind where people eat with their fingers but is in reality a gorgeously designed restaurant that flows from a plate-glass façade through a nouveau-mod dining room to a glowing blue bar that looks like something from Star Wars, or Las Vegas.

It’s the sort of place you wouldn’t have found on Valencia as recently as five years ago, and it suggests, to me — along with the nearby The Summit, with its matching plate-glass façade — that a basic shift in sensibility is occurring. Like the Ferry Plaza farmers market, Valencia Street and its establishments now get mentioned in the travel section of The New York Times, and this kind of publicity means tourists, coming as if to some exotic game preserve. Tourists fundamentally change the nature of whatever it is they’re coming to experience, almost as in a chemical reaction.

None of this is to imply that Grub itself is an unworthy restaurant. It is highly worthy, with a value-intensive menu that includes authentic grub like burgers and mac ‘n’cheese, as well as such highfalutin treats like osso buco. (Is it just me, or has osso buco suddenly become trendy?)

Both the burgers and mac ‘n’ cheese are offered in “bar” (ie, design your own) mode. Your burger choices include beef, buffalo, vegetarian, ahi tuna, and portobello mushroom. The ahi burger ($12) consists of five ounces of seared filet. You can add cheeses and condiments to your heart’s content, but given the priciness and quasi-delicacy status of ahi, we thought it decadent to slather it with pickled red onions and bacon. Our suave server (a godlet who might have just stepped from the set of one of those Twilight movies) recommended the wasabi aioli, which did indeed bring a moistening intensity, though the sandwich remained a little frail, pale, and delicate, like a child who needs to get outside more.

Plunging into the mac ‘n’ cheese bar, by contrast, is like going to a gym where everyone is insanely worked out. All the variations (base price $9) include white and sharp cheddar cheeses and a gratin of grana padano breadcrumbs — more than enough flavor thrust to reach escape velocity. But you can tart up your crock with everything from truffle oil to grilled steak ($1 per extra ingredient) and some savories in between. Truffle oil is, for me, one of the world’s most overrated (and overpriced) food items — with lobster (a favorite of the godlet) not far behind — and I thought it more or less got lost amid the meatiness of the mushrooms and bite of the cheese. The steak stood up better, adding a hint of smokiness and enough weight to make the dish a meal unto itself.

But the menu offers other meals unto themselves, too, with a bit more polish. Grilled tiger prawns ($15) were arranged atop a butternut squash risotto heavily leavened with Parmesan cheese, whose tang balanced what otherwise might have become a cloying sweetness. A filet of Pacific snapper ($16) was “crusted” — “smeared” would have been more accurate — with what seemed like crab-cake batter and seated on a pad of celery-root puree with a pool of carrot-butter-white wine sauce and watercress salad. And the osso buco ($17) arrived in autumnal, rather grave guise atop mashed potatoes with a burgundy-charged sauce and fried shoestring carrots. The meat was fork-tender, and as someone who’s been making osso buco for years (from the same Patty Wells recipe), I can tell you this isn’t a given, even with long simmering. As for mashed potatoes instead of the more traditional risotto: eh. The potatoes did have a dense, mousseline-like velvetiness, which led me to suspect the involvement of tons of butter. But then, at higher-end sort of greasy spoon, you would expect a higher grade of grease, and butter is the grease of the gods, or at least godlets.

GRUB

Dinner: nightly, 6 p.m.–12:30 a.m.

Brunch: Sat.–Sun., 10 a.m.–2:30 p.m.

758 Valencia, SF

(415) 431-GRUB (4782)

www.grubsf.com

Beer and wine

AE/MC/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

Gum-choux seduction

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Gum-choux seduction

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS She made me a gumbo-reduction taco, then took my hand and led me to her bedroom. At the time, jazz did not exist yet. There was something on TV, but the sound was off. Hedgehog was wearing a Saints jersey, No. 73 — Someone Evans, who made the Pro Bowl and came from her home town. I already had a picture of her in her Saints shirt, but there was something else in the world where jazz would be. Maybe some dishes, or a paper bag full of paper bags. Holding the spot.

In bed, I licked taco juice off my fingers. I mean gumbo-reduction. I mean, Appalachian moux-choux gumbo, or for short, gumb-choux, pronounced gumshoe, like a detective. I licked the detective, I guess, would be the least sexy way to say this.

It wasn’t the first time we went to bed together, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it is the one makes the paper, because never before in my life has anyone reduced a gumbo for me by way of foreplay.

And I have to say, from the smell alone, while I was waiting on her tiny couch, New Orleans, I was ready to be led to bed. Dang, I’d of followed that lesbian into the snake pit of hell, or Houston, on the wings of the smell I was smelling.

One bite and I was butter. So the next night, over Korean, when one of her friends asked me what was the best meal I had eaten here so far, I said the right thing and didn’t even have to think about it, let alone lie.

“A gumbo-reduction taco,” I said, high-fiving Hedgehog, who was sitting next to me and blushing out of either culinary pride, horrified embarrassment, or civic duty. “It’s true,” I said. “What can I say?”

I started saying a lot of other things … about all the other meals we’d eaten. Like that very morning, at Slim Goodie’s Diner, where I had the Jewish Coonass, potato latkes with spinach and fried eggs on top, smothered in crawfish etouffe.

And that wasn’t even all that great compared to the boiled crawfish and raw oysters and hot roast beef with ham sandwich we shared the afternoon before at a sports bar called Cooter Brown’s. Where we brought our laptops to write but instead of being productive got grease and hot sauce all over them.

And that was nothing compared to the fancy pants hanger steak and pork chops we overwhelmed on our first date date night at Patois.

In other words, it’s going to be really hard for me right now to say anything at all very exciting about the soup I ate in Berkeley a few weeks ago, or the other soup I ate in Berkeley a few weeks ago. Hmm. Let’s try my new favorite Indian restaurant in Albany.

Remember? I went there one night with the Maze when we were both working up the hill, but I forgot to ever say anything. But I still remember it, even though the rest of my brain has been erased, because Indian food is something that does not happen so well in New Orleans.

Ah, but if you head up San Pablo Avenue into Albany, you will find a gem of a new, nice, friendly, cheap, and awesome Indo-Nepalese joint called Hamro Aangan, where the chicken tikka masala is out of this world. And the naan is top o’ the line.

We loved it, me and Maze. “Tell your friends,” the hosterperson guy suggested. And I assured him I would.

OK, so I got that out of the way.

Now I can devote myself to the Story of Last Night at the Spotted Cat, where the Jazz Vipers, a great old-guy front-lined brass band, inexplicably imploded midshow. The sax and the trumpet, both aged enough to know better, times four, start arguing right in front of everyone. The young guys in the band, and the trombonist, act casual. Some people leave. The bartender’s getting pissed. And Sax is berating Trumpet, off-mic but on-volume, just generally being a big baby, when Trumpet turns to what’s left of the bewildered audience and shrugs. Apropos of I-don’t-know-what, he says, “And that’s how jazz was born.”

I don’t know. I just thought I would take his word for it.

HAMRO AANGAN

Daily: 11 a.m.–9 p.m.

856 San Pablo., Albany

(510) 524-2220

MC/V

Beer and wine

Appetite: 1 Bourbon, 1 Scotch, 1 Beer

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Appetite: 1 Bourbon, 1 Scotch, 1 Beer

We San Franciscans are lucky to have a place like the Boothby Center for the Beverage Arts. Debuting last year at SF Cocktail Week as home base for the Barbary Coast Conservancy of the American Cocktail, this year sees the launch of Boothby classes, tastings and events on all things drink.

Naturally, there’s cocktails and spirits heavily represented. But there’s also going to be coffee classes from many of our local favorites on everything from brewing to roasting. There will also be tea and wine seminars, and founder H. Joseph Ehrmann’s Mixology 101 series (with three levels of advancement) for budding and experienced bartenders. 

Price ranges will vary but at this week’s cognac class, a mere $20 provided over an hour and a half of cognac education from New York experts, a side-by-side sampling of four cognacs, and three well-made cocktails from classics to modern inventions. The room was a mix of bartending industry folk and curious tasters, all with a hunger to learn (and imbibe).

Watch for Boothby Center parties during big drink weeks like a whisky-themed event around Whiskies of the World next month. This week clear your calender on Saturday night for 1 Bourbon, 1 Scotch, 1 Beer, a special SF Beer Week tasting where you’ll sample 15 beers and 15 whiskies (from rye to white dog) for the mere sake of discovering their complimenting flavors. Oh, and because they taste good.

1 Bourbon, 1 Scotch, 1 Beer
Sat/19, 6:30-9:30pm
$45 ticket
1161 Mission Street, Suite 120
bourbonscotchbeer-eorg.eventbrite.com 
www.sfcocktailweek.com

–Subscribe to Virgina’s twice monthly newsletter, The Perfect Spot: www.theperfectspotsf.com

Appetite: Uni dreams

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Appetite: Uni dreams

Slick, tongue-like uni, or sea urchin (part of the same clan as sand dollars and sea cucumbers), earned its urchin moniker from a Middle English term for hedgehog due to their similar spiny exterior. Uni is an acquired taste. My adventurous palate took a couple years to come around to appreciating its briny richness (to be fair, the initial uni I tried was less than fresh, tasting more like a stale tidepool – yes, it matters where you have it). Three upscale dining destinations have been sourcing immaculate uni and giving it the inventive treatment.

FIFTH FLOOR’s Mendocino uni flan — With executive chef David Bazirgan recently on board at Fifth Floor, there’s a number of noteworthy new dishes, particularly Mendocino uni flan ($16). It arrives unceremoniously, a little bowl of foam. Dig into that “saffron air” and underneath lies lush Dungeness crab fondue and silky uni flan. Heightened by aged Kaffir lime and Sichuan pepper, you’ll be dreaming about it all week.

COMMONWEALTH’s seah urchin with sweet potato tempura — Commonwealth just gets better and better. Chef Jason Fox shines with a progressive menu that borders on the experimental and molecular, yet remains ever satisfying. Garden-fresh chrysanthemum leaves and shiso illuminate Fox’s current menu offering of sea urchin ($15) with the comforting contrast of sweet potato tempura, while yuzu kosho adds a gentle tart.

BENU’s risotto topped with sea urchin — Pricey, austere Benu is a gourmand’s dream, especially when it comes to decadent dishes like Chef Corey Lee’s risotto ($28). Creamy, laden with butternut squash, celery and black truffle, dollops of sea urchin dot the dish as its crowning glory.

Meat-cute

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Meat-cute

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS The things that New Orleans throws at you! Example: a wall of doors, so metaphoric it hurts. My goal is, for the length of this column, to not let it mean anything, just … a wall of doors. Yep.

So this wall of doors separates our yard here from the neighbor’s, which isn’t a yard so much as a couple of feet between houses, a walkway. And, instead of a picket fence, door door door door door. All wooden, all weathered to varying degrees and in different ways. A few still have their knobs on, and these sparkle in the sunshine — albeit meaninglessly. One has no knob, but yes hardware, which is rusty and does not sparkle.

Shine or no, each door is beautiful in its own way; some are bare, others getting there but with swaths of prehistoric primer still, or paint. One had been covered so thickly, so many times, in a now-yellowing white, that the cracks in it resemble giraffe skin. Another has window panes, four quarters: two still have glass, and two are blank space. I could pass a cold beer through to the workers working on the dilapidated house next door.

New Orleans is a ragged and broken city, which is of course part of its charm. The streets have potholes the size of swimming pools. The sidewalks end, drop off, bend and crack. I’m afraid to ride my bike. Walking is an extreme sport. The zoo is just across the street, and I take the Doughboy there because it is safe and smooth. We are becoming friends with the zookeepers, and already they have let us pet a snake.

End of the day, when I told his mummy about this snake-petting business, she wondered what my own personal “spirit animal” was.

“Giraffe,” I said, without even thinking about it. Before, as you know, it was chickens. Why — since I am famous for eating me my meat — do I always identify with the vegetarian, and the prey?

My new New Orleans friends, the human ones, are meat meat meat eaters, and music music music lovers, which makes perfect sense because food and tunes are what this town is all about. You can imagine my giddiness. Hedgehog, the one I am kissing, works on a TV show I’ve never seen, because I don’t have a TV, let alone HBO, so I feel especially qualified to give it an especially objective review. I mean, how much more objective can you be than to never have even seen a thing? So: not enough plot. Or character. Oodles of fantastic music.

I base this impression solely on comments made by my TV-having friends back home when I’ve mentioned that, yo, I’m hanging with someone from Treme. Then when I tell them that she does sound, then they are impressed.

On Monday, Hedgehog and me walked along the Mississippi River, drank vodka in a gay man bar, and ate at a place called Green Goddess, which (hee hee hee) is all about meat — pulled pork flapjack for me, and a bacon meatloaf samwich for her.

Mind you, that’s at the Green Goddess. So you can imagine what goes down at the restaurants called Butcher, and Pig — but in French, which here doesn’t mean pretentious. I’m in heaven!

Next evening, four of us gathered after work for $2 taco night and $2 Red Stripes at the Caribbean-influenced Rum House. Just some of the stuff my own personal tacos featured: lamb vindaloo, barbecued ribs, roasted duck, and goose cracklin. Um, that’s four different animals crammed into only three $2 tacos.

You know how after-work gatherings go: the televisionistas are unwindingly griping, their shitty day this, their shitty day that, and I’m just serenely sipping my Red Stripe because I’d had an awesome day, changing diapers.

Tomorrow we’re eating at Patois, and Sunday we’re having a little Super Bowl party. I’m making my patented barbecued eggs, and Hedgehog is bringing her patented gumbo tacos, and what the fuck? I can’t get me no lesbian love in queer central, San Francisco, where I’m popular. Or in Boston, where I rock. Whereas one week into New Orleans, where my most ardent admirers are a nine-month-old boy and a handful of zookeepers, and I’m squeezing me a hot hot hottie who’s won a goddamn Emma.

Or whatever that’s called. Bragging? Not really. I’m just looking out my window at a wall made of doors.

NEW ORLEANS

The only place in this country that’s cooler than San Francisco.

Pizza Nostra

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Pizza Nostra

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Nice — I speak of the French city, not the human quality, of which I must be one of life’s least accomplished practitioners — isn’t quite Italian, but it isn’t quite not, either. Like Alsace in the north — another locus of French pizza — it has been the subject of international contention for centuries. Maybe pizza helps settle nerves frayed by all this struggle, but whether it does or not, pizza served with a distinctly French flair (and often a pitcher of local rosé) is what you’ll find at the many outdoor cafes in the heart of Nice, just a few blocks from the beaches of the Cote d’Azur.

It’s what you’ll find, too, at Pizza Nostra, our own little slice of Nice — complete with outdoor tables! — at the north foot of Potrero Hill. The neighborhood will never be mistaken for the Cote d’Azur, and of course the weather here is considerably fouler, but there is something sublime about pizza — really a whole Italian menu, with many interesting small courses, salads, soups, and starters — served with Gallic style.

The restaurant opened some years ago, as Couleur Cafe, in a small shopping center with a parking lot and buildings of a shed-like, provisional quality, like a PX on Guam. It then became Pizza Nostra, changing hands last year from Jocelyn Bulow to Winona Matsuda. She hasn’t changed much, and maybe that’s because there isn’t much in need of change. Despite the faux-suburban setting, the interior has wonderful candlelit atmospherics under a high ceiling that melts into shadow. The service is impeccable. And the food travels well beyond the country of pizza; you could do quite nicely here without pizza at all. But the pizzas are lovely, and if you were stuck with just that, you’d be happy too.

But I do question the wisdom of bringing basket after basket of complimentary focaccia to people who are in all likelihood waiting for pizza. White flour in our diet is like atmospheric radiation left over from those 1950s tests in the South Pacific: insidious, omnipresent, unnoticed. I think this every time I go by Tartine Bakery and see people queuing like Soviet-era Muscovites. As Michael Pollan noted in his polemic In Defense of Food, white flour is so devoid of nutrition that even bugs don’t want it.

Having said that, I note that Pizza Nostra’s focaccia is addictive, with a pillow-like softness and bewitching olive-oil breath. If you can restrain yourself from gobbling it down straight, you will find it’s useful for dunking and sopping applications. We found its spear shape ideal for sticking into a bowl of mushroom-eggplant soup ($6) that was possibly the most gratifying use of eggplant I’ve ever come across. Its subtle, bitter bite was like a sheen around the earthy weight of the fungi.

The focaccia was also useful in wiping up the savory oil left on the plate after we’d demolished the halved brussels sprouts ($5), pan-roasted with fat chunks of pancetta. I would have let the sprouts cook through and caramelize a little more, but they were tender and flavorful nonetheless.

Sicilian-style tuna salad ($12) seemed like a close relative of salade niçoise, except without anchovies. But there was a wealth of halved pear tomatoes, pitted nicoise olives, and cannellini beans nested in a jumble of arugula and frisée, with the tuna arranged in a berm that partly enclosed the greens.

The pizzas are thin-crust, made (according to the menu) in the style of Recco, a town in the northern Italian region of Liguria, not far from Nice. The array of toppings is mostly conventional, although the kitchen does throw together various specials, including a pie ($16) topped with hot Italian sausage, red and yellow bell peppers, mushrooms, a red-onion confit, and broccoli florets — all of which runs against the basic article of American faith that more is better. Sometimes more isn’t better. Broccoli doesn’t translate well to pizza, and we found the red-onion jam to be jarringly sweet.

But — on the subject of sweets — the olive-oil cake ($6), a cupcake-like disk, was dense and moist. It could have stood without assistance from the large pat of limoncello gelato on the side, although the gelato was a nice touch.

PIZZA NOSTRA

Dinner: nightly, 5:30–10 p.m.

Lunch: Mon.–Fri., 11:30 a.m.–2:30 p.m.

Brunch: Sat.–Sun., noon–3 p.m.

300 De Haro, SF

(415) 558-9493

www.pizzanostrasf.com

Beer and wine

AE/DC/MC/V

Not too noisy

Wheelchair acccesible

 

Delicious love

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Delicious love

V-DAY What if this year Valentine’s paired romance with a visit to one of SF’s best new restaurants? Here are new additions to the local dining scene in 2010 that will please food lovers (and who isn’t, in this city?) while offering a range of price points in love-worthy settings.

 

FOR AMOROUS EXPERIMENTALISTS: COMMONWEALTH

Anthony Myint and chef Jason Fox are reinventing fine dining. Your edgy foodie date will be impressed. Myint was a mastermind behind Mission Street Food and Mission Chinese Food. Here at Commonwealth with Chef Fox, he delves into deliciously experimental creations with a fresh, unpretentious approach. And shockingly, no dish costs more than $16. Dine on goat cooked in hay while sipping a liquid nitrogen aperitif, finish with porcini thyme churros with huckleberry jam. You may be packed in tight in the spare, modern space, but you’ll both leave glowing from stimulating flavors and presentation.

2224 Mission, SF. (415) 355-1500, www.commonwealthsf.com

 

FOR OLD WORLD ROMANTICS: COMSTOCK SALOON

The Barbary Coast comes alive in this bar-restaurant gem that feels like a timeless classic … and isn’t too taxing on the wallet. From Victorian wallpaper to restored dark woods, the spirit and history of the space entice. Filling up on rich beef shank and bone marrow potpie or bites like whiskey-cured gravlax on rye toast is happy respite on chilly nights. Pair with a perfect Martinez cocktail or a barkeep’s whimsy (bartender’s creation based on your preferences), and see if your date doesn’t cozy up with you next to that wood-burning stove. Comstock exemplifies the best of what a modern-day saloon with Old World sensibilities can be.

155 Columbus, SF. (415) 617-0071, www.comstocksaloon.com

 

FOR LOVING LOCAVORES: GATHER

Gather is the best thing to come along in Berkeley in ages, and ideal for your local or locavore-y date. It reads typical Bay Area yet goes further: local, sustainable, organic everything, including spirits, wine, and beer. A rounded room with open kitchen is holistically casual and urban. All the raves you’ve heard about the vegan “charcuterie” are true. Marvel at the artistic, affordable array of five different vegetable presentations on a wood slab, like roasted baby beets with fennel, dill, blood orange, horseradish almond puree, and pistachio. Executive chef Sean Baker and team do meat right, too, whether sausage/pork belly/chile pizza or house-cured ham topped with crescenza cheese. Gather displays an ethos and presentation one can only dream of becoming a standard everywhere.

2200 Oxford, Berk. (510) 809-0400, www.gatherrestaurant.com

 

FOR BEEF-LOVING BEAUS: THE SYCAMORE

Skip the Valentine’s Day’s hoopla and take your sweetie out for a night that will make you feel like kids again — to the Sycamore, which offers a delicious “famous” roast beef sandwich. A glorified Arby’s staple on grocery store-reminiscent sesame buns with BBQ sauce and mayo, the sandwich salutes the native Bostonian owners’ roots. But the roast beef sandwich isn’t the only item that shines at this humble Mission eatery, which doubles as a cozy beer and wine bar. Pork belly-stuffed donut holes in Maker’s Mark bourbon glaze are pretty near orgasmic. A slab of pan-fried Provolone cheese is enlivened by chimichurri sauce and roasted garlic bulb. I applaud its all-day hours and prices under $9.

2140 Mission, SF. (415) 252 7704, www.thesycamoresf.com

 

FOR PURIST PARAMOURS: HEIRLOOM CAFÉ

The menu (less than 10 starters and entrees) is so simple I almost got bored reading it. But each dish served in this Victorian-yet-modern dining room was so well executed that my skepticism vanished. More than a little Chez Panisse in its ethos, Heirloom will delight that special someone with a purist take on food, with ultra fresh, pristine ingredients, impeccably prepared. Savor a mountain of heirloom tomatoes piled over toasted bread with pickled fennel, cucumbers, and feta, or a flaky bacon onion tart loaded with caramelized onions. Heirloom’s added strength is owner Matt Straus’ thoughtfully chosen wine lists covering wines from Lebanon to Spain.

2500 Folsom, SF. (415) 821-2500, www.heirloom-sf.com

 

FOR SENTIMENTAL GOURMANDS: SONS & DAUGHTERS

Like Commonwealth, Sons and Daughters is another opening where young, visionary chefs create fine molecular fare at reasonable prices ($48 for four-course prix fixe, à la carte from $9-$24). But this space particularly lends itself to romance: intimate, black and white, with shimmering chandeliers and youthful, European edge. Dishes are inventive and ambitious, like the highly acclaimed eucalyptus herb salad of delicate curds and whey over quinoa, or the seared foie gras accompanied by a glass of tart yogurt and Concord grape granita. It’s a place to hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes while never neglecting your taste buds.

708 Bush St., SF. (415) 391-8311, www.sonsanddaughterssf.com

 

FOR NEW YORKER HEARTS: UNA PIZZA NAPOLETANA

Yes, this one’s casual, and you’ll have to wait outside in line. But if your sweetie has New York roots, she will thank you. Pizzaiolo Anthony Mangieri closed his beloved New York City institution, Una Pizza, and moved west. As in NYC, Una Pizza is a one-man show with Mangieri single-handedly crafting each pie (which partly explains the no take-out policy and long waits; popularity accounts for the rest). All this may make it hard to frequent Una Pizza, but if you make the commitment, you will be rewarded with doughy heaven. With only five vegetarian pies, I dream of the Filetti: cherry tomatoes soaking in buffalo mozzarella, accented by garlic, extra-virgin olive oil, basil, and sea salt. On the plus side: all that waiting in line for a hand-made pie will give you and your sweetie pie plenty of time to talk.

210 11th St., SF. (415) 861-3444, www.unapizza.com/sf

 

FOR AMORE ITALIANO: BARBACCO

True, Barbacco can get obnoxiously noisy and crowded. But it’s a good alternative to its parent restaurant, Perbacco, offering the same outstanding quality at a great value ($3-$14 per dish). For a bustling Italian enoteca-style date, this is the place. Heartwarming food and a thoughtful wine list make it an ideal urban trattoria and a comfortably affordable night out. Order a glass of Lambrusco, the fried brussels sprouts, and raisin and pine nut-accented pork meatballs in a tomato sugo, then marvel at the minimalist bill.

220 California, SF. (415) 955-1919, www.barbaccosf.com

 

FOR YOUR SWEETIE PIE: BAKER AND BANKER

With dark brown walls and booths, the space exudes a warm elegance. Husband and wife team Jeff Banker and Lori Baker get it right from start to finish with his dishes (vadouvan curry cauliflower soup, brioche-stuffed quail in a bourbon-maple glaze) and her memorable desserts (XXX triple dark chocolate layer cake, pumpkin cobbler with candied pumpkin seed ice cream). Extra points if you buy him a box of pastries to go for the next morning from Baker and Banker bakery next door.

1701 Octavia, SF. (415) 351-2500, www.bakerandbanker.com

Appetite: A tale of two (French) bistros

Andrew Lam
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Appetite: A tale of two (French) bistros

On a cozy winter’s night (admittedly not forefront in anyone’s mind given the weekend we just had), French bistro fare becomes supreme comfort food. Whether it’s a cassoulet of duck confit, white beans, and sausage or a steaming bowl of les moules with a side of frites, the French are masters of satiation. While my favorite bistros in the city remain Chapeau and L’Ardoise, recent visits to two provided gourmet sustenance with authentic French cheer. P.S. They are both taking Valentine’s Day reservations…

 

CHEZ PAPA BISTROT

On a corner space atop Potrero Hill, with views of our fair city twinkling below, the French bistro vibe here borders on magical when the friendly staff and owner welcome you in. I used to dine here years back when my then-to-be husband lived in the neighborhood. We especially enjoyed going for mussels ($14) and frites ($5) with a glass of wine, even if general dishes were not overly memorable. I’d still say the highlight of the place is its French joie de vivre. With new chef Shawn Paul on board – veteran of everywhere from The French Laundry to 1300 on Fillmore ), French classics and Chez Papa stand-bys remain strong. Les moules come in four classic interpretations, including garlic, parsley, and white wine, or perked up by Spanish chorizo with roasted bell pepper and parsley. Chef Paul sweetens seared Sonoma foie gras ($17) with blackberry-ginger compote and blackberry gastrique. Where I best witnessed his promise was in an amuse bouche of plump shrimp on celery root puree. Pesto, tomato, and truffle oil imbued it with a spirit reminiscent of classic shrimp remoulade in New Orleans.

1401 18th St., SF. (415) 824-8205, www.chezpapasf.com


BISTRO CENTRAL PARC

Bistro Central Parc opened at the beginning of 2010 and swiftly became NoPa and Western Addition’s favorite French bistro. Owner Jacques Manuera transports the relaxed spirit of his home in Strasbourg, France (on the Eastern border of the country) to this straightforward space — he also ran the kitchen in SF’s Baker Street Bistro for 18 years. Bistro Central Parc maintains a similar feel with classic French menu of escargots, French onion soup, mussels, cassoulet, and duck confit. Chef de cuisine Nicolas Jardin experiments with entrees like risotto in a lobster sauce ($19), which he forms into a circle with four seared scallops on top. A beef tournedos rossini special ($28), high-priced for a neighborhood bistro, is decadantly rich layered with foie gras and crispy parsnips atop potato gratin, swimming in a dessert-like port wine sauce. But not every dish is high on the fat quotient. Salads are full of fresh greens — or in the case of the frisee, housing a poached egg. Pair with a glass of Pouilly-Fuissé and call it a night.

560 Central, SF. (415) 931-7272, www.bistrocentralparc.com

 

— Subscribe to Virgina’s twice monthly newsletter, The Perfect Spot

 

Po’ girl

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Po’ girl

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS It was minus two in Boston when I got on the airplane. I was all bundled up in borrowed and stolen clothing, trying to tap what was left of the warmth from our show there. Between 200 and 300 bodies, and, no, I didn’t get laid, but on the other hand I never felt more loved. There may have been one or two dry eyes in the house, but there were not a lot of dry pairs of underpants. Myself, I was completely creamed by the whole thing. I’m still a little shaken.

At the airport, on the weather on the news on TV, they showed a live shot of San Francisco, just before dawn, and said that it was 60 there, that San Franciscans would wake up to a clear, beautiful day.

But that wasn’t where I was going. I was going to New Orleans. New Orleans is where I am, and I intend to have a lot to say about the food scene here. Crawdad de la Cooter, who grew up in this neck of the swamp, thinks I’m not going to want to come home. I think it’s going to take more than red beans and rice and gumbo to change my life at this point.

Now Kayday, she gave us all a scare. After nine months of not finding a job in San Francisco, she found a job in L.A., and on the day before the big move, she got a call from her new employer saying that she’d been, in effect, laid off. Talk about cutting it close! She called me right afterward.

“I have good news,” she said. Then she told me the bad news.

“How are you feeling about this?” I asked.

She was shocked, she said, and also euphoric.

I said, “I’m sorry.” I said, “Congratulations!”

This was, unequivocally, bacon for my own musical future. When I come home now, my new band will be all in one piece and place, which is important for things like bands and chandeliers.

Last night while I was sleeping, a curtain rod did not fall on my head. However, almost the whole rest of my household here was of the opinion that one had. New Orleans is like that. It’s a haunted city. Things go bump in the night, and clang and crack and “Ow! Goddamn it!”

So far I am charmed. My first meal was a fried oyster po’ boy, and the first thing I saw when I left the house this morning was three giraffes — real, live, leafy-toothed giraffes that were not in any way a figment of my imagination, because it turns out there’s a zoo just across the park.

Tell you why I’m here: one of the families whose cute little nine-month-old childern I care for just moved from Berkeley to New Orleans, just for the semester. This childern, both his moms are perfessers, one at State, and one — uh oh — at Tulane. I’m here to help, but also to eat myself silly and have scary adventures to write home to you and/or Earl Butter about.

Since the fried oyster po’ boy I imbibed last night was, as the saying goes, nothing to write home to you and/or Earl Butter about, I will instead regale you with misinformation about a meal I ate with Kayday before I even left San Fran.

On a cold, cold and windy, windy night, the likes of which you haven’t seen and are not likely to see in some time, according to The Weather Channel, Kayday and I ventured our way over to Bernal Heights around dinner time. We were going to squeeze in one last practice at Bambam’s house before Kayday moved to the city of Angels and I to the city of Saints.

It all seemed like Not A Bad Idea at the time. To get something to eat first. So we wound up at Blue Elephant on Cortland Avenue. And we ordered imperial rolls, duck curry, and something else that I have forgotten. But the imperial rolls were not forgettable. They were great. And the duck curry, which is of course a red coconut milk curry with tomato, pineapple, and roasted duck, was fantastic.

Kayday told me she was going to make a blog about living in L.A. called “My Year of Living Los Angelesly,” and I thought that that was a fairly brilliant idea.

I still think so, but now someone else is going to have to do it.

BLUE ELEPHANT

Daily, Lunch: 10:30 a.m.–3 p.m.;

Dinner: 5 p.m.–10 p.m.

803 Cortland, SF

(415) 642-9900

AE/D/MC/V

Beer and wine

Viva Goa

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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4
Viva Goa

DINE In a nondescript space on Lombard Street — itself one of the more nondescript of the city’s thoroughfares, a faded remnant of 1950s automotive delirium — a succession of south Asian restaurants has come and gone over the past decade or so. The latest arrival is Viva Goa, which opened late last summer and, as the name reveals, features the cooking of Goa, a region on India’s west coast south of Mumbai where once there was a colony of Portuguese.

The best-known contribution of Goa to the world’s experience of Indian food is almost certainly vindaloo, a spicy sauce of garlic, chilis, and vinegar — vinegar being derived from wine and wine pointing in the direction of the Portuguese. The Portuguese also, according to actress and cookbook author Madhur Jaffrey, “introduced chiles to India” — having brought them from their New World colonies — “in the late 15th century. Indians, already familiar with their own black pepper, took to them with a passion.” Jaffrey’s recent book, At Home with Madhur Jaffrey (Knopf, $35, 320 pages) is a trove of straightforward recipes, many of them Goan, that rely on a few readily available ingredients to produce stunning results. If you have space on your shelves for only one Indian cookbook, let it be this one.

Viva Goa offers vindaloo in a number of guises, along with dishes that tend to turn up in Indian restaurants of every stripe, including saag paneer ($8.99), ground spinach mixed with spices and cooked with cubes of fresh white cheese. Due to a circumstance beyond my control, this old standby seems to get ordered every time I find myself in an Indian restaurant, and, despite the utter predictability of the pattern, it never disappoints — and didn’t here.

Viva Goa’s vindaloos are made with ginger, garlic, potatoes, cardamom, fenugreek, cinnamon, black peppercorns, chilies, and vinegar, along with some form of flesh — beef, pork, lamb, chicken, shrimp — or no flesh. Lamb ($10.99) was fine, though the distinctive gaminess of the meat vanished in the fragrant blaze of the sauce. The sauce had a reddish thickness I would have guessed was the result of stewed or reduced tomatoes, but the menu made no mention of tomatoes. So perhaps this effect was achieved through some combination of the vinegar, chilies, and potato.

Although most of the Goan recipes in Madhur Jaffrey’s book are rich in chili peppers, black peppercorns, cayenne, turmeric, and ginger, the evidence flowing from Viva Goa’s kitchen suggests that Goan cuisine has a mild-mannered side too. A nice example would be the vegetable caldin ($8.99), with bits of broccoli, carrot, cauliflower, and zucchini stewed in coconut milk with coriander, turmeric, garlic, and cumin seeds. The coconut milk brought an element of buffering creaminess, and although the seasonings were formidable, it was as if someone had discreetly dimmed some harsh overhead lighting.

And at least one item from the menu is neither spicy nor mild: the chicken cafreal ($11.99), a half-bird slathered with a pesto-looking sauce of fresh cilantro and green chilies then simmered in a pot. No complaints about the meat, which was juicy and tender, but the coating did not quite convince. Because the bird wasn’t cooked in the tandoor, the enveloping sauce neither reduced itself to a glaze nor firmed up into a crust or shell. Instead, it remained gloppy, like slowly melting spring snow. It wasn’t quite as satisfying as tandoori chicken ($10.99), but, with its African heritage, it was different enough to justify a place on the menu.

Did I say Madhur Jaffrey’s recipes rely on easily-got ingredients? They do, with one exception: fresh curry leaves. These are not easy to find (she recommends basil or kaffir lime leaves as substitutes), but they somehow turned up in Viva Goa’s malabar jinga ($7.99), an arrangement of shelled, sautéed prawns napped with a spicy red sauce that looked like caponata but with a much stronger kick, aromatic and exotic.

To round out the proceedings, starch-wise, are many of the usual suspects, from basmati rice to naan ($1.99, made with whole-wheat flour) and paratha ($2.50, basically buttered naan). There are also (for $1.50) fine pappadum. These would be excellent for cleaning up any leftover sauce, except they lose so much of their magic when cool. Luckily, they’re almost sure to be gone long before then.

VIVA GOA

Dinner: nightly, 5–10 p.m.

Lunch: Mon.-Sat., 11 a.m.-2:30 p.m.; Sun., noon–3 p.m.

2420 Lombard, SF

(415) 440-2600

www.vivagoaindiancuisine.com

Beer and wine

AE/MC/V

Not noisy

Wheelchair accessible

Haute pot

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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9
Haute pot

steve@sfbg.com

CANNABIS Marijuana edibles have come a long way in a short time.

Just a few years ago, the norm was still brownies of uncertain dosage that tasted like eating weed, right down to the occasional stem or lump of leaf, served in a wax paper envelope. But now the foodies have gotten into the game, producing a huge variety of tasty treats that are incredibly delicious even before the munchies kick in.

San Francisco could be on the verge of a culinary revolution that would parallel those being experienced in the realms of boutique eateries, gourmet coffee, and high-end street food vendors — except for the fact that makers of cannabis edibles still reside in a legal limbo.

As long as they’re operating under the umbrella of a cannabis collective, getting marijuana from its growers and selling through its dispensaries, then the weed bakers are in compliance with state law. But they’re still illegal under federal law, and even California law doesn’t allow them to operate independently as wholesalers, making it difficult to scale up operations and do more than just break even financially.

Judging from the skittishness of some of San Francisco’s top edibles producers — who didn’t want to be identified by their real names and were wary of letting us know too much about their operations — they perform this labor of love under a cloud of understandable paranoia.

“Unfortunately, secrecy is a rule we have to live by, day in and day out,” said the founder of Auntie Dolores, who we’ll call Jay. She makes a line of popular, strong, and yummy products that include pretzels, chili lime peanuts, caramel corn, and cookies of all kinds.

Yet the legal threats haven’t stopped producers from professionalizing the edibles industry — in terms of quality control, packaging, consistency, and innovation — and drawing on foodie sensibilities and their own culinary training to develop creative new products that effectively mask or subtly incorporate that bitter cannabis taste.

“We’re all about masking the flavor of the cannabis because I really don’t like the flavor that much,” Jay said of products that are stronger than most but somehow without a hint of weed in them. “People here have a high standard. It’s their medicine and their food, and we have a lot of foodies who are really into our products.”

Choco-Potamus is an example of this new generation of edibles, combining gourmet chocolate-making with the finest strains of cannabis, using only the best buds rather than the leaves and other plant matter that have often gone into edibles. Mrs. Hippo, the pseudonym of the chief baker, has worked for a national company in the food industry for about a decade, mostly doing branding, and it shows in this eye-catching product.

“I’m kind of a foodie. We have friends who roast whole pigs and brew their own beer, that kind of thing,” she said. “Really good high-grade marijuana has some really great flavor qualities, particularly when combined with cocoa. I really want the patients to enjoy the flavor, not just the feeling.”

 

EAT YOUR MEDICINE

Steve DeAngelo, founder of Oakland’s Harborside Health Center, one of the Bay Area’s biggest dispensaries, said edibles have been increasingly popular, particularly among older users, patients with medical conditions that make smoking problematic, or those who prefer the longer body highs of eating it.

“Our sales of edibles has trended steadily upward since we opened,” DeAngelo said, noting that last year the club sold $1.2 million in edibles, about 5.5 percent of total sales, compared to $306,000 (3.2 percent) after they opened in 2006. “As an absolute amount, we’ve seen the amount of edibles quadruple in the last four and a half years. As percentage of sales, we’ve seen it double.”

He said the main difference between eating and smoking marijuana is duration and onset. Smoking it brings on the high within minutes and it usually last for less than two hours, whereas eating it takes about 45 minutes for the effects to kick in, but they can then last for six to eight hours.

“There are different forms for different symptoms,” he said, noting that edibles are perfect for someone with insomnia or other symptoms that disturb normal sleep patterns, while someone who needs marijuana in the morning can smoke or vaporize it and have the effects mostly gone by the time they go to work.

“When you eat it, it goes through your limbic system, so it hits your brain differently,” said Jay of Auntie Dolores, saying that she and many others prefer the subtle differences in the high they get from eating cannabis. Others who prefer edibles are those looking to just take the edge off without being too stoned. “A lot of the people who like the edibles are moms. They don’t want to smell like pot or be too high,” Mrs. Hippo said.

She noted that her chocolates are not as strong as many of the edibles out there, with each candy bar containing two doses. “It’s a personal preference for how I want the bars to taste,” she said, although she has been working on making a stronger version as well, which many dispensaries and their customers prefer.

But Mr. and Mrs. Hippo say they think taste is becoming as important as strength, calling it an emerging area of the market. “I have a dream that there could be just an edibles dispensary,” Mr. Hippo said, envisioning a pot club with the look and feel of a high-end bakery.

For now, demand for edibles is still driven by “potency and packaging,” says SPARC founder Erich Pearson. “I think people eat food to eat food and enjoy. They don’t eat to get high.” Yet as long as they’re getting high in this competitive marijuana marketplace, the edibles makers have been making better and better tasting products.

Jade Miller makes 12 flavors of cannabis-infused drinks under the Sweet Relief label, with spiced apple cider being her top seller. She draws other training at New York City’s Institute for Culinary Education to make some of the best-tasting drinks on the market.

“I got into it because I needed alternative pain relief when I had whooping cough and a torn shoulder muscle,” Miller told us.

She was injured while on a cooking job with Whole Foods Catering in September 2006. She hated the opiates that she was prescribed for her shoulder pain, preferring marijuana. But when she contracted whooping cough, she couldn’t smoke pot anymore without painful coughing, so she got into making edibles.

At the time, many of the pot-laced foods out there weren’t very good or professionally made. “Some edibles were inedible,” she said. “I became a one-woman campaign against brownies.”

 

QUALITY CONTROL

With a background in homeopathy and appreciation for marijuana, Jay started making edibles 10 years ago, informally helping two aunts battling cancer. But in the last couple of years she’s honed her recipes, improved her packaging, and transformed her Auntie Dolores snacks into some of the best on the market, available in several local dispensaries, such as Medithrive, SPARC, Bernal Heights Dispensary, and Shambhala.

“I just knew I could make stronger and better-tasting stuff,” she said. “The demand from the patients is really high for great products.”

Horror stories abound about users who overdosed on edibles and ended up being incapacitated all day or night, but that’s mostly been a problem of dosage, which modern technology has helped overcome. Choco-Potamus and other makers routinely send their batches to a lab for testing.

“The idea is we can be helping an edibles producer or a tincture maker quantify the cannabis in the product,” said Anna Ray Grabstein, CEO of Steep Hill Laboratory in Oakland, which tests cannabis and related products for strength and purity. “They’re able to use that information to create consistency in their recipes.”

It’s been difficult to meet the rising demand given the current legal framework.

“Yes, we would love to scale up. I’d love it if more people had access to our product. We’d love to sell it outside of California,” Jay said. “But it’s tricky because there’s so many gray areas,”

Larry Kessler is the program manager for the San Francisco Department of Public Health’s Medical Cannabis Dispensary Inspection Program, which reviews the procedures of edibles makers and requires those who work with one than one dispensary to get a certified food handler license from the state.

“We just want to make sure they know what they’re doing,” Kessler told us.

San Francisco has some unique rules, banning edibles that require refrigeration or other special handling, granting exceptions on a case-by-case basis. Unlike Oakland and some other jurisdictions, San Francisco also requires edibles to be in opaque packaging. “It was to get rid of the visual appeal to children,” he explains.

All the edible makers say they can live with those local rules, and they praise San Francisco as a model county for medical marijuana regulation. The problem is that state law doesn’t allow them to be independent businesses.

“It’s against state law. There’s no wholesaling allowed, and that’s a big issue around edibles,” Kessler said. “It’s a complicated issue.”

All the edibles makers in this story say they are barely getting by financially, and all have other jobs to support themselves. Jay says she’s thought about giving up many times, but she’s been motivated by stories they’re heard from customers about the almost miraculous curative properties of their products, particularly from patients with cancer and other serious illnesses.

“I get an e-mail like this and then it’s back to the kitchen,” Jay said, referring to a letter from a customer who credits her with saving his life. “There are so many positive properties it has. There’s really no other plant like it.”

Derailment

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Derailment

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS The last thing I did before I left San Francisco, I promised Earl Butter that this time I would not kiss any gangsters on the train. I didn’t say anything about self-proclaimed hillbillies who burp a lot and don’t have front teeth — or luggage — so you wonder if they just escaped from prison or are only on parole.

This one, he flirted with me all the way from Emeryville to Chicago. That’s a long way to not kiss someone!

He was going on to Detroit and had less of a layover than me, but helped nevertheless with my luggage, which was considerable. He wanted to help more, but when he went outside to smoke, I stuffed my stuff in a locker, stepped out into the Windy City, and promptly got my nails done. Which was one of the best decisions I ever made.

One of the worst was early next morning when I stepped off the train into a frozen shit town not unlike, or far from, the frozen shit town where I was born. Did you hear me scream? Henceforth, when East Coast people in California say that they miss the seasons, I will put lettuce in their ears and flick them on the forehead.

Probably, to the residents of Erie, Penn., this snow was a non-event. But to an overtired, underdressed California girl without boots, it was the Big One, blizzardwise. To his credit, the snot-nosed station master did ask, before locking me out of the station, if I needed a ride.

“My friend is coming,” I said.

“Can I drop you somewhere?” he said. “Where are you going?”

“New York.”

He laughed at my apparent joke, pointed to where the Post Office was, in case I needed it, and left. In retrospect, I would have licked that booger off his upper lip for a ride to New York. Instead, I stood in the blowing snow and freezing cold, stomping my feet and, yeah, screaming, until the Post Office opened. Then I stood in there.

Probably I should have stayed on the train. I could have stayed on the train. It was going very close to where I wanted to get, but I’d thought I would keep my old ex-bandmate and good friend Rube Roy company on his way there and eat in diners for a day, instead of dining cars.

Rube Roy was two hours late and partially blind in one eye, but did buy me breakfast. On our way out of town we found a diner called Somebody’s “Dinor,” where, over eggs and potatoes and sausage and coffee and such, we talked about the old times, and the new times, and even some of the upcoming times.

There is so much time. So much time to think, in a car spinning around and around on a snowy interstate highway in Pennsylvania, bouncing between guardrails like a complicated bank shot off the cue of someone named Chuck or Lefty.

One of the things I thought about, boom, spin, was how I didn’t think I was going to die, but you never know, bang, spin. I never did like merry-go-rounds, or whirligigs, but the bumper cars I guess were all right. Now, I get motion sickness facing backward on BART. I didn’t think we were going to die, but when our car came to rest finally, facing traffic in the passing lane, I don’t know. I wondered.

Before I go, I would like to spell Papi’s name right, at least once, in the paper. They didn’t exact any promises from me, but Papi, Papa, and Coach did want one last dinner together before I left. So I said, “Brothers! Korean barbecue!”

And, like magic, that was where we went. For meat and meat for me and Papa, and some other kinds of things for the vegetarians. Ah, you know, it was all pretty good and everything, but not as probably good as the last time I went. Does it matter?

Not here.

“Rube Roy?” I said, as a semitruck whizzed by in the right lane. “Can I drive now?”

He flashed his headlights at the next one and said, “No.”

I write to you from New York City. Hi. Next time, I promise you, dear reader, dear gangsters, dear hillbilly, I will stay on the train. 

BROTHERS RESTAURANT

Daily 11 a.m.–midnight

4128 Geary, SF

(415) 387-7991

AE/D/MC/V

Beer and wine

Mission Chinese Food at Lung Shan

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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3
Mission Chinese Food at Lung Shan

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE As a rule, I am wary of restaurants where you order items by the number — especially when the numbers run into the hundreds. You start to think it’s like an automotive plant back there in the kitchen, where they’re slapping on option groups (fog lamps, alloy wheels, a leather-wrapped steering wheel) according to some big book of codes. Of course restaurant kitchens are like factories — are factories — we all know this, but there is such a thing as too much choice and too much process, even in America. I’m not sure anyone truly needs, or even wants, DishTV’s 500-plus channels, or a restaurant menu that has to be printed on several folios, like a poetry chapbook.

Chinese restaurants are notable, in my experience, for being more likely than other kinds of restaurants to offer a far greater number of dishes than any restaurant kitchen could be expected to cook with attentive passion, but a notable exception is Mission Chinese Food at Lung Shan. On any given night — even a cold weeknight — you might think you’ve stumbled on a crowd of people waiting to audition for “Brooklyn: The Musical.” Every hipster for miles around seems to be wedged into the dining room waiting for a table. It is a veritable hipsterama, and I mean this in the best possible way.

Hipsters have a certain reputation for shunning math — or is that meth? — and (perhaps because of being raised in a culture of shopping-mall vapidity) show a craving for any validating experience that can be described with the adjective “street.” So maybe their massive presence here is a response to the street-food menu, which numbers just a few dozen items. Or maybe they just know good food, at a good price, when they find it. There is plenty of agreeably mediocre Chinese food to be had in San Francisco, but not at MCF. The cooking here is clever and forceful, and it’s also gently incendiary. This is the kind of food that makes your nose run. You can also get Chinese beer for $3 a bottle; as Bart Simpson once put it after agreeing to let the vet spay Homer and give him a flea bath for $20, “shop around, you can’t beat that price!”

Even the cold items carry a chili charge. Tiger salad, for instance ($7) — an irresistible name; who could resist having it? — consisted of four squat pillars of herbed lettuces, red perilla (a kind of shiso leaf), and roasted seaweed in a puddle of chili oil, as if the plate’s previous tenant had been some greasy chorizo. But even with all the exhilarating heat, even cold heat, you soon understand that this is Chinese-influenced cooking, not Chinese cooking.

Salt cod fried rice ($10), for example, sounds like something the Vikings might have cooked up ago while sailing across the north Atlantic. Despite the fancy emendations, including confit of escolar, the dish seemed very much like other fried rice dishes you’d find around town, with little rounds of Chinese sausage, like a sliced-up red pencil, lending a defining presence, along with scallion for color contrast.

The menu’s signature dish could well be the sizzling cumin lamb ($12.50), served on a sizzling iron platter that keeps gently cooking the onion slivers and slices of jalapeño pepper as you pluck out chunks of the highly scented lamb. The meat is from the belly and is therefore quite fatty; it takes the form of jointed spindles whose two arms are glued together by the melted fat. It is rich, intensely perfumed, spicy-hot, and (for an auditory thrill) actually sizzling. We could not ask more from any meat dish.

Still, after working your way through a plate of such weighty food, a bit of relaxation would be in order — a bath, say, in a broad bowl of broth filled with pork dumplings ($10). The steam itself was — a kind of pork aromatherapy — and there was a strong temptation to put towels over our heads and hold our faces in the steam flow.

Lung Shan’s street face is about as prosaic as it gets. It doesn’t look to have been freshened for decades and gives no hint of the crowd that gathers there when the sun goes down. But thrill-seekers know that there’s no thrill quite so thrilling as the unadvertised one.

MISSION CHINESE FOOD AT LUNG SHAN

Thurs.–Tues., 11:30 a.m.–10:30 p.m.

2234 Mission, SF

(415) 863-2800

www.missionchinesefood.com

Beer and wine

AE/DS/MC/V

Loud

Wheelchair accessible

Appetite: Germanic adventures

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Appetite: Germanic adventures

Though I have more than a few food obsessions, there’s something about authentic food and wine from the Germanic countries that comforts me on a profound level. Maybe it’s my German Miller (or Mueller) family heritage on my Dad’s side or the satisfying straightforwardness of dishes like dumplings or sauerkraut. Either way, there’s not enough food around from that region as far as I’m concerned. So it is with great delight I witness the opening of two unique restaurants.

Here’s two early “sneak-peeks” on North German Gaumenkitzel, debuting this week in Berkeley, and Leopold’s, an Austrian restaurant just opened Friday in Russian Hill (see additional photos of both spaces in my next issue of The Perfect Spot, coming out Feb. 1).  

LEOPOLD’S – With the words Treffen (meet), Trinken (drink), Essen (eat) painted under the name, Leopold’s offers something with no parallel in our city: an Austrian restaurant. It opened quietly this past Friday night in a cheery, bright space on Polk Street housing animal heads, Austrian art, pine wood tables and booths. Here, the relaxed warmth of a neighborhood beer haus (with a number of beers on tap and by the bottle, including Kostritzer Black Lager and St. Bernardus) meets dirndl-clad waitresses, all the while maintaining a refinement that doesn’t cross the line into kitschy.

Brothers Albert and Klaus Rainer, from my favorite Austrian city, Salzberg, run the place with effusive charm. Though they must be working out new-opening kinks, my initial meal was seamless and delicious. Hungarian Goulash (borders of Hungary and Austria changed so often that regional dishes meld) is tender beef in a paprika-rich sauce with buttery, addictive spaetzle and a green salad brightened by lemon zest. Wiener schnitzel is exemplary: prepared traditionally, lightly breaded, pounded flat with a squeeze of lemon, contrasted perfectly with Lingonberry sauce and a warm escarole potato salad. These entrees are quite filling at a mere $12.75 each, while the highest-priced menu item is Choucroute Garni Platter at $17.75.

As in my travels through Austria, Switzerland and Germany, salads are ultra-fresh. Roasted beet salad ($6.75) rests on a light horseradish creme fraiche in a bed of mache and endive, accented by walnuts and radishes. Additional appealing starters include duck crepinettes, vegetable strudel and house-smoked salmon on potato cakes. An off-menu starter of dense German breads made an impression topped with beets on a creamy liptauer cheese spread (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liptauer) or Black Forest ham with fresh-shaved horseradish. Wines are affordable at $20-34 a bottle, with plenty of glasses and carafes available. I delight seeing mostly wines from Austria, Switzerland and Hungary, with an additional few from Slovenia, California and Oregon. Save room for a slice of apfelstrudel (apple strudel – $5.75) in warm vanilla cream sauce.

This heartwarming haven is one I’m already plotting my return to.

2400 Polk Street (at Union)
415-474-2000
Sunday-Thursday, 5:30-10pm, until midnight Fri-Sat.

GAUMENKITZEL, meaning ‘delight for the taste buds’, opens later this week (if all goes as planned) in an open, sunny space on San Pablo Ave. in Berkeley. Owner Anja Voth brings restaurant and patisserie experience from Hamburg and Berlin. Her husband Kai Flache constructed and designed the restaurant with his local firm. They operate as a gracious, complimentary team.  

A rustic wood ceiling, huge windows and skylight illuminate the yellows, whites, reds and oranges of the clean, modern room. A spare collection of German china and ceramic dolls line the shelves, adding a homey touch. While the main portion of the room is eat-in, one can order take-out or baked goods. A section to the left of the entrance offers stools and countertops for a quick meal.

A pastry chef bakes fresh breads and pastries in-house, including a delicate Linzer torte with red currant jam. Anja operates as chef with assistance from a chef who worked 15 years at Oakland’s now-defunct Citron. I stopped in for a preview lunch, savoring baked goods, beet salad, an addictive caramel custard, and beef roulade with braised red cabbage and creamy mashed potatoes. The beef roulade is Anja’s mother’s recipe, rolled up with pickles and onions, while red cabbage is equal parts apple with a tart, spiced kick.

A breakfast menu lasts all morning with items like German porridge, house-baked rolls, cold cuts, müsli. There’s afternoon tea (2-4:30pm), while lunch and supper entrees cover the gamut from salmon with rhubarb compote to wild mushrooms with spaetzle. They also make their own seasonal jams, like a pleasantly tart/bitter Meyer lemon marmalade I sampled. Menu prices had not yet been finalized on the menus I previewed, but it will be affordable, mid-range.

The joy here is dishes with a predominantly North German focus, a rarity as local offerings are typically of the South German kind. Influences from Anja and Kai’s port city hometown of Hamburg are showcased, like curry (poached fish with curry sauce) and fresh fish (from Monterey Fish Market). Expect authentic German, reliant on local and seasonal ingredients, prepared with care from a couple involved in every aspect of the place.

2121 San Pablo Ave, Berk.
Daily 6am-6:30pm
www.gaumenkitzel.net

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Appetite: Catching our Fancy

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Appetite: Catching our Fancy

Fancy Food, the largest showcase of specialty foods in North America (held annually in NYC and SF) returned to the Moscone Center. Again this week I explored thousands of products from around the world, with only the limits of my stomach to slow me after hours of sampling.

Fancy Food showcases trends in food, which there’s been much talk of this week already. I didn’t notice many major differences from last year, but saw a welcome increase in spirits vendors (though still merely a handful) and a continued proliferation of healthy, organic, low calorie (therefore sometimes tasteless) products. I was impressed by Teatulia out of Denver and their completely compostable wrappers and packaging. Their clean, 100% organic teas are grown in Bangladesh, subtle but full in flavor. I also took note of Philippe Padovani of Padovani Chocolates‘ sultry chocolates, in flavors ranging from apple banana ganache to lilikoi soft caramel.

Here’s my coverage from last year, and my stand-outs this year:

SPIRITS

Sinai Mezcal – Probably the best taste of the day for this spirits lover was Sinai Mezcal, a tiny, under-the-radar mezcal that, despite tasting numerous brands, is the first to really excite me since Del Maguey. Whether Blanco, Reposado or Anejo, each is smoky, clean with slate and agave. Don’t mind the low budget labels… it’s all in the taste. They need a US distributor (hello, anyone?) At the very least, it should be on the shelf at Tommy‘s.

Velho Barreiro – One of the most popular cachaca brands in Brazil, this bright sugarcane spirit tantalized in a well-made Caipirinha but also stood on its own, whether the traditional Velho Barreiro or Gold (aged) version.

FOOD

La Tourangelle Oils – Based out of Richmond, CA, it’s no surprise these memorable oils are local. La Tourangelle‘s peanut, pistachio, sesame, white & black truffle, and avocado oils are superior to average brands, but their latest releases especially wow: Thai Wok Oil exudes lemongrass and basil essences, while Pan Asian Stir Fry Oil is layered with garlic, ginger, fried onion. You can purchase at Whole Foods, Andronico’s and Williams Sonoma, to name a few.

Rumba Dessert’s Ice Creams – I’d seen Rumba before, but had not been able to try as many of its products as I did here. Whether creamy banana & cinnamon, tart passion fruit ‘maracuya’ or caramel-y lucuma (a tropical Peruvian fruit), I appreciate the robust flavor and care evident in these ice creams.  Rumba’s husband/wife team are delightfully engaging (wife, Laly Protzel is president and creates the recipes, while her husband assists with marketing and business). Find Rumba at Noe Valley Whole Foods and RJ’s Market in the Rincon Center, not to mention around the Bay Area.

Tahitian Gold Vanilla Products – Tahitian Gold is an elegantly-packaged line of vanilla products based out of Torrance, CA. Going the 100% natural route, they use a range of beans to create an intense vanilla bean paste, refined extracts for cooking, Tahitian vanilla sugar and fleur de sel. The look and quality is among the best I’ve seen in the vanilla world.

Glop – Glop may not exactly sound appetizing, but it’s a playful spread of Parmesan and Asiago cheeses, olive oil, garlic, herbs and spices. It’s another Bay Area-based company — and the exciting part is they’re working with one of my very favorite chefs, Aziza’s Mourad Lahlaou, who has created sauces and dips they are hoping to sell further into the year. I especially like smoky harissa, chickpea and yogurt herb.

Yarra Valley Dairy’s Marinated Feta – From Australia, Yara Valley Dairy’s (http://www.yvd.com.au/) creamy feta pops with flavors of herbs in uber-fresh cheese. Handmade on the farm, it’s an elegant (and addictive) snack.

Crispy Green & Fruitzio – Usually a long list that includes gluten free, dairy free, vegan, nut free, means I’m not going to like it. In the case of a little bag of freeze-dried fruit from Crispy Green and Fruitzio, I’m pleased at just how edible the product is. Stand-outs were freeze-dried pineapple, banana and kiwi. It’s one of those guiltless snacks that doesn’t compromise flavor. Here’s where to find it.

COFFEE

Malabar Gold Supreme from Josuma Coffee Company – Kudos for a shiny, silver espresso machine calling me like a beacon and perfect espresso preparation of Malabar Gold from Josuma, based in Menlo Park. They sell their beans mainly to cafes or restaurants though are seeking retailers. The crema atop their espresso glows a warm, velvet brown, while the flavor awakens you with robust, elegant force.

Caffe Barbera – From Naples, Italy, Caffe Barbera, a fifth generation coffee company since 1870, likewise served a supreme shot from their gold espresso machine.

–Subscribe to Virgina’s twice-monthly newsletter, The Perfect Spot

Come to my room

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Come to my room

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS After his thing he went right up to her and whispered in her ear. Here’s what he said: “Are you doing anything tonight?” Here’s what else he said: “Do you want to come to my hotel room?”

“Really?” I said. “You said that?”

“Can you believe it?”

“No,” I said. We were sitting at a picnic table in Dolores Park, in the sun in the cold, eating samwiches (his word for it, although … I would agree). The samwiches were from Bi-Rite Market, and therefore very good. “And did she come to your hotel room?” I said.

“Yes.”

There were also chips involved, and apples — a regular midwinter picnic. I knew my friend was telling the truth, but still couldn’t believe it.

“So, that really happens?” I said.

“Come on,” he said. “All your years in bands, on tour, you never … ?”

“No,” I said. “Never.”

It was so cold. Colder than it’s supposed to be, in my opinion, in San Francisco. He was sitting on the bench, and I was sitting on the table, face to the sun. It helped to be that much closer to it.

“Book tours? Readings?” he said.

I shook my head. My samwich was crunchy with carrots and cilantro, and therefore delightful. Vietnamese pork. I’m not proud of the fact, but it is, in fact, a fact: I never got laid on tour. Not on any kind of tour, ever. Not as a man, not as a woman, Sam-I-Am. Of course, I offered in my defense, the last couple tours were of senior centers and nursing homes, so …

Then I remembered that, during the first couple tours, I was in love with one of my bandmates, so …

Technically, I guess, I was not only getting laid after the show, like a rock star, I was also bagging the lead singer, and in this respect I was a groupie of my own band. Take that, Mr. Walks Right Up To Her.

We finished our samwiches and chips and apples just as the sun dropped behind some trees and that was the end of it, give or take Elton John. He wanted to know if I liked Elton John.

I thought this was a strange thing to want to know, after a samwich. Luckily, I knew the answer right away: “Yes.”

“What’s your favorite album?”

“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”

His was Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy. Did I know it?

“No.”

So of course he invites me to his house to burn me a copy. Who wouldn’t? Mind you: the invitation was not whispered in my ear, so what I took home from this whole samwichy experience was exactly that: Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy.

Which I’m listening to as I write this.

Come to think of it, I was — until becoming beautiful and confident — almost always in love. Hey, maybe I’m bad at getting laid because I’m good at being in love. I don’t know. It’s a thought.

If it happens to also be true, I damn well better get over it, because, good-at-it or no, love ain’t happenin’.

So.

This Saturday Ed’s Redeeming Qualities is playing a reunion show in Boston. I’m 15 to 20 years older, not to mention a whole different person than I was in that band. And I’m about as single as a piece of cheese. Tell you what I’m going to do, I’m going to step off the stage at the end of this show, and Walk Right Up To … someone.

I wonder who it’s going to be. I know what I’m going to say, I’m going to say, “You’re a butterfly, and butterflies are free to fly.” Like Sweet Freedom, like my friend, I will whisper these words. “Fly away.” Then we will see.

BI-RITE MARKET

Daily 9 a.m.–9 p.m.

3639 18th St., SF

(415) 241-9760

AE/D/MC/V

All kinds of alcohol

Beast and the Hare

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Beast and the Hare

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE If one reason to go out to eat is to partake of dishes you can’t easily make yourself, another is to find ideas for dishes you can make yourself. I place myself more in the latter category, and, as an ersatz Frenchman and perhaps unacknowledged admirer of French industrial espionage, I find myself peeking at dishes as they emerge from restaurant kitchens, wondering whether I could manage some version of this or that in my own kitchen or appropriate a few clever twists or wrinkles as enhancements to some quotidian staple of the repertoire. As urban voyeurism goes, this subspecies seems fairly mild and nontoxic.

Food fits a sensibility, ultimately, the same way clothes do. Some people are born to wear tuxedos and nibble foie gras from dainty toast rounds — Pierce Brosnan springs to mind here — while others (the young, mostly) look most aglow in t-shirts, cargo pants, and espadrilles, eating foil-wrapped burritos while sitting on the curb.

Extremes tend to attract the most attention, in part because they’re easy to identify, but between them lies a wide country full of distinctive treasures. In San Francisco these treasures are — I speak now of food, not clothes — the neighborhood restaurants, the places that, for the better part of 20 years, have found and held a balance between flair and rusticity. They make the kind of food you’d make at home, if you spelled home with a capital H and Architectural Digest was coming to shoot a photo spread; they make food that’s recognizable and unintimidating yet subtly sublime, at a reasonable price.

There was a bloom of these places in the early to mid 1990s, and according to this timeline Beast and the Hare, which opened at 22nd and Guerrero streets in November (in the old La Provence/Mangiafuoco space at the corner) is a latecomer, or maybe a throwback. The restaurant is good-looking — simple, royal-blue walls and generous spacing among the tables — but it’s not stunning. It reminded me of someone wearing a nice pair of Levi’s with a white button-down shirt and black loafers. Such a person would want honest but sophisticated food, and that’s what chef Ian Marks’ kitchen would give him.

Marks’ résumé includes a stint at Liberty Cafe, a neighborhood light from the early 1990s, as well as Fatted Calf and Hog Island Oyster, and so his to-the-point menu includes, not surprisingly, oysters and house-made charcuterie. You can get a satisfying arrangement of charcuterie, including lardo draped on thin slices of pink-lady apples, rabbit rillettes, and slices of smoked duck breast, along with toast rounds and a small pile of pickled vegetables, for $14.

The pickles helped cut the sense of fattiness, we found, as did the lacinato kale ($5), which had a light crispiness, almost like that of pappadum, I associate with flash-frying. My ersatz-Frenchman self noted that the idea of handling kale (which can display an obstinacy like that of cheap steak) in this way had never before occurred to him.

Osso buco ($18) is typically served with risotto, which, for creaminess is hard to beat. But risotto is unforgiving and tricky to time, and — in a slight inversion of the usual rule — restaurant versions often aren’t quite as good as the homemade kind, at least if the home chef is reasonably attentive. Beast and the Hare’s solution was to substitute white beans for the risotto, and if they weren’t quite as creamy, they did give a nice textural counterpoint to the rich, gelatinous marrow sauce oozing from the core of the gigantic veal shank.

A pressed duck leg ($18) reminded me of chicken under a brick, with crispy skin, a restrained juiciness to the meat, and a convincingly steam-rollered look. If, like me, you have been overexposed to confit and sometimes find duck too rich and fatty, you would probably warm to this method. Further cutting the richness were a pair of nicely browned potato disks and a bed of still-crunchy chicory.

The dessert menu does contain at least one extraordinary item, and that is the beer ice cream, which appeared as a small sphere accompanying the German chocolate cake ($8). Beer ice cream sounds gimmicky, but it did really, and pleasantly, taste of beer — as if someone had mixed suds with some heavy cream and a touch of sugar, then frozen it. A little more conventional were the beignets ($6), like a bunch of little fried basketballs in a rack after gym class, with, on the side, a thick and bewitching orange caramel sauce. If they’d only served you the sauce, you probably wouldn’t have complained. The ersatz Frenchman had to be restrained from licking the dish clean. What a beast he is.

BEAST AND THE HARE

Dinner: Wed.–Mon., 6–10 p.m.

1001 Guerrero, SF

(415) 821-1001

www.beastandthehare.com

Beer and wine

MC/V

Moderately noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

Appetite: 3 new coffee havens

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Appetite: 3 new coffee havens

CAFFE PASCUCCI, SoMa – I feel like I’m back in Italy at brand new Caffe Pascucci, the first outpost of a popular Italian chain. The crisp, white space is chic and soothing, even as the place buzzes with the Italian families and individuals already frequenting the place within merely days of opening. It’s not just because the menu is loaded with dozens of types of espresso, cappuccinos and iced coffees topped with banana or doused with amaretto. It’s because the majority Italian staff and clientele exude convivial Italian spirit, throwing out “ciaos” and “pregos” liberally. I like the robust Gold Espresso, though dark hot chocolate was a little too pudding-like in consistency, even if thankfully dark (my favorites in Italy or France are syrupy rich, but not stiff). Chad Newton, formerly of Fish & Farm, executes a simple but pleasing menu of salads and sandwiches – even an ultra-basic Tri-Color Salad is three types of greens (including bits of endive), gentle shavings of Parmesan, and a perky lemon dressing. 170 King, SF.

CONTRABAND COFFEE, Nob Hill – Yet another in the endless flow of Third Wave coffee houses,  brand new Contraband Coffee Bar occupies a less coffee-driven corner of Nob Hill (the Mission and SoMa don’t need any more… spread the wealth!) The space is clean, white, with modern art, and baristas I’ve seen working at other coffee havens around town. It sports a shiny Synesso Hydra espresso machine and also offer V60 pour-over and Chemex preparations for its own roasted beans. Additional kudos for getting the snacks right: Dynamo Donuts and Peasant Pies. 1415 Larkin, SF.

BAR AGRICOLE, SoMa – The simplicity is appealing. Bar Agricole, previously open for dinner and bar only, shares its soothing garden patio and forward-thinking, urban interior for a Four Barrel coffee and one food item: a pretzel bun, aka Laugenbrötchen, from Mountain View’s German baker par excellence, Esther’s Bakery (http://www.esthersbakery.com). Order the pretzel roll with a side of apple butter, jam or cream cheese. Oh, they also have free WiFi and are open all day (from 8am on) until the dinner switchover at 5pm. There are fewer cooler spaces you could linger in. 355 11th Street, SF.

–Subscribe to Virgina’s twice monthly newsletter, The Perfect Spot

The scream

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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The scream

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS This isn’t a metaphor. There was an actual patty of dog barf on the off-white carpet at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom, Coach’s dad’s house, San Diego, California, U.S.A., Earth, my life. Coach and Cola were standing outside the room on the deck, looking down at the chicken coop. Our instructions were to kill the roosters, do what we want with the hens, and please leave the bunny rabbit and dog alone.

The bunny lived in the chicken coop.

Lucy, the dog, a cuddly, energetic Boston terrier with a sadomasochistic streak (her favorite thing in the world is to be blasted in the face with water, or a basketball), lived of course in the house.

“Coach?” I said. “Cola? Is this dog barf?”

“What? Where?” they said, coming back inside. I was looking down at it. Lucy was panting next to me, and the basketball was between us. Ever since we’d come into the house — ours for the week — and dumped our stuff, Lucy had been rolling this basketball after me. That’s because a couple days before when I had first made her acquaintance, I’d spent hours kicking it in the driveway with her. In a way we were a match made in heaven, both insatiable athletes with an aptitude for taking a beating. The difference: she loves it.

For one moment, the last peaceful one I have known, we four mammals and our basketball made a perfect circle of quiet contemplation around this centerpiece of barf. In all honesty, I began to think it might be a cookie, perhaps even oatmeal raisin, and broke the silence.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

And just as I bent down to get a better look, as lucklessness or canine cruelty would have it, Lucy nudged the ball with her short-bus nose.

Did you hear me scream?

I’m still screaming, in a way. And that orange-world bounce bounce will forever, in my mind, be rolling slow-motion toward, onto, and over this cookie of barf, or cookie.

It wasn’t a cookie. It was puke, now half-smashed into the carpet, and sort of decaled onto the overturned underside of the ball. Why this image affected me as deeply as it did, I can’t say. But I clapped my hands to my ears, wailing like a siren, and staggered backward into the bathroom, where I collapsed onto the edge of the Jacuzzi and just generally lost it.

Which overreaction my human companions found hilarious. Howling herself, but with laughter, Cola followed me into the bathroom. Anyway she had had to pee the whole way down from Oceanside. So she was laughing on the can, and I was crying on the tub, and Coach tossed the puke-tattooed basketball outside over the deck and into the great chickeny unknown, then joined us in there.

“What the hell?” she said.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know what the hell. You have these moments, you know, where something shifts a little inside, and you suddenly can’t imagine how in the world you got where you are, or how the hell you will get back out of it.

Almost always, a bath is a good idea, so I started the tub, had a soak, got dressed, and went out for the evening with every intention of dancing.

We did not dance.

We ate. But I will spare you those details, because they’re gross. Instead let me tell you about last night, back home here, with Papa and Pappy, our quarterback and center. They had just bought a lot of seeds and a big heavy bag of soil, and were taking turns lugging it the many many city blocks back to their place, inner Richmond.

So naturally we stopped for a rest (and a bowl of noodles) at the highly fluorescent New Hoa Ky right there on Geary Street. I liked my pho. Papa loved hers. But poor Pappy, she only eats us-killed meat, and — go figure — the vegetarian soup at New Hoa Ky starts with a beef broth. Therefore: new favorite restaurant!

NEW HOA KY

Daily 10 a.m.–9 p.m.

4012 Geary, SF

(415) 387-9600

MC/V

No alcohol

Michael Mina

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Michael Mina

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE When Michael Mina closed his eponymous restaurant in Union Square last year, I did not mourn. I had visited the place early in its run, toward the end of the summer of 2004, and felt as if I’d been seated inside a giant pillowcase, with awkward ergonomics and over fussy food — good food, of course, but expensive and show-offy. The desire — I might say the lust — of human beings to leave their mark on the world, whether by making rivers run backward or carving radishes into rose blooms, is a constant, for better or worse, and one notes its manifestations with wary neutrality. But as a philosophical matter I subscribe to the Alice Waters school of letting foods speak in their own voices instead of turning them into chefly statements, and in this sense a certain sort of high-style cooking poses issues for me.

In October, Michael Mina reopened in the old Aqua space, and a circle was closed, since Mina had been Aqua’s chef for a decade, through the 1990s and into the new millennium. How, I wondered, did they actually move the restaurant? Did they pack it into moving vans and speed off in the middle of the night, the way the Baltimore Colts did in 1984? However the move was accomplished, it was well worth making. The new space, while vault-like, is softened by curvature of the spine; it’s also quiet enough for comfortable conversation even when full. The ergonomics are much improved.

And the food? Well, Mina still likes his flights, his arrays of one- or two-bite treats, but the general tone of things is more muscular — an amuse-bouche of beluga-lentil soup, say, served in a demitasse with a small square of grilled-cheese sandwich on the side — and at times even rustic, as with the baskets of grilled levain to be spread with ricotta cheese enhanced by honey and pepper.

The smaller courses are mostly wondrous. A platter of hors d’oeuvres ($16/person) was a blitzkrieg of sensory experience, including a sublime crab fritter nested in a lettuce cup, a small filet of cured ocean trout propped on a mini-blini, a sensuous round of blood-red steak tartare, and (tasting mainly of fat), a foie gras “pb&j” with a buckwheat cake and huckleberry preserves.

The spell did weaken some with the main courses; a “five seas” tasting of Japanese fish ($42) could have been an appetizer plate, as could a duo of crispy fish ($39). A frenched rack of Prather Ranch lamb ($39), on the other hand, offered real ooomph, although views were divided about the niçoise-style fregola pasta, mixed with shreds of lamb osso buco served in an elegant little pot on the side — too rustic and not part of the greater whole? Maybe, but I liked it anyway.

 

Although the eagle-eyed will note that Michael Mina’s prices are top-tier, I hesitate to describe the restaurant as a haven for the rich, if only because an experience there is actually available to people whose incomes don’t reach past the payroll-tax cap. I have no issue with the rich per se — they, like the poor, will be with us always — but I feel no special urge to worship them or their achievements. I leave that task to them, since they seem to be well-equipped for it.

It is a writer’s job to afflict the comfortable and complacent, and so a few weeks ago I noted the absurdity of Senate Republicans’ waging all-out legislative war to extend the so-called Bush tax cuts on adjusted incomes over $250,000 when doing so requires us to borrow yet more money from foreign creditors, chief among them China. This brief noting of the obvious occasioned a hail of furious, invective-laden email — “cheesy,” “socialist” — hurled by web trolls from as far afield as Cape Cod.

I recognize such outbursts of right-wing media thugs because I’ve seen them before. In October 2008, when I dared to mention other obvious absurdities — Sarah Palin, our antediluvian Cuba policy — abuse also poured in from afar and I was even denounced by noted high school graduate James Taranto in the politics blog he writes for The Wall Street Journal. The wing nuts of the right perceive, I guess, that tax cuts for the rich — following bail-outs for reckless Wall Streeters — are politically touchy in a time when the federal deficit has become an aneurysm. They believe that media intimidation, even of small fry like me, is always worth a try. And plainly they believe that the next presidential campaign is already on. There, I agree with them. *

MICHAEL MINA

Dinner: Sun.–Thurs., 5:30–10 p.m.; Fri.–Sat., 5:30–10:30 p.m.

Lunch: Mon.–Fri., 11:30 a.m.–2:30 p.m.

252 California, SF

(415) 397-9222

www.michaelmina.net

Full bar

AE/DS/MC/V

Comfortable noise level

Wheelchair accessible

 

Appetite: Mixology times two

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Appetite: Mixology times two

BERETTA MIXOLOGY CLASSES — Class is equal parts learning and pleasure at Beretta during their monthly Monday educational cocktail classes led by Bar Manager Ryan Fitzgerald. Ryan is one of our city’s great bartenders and he shares his ability to showcase the essence of a drink with you. Set up with your own station of bar utensils and ingredients, you’ll experience an interactive two hours with a small group in Beretta’s basement. Shake and stir — learning when it’s appropriate to do each — as you sample your creations. Whether you study whiskey on January 24, tequila (Ryan’s particular passion) on February 21, or gin on March 21, you’ll come away with recipes both classic and modern, artisan but not so complicated that you can’t recreate them easily at home. And it’s all in the name of education.

$85 per person for class, cocktails, and nibbles of food (includes tax and gratuity)

$55 + tax for tools used during the class (optional)
*Class does NOT include tools, they must be purchased separately.

Beretta, 1199 Valencia Street
415-695-1199
Whiskey – January 24, 7-9pm
Tequila – February 21, 7-9pm
Gin – March 21, 7-9pm

Doug Williams makes liquid nitrogen cocktails at last year’s Science of Cocktails. Photo by Virginia Miller.

SCIENCE OF COCKTAILS — Science of Cocktails returns for its second year at the Exploratorium. The inaugural year impressed me despite the dozens of cocktail events I attend in any given year. Scientific displays turn drink-making into scientific art exhibit (for example, watch a shell-less egg being ‘cooked’ with alcohol). Sip your way through one interactive display after another. You may witness a liquid nitrogen cocktail being prepared or learn Japanese hard-shake techniques while sampling cocktails like last year’s layered SF Pousse Cafe from The Alembic or 83 Proof’s use of ingredients from jalapeno skin and toasted peppercorn to Darjeeling simple syrup. Price of admission includes unlimited hors d’oeuvres, demos, a number of cocktails, live entertainment and full reign over the Exploratorium. Bartenders (from 15 Romolo to Rye) and spirit sponsors (from Campo de Encanto Pisco to St. George Spirits/Hangar One) are top notch. Science exhibits were never quite this fun when you were a kid.
$120
January 26, 7:30-11pm
Exploratorium, 3601 Lyon Street
415-561-0360
visit.exploratorium.edu/events/science-of-cocktails

–Subscribe to Virgina’s twice monthly newsletter, The Perfect Spot: www.theperfectspotsf.com

Appetite: Best Restaurant Openings of 2010, Bay Area

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Appetite: Best Restaurant Openings of 2010, Bay Area

Earlier in the week, I listed the top 10 new restaurant openings of the year in San Francisco. Now I list an additional four best new Bay Area openings: one in the South Bay, two in the East Bay, one in Wine Country. In the midst of Oakland’s continued proliferation as a dining hotspot and the new downtown Napa reign of celebrity chefs from Tyler Florence to Morimoto, here are a few that rose above, in alphabetical order.

BAUME, Palo Alto
In the realm of all-senses-engaged gastronomy temples like Chicago’s Alinea or the whimsical decadence of Jose Andres’ The Bazaar in LA, San Francisco is shockingly lacking. We have the talent and creativity here of the best food cities in the world. But it seems at times there can be a fear of getting too experimental. Thankfully, in 2010 Chef Bruno Chemel (formerly of Chez TJ) opened Baume in a non-descript, ’70’s-looking Palo Alto building. Yes, it’s crazy expensive (tasting menus), special occasion dining, but it stands out with well-orchestrated service and a simple but striking dining room of elegant orange and warm browns. You are teased with ingredients, like liquid nitrogen, curry, leek, seaweed, endive, then await the presentation like a gift. The best part is that Baume is not merely molecular showmanship… dishes are rich with flavor and heart. Don’t miss Chef Bruno’s 62-degree sous-vide egg. I had it with wild mushroom and Noilly Prat dry vermouth foam paired with shots of fresh celery and lime juice punctuated by roasted rosemary stalks. Currently, he’s serving the egg with lichee, lilikoi, espresso, chocolate. I’m intrigued.
  
GATHER, Berkeley
A December 2009 opening, Gather is the best thing to come along in Berkeley in ages. It reads typical Bay Area at first glance: local, sustainable, organic everything, from meats and veggies to spirits, wine and beer. The rounded corner room, with bustling, open space in full view of the kitchen is holistically casual and urban. And, yes, everything you have heard about the raved-about vegan “charcuterie” is true. Decidedly non-vegetarian, I marvel at this artwork array of vegetables on a wood slab, five delicately-prepared (and delicious) combinations for $16. You might have roasted baby beets with shaved fennel, dill, blood orange, horseradish almond puree and pistachio as one item, then King Trumpet mushroom crudo with parsnip-pine nut sea palm risotto as another. Exec Chef Sean Baker and team do meat right, too. Whether sausage pizza with pork belly and chiles, or house-cured ham topped with crescenza cheeze and cardoon-walnut salsa, carnivores will leave happy. Gather displays an ethos and presentation one can only dream of being a standard everywhere.

PLUM, Oakland
Easily the best new opening in Oakland in 2010, Daniel Patterson’s long-anticipated Plum delivers his impeccable technique in heartwarming food. Despite communal seating on uncomfortable wood stools, one is warmed by skillfully prepared food under $20. Chef Charlie Parker recently took the reigns, serving impeccably nuanced soups like ham hock and brussels sprouts or turnip apple soup with miso. Deviled eggs benefit from caperberry tarragon relish, while a rich beef cheek and oxtail burger welcomes the contrast of accompanying Autumn pickles. Patterson’s power continues to be used for gourmet good, and this time Oakland is the recipient.

FARMSTEAD, St. Helena
Farmstead may not be the most exciting restaurant to open in Wine Country in 2010 but I find it among the most satisfying. Part of Long Meadow Ranch, a welcome package of winery, poultry farm, herb garden, grass-fed beef ranch, and olive press, it’s in a modern, converted barn with fireplace, tractors and chairs on the outdoor patio. Inside it’s funky light fixtures, cavernous ceilings and leather booths. Their grass-fed beef is, in a word, exemplary. It makes for a decent steak, but my money goes towards the meltingly-good cheeseburger. On a house potato bun, it’s lathered with addictive mustard (they don’t skimp on the horseradish), cheddar and arugula. Order “potted” pig: tender, shredded pig packed in a mason jar with a layer of lard on top, served with toasts and that fabulous mustard. Another humane, locally-sourced restaurant, Farmstead brings a casual playfulness I don’t see often enough in Wine Country.

–Subscribe to Virgina’s twice monthly newsletter, The Perfect Spot

Moya

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Moya

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Many of the city’s Ethiopian restaurants are to be found in the Western Addition (on or near Divisadero Street) and in the Inner Sunset, so to find one, Moya, blooming in SoMa is an unexpected pleasure. The rush of Internet Age money into the neighborhoods south of Market Street in recent years has been a fast-rising tide that can be said to have lifted all boats only if by boats we mean yachts. But if by boats we mean boats, then some swamping has occurred. The area isn’t yet devoid of modest, high-value restaurants, but the trend has bent strongly in the direction of pricey new places, from Prospect in the east to Bar Agricole in the once-forlorn west.

The foods of Ethiopia seem a little underappreciated on these shores. The cooking is as gratifyingly spiced as that from the other side of the Indian Ocean. But while Indian cuisine has found a sort of vogue here, perhaps because of the influx of so many software engineers, Ethiopian cuisine has not.

Yet neglect isn’t always and entirely a bad thing. It can help preserve a certain integrity and authenticity. At Moya (which opened last summer), the look is big-city modern, with high ceilings, a floor handsomely laid with rough tiles the color of sandstone, and walls washed with a butter color. The place looks fresh and clean, and the kitchen is half out in the open, which lends a reassuring transparency to things. There is nothing quite like being able to see the people who make your food actually making it.

But at heart, it’s very much a mom-is-cooking operation. The ayb, a kind of cottage cheese, is house-made according to a family recipe. You can order the cheese as a side, for $4, and it’s also served with the kitfo ($14), a kind of spicy, tataki-ized steak tartare — steak tartake? More on the beef in a moment, but as for the cheese: it was more creamy than chunky, almost like a relation of mascarpone but with a fresh sourness that led me to ask our server whether lemon juice had been substituted for rennet as the curdling agent. The answer was indefinite, which might mean I hadn’t put the question clearly or had stumbled on a trade secret. But the cheese did strongly remind me of a simple fresh white cheese I’ve sometimes made myself (using lemon juice squeezed into scalded milk) for the Indian spinach dish saag paneer.

The other lovely element of sourness in the food involves injera, the bread (made from a grain called teff,) that resembles a cross between sponge cake and sourdough. You could make a savory bûche de Noël from it. At Moya. as at all the Ethiopian and Eritrean places I’ve been to, injera is ubiquitous, whether laid out as a kind of mat for other items to rest on; rolled up like fresh lavash and set beside a rounded cone of green lentils — azifa ($5) — strongly seasoned with red onions, garlic, lemon, chilis, and olive oil or torn up and tossed with tomatoes, green peppers, onions, and a garlicky vinaigrette for ye timatim fit fit ($4), a sort of east African panzanella.

The kitchen’s seasoning hand is a robust one, whether the animating ingredient is garlic (the ye timatim fit fit should come with a whole coffee bean or two for each diner, to chew away garlic breath, which becomes particularly lethal the morning after), or hot pepper. We were consulted on how hot we wanted the kitfo and ye doro tibs ($12), chunks of boneless chicken sautéed in clarified butter with berberé, (the traditional Ethiopian chili powder), onions, garlic, tomato, and herbs. When told that hot was quite hot, we said medium and hoped for the best. But medium turned out to be what most places would call hot. I like spicy food, and I found the tingling afterglow of the berberé to be a distinct pleasure. But mild wouldn’t be a bad default choice for those in doubt.

As is customary, the main courses were piled together onto a platter lined with injera, and a well-dressed chopped salad dotted with tomato quarters were heaped at either end. The salad was both decorative and cooling, while the injera rug, of course, was ripped to shreds that served as little finger-operated grabbing devices. The atavistic satisfaction of tearing something up and then eating it reminds us of how close to being uncivilized we are, really, even in such civilized surroundings.

MOYA

Dinner: nightly, 5–9 p.m.

Lunch: Mon.–Fri., 11:30 a.m.–3 p.m.; Sat., noon–3 p.m.

1044 Folsom, SF

(415) 431-5544

www.eatmoya.com

No alcohol

Cash only

Not particularly noisy

Wheelchair accessible

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