Food & Drink

Eat your slumgolian

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Eat your slumgolian

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Tell you, I loved making chili with Coach’s mom. Her refrigerator was broke, so everything we needed was downstairs in Grandma’s fridge. Except in most cases it wasn’t there either.

Coach is of course a vegetarian. Grandma didn’t want beans, or spicy. Neither refrigerator had any peppers of any kind. Nor could I find chili powder.

Now, as you may know, I pride myself on my sense of show-must-go-onmanpersonship. I didn’t panic, sulk, or give up. No. At every twist, turn, and sheer drop-off, I shrugged, I laughed, I chopped onward. And stirred and opened cans and stirred and tasted until at a certain point I found myself standing over this colorful pot of simmering something-or-other and decided to make an announcement.

“It’s not chili,” I announced.

Coach and Coach’s mom, who had been situating Grandma at the dining room table, soothing her with promises of chili and chili and chili, came running into the kitchen, stood beside me, and looked into the pot. Grandma doesn’t get around so easily, or I’m sure she’d have looked too.

“That’s all right,” they said.

And I knew that it was, but had no idea what to call it, until they told me about slumgolian. Slumgolian, in the Coach family, was a surreal meal probably somewhat akin to what I call refrigerator soup. Other people have other names for it.

The point is that I learned a new word for a new thing I’d never seen before, and in truth it didn’t taste all that half bad, over tortillas.

Thanks to Kayday and her little red car, I got to git me to Joshua Tree, my favorite place on the planet, for Christmas. We sat on some rocks in the middle of the desert and ate Turkey Jerky, Wheat Thins, walnuts, and raisins, by way of marking the spot, and it was my favorite Christmas in many years.

But not my favorite meal. Neither was slumgolian.

No, for that we have to wind back the clock to Papa’s birthday, which falls a couple days shy of Christ’s. We gathered that evening at the Taco Shop @ Underdogs, in the Sunset. It was Papa, Pappy, Cola, Mikey Bike, Fiver, Flavor, a bunch of people I didn’t know, and Kentucky Fried Woman, whom I did know but had lost track of.

Coach was in San Diego already by then, lining scrimmage fields and setting up blocking dummies and car tires for our training camp/New Year’s Eve brouhaha, reportage/repercussions of which will dominate the next couple weeks if not months of Cheap Eats. Just to warn you.

As her coaching staff, I’d be next to arrive in the land of sun, slumgolian, and tacos. In fact, Kayday dumped me there after Joshua Tree, on her way back up to San Fran.

And I would like to point out up front and out of order, that nothing I have eaten in SoCal, so far, has even come close to the Taco Shop for all-around Mexcellence.

I can’t remember if I ever wrote about Nick’s Crispy Tacos or not, but in any case, the deal is: same thing. “Nick’s way,” as they say, is two corn tortillas — one crispy, one soft — with cheese, beans, salsa, guac, and whatever else you like.

I like carnitas. I like fish. The fish is fried and therefore juicy, tender, and oh-so satisfying. Really, honestly, you only need one.

Plus maybe another, plus chips.

In any case, whether it’s Nick Crispy or the Taco Shop, the pico de gallo is great, the guac is great, the meat is juicy, and the combination of soft and crispy tacos … well, go figure: it works.

Underdogs, I guess, is the name of the bar the Taco Shop is in. Sports on TV. In the back corner they have one of those basketball things where you see how many hoops you can make in a certain number of seconds. And while I was catching up with KFW on one side of me, and talking writing and music shop with Mikey Bike on the other, I also watched, out of the corner of my eye, several of my friends “step up to the line,” so to speak.

All I will say is that I am glad our football team is not going to be a basketball team. Although … well, never mind. We will see.

THE TACO SHOP @ UNDERDOGS

Sun.–Wed. 11 a.m.–10 p.m.;

Thurs.–Sat. 11 a.m.– midnight

1824 Irving, SF

(415) 566-8700

MC/V

Full bar

 

Best restaurant openings of 2010, San Francisco

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Best restaurant openings of 2010, San Francisco

In a ridiculously rich year of new restaurant openings, the most prolific I’ve seen yet, it is harder than ever to name the top ones. There are many noteworthy places, from the “Mad Men”-esque vibe of Thermidor, to the stratospheric prices and fabulous snapping turtle veloute at Benu. Some of our best cafes (Ma’velous) and cocktail bars (Burritt Room) were added to the SF scene. Gourmet comfort food is a worn-out trend but places like Citizens Band and Grub infused it with new life.

As ever, my goal is to include cheaper and upscale openings, making it trickier to list every worthy candidate within the limits of 2010. The good news is, our already incredible dining scene only continues to explode, despite trying economic times. We have some of the most affordable, high-caliber food in the world, as Michelin Guide’s director noted. Here’s to more creativity, diversity and fine meals with good friends in 2011.

**The first 10 restaurants are in San Francisco proper — a part two highlighting the Bay Area can be found here. Restaurants are in alphabetical order.**

COMMONWEALTH. Photo by Virginia Miller

>>BAKER AND BANKER Baker and Banker technically is a 2009 opening (11/09), but I include it as an exemplary destination neighborhood restaurant. With dark brown walls and booths, the space exudes a modern, warm elegance. Husband-and-wife team, Jeff Banker and Lori Baker, get it right from start to finish with his dishes, like vadouvan curry cauliflower soup or brioche-stuffed quail in a bourbon-maple glaze, and her memorable desserts, like famed XXX triple dark chocolate layer cake (awarded a 2010 Guardian Best of the Bay) or warm pumpkin cobbler with candied pumpkin seed ice cream. Since the debut of their bakery next door, you can get Baker’s goods all day long.

>>BARBACCO Yes, Barbacco is usually obnoxiously noisy and crowded. But it improves upon its parent restaurant, Perbacco, with gourmet quality at a great value ($3-14 per dish). Reminiscent of enotecas I’ve dined in throughout Italy, heartwarming food and a thoughtful wine list make it an ideal urban trattoria. Order a glass of Lambrusco, fried brussels sprouts, and raisin/pine nut-accented pork meatballs in a tomato sugo, then marvel at the minimal bill.

>>COMMONWEALTH Anthony Myint and chef Jason Fox are re-inventing fine dining, along with a few key players in San Francisco (see Sons and Daughters below). Myint was one of the masterminds behind Mission St. Food and Mission Chinese Food, but at Commonwealth delves into molecular gastronomy. Taste your way through deliciously experimental creations for a fraction of the price at comparable restaurants – no dish is over $15. 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 leave glowing from stimulating flavors and presentation.

COMSTOCK. Photo by Virginia Miller

>>COMSTOCK SALOON The Barbary Coast comes alive in this bar/restaurant gem that feels like a timeless classic. From Victorian wallpaper and wood-burning stove, to restored dark woods, the spirit and history of the space charm immediately. Filling up on rich beef shank/bone marrow pot pie or bites like whiskey-cured gravlax on rye toasts with dill sour cream is happy respite on chilly nights. Pair with a perfect Martinez cocktail or a barkeep’s whimsy (bartender’s creation based on your preferences). Comstock exemplifies the best of what a modern-day saloon (with old world sensibilities) can be.

>>CURRY VILLAGE When husband-and-wife owners Kamal Barbhuyan and Nimmi Bano left the Tenderloin’s Little Delhi, I mourned the loss of their divine butter chicken and made-from-scratch eats. Thankfully, this year brought them to the Inner Sunset with Curry Village. With the highest concentration of great Indian food in the ‘Loin, it feels right to spread the love across the city. Whether it’s daal (lentils) enriched with spiced beef, or the ultimate eggplant curry, baingan bharta, this couple prepares what could otherwise be standard Indian fare with love and lush flavor.

>>HEIRLOOM CAFE The menu (less than ten starters and entrees) is so simple I’m almost bored reading it. But upon first visit to the Victorian, country kitchen dining room (circa the Mission 2010), each dish was so well-executed as to diminish scepticism. Reminding me more than a little of Chez Panisse in ethos, ultra-fresh, pristine ingredients make a basic dish a revelation. Take 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.

SONS & DAUGHTERS. Photo by Virginia Miller

>>PROSPECT Though I’m not won over by the semi-corporate look of Prospect’s large space, this hot newcomer shines in everything that passes through your lips: wine, cocktails and food. Chef Ravi Kapur’s exploratory dishes reveal impeccable technique with funky attitude. Garlic-roasted quail with roasted almonds, preserved lemon and Black Mission figs is exemplary, while Summer beets meld with vadouvan yogurt, candied pistachios and onion rings. Pair with a glass of wine recommended by wine director Amy Currens or bar manager Brooke Arthur’s elegantly layered cocktails and you have a meal that is the whole culinary package.

>>THE SYCAMORE
I feel like a kid again eating The Sycamore’s “famous” roast beef sandwich. A glorified Arby’s roast beef on grocery store-reminiscent sesame buns with BBQ sauce and mayo, the sandwich tributes the native Bostonian owners’ roots. But this humble Mission eatery, which doubles as a cozy beer and wine bar, doesn’t only shine there. 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 all-day hours and $9 being the most expensive menu item.

>>SONS & DAUGHTERS
Like Commonwealth (above), Sons and Daughters is another opening where young, visionary chefs create molecular, fine dining-worthy fare at reasonable prices ($48 for four course prix fixe, a la carte from $9-24). Though service can be unfortunately erratic, the intimate black and white space evokes a romantic European bistro with youthful edge. Dishes are inventive and ambitious, like an acclaimed eucalyptus herb salad of delicate curds and whey over quinoa, or seared foie gras accompanied by a glass of tart yogurt and Concord grape granite.

>>UNA PIZZA NAPOLETANA Pre-opening hype could easily have made the debut of Una Pizza a letdown. Pizzaiolo Anthony Mangieri closed his beloved New York institution, moving cross-country to a mellow SoMa street. As in NY, Una Pizza is a one-man show with Mangieri solely crafting each pie, explaining the no take-out policy and long waits. Though this may make it hard to frequent Una Pizza, when you go, you are rewarded with doughy heaven. With only five vegetarian pies available, I dream of the Filetti: cherry tomatoes soaking in buffalo mozzarella, accented by garlic, extra-virgin olive oil, basil, sea salt. New York’s loss is certainly our gain.

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

Parada 22

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Parada 22

paulr@sfbg.com

Out at the west end of Haight Street, what do we find? Not a pot of gold, sadly, though plenty of pot, whose haze hovers fragrantly above the pavement like hippie ground fog. Also: a McDonald’s, complete with parking lot. This has always faintly depressed me. Across the street, an emerging Whole Foods (with parking lot), while a block to the east, the old I-Beam has been obliterated in favor of condos.

In the midst of all this corporate commotion, it would be easy to overlook Parada 22, a tiny restaurant that opened last spring serving Puerto Rican food. The western run of Haight Street, while rich in places to eat, has never really been known for its restaurants, yet Parada 22 is worth seeking out. If I hesitate to describe it as a destination restaurant, it’s only because that label might raise expectations to curse (in the sense of “hex”) level.

We are talking, after all, about a restaurant with concrete floors, crayon drawings, and old newsprint on the walls (including the San Francisco Chronicle’s unforgettable reporting on the outbreak of the Spanish-American War), no host’s station, and a table set just inches from the front door, the better for the people seated at it to be buffeted by winter drafts as diners come and go.

But we look closer and find grace notes. Each table holds a flickering candle, along with an old coffee can supplied with utensils and napkins. Even better: one of the chefs, on a cold evening, brings everyone a little cup of pork and vegetable soup, made from a pork leg roasted earlier in the day (and with stock made from the roasted bones). You might call this an amuse-bouche — if it was more whimsical and less sustaining. I warmed my hands with the cup, since concrete floors can make a place seem cold even if it isn’t.

Puerto Rican cooking involves versions of and variations on foods that are characteristic of the Caribbean basin. It’s on the rustic side, with plenty of beans and rice, roasted plantains, and cassava root (an appealing alternative to the potato that has never found much traction in our own potato-involved cuisine). The root stars in a salad ($7) that, when warmed, provides a strong contrast to the chilled greens, carrot tabs, and tomato dice. (The advertised avocado was a no-show.)

There’s also plenty of meat, at least as Parada 22’s kitchen prepares the cuisine, with an emphasis on pork. Pork’s cultural meaning is complex; pigs are fecund scavengers that thrive across a wide range of habitats, which means they are efficient producers of protein and therefore a boon to human populations in less than bountiful circumstances. And pork, along with wine, is about as closely associated as a comestible could be with Latin Christianity. Eating it — or not eating it — can be a powerful assertion of cultural identity.

I love pork as a cook would love it, for its compatibility with so many different treatments and seasonings, its modest cost, and its relative ease of handling. Parada 22’s pernil asado ($12), which reached the table as a heap of oval slices, reminded me of how good pork can be even when lightly adorned (with garlic and oregano) and simply roasted: the meat juicy and giving a hint of ropiness for texture. As, perhaps, an echo of humankind’s ancient fear of going hungry, the plate was finished with failsafe heaps of Spanish rice (studded with bits of ham), white beans (simmered with potato, carrot, and winter squash), and a green salad. Even without the pork, there would have been a meal.

Just as meal-worthy was a pot of red beans ($3.50) simmered in a spicy red sauce with bits of ham and chunks of cassava root. If you had only a fiver in your pocket, you could go to the McDonald’s a few blocks away and end up with God knows what, or you could have Parada 22’s red beans — a stew, really — and be much more genuinely nourished.

The menu card also offers several sandwiches, including a Cuban version with pork (Puerto Rican and Cuban foods seem much more alike than not) and a beef edition ($9), with mats of meat whose toughness belied their thinness. Caramelized onion and melted white cheese lent a Philly-cheesesteak effect. The baguette was adequate, but the whole thing would have been better if the bread had been toasted.

For dessert there was, fittingly, rum cake ($3.25), a neat square of yellow sponginess under a cap of whipped cream. It looked quite demure and innocent but did have DUI alcohol breath. In that respect, it reminded me of tiramisù, except much less soggy and therefore more coherent. Bust averted.

PARADA 22

Tues.–Sun., 11:30 a.m.–10 p.m.

1805 Haight, SF

(415) 750-1111

www.parada22.com

Beer and wine

MC/V

Tolerable noise

 

Call it macaroni

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Call it macaroni

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Some people really thought I was going to move to Norway! I’m not. I’m sorry. I was just making fun of myself for trying to move to Germany last winter. This one, between the holidays and playing shortstop for my new football team, I am going to New York City, Boston, New Orleans, and France.

Boston = old band’s reunion show. New York = practicing for that. New Orleans = taking care of a baby and eating fried everything. France = refinding the chicken farmer in me and putting the finishing touches on a book I haven’t started yet. And all of the above is just my way of, you know, keeping it surreal.

So that’s no to Norway, yes to adventure. More fun in one-one, ready, go.

Don’t worry, I have a new jacket! Thanks to my secret agent lady Sal, I will be stylin’ in New York, rockin’ in Boston, hot in New Orleans, and tres farmerish in France. Yes, my new wear-everywhere coat manages to be girly yet still have pockets. And a hood! And it’s soft and Army green, which is one of my 12 favorite colors. So I might not take it off.

Believe me, the last thing I expected to be writing about today was Turkish food. But what was I going to do? Chunk and Chunk and Crawdad de la Cooter have a new favorite restaurant, and they invited me there for lunch after a grueling morning of playing sailboat in their living room.

On one wall and the ceiling (of the restaurant) there’s this huge mural of almost everything in the world, including the Czech Republic. And a turtle. And sharks. And a mermaid. And an octopus. Honestly, it’s pretty impressive. Therefore, the kids were impressed.

Kate Chunk, who is two, kept asking the waitressperson if they have pasta. (They don’t.) She looked at me very seriously, after our order was placed, and said, “I want macaroni.”

“I feel your pain, Sweetie,” I said, “but it’s not going to happen, not here.”

The waitressperson, who also felt her pain, almost immediately produced a basket of pita bread, and then our little carb-loader was happy. Me too! The pita was made in-house, and it was thick and soft and very much more breadlike than most pitas I have bitten.

We were dipping it into this thing called ezme, which is roasted red peppers with tomato, lemon, onion, and parsley, and blended with a zing-zang of other spices. Awesome.

Crawdad ordered kofte, and I got the lamb and beef doner. Both plates came with rice and salad for $8 or $9. Kofte is something like meatballs but, still, the Chunks de la Cooter seemed to prefer my doner.

Clara Chunk, who eats more like me (she goes to town on the meat) kept reaching across the table for more, and I was happy to provide because I personally preferred the meatballs.

While C.C. was in the bathroom with Crawdad. I tried to get K.C.’s impression of the food.

“I like macaroni,” she said.

“Yeah, but we didn’t eat that,” I said. “How did you like what we did eat?”

“I like pasta,” she said

“That’s right, Sweetie,” I said, and I let her off the hook. “I like pasta too.” The restaurant reviewing portion of the brain is not fully developed at 47, let alone two-and-a-half. There will be plenty of time for both of us to have more sophisticated thoughts than these, I’m sure.

Meanwhile, we both leaned back in our side-by-side chairs, except technically hers was a booster seat.

“See the ship?” I said.

“Where?” she said.

On Turkish television, at the seam between the wall mural and the ceiling one, two guys were pointing guns at each other. I thought for sure brains were going to fly, so I tried to keep K.C. focused on ships and sharks and things. Happy 11 everyone. 

TURKISH KITCHEN

Sun.–Thu. 11 a.m.–10 p.m.;

Fri.–Sat. 11 a.m.–11 p.m.

1986 Shattuck, Berk.

(510) 540-9997

MC/V

Beer and wine

Appetite: 2010, the year in absinthe

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Appetite: 2010, the year in absinthe

Read up, absinthe seekers… whether you’re intrigued by the (false) claims of hallucinogenic effects or an aficionado taken in by the culture surrounding the green fairy, a little reading will take you deeper. This year has produced three new absinthe books furthering knowledge of an artful drink best enjoyed with leisure and attention.

Absinthe Cocktails by Kate Simon
This pretty little tome is an elegant black and grey with hints of green. Kate Simon is editor-at-large for the ultimate drink magazine, Imbibe. Her drink knowledge is used to educate on what absinthe is and isn’t in Absinthe Cocktails‘ brief primer section. A handy buying guide recommends fine absinthes made in the US (Viuex Carre, Leopold Bros.) and Switzerland (the incredible Duplais), France (Vieux Pontarlier) and Spain (Obsello). The majority of the book is cocktail recipes, from classics like the absinthe frappe (which I crave on a hot day in New Orleans), to “The New Guard”, a section on modern classics from a number of the world’s best bartenders (including some of our own like The Alembic’s Daniel Hyatt and Brian MacGregor formerly of Jardiniere). Photos are lush, the romantic look making it an ideal coffee table book.

A Taste for Absinthe by R. Winston Guthrie with James F. Thompson
I wrote about this book upon its October release, my top pick of the three and another coffee table looker. With lovely photography by Liza Gershman, it offers a wide range of cocktail recipes, more in-depth history, lore and cultural references. A Taste for Absinthe is also a welcome primer on the green fairy but goes deeper with details on the culture that grew around it: poster art, spoons, glasses, fountains, even film references. The book is broken down into five recipe sections: classics, fruit and citrus, whiskey and gin, liqueurs and bitters, and modern classics compiled from some of our country’s best bartenders, again including many SF locals. This one is a necessary addition to the library of any absinthe geek.

The Little Green Book of Absinthe by Paul Owens and Paul Nathan
Minus photos, The Little Green Book of Absinthe is a simpler, straightforward recipe reference book. In its initial pages lie interesting details on absinthe’s history, including early formulas, louching tips, and background on key brands. But for me the lack comes in the recipes which make up a majority of the book. Their chosen mixologist, Dave Herlong, is from a Vegas hotspot, apparent in the common inclusion of nasty ingredients like Red Bull, Blue Curacao, sweet and sour mix, or Apple Schnapps. These ingredients appeal to the masses and general American sweet tooth, but a drink aficionado or basically anyone who has developed a taste for authentic flavors versus unnaturally processed, will find less to appeal here. A handful of intriguing recipes are present, including bubbly cocktails under “Decadent Concoctions.” There’s worthwhile material in the factual sections of this book but I could not recommend as a recipe reference.

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

Appetite: In Tequila with Fortaleza

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Appetite: In Tequila with Fortaleza

Fortaleza is truly a special tequila. On my recent visit to Tequila, Mexico, this distillery enchanted with its agave covered hillsides and haunting caves. Fortaleza means fortitude, though in Mexico, you’ll find their bottles labeled Los Abuelos in memory of the grandfathers of Guillermo E. Sauza, the fifth generation producer who passionately runs Fortaleza by old world methods. He comes from tequila royalty as a Sauza… yes, that  Sauza (his family sold Sauza back in the ’70’s so don’t attribute the current quality level to them). Despite offers to be bought out by major tequila companies, Guillermo refuses, running his little distillery with a primary focus on quality and historical production. Here are just a few highlights of my visit over Day of the Dead in November.

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS at the distillery
The workers of Fortaleza and their children threw us one unforgettable Day of the Dead party. They exhibited impressive effort in a play performed under the stars of the distillery grounds. Tacos were filled with fresh-grilled chorizo and beef. A woman squeezed dough into a giant vat of bubbling oil, making the best churros I’ve ever tasted. Young men serenaded us with guitars while impromptu dancing erupted. Palomas (tequila and grapefruit soda), Mexican beers, and of course, tequila flowed. The caves glowed with candles, friendly skeletons and the occasional bat. We caroused, celebrated, sang by a campfire, and reveled in the magic of a night that could not have been recreated elsewhere.

VISITING the SAUZA FAMILY GRAVE in GUADALAJARA
In a surreal moment, I took in sunset at the Panteon de Mezquitan cemetery in Guadalajara with Guillermo Sauza. We stood at the grave of his great great grandfather Don Cenobio, the first to export tequila to the US in 1860’s, of his great grandfather, Don Eladio, and grandather, Don Javier, who carried on the tradition. Crumbling graves huddled in a maze of statues and crypts recall European cemeteries. But unlike those hushed sanctuaries, this graveyard swarmed with local families, music streaming from loud speakers, food for sale. We stood over the Sauza grave ablaze with orange flowers and streamers. Guillermo poured us shots of Fortaleza blanco while making a toast to his lineage. Over their graves we respectfully but joyfully partook of the fruit of their talented labor. From a place of death, I walked away having breathed in life, the riches of shared gifts and family.

TEQUILA PRODUCTION at the distillery
Think old world tequila production practices: small copper pot stills, mature agave plants steam-cooked in a brick oven to release natural sweetness, then crushed by a volcanic stone wheel pulled by a man-driven tractor in a circular pit. Mules used to pull that two-ton wheel but now a small tractor takes care of the heavy crushing. Two men still follow behind, sifting through the fibrous mash to achieve the right texture. The pot stills are labor-intensive being the smallest I’ve seen at a distillery of Fortaleza’s output. They double distill, then age in American oak in reused whiskey barrels.

GLASS-BLOWING (of Fortaleza bottles) in TONALA
In Guadalajara’s Tonala district, Fortaleza’s beautiful, hand-blown bottles with agave top are created. Hipolito Gutierrez, a third generation glass-blower, holds the Guinness World record for largest hand-blown bottle and runs this Tonala shop. Watching Fortaleza’s bottles being made is a mesmerizing dance of deft and delicate maneuvers. One misstep would lead to a serious burn as artisans flit between fire and searing hot molds with ease. I attempted to blow a glass myself, finding the greatest amount of breath I could muster was far from sufficient to fill even half a bottle with space. The skill required to blow continuously and fully is akin to the control Satchmo himself needed to play his trumpet.

EXPLORING TEQUILA
For those wanting to explore the riches of Tequila themselves, I met Clayton Szczech of Experience Tequila (www.experiencetequila.com) while in Mexico. Clayton regularly leads tours in the area, filling a rare niche for knowledgeable, passionate expertise on the region without rigid schedules and touristy stops one normally associates with a tour group. He purposely keeps it small, tailoring it towards the needs of each individual group. Clayton has good relationships with the distilleries (certainly with Fortaleza), maintaining a relaxed stance, as if traveling with friends, which, in fact, you just may become.

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

Appetite: Revisit Studio 54 at Burritt Room’s NYE party

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Appetite: Revisit Studio 54 at Burritt Room’s NYE party

There are many, many party options for New Year’s Eve this year, but one of my favorite cocktail spots is hosting an event that seems particularly appealing to those with adventurous taste (and tastebuds) …

It’s Dec 31, 1977. Enter the iconic Studio 54 decked out in your most stylish pantsuit, hair flowing and free. Sip cocktails by a life-sized unicorn sculpture made of ice before heading to the dance floor to strut your best disco moves. Four tons of glitter drop from the ceiling creating a shimmering moment Studio 54 owner Ian Shrager later called “standing on stardust.” Movie set or imaginary party? Not this New Year’s Eve. Hosted by the fabulous Bon Vivants, S.O.S. 2011 takes place in the seductive Burritt Room with the magic re-created, sans four tons of glitter (the unicorn will be there, however).

If you’ve ever been to a Bon Vivants party, you know they are classy, exuberant, unforgettable events (recall my recap of the Cocktail Carnival Gala they hosted at this year’s SF Cocktail Week). Wear your best disco-chic and come for a respite from overcrowded, obnoxious NYE parties elsewhere (a value I truly appreciate at Vivants events).

Dance the new year in 1970’s-style to the disco sounds of DJ Bus Station John (trust us, it wont be the same tunes you’ve heard a million times), savor four of Josh Harris and Scott Baird’s signature cocktails, all-night bites from Trick Dog chef Chester Watson, and a midnight champagne toast (all included in ticket price). The event will sell out soon so jump on tickets now. See you there under the disco ball.

December 31, 9pm-2am

$85/ticket, includes 4 signature cocktails, champagne, food
The Burritt Room at the Crescent Hotel
417 Stockton Street
*Discount packages offered for ticket & hotel room combinations: $250 – 2 tickets + standard hotel room; $300 – 2 tickets + hotel suite

Tickets available at www.brownpapertickets.com/event/139468

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

Campannina

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Campannina

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE It does fall to me occasionally to check up on our town’s tonier heterosexuals, who can be found cavorting in their infamous and restaurant-dotted playland beyond the magic mountains of Pacific Heights. (As for the homos: I have a pretty clear picture of that splendid circus.) Now that the rich, aided by their loyal apparatchiks in Congress, have secured another round of tax relief for themselves the question naturally arises regarding how they will spend their fresh loot, which we the taxpayers are so wisely borrowing from our BFFs, the Chinese.

Judging by the evidence on display at Capannina, a wonderful Italian restaurant on Union Street, they’re spending it prudently — even wisely! — although the sample size is small. It’s small because the restaurant itself is on the small side: a mid-block storefront beautifully done up with pistachio-colored walls, banquettes upholstered in a timelessly elegant fabric of gold and claret stripes, a tall bar of burnished wood at the rear of the dining room, and, hanging over that bar, a contrivance of wrought iron that resembles a bit of belle epoque signage from a Paris Métro station, or the undercarriage of a bistro table that somehow found itself hanging upside down from the ceiling, like a bat.

Capannina’s look reminds us that restaurant design, like clothing fashion, is a little like calculating a reëntry angle for a space capsule: too steep an angle and the craft burns up, too shallow and it bounces off into space for eternity. The window, the sweet spot, is actually rather tight and involves some clever blend of old and new, unexpected and familiar, soothing and stimulating. Capannina has worked these tensions into a nice balance; the design does enough to attract your attention briefly without making intrusive demands. It is handsome without becoming narcissistic — no small feat in a culture like ours — and in this important respect it looks and feels just as a restaurant should. When it fills up, though, it does get loud to the point of making conversation difficult.

Several of Capannina’s blood relations, including Café Tiramisu and Brindisi are to be found on Belden Lane, whose European atmospherics and restaurant population density keep the standards pretty sharp. Capannina is an outlier or outpost, but it seems to enjoy an indirect benefit from its siblings’ competitions; the kitchen’s Italian cooking is, like the design of the restaurant itself, a tight weave of tradition and controlled innovation.

One little flourish I particularly like in Italian cooking is a nuzzle of chili heat. The gamberi picante con polenta ($14), or spicy prawns, did indeed leave a naughty tingle on our lips, soothed by the balm of basil aioli. Even better was the polenta, which appeared as a small, crisp, well-formed cake, hardly larger than the shrimp themselves, instead of the more usual engulfing blob.

Nothing says early winter around here quite like crab, and Capannina’s kitchen turns out estimable crab cakes, or polpettina di granchio ($14). These were served in threes, with tomato-basil aioli, and were quite small (“mini,” in menu-speak). The downsizing might have contributed to their sublime, almost fritter-like crispness. I love big, fat crab cakes, at least when I start eating them, but crab is rich, and what is wonderful for the first few bites isn’t necessarily as wonderful by the last one.

We found the carpaccio di manzo ($13) to be a corrective, with its purifying, slightly astringent presences of fresh arugula leaves and mustard dill sauce, along with a generous sprinkling of cracked black peppercorns on the tissue of beef. Parmesan cheese, well-represented here in leaf-like shavings, can go either way, like the fabled independent voter, or many a man in this zero-gravity city. In this dish it flexed both of its biceps, one rich, the other pungent.

To my mind there is no better chicken preparation in the world than al mattone, or under a brick, and Capannina’s version ($19 for a half-bird) couldn’t be improved on: crisp, golden skin all over, juicy flesh cooked through to the bone, and not much bone. The leaking juice helped animate the chard and crisp potato dice arranged along the side of the plate.

And about the cannoli ($8): exceptional, in a word. These were finger-sized pastry flutes, boldly fried, oozing mascarpone laced with candied fruit — a kind of creamed panettone — and served with an espresso sauce for dipping. Caution, though; they were rich beyond any tax-cutter’s wildest fantasies.

CAPANNINA

Dinner: Sun.–Thurs., 5–10 p.m.;

Fri.–Sat., 5–10:30 p.m.

1809 Union, SF

(415) 409-8001

www.capanninasf.com

Beer and wine

AE/DC/DS/MC/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

Grids and gridiron

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Grids and gridiron

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Coach and me went to Benders many nights in a row. "Benders," she likes to say. "It’s what’s for dinner." But I don’t know. I love their burgers and tots. And their pulled pork, come to think of it, rebounded me nicely from that dollop of whatever-the-crap-that-was at Bonnie’s last week. But my sense of adventure begins to feel compromised after more than one night in a row at the same place.

Nevertheless, neither one of us has a TV. And we thought we should watch us some football. I swear our intention was to go to poetry readings, too. But we tended not to want to leave the bar.

It’s weird, liking football again, this time from a softer, less angular angle. For me, the football part of my friendship with Coach is the perfect blend of strategy (possible color-combinations, baggy vs. tight uniforms), surreality (keep reading), and camaraderie. It reminds me of watching the Niners with Wayway back in the day, only Coach and I seldom look at the TV and the plays we draw up on our napkins look a lot more like fruit trees in the end.

Moreover, I’m pretty sure Wayway never said (although he may well have been thinking it) during Monday Night Football: "This would be a lot more interesting if they were lesbians."

"They will be, Coach," I reminded her. "For now, just imagine."

The Ravens were playing the Texans.

We talked about relationships. We talked about depression. We talked about the holidays, and who I will meet and where we will be and who will like me. And always eventually it came back to the little TV at the other end of the bar.

"I like when the little guys dart around," she said. "They’re like shortstops, and second base."

"That’s the spirit," I said. "Now we’re talking."

Coach has a little notebook that she writes her football information in. There is a column of names. Most of our friends already know that they are playing football come spring. One or two even know how. I do! That’s why I get to be Coach’s coaching staff, confidant, and — if I don’t blow it — on-field captain. We already know who our quarterback will be and have a pretty good idea of the blockers. Less certain is who will play weasel, and the ever-important position Coach calls the "far runners." Myself, I am proud to be penciled in, according to her little notebook, at shortstop.

Which looks to me a little like the position formerly known as tight end. But when I mentioned this to Coach she got the giggles. "Tight end!" she said. "That’s perfect!"

I should stop writing about us. We are going to take this league by storm. And it might be better if no one sees us gathering on the horizon, like dark, sexy, undertalented and overburgered but height-weight proportionate clouds.

I’m just too excited to leave it alone!

OK, focus. My secret agent lady Sal and me didn’t want to sit in her rental car at the beach and watch surfer boys change clothes in her rear view mirror on an empty stomach, so we stopped off first for Korean.

Every Saturday a group of three or four food trucks circle the wagons down at McCoppin and Valencia around lunch time, and then some. I tried to go there once before with Mr. Wong when we were on our kimchi burrito kick, but Seoul on Wheels musta had a flat tire that week.

This time it was there! That’s the good news. The bad news is that its Korean burritos, which it calls korritos, are premade and have sour cream, which is a big mistake. An even bigger mistake: way too much rice and way not enough meat, or kimchi, or therefore flavor.

Weak. Weak. Weak.

On the other hand, I had a bulgogi taco and it had no rice at all. Small small small. But … delicious!

There’s also a Filipino truck there, which is pretty good, and I forget which taco truck — taco tacos, I mean. Next time I’ll try those.

SEOUL ON WHEELS @ OFF THE GRID

Sat. 11:30 a.m.–3 p.m.

McCoppin and Valencia, SF

(415) 336-0387

Cash only

No alcohol

Appetite: Last minute foodie gifts

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Appetite: Last minute foodie gifts

I’ve shared with you come of my recommended gifts for foodies and for cocktailians, but for those still searching for presents that appeal to the palate, here are some more.

SAM ADAMS INFINIUM:  There are many who would be more jazzed to toast in the new year with a fine beer rather than champagne. What if there was a drink that combined the best elements of both? Venerable Sam Adams comes out with a special holiday brew every year, but this year’s is unique. Infinium ($19.99) released this month as a two-year collaboration between Sam Adams brewer/founder Jim Koch and Dr. Josef Schrädler of Weihenstephan Brewery in Germany. It’s the first new German beer style created under the Reinheitsgebot in over a hundred years (sometimes called the German Beer Purity Law, limiting the production of beer to four ingredients – water, barely, hops, yeast). While this beer sticks to Reinheitsgebot standards, it pushes boundaries with an acidic, bubbly profile. It’s dry and tart like a champagne, malty, rich as a beer, bracing at 10.3% alcohol by volume. You can find it at many local specialty beer stores.

PURE DARK CHOCOLATE POP-UP SHOP: In the true spirit of last minute gifts, Pure Dark, a popular new New York artisan chocolate line, heads West for the first time with a pop-up shop opening December 22nd at 1775 Union Street (at the corner of Octavia). With plans to remain open until at least March 2011, they’ll sell their chocolates (slabs, bark, rounds), chocolate-dipped fruits and nuts, cocoa nibs for cooking, and holiday gift sets, including samplers. Their product has a global/roots feel, whether in gift packaging of burlap sacks or hand-woven African baskets, or in three cacao “levels”: Striking (level 1 – 60% cacao), Serious (level 2 – 70%), Stunning (level three – 80%). Opt for plain dark or go for chocolate laced with the likes of caramelized nibs, mango, cherries, macadamia nuts. This is chocolate for the hardcore: earthy, intense, robust in flavor, rustically modern in it’s rugged slabs.

HAPPY GIRL KITCHEN: Central Coast-based Happy Girl Kitchen is one of those special, family-run companies both current and vintage in their approach to canning and preserving foods from their farm. Simple packaging appeals but the real joy is the quality and taste of products from owners Todd and Jordan Champagne. A jar of Happy Girl ($5-10) is a fine representation of the boundless wealth of California produce for family or friends further afield. Happy Girl’s pickles please the pickle-obsessed. But venture beyond with spicy carrots or pickled beets, lush jams, crushed heirloom tomatoes, and seasonal offerings like preserved Bing cherries. There’s convenient samplers ($37-$43) to give a range. Find Happy Girl at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market or order online.

ZAGAT’S SMARTBOX: TABLE FOR TWO: I’ve been a Zagat member for years. Though some bemoan their lists not being the most up-to-date, paid memberships weed out some of the yahoos you get posting “reviews” on free-for-all sites (plus I like to feverishly mark up their books with my own notes). Recently landed on my desk? Zagat Smartbox, which operates as choose-your-own-dining experience or a $99 gift card in a box. A booklet details 39 eligible Bay Area restaurants and what each offers with the card: all include at least three courses for two people, some offer four or add on drinks. For one who dines out as much as I do, I’d prefer more restaurants and no menu limitations (some have them, some do not). But for the indecisive, or to give your recipient a range of options, Smartbox narrows down and even highlights under-the-radar gems locals would do well to visit, like Saha, Albona Ristorante, Matterhorn, or Lolo. There’s also Bay Area restaurants such as the winning Central Market in Petaluma, or Camino and Mezze in Oakland. P.S. There’s a Smartbox for NY, LA, Chicago and DC.

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

Appetite: Holiday spirits

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Appetite: Holiday spirits

culture@sfbg.com

Nothing warms on cold and rainy winter nights like a good bottle of liquor — better yet, one given by (and possibly shared with) a good friend. Allow me to recommend some of my top quality favorites, including a few cocktail mixers, many of which can be found at K&L, the Jug Shop, D&M, John Walker & Company, Cask, and other local stores and suppliers.

 

FOR THE HIP COCKTAILIAN:

 

GRAHAM’S 10-YEAR TAWNY PORT ($30)

A port is really just fortified (spirits-enhanced) wine: sometimes sweet, sometimes dry, ideal for after-dinner sipping. For those who might tire of another bottle of wine, this gift travels a slightly different path. Graham’s 10-year Tawny Port is one of the more common ports but packs plenty of flavor for the price, making it a fine intro for the uninitiated. It carries floral, sweet currant, and spiced apple notes, with a whisper of creamy chocolate.

 

BITTER TRUTH TRAVEL PACK ($20)

For the cocktailian on-the-go, what could be better than a retro travel box of five of the best bitters in existence from German wonder duo, Stephan Berg and Alexander Hauck? The Bitter Truth travel box (www.the-bitter-truth.com) includes three mini-bottles of the gents’ Creole, Orange, Chocolate, Old Time Aromatic, and award-winning Celery Bitters. It’s an affordable, quirky gift that (bonus) showcases your savvy and panache.

 

SMALL HAND FOODS SYRUPS ($10–$12 EACH)

From local bartender Jennifer Colliau, this line of artisan syrups for cocktails eliminates resorting to crappy, generic grenadine — Colliau’s grenadine remains the best I’ve tasted — or attempting your own gum syrup. Small Hand products (www.smallhandfoods.com) are made with organic cane sugar, gum arabic, and fruits. There’s regular, pineapple, or raspberry gum syrups, for everything from pisco punch to tiki drinks, and an orgeat (almond syrup most commonly known as a Mai Tai ingredient) made with California almonds.

 

BOLS GENEVER DUTCH COURAGE GIFT SET ($38.99)

Go Dutch by giving the gift of Bols Genever, genever being the original Dutch gin. A bottle normally retails for the price of an entire Dutch Courage set, which includes a bottle and two tulip glasses for the traditional Dutch ritual of kopstootje (pronounced kop-stow-che). Translated as “little head butt,” it’s essentially a glass of beer, traditionally a lager, mixed with a shot of genever. Proost!

 

FOR THE DRINK AFICIONADO:

 

PARKER’S HERITAGE WHEATED BOURBON ($80)

I adore legendary distiller Parker Beam, whose Parker’s Heritage Collection remains a thrilling pinnacle of what bourbon can be. Though many will never forget his profound Golden Anniversary bourbon, this year’s release is truly unique. Instead of the corn-dominant notes of typical bourbon, this 10-year aged, cask-strength edition combines winter wheat and corn, bottled at 63.9 percent straight from the barrel. Open it up with a splash of water or sip neat. Either way, whiskey fans will marvel at bracing, rich layers of caramel, maple, and, yes, wheat … but also at the incredible smoothness for a spirit of this proof.

 

CRAFT DISTILLERS’ LOW GAP WHISKEY ($45) AND LOS NAHUALES MEZCALERO ($65)

You won’t go wrong giving any Craft spirits (www.craftdistillers.com) to an aficionado. If she isn’t already a fan of this incredible Ukiah distillery, she’ll fall in love with Craft’s brilliant brandies and grappas or exquisite bottlings like Crispin’s Rose Liqueur. Consider newer releases such as Low Gap Craft-Method Whiskey made with malted Bavarian hard wheat. Where many white whiskeys are harsh and bracing, at 90 proof, it’s intense yet balanced. Or try the recently acquired Los Nahuales Mezcalero (mezcal fans will know it as the former Los Danzantes). As with all Craft products, small production and artisanal techniques are behind this smoky-but-clean, Oaxacan-grown mezcal.

 

LAPHROAIG 18-YEAR SINGLE MALT ($99)

For the peat monsters among you … or rather, for those who don’t fancy the standard Laphroaig 10-year, which, like many in the line, hits hard with that peat. Extra aging has mellowed this Islay single malt to a robust but roundly balanced pour. Alongside peat smoke, enter honey, vanilla, hay, anise, and toffee nuttiness, minus the medicinal properties some tell me they get on the nose in other Laphroaig expressions. This one changes the game, and, in my opinion, best exemplifies Laphroaig’s possibilities.

 

TASTING ROOM SAMPLER KITS ($19.99–$29.99)

New to the market is a sampling experience a California wine fan can enjoy from home: Tasting Room (www.tastingroom.com). Discover new favorites or taste a winery line side by side (all samples are also available as full-sized bottles). Choose from six-pack sets of 50 ml bottles in groupings by winery, region, or type (for example, California cabs). Nicely packaged in a slim black box with winemaker’s tasting notes, consider it a home wine tasting for the cost of tasting at the winery itself.

Passion Cafe

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Passion Cafe

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Although I deplored Julie & Julia — a dreadful bit of movie pap, except for the scene where Julie discovers that Julia hates her bloody blog; priceless! — I was mesmerized by the al fresco dinner cooked and served by the unsinkable Julie on a Brooklyn rooftop. There is a magic like no other in floating motionless above the nighttime city, with a soundtrack of soft conversation, gently clicking tableware, and the odd horn honking on the street below.

The street below the rooftop dining patio at Passion Café — opened not quite a year ago by Steve Barton and Jacques Andre — is Sixth Street, between Market and Mission, and it has more than its share of honking horns, along with speeding traffic, trash spread like autumn leaves in sidewalk tree wells, and a Dante-esque population of the shattered and lost. Sitting under an umbrella at a long picnic table 50 feet above all this on a rooftop patio framed by trellised vines and with a tall potted ficus at the end of the next table, is slightly surreal (though pleasant). If there is indeed a stairway to heaven, as Led Zeppelin once suggested, it might well begin here.

Passion Café will never be confused with the Fifth Floor, a few blocks away. Fifth Floor is higher up, totally enclosed, and all but lacking a ground-level presence. Passion Café, on the other hand, has its feet solidly planted on terra firma: there’s a large ground-level dining area, complete with exposed brick and oil paintings (for sale), just inside the door. But the draw of the place is definitely the roof, which you attain by climbing two flights of wide wooden stairs that creak. At the landing between the flights is a small tea table set for two — the perfect spot for a civilized break up, or maybe (for the less civilized) a discreet shove.

The food carries mostly French nomenclature and takes a variety of familiar French forms — the menu offers a variety of tartines, along with plates of charcuterie and paté — but the execution is strongly Californian. Many of the plates come heaped with mixed green salads, and white rice is served on a scale I have never remotely seen in France.

The ratatouille ($14), for instance, included a berm of rice that looked like something left behind by a Tonka-truck snowplow working its way through a blizzard. The vegetable stew itself, meanwhile, wasn’t a stew at all but more of what appeared to be a stir-fry of long, rather tough eggplant strips, lengths of red bell pepper, zucchini chunks, and tomato, but not enough tomato. It was as though the kitchen had thoughts of transforming a peasant’s dish, a way of using up the end-of-summer surplus from a vegetable garden, into a gourmand’s delight, as in the movie Ratatouille, but lost its nerve after a few hesitant steps. I would have liked a bit more thyme and garlic, too, but the dish was still flavorful.

Napoleons are typically confections of layered pastry one finds on the dessert cart, but Passion’s version ($14.50) was savory and made with pasta — lasagna, basically, with ground beef, baked in an oblong crock. Beside it rose a low mountain of mixed greens dotted with olives and croutons and dressed with a cumin-inflected vinaigrette.

Cumin, an easterly breeze, reminds us of the French connection in the Middle East and so it wasn’t completely surprising to find yet another hint of it in Passion’s paté ($5). The spice added a note of exotic excitement, but the paté itself (mounted on yet more salad) fell short of an ideal creaminess; despite the thinness of the slice, its texture was almost leathery. It was like a bit of old shoe sole that had fallen away into a clump of wet grass.

Views were mixed on the tomato-mozzarella salad ($5). You might wonder how anything could possibly go wrong with such a straightforward preparation — slices of ripe red tomato alternating with slices of cheese, and perhaps a drizzling of balsamic vinegar over the top — and the answer would be the bits of arugula the kitchen scattered about. Arugula has a nuttiness with a slightly bitter edge, and here the bitterness seemed to assert itself to the dismay of the table, though once we figured out what the little green flecks were, I came to admire their feistiness.

Desserts weren’t served with mountains of rice or salad (yay) or even dribblings of berries (boo). Chocolate mousse cake ($5) was fluffy and light as laundry taken fresh from the dryer, though on the sweet side, while a Granny Smith apple crisp ($5) could have used more apple character. Maybe they should look up one of Julia’s old recipes.

PASSION CAFÉ

Tues.–Thurs., 11 a.m.–9 p.m.; Fri., 11 a.m.–10:30 p.m.;

Sat., 9 a.m.–10:30 p.m.; Sun., 9 a.m.–9 p.m.

28 Sixth St., SF

(415) 437-9730

www.passioncafe.net

Beer and wine

AE/DS/MC/V

Pleasant noise

Wheelchair access to ground floor

UM alert!

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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1
UM alert!

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS While we waited for our tacos, I crammed pickled jalapeños, carrots, and onions into a cup to take to the bar with us. Coach was riffling through the pile of rolled up complimentary calendars on the shelf above, muttering, “Hot babes hot babes hot babes.”

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Do you need a calendar?”

I thought: new year new year new year. “Yes,” I said. More than ever, I needed a calendar. You only get one picture with this kind; that’s why they’re free. I didn’t care about the pic. It was the new number I wanted, 2011, and all those clean, square, tear-away one-through-31s.

“Well,” Coach said, “do you want a hot babe, or the Virgin Mary?”

The ease with which I made my decision surprised me. I mean, 365 days is a lot of days to look at a picture. Albeit I intend to do other things as well, next year. “Virgin Mary,” I said.

And that was that. Well, when I got home four hours later, not so much drunk as oniony, and unrolled my Taqueria Virgin on the kitchen table, I was surprised to find that the Mother of God looked mighty fine in her own right. She wasn’t by any stretch a hot babe, like many of the angels surrounding and adoring her. But she seemed a little bored, bemused, and all-in-all like someone I might like to kiss.

Whether this makes me Catholic or a lesbian I don’t know, but anyway this ends the first part of the story.

The second part takes place next afternoon. I had four hours to kill between gigs, and thought I would spend at least most of that time contemplating barbecue. There’s this new one in Alameda, see, not so awfully far from where Boink and Popeye live.

It was the meat of the afternoon, and I wasn’t particularly hungry except that I’m always pretty hungry. So instead of erring on the side of lunch, I erred on the side of dinner. Check it out: $13-fucking-75 for pulled pork, comes with two sides and cornbread. I figured I would probably end up taking half of it home, making two meals out of it, or — dare I dream — three.

I had a book. It’s a pretty comfortable place, not crowded at all, midafternoon on a weekday, two TVs showing sports talk and highlights. Sweet tea refills. I took off my coat and scarf and made myself comfortable.

The sweet tea came. It was barely sweet at all.

Then the food. “I hope you’re hungry!” the waitressperson said on her way to my table. She said this with a knowing smile, which I took at first to be in my best interest.

“Oh, I’m hungry all right,” I said. “I might need a takeout container,” I added, for the sake of realism, “but I’m hungry.”

“Good,” she said, proudly sliding my plate before me.

For a moment I just stared. My brain went fuzzy, and then I wanted to cry. “Um,” I managed to sort of say. Then, when I found my vocabulary again, “What is this on my pork?”

First of all, it was the smallest portion of pork I have ever seen. Most place have sandwiches with twice as much meat on them as this dinner did. More urgently, however … what little meat there was snowcapped in an entirely creepy, pinkish creamy thing.

Now I’ve given a lot of benefits of a lot of doubts to a lot of restaurants in my day, but, as you may know, there is one thing I can neither tolerate nor forgive, and that is um … well, it’s UM: Unannounced Mayonnaise. You learn to ask, with sandwiches, salads, and even sushi. But … barbecue?

Sure enough, that’s what it was, a mixture of barbecue sauce and (gag, puke, spit) mayo, thus the pink. Oh, they remade my plate for me, but it came back with even less pork than before. The greens were okay, the fried okra was good, and their barbecue sauces were great, but the cornbread muffin was inedibly dry from either overcooking or staleness, or both.

I couldn’t fathom, let alone eat, the cornbread, but otherwise cleaned my plate. Counting tea and tip, it was a $20 snack. At my new least-favorite restaurant. *

BONNIE’S SOUTHERN STYLE BBQ

Mon.–Thu. 11 a.m.–9 p.m.; Fri. 11 a.m.–10 p.m.;

Sat. 9 a.m.–10 p.m.; Sun. 9 a.m.–9 p.m.

1513 Park., Alameda

(510) 523-7227

MC,V

No alcohol

Appetite: Blue Ribbon classics

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Appetite: Blue Ribbon classics

Two of the nicest chefs you’ll ever meet, Bruce and Eric Bromberg (brothers), spread the warmth of their NY Blue Ribbon Restaurants globally. I have happy memories of late nights at the original Blue Ribbon Sushi on Sullivan Street long before Blue Ribbon grew to multiple restaurants around NYC. As I write, they are on their way to Las Vegas to open their first restaurant outside NY. They are also touring the world to launch their Blue Ribbon Classics menu at Renaissance Hotel bars… a brief menu of some of the most popular plates and cocktails from their NY restaurants. In SF, the menu just launched at the Stanford Court on Nob Hill, a recently remodeled, chic lobby bar with a youthful hipness (not your typical Nob Hill).

None of this sounds particularly down-to-earth, I’ll admit. During a media dinner last week, I went in expecting a tasting and brief “meet and greet” with the chefs. I took stairs down to the now-defunct but historic Fournou’s Ovens, an intimate space with the famous stoves lining one wall where whole ducks were roasted daily. The Bromberg bros happily recall their dad bringing them here as kids. There was a long table glowing with candles and fruits, as if at a friend’s intimate dinner. The Bromberg’s oldest brother was present, as was their dad, cousins, and childhood friend (they grew in New Jersey, so we have that in common). As media, we spent an engaging couple hours with the chefs themselves.

The titular ovens from now-closed Fournou’s Ovens

As for the menu, it is glorified bar food, including white bean hummus toasts ($10) drizzled with lemon oil, and their famed fried chicken in the form of wings ($12) with their own Mexican honey. I do have three words I want you to utter when at the Stanford Court bar: pork chip nachos ($6). These are not nachos but tender chicharrones. Yes, it’s a pile of pork rinds, soaked ever so subtly, giving the usual crisp a melting factor, tossed with queso fresco, red onion, cilantro and jalapeno. Addictive. Sip a bright Michelada ($10) using Napa Smith pilsner, fresh lime, hot sauce, garnished with a red and green chile, and you have yourself a happy hour indeed.

Pick up the Bromberg Brother’s recent cookbook to create their elevated comfort food recipes yourself, like their popular spicy egg shooters (also on the menu at the Stanford Court), baked blintz souffle with brown sugar bananas, or “really good brisket”. As the brothers spoke of their mission when founding the first restaurant many years ago, the Blue Ribbon name came from a desire to treat each person, whether a diner or staff, as ‘first place’: important, welcome, cared for. With some restaurateurs, this could come across disingenuous, and not entirely realistic. As I experienced the way we were treated that night by the Bromberg family, I can see they have not only built their success on this philosophy but that they mean every word.

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

Miss SaiGon

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Miss SaiGon

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE There really is a Miss Saigon inside of Miss SaiGon, but she seems to be made of plastic, if — to quote Groucho Marx — I’m any judge of horseflesh. With her motionless good cheer, the big doll looks like salvage from some airline’s marketing campaign, circa 1968. Next to her stands a kind of aqueous sculpture, with sheets of water rippling down a long glass panel.

Such kitschy drama, and we’re barely inside this Vietnamese restaurant (not to be confused with the musical of the same name). The semi-cavernous dining room — weirdly reminiscent of a dance floor in some mid-list gay bar — is screened from the street by a barricade of translucent draperies that hang from floor to ceiling with lacey, lingerie-like suggestiveness. It feels like an after-hours, members-only sale at a Victoria’s Secret warehouse.

Yet behind the bar, the wall is painted a nervy lime green — a hue that will be powerfully reminiscent (to the restaurant-minded) of Mangosteen. Mangosteen is part of the new wave of Vietnamese and Southeast Asian restaurants that have opened along Larkin Street, on the north side of Market, in recent years, while Miss SaiGon stands just steps away from old-guarder Tu Lan, which Julia Child is said to have admired. One evening, on my way to Miss Saigon, I peeked inside Tu Lan and wondered how Child even fit inside, let alone enjoyed herself, and whether the oft-told tale of her admiration might be apocryphal.

Miss SaiGon, slightly more two years old, belongs to the post-Child era, but I would guess the old doyenne would find the newer place eminently acceptable. The interior is attractive without being overbearing, the social tone is comfortable, with lots of younger people among the clientele (laptops glowing on tabletops in front of them — but aren’t laptops quaint now?), and the extensive menu is mostly excellent.

If brevity is the soul of wit as well as menu-writing, then a vast menu like Miss SaiGon’s, with so many items that they have to be numbered (including No. 4, kimchee, a ringer from Korea), is generally best approached with caution. The more dishes a kitchen has to master, the more likely it is the chefs’ attention will be diluted or that ingredients for the less-loved dishes will sit around too long — that something will go awry, in other words.

But the execution at Miss SaiGon is sharp and assured, the flavors properly balanced and amplified, like rich sound. The only exception, to my mind, was an unlikely one: slices of pork stir-fried with lemon sauce and vegetables ($9.50). The vegetables were ordinary — celery and carrots, mainly — and the lemon sauce was MIA. Instead, the dish was dominated by an unannounced walk-on: pineapple, in chunks. Pineapple is fine in piña coladas and as a supplement to lubricious activity, but as an accompaniment to pork here it was too sweet, too overwhelming, and too obvious.

Neither too sweet nor too obvious was the papaya salad ($6.50), which resembled a nest of glass shards and was fortified with shrimp and ground pork. Ground peanuts added texture, leaves of fresh mint brought their bewitching breath, and — best of all — the salad was dressed with some version of nuoc mam, the salty-tangy-sweet blend of fish sauce and vinegar that is one of Vietnamese cuisine’s signature condiments.

The prospect of cold noodles — sesame ($3.95) — on a cold night caused some consternation around the table, but there turned out to be something sufficiently warming, or at least sustaining, in the fatness of the noodles to muffle the disquiet. Sesame can have a sharpness that verges on the unpleasant, but the potentially harsh edge was blunted by the plush saltiness of fish sauce.

Even better were garlic noodles ($8.95), stir-fried with bits of boneless chicken, basil, and lemongrass — a lovely little symphony of melody and harmony, and hot to boot. Bun cha gio ($7.50) — a huge bowl filled with vermicelli noodles, egg rolls, and lettuce, with a side of nuoc mam sauce laced with carrot threads and crushed peanut — was a duet of hot (the egg rolls) and cold (everything else). And that was just fine. When it’s chilly out, you don’t quibble about whatever form warmth chooses to take, even if it’s the eternal smile on the face of a life-sized plastic doll, waving hello and goodbye to all and sundry.

MISS SAIGON

Mon.–Sat., 11 a.m.–9:30 p.m.

100 Sixth St., SF

(415) 522-0332

www.misssaigonsf.com

Beer and wine

MC/V

Somewhat noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

Is your food fair?

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Is your food fair?

caitlin@sfbg.com

FAIR FOOD We’ve all worked in a restaurant, haven’t we? I know I have — many — and gosh if they aren’t tricky little employment situations. Overtime, what? Breaks, really? And health care — well who the hell gets health care at a restaurant?

But this being San Francisco, restaurant workers are entitled to all these things courtesy of our hard-won labor laws. Which of course doesn’t mean that workers get them all the time, but that they should. And the bars and eateries that provide these benies — along with job safety, respect, and other luxuries — should be the ones that get the business of the conscientious diner.

Until recently the identity of these decent restaurants was only obtainable by sneaking back into the kitchen to chat. But the advocacy group Young Workers United (www.youngworkersunited.org) is changing that. Its guide to SF restaurants, Dining With Justice, is now in its second year of publication, teaching those who want to know where they can get a nice meal served by someone who is happy and secure in their job.

“It’s kind of a counter to Zagat and Yelp,” YWU organizer Edwin Escobar tells me. Escobar just got done talking about his group’s campaign to a room full of City College of San Francisco students at the school’s “Turn the Tables” teach-in last week. The event was sponsored by CCSF’s labor and community studies program and featured presentations from community groups and SF’s Office of Labor Standards Enforcement.

To research the guide, YWU members interviewed 250 employees at 32 restaurants. The 58-question survey ranked businesses in five fields: compliance with wage and working hours laws, job mobility, job satisfaction, health and safety, and job security. Only nine businesses received stars in three or more the categories; none received five out of five.

“People think, oh, it’s San Francisco, all the workers get treated well. But that’s not the case. Restaurants and retail businesses get away with murder,” Escobar says. His organization provides labor law education and advocacy for low-wage workers around the city in an attempt to stem workplace violations.

Recently, YWU shed some light on some of the troubles faced by workers in a struggle with one of the city’s most beloved type of snack stop: the taqueria. The group helped the Latino staff of the Taqueria Azteca chain (which has locations in the Castro and Noe Valley) recoup more than $2 million in back pay from owners who had cheated them of overtime compensation and even minimal control over their schedules. Escobar says one mother involved in the legal proceedings had been given a choice by management: return to work one week after giving birth or lose her job.

“The workers who get cheated the most in San Francisco are Asian immigrants,” says Shaw San Liu, another speaker at “Turn the Tables.” Liu is a lead organizer with the Chinese Progressive Association (www.cpasf.org), which since 1970 has worked to empower the Chinatown community to deal head on with social inequities. Earlier this year, the association released a report on the state of employment in Chinatown restaurants based on one-on-one interviews with 435 workers. The results were disheartening: 50 percent had worked under-minimum wage jobs; 80 percent had been cheated out of overtime; 64 percent had received no on-the-job training; a majority had been injured on the job; and more than half were paying all medical costs out of pocket.

That’s just not cool in a town that nominally protects workers against all these things by law. Liu says CPA would like to publish a guide similar to Dining With Justice to reward responsible restaurants but has run into cultural stumbling blocks. Law-abiding businesses didn’t want to be singled out as such because, owners said, it would make their neighbors look bad. “Everyone knows minimum wage in Chinatown is $1,000 a month,” says Liu. “They didn’t want to be known as the goody two-shoes.”

There are clear challenges to improving the lot of the person serving you your brunch, burritos, and dim sum. But everyone has a part to play in making it happen. “At this point, we’re just asking consumers to be aware,” Liu says.

Efforts like Dining With Justice are a real step in the right direction. YWU plans to expand its scope next year into other city neighborhoods. “Surely there are more than just nine restaurants treating their workers right in this city. We want to know about them,” YWU organizer Tiffany Crain tells the room of students assembled before her. Crain added that if anyone in attendance works for a good employer, they should call her — just as they should call her if they are getting cheated out of wages or a healthy working environment.

“You want to make money?” Liu asked SF restaurant owners. “You’re going to make money if people think you’re a good employer.” In San Francisco, diners like to think they’re eating sustainably: organic, local, and fair to workers. Also, a chef who is happy in his or her job makes for a better dining experience.

Here are restaurants that scored four stars in Dining With Justice.

Arizmendi Bakery

1331 Ninth Ave.; (415) 566-3117, www.arizmendibakery.com

Arlequin

384 Hayes; (415) 626-1211

The Corner

2199 Mission; (415) 875-9258, www.thecornersf.com

Frjtz

590 Valencia; (415) 863-8272 and 581 Hayes; (415) 864-7654, www.frjtzfries.com

Mission Pie

2901 Mission; (415) 282-1500, www.missionpie.com

Poesia

4072 18th St.; (415) 252-9325, www.poesiasf.com

Zazie

941 Cole; (415) 564-5332, www.zaziesf.com

Ducking the cold

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Ducking the cold

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS I know I’m not the only one. December rubs a lot of people the wrong way. This year, to combat my usual seasonal depression, I am moving to Norway. Oh, I’m sure I’ll be back to the Bay Area to visit, now and agin, but just in case I’m underestimating the inherent cheerfulness of Oslo and wind up coming back to live, I will of course continue to write Cheap Eats from abroad, no worries.

Then when I have finished unlocking the secrets of Norwegian cuisine, in general, and of Oslo’s burgeoning restaurant scene, in particular, I will write letters to Earl Butter again, or Cheap-Eats-length poems about how happy I am, whaling, playing Scrabble on the beach, eating lutefisk until the wee hours, and running with the moose, or whatever it is that people in Norway do for happiness.

I’m kidding of course. I would never in a million years go whaling! Didn’t you ever read Moby Dick? I did! There’s a guy in it named Queemquack, or something like that, and in the end they all get eaten to death by a whale.

Oy, my poor father, a Melville scholar, would be rolling over in his grave right now if he were 1) still reading my column and 2) dead, but he is neither, that I know of. Why, I just talked to him on the phone a little bit ago and he didn’t mention anything at all about Cheap Eats or having died.

Man, I love my dad! Happy birthday to him. When I was eight, I helped him write his dissertation. No lie, he had underlined all the participial phrases in Melville’s major works, and it was my job to tally them up — my first quantitative analysis of a major literary figure, give or take Dr. Seuss.

It’s uncanny. First I became a writer like my dad, then I became a musician like my dad, and don’t look now but I believe a couple paragraphs ago I may have established myself as a Melville scholar in my own right. Anyway, I read Moby Dick twice. Twice! (Technically I read it once as a literate adult, and leafed through it the other time, as a literary scholar who also pretty much knew how to count.)

From my mother I inherited my athleticism (which is no less dear to me than all-of-the above) and my peculiar knack for migrating north in winter and living in the woods, literally and figuratively.

You have to have good, strong legs, like mine and mom’s, to run with moose, don’t you know. And you have to be at least a little bit crazy, as I understand it, to eat lutefisk. Especially when you can just stay here and have burritos.

Or, actually, I’m kind of stuck on duck noodle soup now. Again. It being cold season. And I was house- and dog-sitting for Crawdad for a while in Berkeley, where there are a lot more duck soups to be had than here in the Mission. Not to mention Oslo.

All kidding aside, although I did briefly consider going home for the holidays this year, I’ve decided to weather them here where my turntable is. I don’t have any records anymore, but I do have my kitten, Stoplight. And if I turn my turntable on, with Stoplight on top of it, the result is more entertaining than Merle Haggard or anything.

It should be enough to get me through the darkest time of year.

But I wonder if old Merle ever had duck noodle soup with three scoops of hot sauce in it, or hung around with lesbians. For the former, my current recommendation is Your Place on University Avenue.

It’s on the lunch menu, for like $7, but probably they’ll give it to you any time of day. And it’s a big bowl, with rice noodles, no-bone roast duck, celery, green onions, cilantro, and maybe even a few spinach leaves.

Very very very good. Nice place, friendly service.

Then you can always go to last week’s new favorite restaurant, Lao Thai, for a bowl of sweet duck soup for dessert. In this very way, I will hop, skip, and waddle my way to March, and warmth, and happiness, and hopefully I hope a li’l love.

If we make it through December …

YOUR PLACE THAI CUISINE

Daily 11:30 a.m.–10 p.m.

1267–71 University, Berk.

(510) 548-9781

MC,V

Beer and wine

 

Appetite: Hungry for Change

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Appetite: Hungry for Change

“Change the world with everything you buy”. This is the tag line behind the inspiring Trade as One, a Northern California-based organization that promotes sustainable businesses in poor, marginalized communities. Whether you look at it as a way of giving during the holidays or as a new year’s resolution, it’s an ideal time to try a new program that could be habit-forming.

Trade as One recently launched a monthly subscription called Hungry for Change. Delivered to your door every month is a box including 4-5 foods, a recipe, and additional surprise items. The month I tried the box, it included Canaan sun-dried Palestinian couscous, Glorybee comapi honey, Canaan Palestinian za’atar herbs, and Kopali dark chocolate-covered espresso beans. The additional “surprise” gifts? A Divine chocolate candy bar, a greeting card featuring an artistic photo of a fair trade farmer, and a handy little book, The Better World Shopping Guide. The book is full of incredibly helpful lists and company ratings for best and worst offenders in purchasing everyday items from hair care to paper, alongside supermarket or airline choices.

A subscription is $33 a month or $99 for three months. Add on Coffee Club – http://tradeasone.com/get_involved/hungry_for_change/details (choose regular or decaf) and 1-3 bags of fair trade coffee are included with your monthly shipment. A card detailing the story behind one of the producers in the package brings it home, making it personal. Trade as One’s holistic approach urges changing buying habits. As they say on the back of their greeting cards, we can “fix problems instead of perpetuate them” by using our consumer power to positively affect change. I can think of few better food gifts to a friend, yourself and the world.

www.tradeasone.com

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

Appetite: Delicious giving

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Appetite: Delicious giving

FOR THE WINO Secrets of the Sommeliers by Rajat Parr and Jordan Mackay — Secrets of the Sommeliers, a new book from local SF treasures (sommelier extraordinaire Rajat Parr and drink writer Jordan Mackay is the best wine book to come across my desk in awhile. Stories from a range of the world’s best somms and winemakers stand alongside insights on tasting, purchasing, storing, pairing, ordering and serving wine. Sections “Thinking Like A Sommelier” and “The Wine List” deliver a true insider’s perspective and expertise. This intelligent, understated book is a must for any wine lover, budding or educated.

FOR THE TIKI FANATIC Beachbum Berry Remixed by Jeff Berry — Whether a retro tiki fanatic or one who prefers drinks reminiscent of an island getaway, this book from modern-day master of tropical cocktails, Jeff Berry (aka Beachbum Berry), satiates. Colorful vintage photos and graphics illumine mid-century history and tiki culture. I’ve tried out a number of the recipes on friends, some from top bartenders, many classic, never-before-published or “lost” exotic drink recipes. I have not run across one yet that is less than crowd-pleasing. Remixed combines Berry’s first two books, Grog Log and Intoxica!, adding 107 recipes for one comprehensive collection.

FOR THE CONSCIENTIOUS COOK Miss Dahl’s Voluptuous Delights: Recipes for Every Season, Mood, and Appetite by Sophie Dahl — A cookbook by a famous model is among the last places I’d look to as a cooking inspiration (I’m skeptical enough of ultra-skinny cooks like Giada). But Dahl is no typical model, having written three books and as a self-professed, avid eater. She’s the daughter of brilliant writer Roald Dahl and actress Patricia Neal. Her oft-discussed weight, modeling at real world sizes (like 10), convinces me she understands “voluptuous”. Her recipes may not be the most challenging on the shelf, rather they are approachable as the book’s layout is charming. Dahl she does not eat red meat: there’s plenty here for a vegetarian. Whether you’re making brown rice risotto with pumpkin or something as simple as flapjacks, Dahl’s personable approach draws you in while her seasonal recipes comfort.

FOR THE DRINK AFICIONADO Boozehound: On the Trail of the Rare, the Obscure, and the Overrated in Spirits by Jason Wilson — Though Boozehound by Washington Post’s spirits columnist Jason Wilson contains over 50 drink recipes, it is more a study on a range of spirits, history mixed with personal experience. His journeys to distilleries around the globe play as engaging travelogue, with breakthrough moments sipping an unusual liqueur or uncovering hype around others. It’s like reading a food memoir but with drink as the backdrop and instigator. The chapter “Bitter is Bella” made me miss Italy’s fabulously bitter palate; I began craving aquavit and bacalao reading Water of Life. His stories of researching tequila in Jalisco, Mexico, or chatting with Borje Karlsson (Karlsson’s Gold Vodka) rekindle my own memories. He explores sips as far-ranging as bianco vermouth, sloe gin, Barolo Chinato and pisco. There is education here, certainly, but via a pleasurable, relaxing read. Like a fine drink, at its finish, I found myself thirsty for more.

FOR THE COCKTAILIAN Speakeasy: The Employees Only Guide to Classic Cocktails Re-Imagined by Jason Kosmas & Dushan Zaric – An elegant book from bartenders behind Employees Only (http://www.employeesonlynyc.com/) in NYC’s West Village, this book lists a range of recipes from classics (e.g. the Martinez) to new drinks that play like classics, such as the Provencal. We have seen compendiums of classic recipes before, but this one ups the game with thoughtful directions and NY flair. Four sections cover categories like aperitifs, punches, cordials and homemade syrups. Inspired by Prohibition-era speakeasies, these two were doing “speakeasy” long before it became a trend. As they state in the section Mastering the Perfect Cocktail: “Every Cocktail Has A Story.” Speakeasy helps you tell stories through the preparation of a drink.

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

Appetite: Coffee’s new shining star? It’s Ma’velous

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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1
Appetite: Coffee’s new shining star? It’s Ma’velous

Cheesy puns aside, Ma’velous is truly that. Kudos to Phillip Ma and his new coffee and wine bar, which I’d be ecstatic to have in my own neighborhood. This coffee haven on Market Street (near Civic Center) is worth heading out of your way for. No, there is nothing else like it, even in a city of fabulous coffee.

The space is blessedly unique with graffiti artwork, pressed tin ceilings, retro-modern reclaimed furniture, textured floors, nooks with chairs, a couch, tables. The setting inspires but the coffee elevates.

Bean choices included beloveds like Intelligentsia and Ecco but also rare Tim Wendelboe from Norway. Wendelboe’s coffee is huge in Norway and this is the about the only place to get it in the States.

The preparation options are where it gets truly exciting for any coffee geek or the curious. You might want a Kyoto iced coffee or to have it prepared via siphon, V60, Beehouse pour over, French press, or Chemex. Then there’s their custom-made La Marzocco espresso machine. The staff is well-trained to create coffee in all forms.

A favorite already is an exquisite espresso made with Tim Wendelboe beans. I’m delighted by a “palette tasting bar” where you can sample coffees prepared three ways or three different brews. Their hot chocolate, made with local TCHO chocolate, is initially airily dark, becoming more rich and silky as you near the bottom of the cup.

Ma’velous is a shining new star in the coffee firmament, thankfully doing it differently than other greats in town. I love it so much I want to be a regular.

Ma’velous
1408 Market, SF
www.maveloussf.com

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

Pica Pica Maize Kitchen

Andrew Lam
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0
Pica Pica Maize Kitchen

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Corn is the theme at Pica Pica, a “maize kitchen,” to drive the point home. Corn is perhaps the greatest of the Americas’ food offerings to the rest of the world, with the potato, tomato, and cocoa bean not too far off the pace. And it’s full of ancient subtlety, a point too easily obscured by the mountainous heaps of American monoculture that helped make the movie King Corn so visually arresting. Corn is to the Americas’ more southerly peoples what wine grapes are to the French.

Pica Pica isn’t that grandiose, of course. It recently moved into a space at the corner of 15th and Valencia streets that, through years of restaurant iterations, reminded me of nothing so much as those sheds ice fishermen huddle in. It is narrow and it is modest. But the lighting has been freshened and clarified, the tabletops are made of a handsome composite, and the interior signage, which explains the menu’s various terms, is bright with primary colors.

That menu is basically Venezuelan, which makes Pica Pica a successor of sorts to Yunza, a lovely little place that had a too-short run over on Fillmore Street about five years ago. (And let’s not forget Mr. Pollo, on Mission, though the name makes me think of Mister Ed, TV’s talking horse.) One difference is that Yunza offered full table service, whereas at Pica Pica you order at the counter and post a number at your table so they can find you when the food is ready.

Another, more important but less obvious, difference is that Pica Pica’s cooking is (apologies in advance for this tiresome cliché) ingredient-driven, even beyond the dexterous use of maize. And I don’t mean “ingredient-driven” merely in the sense of going to the farmers market and fussing about seasonality but of using the wide panoply of possibilities available to kitchens from mighty to modest in this blessed part of the world, and of being aware not merely of flavor but of color and texture too.

A nice example of the kitchen’s attentiveness to the full spectrum of sensual appeal is the bululú salad ($3.99), a jumble of roasted corn kernels, julienne red bell peppers, chunks of jicama and pineapple, quinoa, and daikon sprouts, with a syrupy passion-fruit vinaigrette on the side. The vinaigrette was a bit sweet, but the salad as a whole, in addition to looking like a slightly loopy still-life painting with abstract tendencies, offered more snap, crackle, and pop than even the most antic breakfast cereal.

The chupe soup ($3.99/small) was no match for the visual splendor of the salad — it looked like many another chunky chicken soup — but the chunks, which included chicken shreds, a segment of corn cob, and white rice, were weighty enough to give the soup a low center of gravity.

At the heart of the menu are the corn flatbreads: arepas ($7.99, puffy, savory, made with white corn); cachapas ($8.99, flatter and more crepe-like, yellower, noticeably sweet); and the maize’wiches ($7.99), which combine elements of the first two. These breads can be fitted out as you please, from a broad range of fillings that range from meatless to meaty, with scrambled eggs in between.

Some random tasting notes: la vegetariana, a compendium of tofu slats, avocado slices, plantains, and black beans, was difficult to eat because of the toughness of the tofu. Catira, shreds of chicken sautéed in a sofrito then put to bed under a blanket of melted cheddar cheese, was tasty, but not tasty enough to overcome the sweet interference of encircling cachapa. (There is a reason high-fructose corn syrup comes from corn. You could make a nice crèpe suzette from a cachapa.) Pulled pork, on the other hand, or pernil, was about as good as it gets — and made that much better by the little tub of aioli served on the side. The spicy sauce served with la vegetariana (we guessed some version of chipotle or other hot-chile aioli) was better yet, and a pretty peach color on top of it all.

Like the three tenors, Pica Pica’s three corn flatbreads share obvious similarities and have distinctive virtues, but if I could only choose one, I would choose the arepa, which seemed to me the best balanced and most disciplined of the three: redolent of corn but not cloying, thick and firm enough to hold its contents without becoming competitive. None of the three, though, are finger or ballpark foods, suitable to eat by hand; they’re all too big and unwieldy, and you’ll need a knife and fork so as not to disgrace yourself. Don’t ask how I know.

PICA PICA MAIZE KITCHEN

Daily: 11 a.m.–10 p.m.

401 Valencia, SF

(415) 400-5453

www.picapicakitchen.com

Beer and wine

AE/MC/V

Not too noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

Olden Days

Andrew Lam
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0
Olden Days

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS There are however hazards of hanging out with people young enough to be your sister’s best friend’s daughter. I’m not talking about going roller skating in my underwear, riding on the handlebars of a bike in a skirt and heels at night, or even eating at a vegan soul food restaurant in Oakland.

No, my most harrowing moment since falling in with my new adopted family came two nights ago, on a sturdy and all-around stationary bar stool at my friendly neighborhood sports bar, the Phoenix. Where I am generally comfortable and at home, if not drunk.

In this case, Coach was there with her just-graduated-from-sex-school cohorts, and she and one of the “trainers” were talking about a particular practice called sounding, which made me want to either die or order wings and watch football.

I chose the latter. And then, when the wings came, because this is the kind of gal I am, I went around with the plate and offered some to all the vegetarians. We’re supposed to live in the moment, right, so you never know … is my thinking.

Well, here comes the harrowing part, and it has nothing to do with vegetarians or urethras. One of Coach’s friends started talking about some guy she’s sleeping with who won’t put out. And everyone’s like: Wow. Whoa. Imagine that. Dude don’t want sex.

I said, “How old is he?” I don’t know why I said this, I guess because I’ve appreciated older men myself.

“Old,” my friend’s friend said.

“How old?”

“Really old,” she said.

Ostensibly I wanted to get to the bottom of this no-sex situation, because I care, but it’s not like I didn’t know I was, in the process, setting myself up for something truly disastrous. “How old,” I said, “is really old?”

Now it was Coach’s turn to watch TV.

“Really really old,” the young woman said. Then I knew she was going to say the age of really really old, and held my breath. “Forty-eight,” she said.

I exhaled. Forty-eight is older than me. Yay, I would not have to kill myself! I have, in fact, six more months of youthful happy living left before I am really really old, according to her.

Kids can be so careless. I love them, but San Francisco is a tiny town, and I have been steeping in it since this ‘un was seven. Of course I knew her old man! I didn’t realize it at the time, but later figured it out: I have known him since she was 12. Not biblically. We’ve crossed paths. But I considered him a catch in the 1990s, and the last time I saw him, just a month or so ago, I thought the same thing: catch. Then again, he’s a lot younger and way cooler than most of the really really really older men I have dated — one of whom was old enough to be my first cousin’s maid-of-honor’s father.

I got sick. It started that night, and the next morning, yesterday, it had me — by the throat. Usually when I get sick, I simply try to pretend I’m not sick until it’s no longer necessary to pretend, which sometimes takes weeks. This time, however, I decided to act sick, in part because I was house sitting a house with very comfortable beds in it. I saw this once in a movie: You start by calling in sick, then go back to bed.

While I was in bed, I didn’t masturbate. I’m old. I read a book until I fell asleep, and then I woke up and read some more until I slept some more, then I got up and started making chicken soup, which came out great.

The book I read was called The Old Man Who Read Love Stories. I loved it, and I’m sure the soup is even better today, but the truth is that I feel pretty much better too. It worked! Who knew? You can get back in bed and get better quicker than if you go about your business, playing soccer in the rain and so forth.

Not for its dry oven-barbecued ribs, collard greens and cornbread, but for its strangely sweet duck soup.

LAO THAI SOUL FOOD KITCHEN

Lunch: Mon.–Fri. 11 a.m.–3 p.m.;

Dinner: daily 5–9:30 p.m.

1406 Solano, Albany

(510) 559-3276

MC,V

Beer and wine

 

Bodies and bacon

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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3
Bodies and bacon

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS My new friends are young and queer and, most important, bikers, so I get to hang out at Benders where the burgers have whiskey and bits of bacon in them. Many of my new friends are vegetarian, which saves me from the awkwardness of having big fat crushes on them. My crushes are small and skinny and eat veggie burgers.

We’re starting a team in the girls football league. Remember, I wrote about them a few years back? I used to go to games on Sundays, and it was inspiring and scary. So scary that I tried to get on a team, but they never called me.

I can’t wait to play that team! It will be a made-for-TV movie made in heaven.

Probably, because I grew up in Ohio, I will have to start out at one of the so-called “skill positions,” such as running back or wide receiver, where I will bide my time making diving one-hand catches and long, slash-and-burn touchdown runs (yawn). But once I have earned everyone’s respect with my off-the-field poetry and appreciation for opera, maybe then they will move me to the offensive line.

Which is, as anyone who has ever played electric football knows, the most important position on the field.

Our coach, whom we call Coach, is such a consummate athlete that she doesn’t need to eat meat or rice. Fueled by air and eagerness, and maybe sometimes whiskey, she routinely wins bike races! And if anyone else enters, she comes in third. She lives in the Mission and owns at least three bikes that I know of, yet dates a motor vehicle. Coach jokes about never leaving the neighborhood, which is bullshit because I met her in a pond in Sonoma County. Interestingly, we were skinny dipping.

Or, I don’t know, maybe that’s not interesting.

How about if I described all my new friends’ bodies in full detail? This way everyone in the world will want to go skinny-dipping with me from now on! I’m kidding, of course. Respectfulness may not be my strong suit, let alone my swimsuit, but there are some lines I know better than to cross.

I’ll only describe Coach’s body — because our friendship I think can handle it, and anyway she’ll be on a three-week bike ride by the time this comes out, somewhere between here and San Luis Obispo, far far from newsstands.

How she does this shit — without fettuccini, I mean — I will never know. But the other day I ate Chinese food with Coach and Fiver, and I swear that all the rice on the table, and all but maybe one or two of the noodles wound up in me. The meat goes without saying.

The restaurant was Mission Chinese Food, which everyone has been singing about since I moved back to the neighborhood. It’s the restaurant inside the restaurant (Lung Shan) on Mission at 18th Street. You can believe what people are singing. It’s pretty special, despite its name.

I mean, where else can you get “thrice-cooked bacon” or “tingly lamb noodle soup”? And the bacon can be vegan, and still damn good, and the soup comes in a “numbing lamb broth.”

Which … they mean it. It’s a Szechwan spice, or herb, that literally numbs your mouth, and it was in the pickled beans and pickled pickles too. I don’t like that. I loved the flavor of everything I ate, even the fake bacon, but I’m sorry, I just don’t understand the point of numbness, except with respect to dentistry.

Folks, I want to feel what I eat. The not-at-all-fake lamb belly in the sizzling cumin lamb, for example, was a heavenly blend of crispy, tender, salty, peppery, game-flavored meat outside with an interior layer of soft, buttery, clouds of juicy joy.

Now I know what you’re thinking: No! There is no way that she’s that sexy.

I’m just saying. My job is to review restaurants. Your job, if you drive a car in California, is to go slow, watch the road, and see bicycles. Thanks for reading.

MISSION CHINESE FOOD

Mon.–Sat.: 11 a.m.–10:30 p.m.;

Sun.: noon–10 p.m.

(inside Lung Shan Restaurant);

2234 Mission, SF

(415) 826-2800

MC,V

Beer and wine

Ragazza

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0
Ragazza

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Ragazza is the younger sorella of Sharon Ardiana’s Gialina in Glen Park and, as is so often the case with siblings, the two restaurants do and do not resemble each other. Much of the differences are traceable to the respective neighborhoods. Glen Park (where we find Gialina) has in recent years become an annex of city’s baby belt, whose big, shiny buckle is just over the hill in Noe Valley. Kids like pizza, and Gialina has fine pizza, along with a selection of pastas, a roast or two, and a selection of contorni. Eating at Gialina is a little like waiting to check in for a flight on Southwest Airlines: the environment is lively, lighthearted, and swarming with small children. (Shouldn’t shrieking children be flown on their own airline, perhaps Screaming Babies Airways, with a big screaming baby head painted on the tail of every plane. But if they want to eat at Gialina, okay.)

Ragazza, by contrast, brings haute pizza culture to a vortex of the Haights (lower and upper) and NoPa that so far shows few signs of turning into kiddieland. The restaurant opened recently in a space that’s worn quite a few masks over the past decade; 10 years ago, it was a bistro called Metro Café, then became a fine Nepalese restaurant called Metro Kathmandu, reverted briefly to Metro Café, and now this.

There is nothing distinctive about the mid-block, storefront setting. The glowing red paint scheme of the Kathmandu era has been dialed back to milder earth tones. Otherwise, the look of the restaurant is little different. (In this aesthetic continuity, too, Ragazza differs from its older sibling, whose neglected space was heavily made over before its opening in early 2007.)

Ragazza’s menu is somewhat less pizza-pie-centric than Gialina’s. The new place offers a number of antipasti choices and small plates, along with several roasted items. (Gialina offers one antipasto and one roast.) You could make do very nicely here without having a pizza at all. But the bulk of the clientele seems to understand Ragazza to be a pizzeria at heart, and so the pies emerge from the kitchen in a steady stream, with at least one seeming to turn up on virtually every table. It’s like watching a quarterback spread the ball around to eight different receivers.

Although Ragazza doesn’t offer Gialina’s fabled chili-bomb pizza, the aptly named atomica, it does have a spicy pie of its own, the moto, fired with Calabrian chilis. (These have an aromatic fume all their own and haven’t really been given their due.) The amatriciana pizza ($16), festooned with a sunny-side-up egg, also offered a noticeable nasal kick. And even the pies that aren’t armed with chili heat tend to be bracingly fragrant — a potato version ($15), for instance, topped with red onion and gorgonzola cheese and liberally laced with thyme. No hint of starch overload here, despite the potentially smothering presence of the spud.

Herbal perfumes, along with chili heat, are a recurrent theme. We were particularly aware of the oregano breath wafting from a crock of corona beans ($6) simmered with oven-roasted tomatoes. Oregano is the quintessential pizza smell, but I’d never come across corona beans before and, from their pale chubbiness, would have guessed them to be cannellini or flageolet. They’d been cooked just right and still offered nominal tooth resistance before yielding an interior creaminess.

Purely creamy, on the other hand, was the soft polenta ($9). Polenta can be bland, and it is sometimes enlivened by sautéed mushrooms and gorgonzola — and given Ragazza’s obvious gusto for big flavors, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find those players here. Instead the boost came from a medallion of tomato mascarpone cream, freighted with basil and set atop the polenta like a rosette.

The real test of any restaurant’s food is whether it can hold your attention even if, say, Mark Zuckerberg is sitting at the next table, making moony eyes with a comely ragazza. Was that really Mark Zuckerberg at the next table, an actual person as opposed to the character in the movie The Social Network and the subject of far too much quacking in the key of same from The New York Times’ waddling line of op-ed ducks? We weren’t sure. Zuckerberg is said to live in the wilds of the Peninsula, sleeping on a mattress on the floor of some faceless apartment, just as Jerry Brown did during his first go-round as governor. Yet there he was — maybe — in Ragazza, having come for the girl and stayed for the (pizza) pie. He didn’t friend us, alas, alack. *

 

RAGAZZA

Dinner: Sun.–Thurs., 5–10 p.m.;

Fri.–Sat., 5–10:30 p.m.

311 Divisadero, SF

(415) 255-1133

www.ragazzasf.com

Beer and wine

AE/MC/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accesssible

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