Cheap Eats

Nailed it

Andrew Lam
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le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Hedgehog got me this Groupon for a fancy pantsy mani-pedi at a place in San Mateo puts flower petals and orange slices in your feet water! It’s hard for me to hold a grudge, however, because at the time-of-purchase we were living in New Orleans. For all she knew, San Mateo was a suburb of San Fran, like the Sunset or the Richmond.

Nope. You have to drive.

So I was driving back, all relaxed and pretty and shit, and there was Candlestick … and it was very nearly (at the time) football season … and the only thing I don’t like about getting my nails done is the way you smell for the rest of that day. I mean, I am, at heart, a chicken farmer. Lookswise, I can handle being beautiful, but it’s my nature to smell like hay. Not mimosas.

It takes about 30 minutes to drive from San Mateo to the Mission.

Around about Candlestick, I’m saying, enough became enough. Deciding finally to change the smell of my fingernails, I swerved off the freeway in search of barbecue. In search, specifically, of Franks, where I had eaten once recently on account of another goddamn groupon, this one courtesy of Earl Butter. Who, to his credit, did apologize for eating all the brisket off our three-way-combo before Hedgehog and me ever even knew what hit us.

Turns out the brisket is Frank’s best meat! It’s tender, smoky, and doused in a really good, hot (if you ask for it) basic barbecue sauce, I now know. I got it to go, and they gave me a fork.

But I used my fingers….

CHEAP SPORTS

by Hedgehog

Sunday’s baseball was Mission vs. Mission at Balboa. In my copious notes I dubbed the home team the Good Guys and the away team the Better Guys. Chicken Farmer and our friend Long Tall Phil were playing for the Better Guys, hence that side’s upgrade.

Unfortunately, I don’t know many of the other players’ names and resorted to nicknaming them mostly based on what they were wearing, who they reminded me of, and the few scattered facts I remembered about them from previous games. For example, there was Big Blue, Hairdo, Walnut Creek, Old Timey, Lost Horizons, and In’N’Out. After a while, my play-by-play reads more like I’m calling a horse race.

Anyway, I don’t know how many folks are interested in rec league games, but I think more are probably into Fantasy Baseball. Then again, I don’t know which side of the fence the readership of Cheap Eats falls into demographically so I’ll cover both bases with one bird and say that in my opinion, Fantasy Baseball should allow for at least one Rec League player per team. My reasoning is as follows:

1) Rec Leaguers steal a ton of bases. I am in a Stolen Bases race in my Fantasy League right now and if I had In’N’Out or Gray Shirt Tony, or even Chicken Farmer herself, I wouldn’t need to put all this imaginary pressure on Michael Bourn to do what I’m pretend-paying him for.

2) Rec Leaguers are almost all multi-positional and thus, very useful when setting your lineup. I mean someone who plays left field, short, third, second, catcher and pitcher? And steals three bases in one game?! I mean come on…

3) Major league starting pitchers don’t hold a candle to Rec League pitchers. Unless you count speed, accuracy, or variety of pitches. But the Good Guys starter pitched a complete game! And the Better Guys pitcher went seven innings. Colorado Rockies: take note.

Better Guys, 4. Good Guys, 7.

After the game we went to my new favorite barbecue, which isn’t Franks, but only because you can’t walk to it from our house. You can walk to Southpaw. What my beloved and bristly sportswriter couldn’t have known from the press box was that the whole game in the dugout we were talking about barbecue.

The box score for the Mission’s new smoke house reads: weak, weak ‘cue. At least the ribs and brisket. Go for the sides, which are awesome. Pulled pork with beans and (get this) bechemel over warm potato chips, brussels sprouts with bacon, and my favorite: smoked goat served with fry bread. For that, I will be back.

SOUTHPAW BBQ

Mon, Wed-Fri 5-11:30pm; Sat 3-11:30pm; Sun 11:30am-11:30pm

2170 Mission, SF

(415) 934-9300

AE,D,MC,V

Full bar

Koi hooey

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le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Coach’s dad said it was the best Chinese restaurant in the world. The world being a pretty big place, and one which includes all of China, we went. Him, her, me, Hedgehog, Indiana Jake, and a Random Texan.

Daly City. Koi Palace. Pffft.

I’d retract that last little almost involuntary and entirely uncomplex sentence in deference to Mr. Coach, him being a respected figure among us, but come to find (over appetizers) that he didn’t say it was the best Chinese restaurant in the world; some guy did.

Some guy in an interview on NPR, turns out. He had eaten at 5,000 Chinese Restaurants (which is a lot, by even my standards) and Koi Palace in Daly City was his favorite.

OK. If that guy wants to take me there and order what he ordered, I’ll go back. But I happen to consider myself the High Halushki of Hyperbole, and I’m here to tell you that, no matter what Coach’s dad told Coach he heard some guy tell some interviewer, Koi Palace isn’t even the best Chinese restaurant in Daly Goddamn City, let alone the Bay Area, let alone the big fat world.

Why, it’s not even cheap! The kind of portions and quality you pay $8-10 for at the best Chinese restaurants in my world, you can expect to pay $16-18 for at Koi Palace.

And that, in a nutcase, is why I don’t listen to the radio.

Come to think of it, though, the pork and oysters clay pot…

(continued later this page, after sports section)

CHEAP SPORTS

by Hedgehog

Next week I’ll have an actual pickup baseball game to write up. This week, though, I attended my first ever flag football practice. While it’s true that I already broke my arm at a flag football game, I had never actually practiced before. Which evens out since the practice I attended this week was for a team I don’t play on. I don’t play flag football anymore. Or ever. Since I broke my arm just thinking about playing once. Did I mention my arm is broke? Well it is.

Turns out, once you have a broken arm, there isn’t much you can do at a flag football practice. In the beginning, I tried kicking a soccer ball around, and the team initially joined me but finally got wise to my distractions and pulled out the pigskin.

So then I snapped the ball to Stringbean while the rest of the team ran passing routes. And then the Chicken Farmer and I played defense while the offense ran plays. Every play, one of us would blitz Stringbean and the other would drop into pass coverage. But whichever job I had, I kept putting my broken hand up to block the ball, so I decided it was safer to pull that arm into my shirt and run one-armed.

But when I blitzed Stringbean like that she just stopped and laughed and said I was the most “unintimidating” thing she’d ever seen.

She’ll rue the day.

(continued from before the sports section)

…was pretty good. And the seafood noodles, I thought, were great. But the country vegetables and the eggplant dishes were boring, the pork cheeks were at least as weak, and the spicy chicken wasn’t spicy. At all.

But mostly how I can tell when I really don’t like a restaurant is I wake up in the middle of the night that night, not feeling sick so much as cheated. Or maybe disturbed would be a better way to put it.

I have nightmares.

My mouth gets awful.

I mean no disrespect to Coach’s dad, who I kind of idolize because his whole family pretty much breathes football — with the possible exception of Coach herself, who is in it for the babes — but I’ve been so thrown by Koi Palace that I might need to go find some dollar-fifty steam-table fried rice for lunch. By way of a reset.

KOI PALACE

Lunch: Mon-Fri 11am-2:30pm; Sat 10am-3pm; Sun 9am-3pm; Dinner: Sun-Thu 5-9:30pm; Fri-Sat 5-10pm

365 Gellert Blvd., Daly City

(650) 992-9000

AE,D,MC,V

Full bar

 

Finger waves

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2

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Oh, I have so many sporty things to tell you about! To my surprise I am playing baseball again, football season starts (for girls) on the same day it starts for the 49ers: next weekend! Meanwhile, the Giants and A’s are both very much “in it,” entering September. Steroid busts . . .

Next week I am going to hire a dedicated sports writer for Cheap Eats. Mine will be the very first cheap eats newspaper column with a sports section in it.

This makes sense, trust me, food and sports being intrinsically intertwined. As any old dog will tell you, chasing a ball makes you hungry. And as any old Hedgehog will tell you, watching people chase a ball makes you hungry too.

For hot dogs! For chicken wings! Pizza . . . What does intrinsically mean?

Well, whatever, this week is this special food issue thing, so I thought I would clue you into this great new brick oven pizza place where I ate with my pal Earl Butter one day while Hedgehog was out in the world. She’s been brought in to try and rescue a horrible horror movie, you see.

Popcorn . . .

Yes, in honor of the occasion, I will devote the rest of this column very very exclusively to this new, cool, quiet pizza place. Except, as I am also (as of this moment) going on my own private writer’s strike, you’re going to have to do most of the work.

Here’s how:

Stand in front of a mirror, please, and make a fist with your right hand, except for the pinky. Now, go on ahead and poke that there teacup-tipping pinky of yours into the palm of your other hand.

Got it? Did you do that? Do you feel kind of goofy? Do you know where I’m going with this?

Sorry: where you’re going.

I’m on strike.

You, my friend, are going to punch yourself in the throat, sort of. Not hard. Just touch that same teacup-pinkied fist to your neck, sidewise, so that your thumb and index finger encircle your Adam’s apple even as the side of your little finger touches your soul patch.

Nicely done, you hipster you!

Next we are going to . . . Next you are going to lose the fist and bring the palm of your hand to your heart, you pledge allegiance to the flag, and so forth. Don’t be afraid to love your country. This is important. We don’t have the best healthcare situation in the world, but we do have Bruce Willis.

So bend your left arm at the elbow and hold it to your stomach, palm up, if you will, as if cradling a baby. Or a watermelon or something. Now scoop your right hand, palm up, over your left hand and on up toward the opposite collarbone.

Do you ever wonder what is wrong with you? Well, start! I don’t recommend all-out hypochondria; just a healthy sense of wonder. Why, for example, are you a scab?

Don’t give me the finger! Give me the opposite of the finger. That is, bend your middle finger down and — all those other ones, even the thumb — give me those. Give me everything but the finger. OK?

Now tap that middle knuckle against your chin. That’s all I’m asking. Is that so much to ask?

And there is yet one more thing you can do for me, Ms. Picket Line Crosser. Cross your fingers for luck. Lord knows we can use it. There are elections coming up later this fall, as well as football seasons.

There are everyday dangers to be avoided, like crossing the street and riding your bike to work.

I’m saying, cross your fingers on your right hand and draw yourself a little Fu Manchu mustache, just the sides of it . . . Yeah, leave the upper lip alone. Just two straight lines, first down the right side of your jaw, then the left, with your fingers crossed. For luck.

Yeah. Like that. Okay.

Now. You know what you need to know.

MOZZERIA

Tue-Thu 5:30-10pm; Fri 5:30-11pm; Sat noon-11pm; Sun noon-10pm

3228 16th St., SF

www.mozzeria.com

AE,D,MC,V

Beer & wine

 

Dishing the dirt

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le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS I didn’t do justice to Curry Boyzz, my new favorite restaurant, in last week’s review; I realize that. I completely and utterly neglected to mention who I ate there with!

Well, Hedgehog.

Moving right along …

Wait, there was someone else at our table, I feel certain. But Hedgehog, who is the half of our family that remembers things, is at work. She is also the half of our family that works.

With headphones on! So I am going to have to figure this out for myself, think think think … It was somebody skinny, I’m thinking, and so probably a vegetarian. Super skinny. With dreadlocks, and wearing a kind of cardboard hat or scarf, or something. With a price tag on it.

Doh! It wasn’t a vegetarian so much as a mop. Our spanking new, microfiber, swivel-headed dust mop that we’d just picked up at Cliff’s Hardware. I remember now: we wedged the handle through a chair back and its green dreadlocked head kind of watched over our meal, kind of hungrily. In fact, while Hedgehog used the bathroom, it spoke to me.

“That Tikka Masala looked pretty good,” it said.

“Yeah, well,” I said.

And in other news, I did a thing I haven’t done since the ’90s: I ate three Mission burritos in a week, and — funny thing — this was the week we were chicken-sitting in Alameda. When we are stationed in the Mission, Hedgehog and me, and our mop, we don’t eat burritos.

But we were going to watch that movie in Dolores Park with some buds, so we went to Cancun first. And we were going to a baseball game in Oakland, but I was in SF for some reason, and stopped at El Toro on my way to BART.

And Papalote, on a different day, but now I’m mad at them. Hardly any meat on my carne asada burrito: for shame, considering its relative expensiveness! And it was rolled all wrong, so that, cross-sectionally, one side of the burrito was just pretty much rice, and the other side had a few fairly tasteless beans and occasional chunks of meat. Pfft.

Lucky for them, they’re still my favorite taqueria, the orange salsa’s so goddamn good. I’ll just never eat there again, is all.

Hedgehog’s idea is to buy jars of Papalote’s overpriced orange salsa to take home and put on Cancun burritos.

So you see? You see why I love that lesbian? Even though she’s gluten free and dairy free, and made me eat at Radish for lunch today just because they had gluten free po-boys.

But at least she eats meat. Unlike some mops that I know.

So it shouldn’t surprise longtime readers of this column that her new favorite restaurant, like mine (after all these years), is Cancun. Specifically, the one on Mission and 19th, where I gained 20-some pounds in my thirties.

But it’s a 20-year tradition of mine not to review Cancun. To dwell on it, but never to actually review it. Therefore, I give you my other new favorite restaurant, Radish, the thing that finally happened across the street from the Lexington Club. Where I don’t drink, ’cause I’m too old.

But on our way to Cancun, we have to walk past one or the other, and lately it’s been Radish, so’s Hedgehog can look at their menu. We tried to eat there on a weekend but the line was too long.

Today (a weekday), I got the fried oyster po-boy, and it reminded me of Papalote’s carne asada burrito in that there were only about four or five oysters in it. And they weren’t very well battered. They just kind of crumbled.

But the bread was good! It was slathered with what they call “Cajun dirt.” I’d hoped that this would be the same thing Cajuns call “dirty rice,” which is chopped up giblets and liver and stuff, but no. It was reminiscent of muffuletta spread, which is more Italian than Cajun: chopped olives, onions, and lemon.

Good. But the best thing about Radish, as far as we could make out, was the homemade root chips: potato, taro, and yuca — yum!

RADISH

Mon-Tue 5-10pm; Wed-Thu 10am-10pm; Fri 10am-11pm; Sat 9am-11pm; Sun 9am-5pm

3465 19th St., SF.

(415) 834-5441

www.radishsf.com

MC,V

Beer & wine

 

Eat these words

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le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS One by one I am finding my old friends and hugging them. Last night at the Giants game, for example, I found El Centro, who — by the time you read this — will have sailed to Alcatraz and swum back to San Francisco. I’m so proud and impressed, and excited because, assuming she doesn’t drown and/or get eaten by sharks on her way home, there’s going to be a barbecue after at her house.

El Centro will be my second friend to have attempted this feat; not the barbecue, the swim.

How cool is that? To swim from Alcatraz to San Francisco — are you kidding me? It’s so cool, I’d need to wear a wet suit just to write one more sentence about it.

My own adventures have been more pedestrian, of late.

Hedgehog and me needed to get a neighborhood sticker for Angelo Joe, our gigantic and hard-to-park Honda Fit cargo van, and this required a long walk down to Market and South Van Ness. Along the way, we held hands and argued about geometry.

Hedgehog thinks that just because she remembers more words (in particular: hypotenuse) than I do, she is always right about math. I argue that, vocabulary-be-damned, the shortest distance between two points is always a straight line and never turning right on 14th St. and then left on Mission. (Except maybe in rare instances like Market St. has a parade or protest on it.)

BTW, I won that argument — as anyone save the staunchest surrealist and possibly airline pilots will plainly see. Even so, we were late for breakfast.

You know me. I can’t stand in line on an empty stomach, so I had asked Hedgehog to find us something good down there to bite into. She did that magic little thing she does with her thumbs and a cell phone and came back with my new favorite restaurant.

Little Griddle, of course. It’s just one block away from MTA, and they have those donut burgers like at Straw, with bacon and everything. Only their donuts are square. The Lucifer, they call it. They also have a giant double-pattied burger (the Evil Knievel), and one called the Hot Mess, featuring pepper jack cheese and jalapenos, and chipotle sauce. Plus cilantro and onions.

Thankfully it was a very breakfasty hour, or I would have been tempted. Instead, it was the Morning Star omelet that caught my eye — in particular the words “maple smoked bacon chicken sausage,” every single one of which is in my vocabulary.

This omelet comes with green pepper, yellow onion, tomato, and substitute spinach for mushrooms if you’re me. (Pssst. You’re not!) All that, plus cheese, and maple smoked bacon chicken sausage. Which is just one thing, mind you. With five words. Working backwards, it’s a kind of sausage, a chicken sausage. With bacon in it. Maple smoked bacon, to be precise.

Now is a very good time to be alive.

I’m serious. When a kind of sausage can have five words in the name of it, and every single one of those words is your all-time favorite word …

Those are the days. These.

I mean, it wasn’t as good as it sounds; but how could it possibly be?

Hedgehog ordered the Bits & Pieces scramble, which is basically the same ingredients minus cheese, scrambled. And you can get salad instead of hash browns so we got one with each and shared. Very good. Good, crispy hash browns. Good, crispy salad.

The coffee was good.

Coach came down on her bike and met us there, for support, and brought me a box of my favorite welcome home maple cream sandwich cookies from Trader Joe’s, and a black Champion skirt to play football in this season. She takes care of her players like that. Speaking of which …

Giants 3, Padres 2 — but I gotta tell you, even though the Giants are in first place and yeah yeah yeah, something even more exciting, baseballwise, is happening in Oakland these days. And it’s still easier to get to the Coliseum. And cheaper. Just saying.

LITTLE GRIDDLE

Sat-Mon: 7:30am-3pm; Tue-Fri: 7:30am-5pm

1400 Market St., SF.

(415) 864-4292

AE,D,MC,V

No alcohol

 

Cheaplicious

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CHEAP EATS I can’t tell you how beside myself I am to be back in San Francisco. I can tell you, but it will sound like it’s coming from over there. It’s not! I’m right here where I belong, typing at you from the warmth of my very own(ish) clawfoot tub in the bowels of my old dungeon-y hovel at 18th and Guerrero.

Upstairs, in the relative sunshine of our other, airier studio apartment, Hedgehog is pacing back and forth and saying to herself: We live in San Francisco. We live in San Francisco. Until finally she can’t take it anymore and shaves off her eyebrows.

You too, dear reader, must be pretty somewhat goddamn happy to hear this. It means instead of me writing about restaurants in Oakland and Berkeley all the time, not to mention points even farther east, I will likely go right back to hardly ever leaving the Mission.

Just last night for example, because neither of our two refrigerators had any food in it yet, we were stuck in one of those where-to-eat thingies, wherein I kept saying: Sichuan Home! And I kept saying: Halu! No, Sichuan Home. No, Halu. And Hedgehog kept sitting on our pretty red couch, looking daggers at me and altogether having eyebrows.

Then she said, “Let’s just go outside and walk around the neighborhood and find something. You haven’t lived here in almost a year. There will be new things.”

“Yeah sure,” I said.

We grabbed our jackets and stepped out into the hallway of our apartment building just as Scotty the House was walking by with a bass. “What?” we all said.

“We’re back!” I said.

He was going upstairs to get Earl Butter to practice for their cute little bandy. But first he wanted to tell us about where he’d just had dinner, and how awesome it was. New place. Small plates. Outside tables. Tacolicious.

Can there be a dumber name for a restaurant?

Please don’t be in the Mission. Please don’t be in the Mission, I repeated to myself.

Scotty the House is a vegetarian.

“Where is it?” Hedgehog asked.

Scotty the House lives in Oakland. “In the Mission!” he said.

It was just around the corner, on Valencia, he said, between 18th and 19th. So OK so that was where we eventually walked to.

We were not the discoverers of Tacolicious. In fact, there was only one table left, and it was outside.

“The heaters are on,” our hostessperson assured us, and we were sold so she led the way.

Outside is a nice little alleyway between buildings, with a big black-and-white mural of the city along one wall. There are words on the mural, too. And the heat was on and the chips were fresh-made and immediate, the salsa spicy and delicious.

Uh-oh. If I’m not careful, I’m going to like this restaurant, I thought.

I wasn’t careful. At $3.95 a pop, 4 for $13, we ordered one of everything, tacowise, give or take the vegetarian one. Give, to be precise. But to make up for it, we tacked on a taco of the week, which was achiote chicken, and a side of drunken beans that promised us both bacon and “pickled things.” Their words, not mine.

Problem being, we couldn’t find anything at all pickled in those beans. It was either an oversight, or a very subtle drunk.

Neverminding that, though, the tacos were, generally speaking, pretty great. Except I don’t much like mole so I let Hedgehog have almost all of that one. And the shot-and-a-beer braised chicken and chorizo-and-potato ones were also not my favorites.

I loved the carnitas, the cochinita pibil and the braised beef short rib tacos. The fried rock cod one was also especially wonderful: one nice-size lump of white fish delicately breaded and bursting with juiciness. Honestly, at first bite I wondered if they had injected the fish with melted butter or something. It was heavenly.

Oh yeah: bistec adobado, with big chunks of actually rare steak and pickled onions. You have to add a buck, it’s so good. Not cheap. But close enough.

Tacolicious
Daily: 11:30 a.m.-midnight
741 Valencia St., S.F.
(415) 626-1344
AE,D,MC,V
Full bar

 

Batter up

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1

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Hedgehog and me are on the road again. Mount Rushmore, Yellowstone Park, and the Mission lie ahead — by mere days! — and shrinking in the rearview mirror are both our families, several old priced-out-of-SF pals, 10 big states, four or five completely different kinds of barbecue, and many, many baseball games. Including big league ones, a minor league one, a semi-pro one, and a little league all-star game.

The American pastime, you will be happy to know, is alive and well on the other side of the bay. At PNC Park in Pittsburgh, for example, there are Polish Hill dogs, which are hot dogs with pierogi on them.

Earlier today, in a desperate attempt to be healthy, we both ordered grilled tilapia at a little family restaurant in Chenoa, Illinois. Make note, in case you are ever out Chenoa-way: “grilled,” in Chenoese, means breaded and fried.

You know me: I love these kinds of curveballs. But Hedgehog, who is still smoldering from the ears over a grilled pork chop disguised as a fried ham steak that occurred to her in Georgia three years ago, was less amused.

She has antiquated notions about the things she eats. She wants them to be what they are. That’s why I was surprised a couple nights ago in Youngstown, Ohio, my hometown, when she wanted to go to C. Staples barbecue.

The last time we were in Youngstown, a year ago or so, I took Hedgehog to C. Staples so she could experience the barbecue I lost my barbecue virginity to, which (and I warned her) isn’t barbecue so much as fried chicken slathered in a tangy, gritty sauce and served on white bread.

As I recall, she wasn’t amused.

So why did she insist on a do-over this year, on our way to the ballpark (Connecticut Tigers 5, Mahoning Valley Scrappers 4)? And why was C. Staples’ unbarbecued barbecue so freaking delicious this go-round?

I don’t have an answer.

And Youngstown was not the biggest barbecued revelation of our last thousand miles. That would be Pittsburgh, where, before the game, Moonpie and her man took us to Union Pig and Chicken. There, the truly smoked chickens and ribs and ohmigod the pork shoulder rocked my little world harder than it’s been rocked in a long time — by barbecue anyway. The brisket was only so-so, but that’s OK, cow being merely a special guest at Pig and Chicken.

San Francisco Giants 6, Pittsburgh Pirates 5.

We tend to root root root for the home team, so that game was kind of confusing for us. Not so Cleveland, where the Indians spanked the Tampa Bay Devil Rays 7-3. We met Kiz and her man beforehand at Hodge’s — a place fancy enough to bring out amuse bouches and unfancy enough for the amuse bouches to be tater tots. Crème fraiche for dipping.

There were lobster corn dogs with banana ketchup too, but that’s neither here nor there. Well, it’s there.

Here, we have the wonderfully fluorescent and blue collar Vientiane Cafe, on Allendale in East Oakland — which may as well be Des Moines to most City dwellers, I realize. But that’s OK. Go stand in line at San Tung.

We first discovered Vientiane last fall during our desperate search for a replacement for San Tung’s dry fried chicken wings. Angel wings, Vientiane calls them, and they come crispy and piled up on the plate, all second joints — which, as it happens, is both of our favorite joints, mini-drumstick be damned. Speaking for myself, I just like sticking my tongue between those two little bones, and getting the goods.

That joint reminds me of eating crawfish and crabs, and some other things. Vientiane’s dark, sticky sauce, according to Hedgehog, tasted like it belonged on Cracker Jacks.

Berwick 8, Danville 7.

Besides these angelic cracker jack wings, I love the papaya salad, which is almost too spicy and fish saucy, even for me. The menu has probably a hundred Lao, Thai, and Vietnamese dishes, and I hope to eventually try all of them. New favorite restaurant!

VIENTIANE CAFE

Daily 11am-9pm

3801 Allendale Ave., Oakl.

(510) 535-2218

AE,D,MC,V

No alcohol

 

Mega Millions

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0

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS I still have some Berkeley wonders to tell you about. In fact, I’ve been saving the best for last: fried chicken and donuts at Rainbow Donut, which is my new favorite restaurant — and just down San Pablo from there, my new favorite restaurant: Smoke Berkeley.

Smoke Berkeley, or Berkeley Smoke as I call it for fun, is wedged between a car wash and a piano store. The advantage to which is that one can play a little Brahms while waiting for the line to die down, and, on the other hand, if you eat outside, you might get somewhat misted.

Most times, I know, being sprayed by a car wash during lunch will not seem like an advantage, especially in the Bay Area; but I’ve spent the last couple days driving through a southern-style heatwave and, believe me, I have missed being misted by car washes, even over barbecue.

Especially over barbecue.

So, yes, in Mississippi, Tennessee, and even Virginia, I did: I missed Berkeley Smoke. Strange as that may sound.

The restaurant doesn’t open until noon, and we got there at ten till, the li’l chunks de la Cooter going absolutely batty with excitement and hunger. And they weren’t the only ones.

The place has a following. It’s only about half a year old, but people are onto it. Crawdad and the chunks held down an outdoor table while I stood peering through the door at the menu, committing our order to memory. A line formed behind me. When it finally opened, I was at the front of that line, my nose pressed into the iron-grated screen door, very much enjoying the smell of the place.

Unfortunately, the door that was opened, upon opening, was not the one that I had applied myself to. Fortunately, Mr. Crawdad de la Cooter was waiting first-in-line at the right door. (I had wondered where he’d gotten to.)

Anyway: pulled pork and beef brisket. Normally there are ribs, but the ribs weren’t ready yet. We got pulled pork sliders for the kids. Those were actually pretty good.

The brisket plate was not — surprisingly, given the chef’s Texas connection. Maybe an off day. Maybe the wrong part of Texas. But the meat was dry. It had a nice flavor, the right amount of smoke, and the hot barbecue sauce helped, but — honestly — not oversmoking it would have helped even more.

Unanimously, we preferred the North Carolina pork.

Loved the Cole slaw. The jalapeno cornbread was moist and good, and the jalapeno mac and cheese was great. The mayo eaters loved the potato salad, and the chocolate eaters loved the chocolate pecan pie, but I don’t fall in either of those camps, so . . . can’t say.

As for Rainbow Donuts: new favorite restaurant. Technically, it’s a fried chicken, fried fish, donut, and lottery shop, with an emphasis on the lottery. They have a couple of scratcher machines, a rack of scratchers behind the counter, and stations for Daily 4, Daily Derby, Mega Millions, and Hot Spot.

Fluorescent lights and ceiling fans, dirty red fast food tables . . . Like most donut shops, Rainbow has that down-and-out feel that I so love. There was a table of people sipping Cokes in utter silence and scratching scratchers kind of almost maniacally. And you know me — I eat that shit up!

But speaking of eating stuff up:

The fried chicken was awesome. A crispy, peppery breading with a perfectly succulent inner goodness. You have to specify you want it fried to order, though, or they’ll give you the crusty crap that’s been sitting in the display case.

They were out of biscuits, so she gave me an extra side. I didn’t want fries with my fish (also awesome), so she gave me an extra piece of chicken. And she gave me an extra donut for the hell of it.

You see? You see why I love this place?

And the mac and cheese was decent, the greens were alright, and the shrimp gumbo was good. It wasn’t particularly gumbolike, but I liked it. Probably, if I had that four-block stretch of San Pablo to do over again, I’d get my sides from Smoke, and my meat from Rainbow.

Not to compare fried and barbecue, but . . .

SMOKE BERKELEY

Tue-Sat noon-7pm

2434 San Pablo Ave., Berk.

(510) 548-8801

D,MC,V

No alcohol

RAINBOW DONUT

Mon-Sat 5am-8pm; Sun 6am-8pm

2025 San Pablo Ave., Berk.

(510) 644-2029

Cash only

No alcohol

 

So close

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS It’s birthday season! Me, yeah, but more importantly:

Happy birthday to C. Chunk, 5. Happy birthday to K. Chunk, 4. I took the train home for C. Chunk’s birthday, and now I’m taking it home for K. Chunk’s. That’s a lot of trains, in case you were wondering, and I’m starting to feel like I could write a Jimmie Rodgers song.

What rhymes with Amtrak?

Ah, nevermind. I think I’ll play with my laptop.

Hedgehog has one more month of work in New Orleans, and then we’ll be coming home by car, and for good. But since our new car is smaller than the one we went to New Orleans with, and that one was popping buttons as it was, I am traveling with roughly half of our crap, including an electric guitar.

Shit! It’s left-handed, and both me and Jimmie Rodgers are righty . . .

I got the wrong-hand blues

My baby’s got me all turned round

Got the wrong-hand blues

My baby’s got me all turned round

This guitar won’t listen to me

It says I’m sitting upside-down

yodel-eh-hee-oh d’eleh-hee-oh d’eleh-hee

Please forgive me. It’s the middle of the night in Texas. (And elsewhere, I imagine.)

One of the nice things about going away for months at a time is you come home and things are different. Give you an example, from my last time home: There’s barbecue in the Mission!

There’s barbecue in the Castro!

This review has nothing to do with barbecue.

Yesterday I barbecued a slab of ribs the size of a small table. We could have put our plates on top of the ribs — but then what would we have eaten?

And how would we have washed the sauce off our knees?

My barbecue sauce is blueberry-based, and stains. Bacon fat, garlic, onions, cayenne, rice vinegar, maple syrup, black pepper, celery seed . . .

But this isn’t about barbecue.

It’s about Thai. The Maze said he thought there was a new Thai restaurant on 16th and Guerrero, and I said I thought I saw one there too, let’s go.

Interestingly, he was thinking of Malai, which has been there for decades and decades. Which goes to show you how much Maze loves Pakwan. He eats there all the time, and just now notices the Thai place across the street?

But there really is a new one, too. New to me, anyway. I think it’s only been there for months and months, almost a year maybe.

And that’s what I like about coming home, I’m saying: Thai food. Which isn’t very good in New Orleans. Not to mention Texas, in the middle of the night.

So, yeah, Krua, kitty-corner from Malai, and first things first: they do have duck soup. In fact, it was one of the best I’ve had, brothwise: salty and rich. The celery was a nice touch, and the noodles were good; but the bowl could have used more ducks in it was all.

As for the gold bags . . .

Well, I don’t have anything to compare them to. I never had gold bags before. In fact, what the hell are gold bags?

All the rage, according to Maze. He keeps seeing them on menus, and now probably I will too. They are dumplingy collections of shrimps, chickens, water chestnuts, and corn, tied off at the top like . . . gold bags, apparently.

Were they good? Yeah. Sure.

I forget what else we had. Probably tofu, or else I would remember. In any case: new favorite restaurant. I just can’t get over the fact that there is duck noodle soup within two blocks of my apartment, and barbecue. Even ramen now, I’m pretty sure. Within two blocks of my apartment!

Our apartment.

All we have to do now is live in it.

KRUA THAI

Daily 11:30am-10:30pm

3214 16th St., SF

(415) 913-7886

MC, V

Beer and wine

 

Whorls away

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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1

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Way out in the water.

A severed head, a small treasure in gold, or drugs, my own death, fish, a baby in a basket, the murder weapon, the meaning of life, peace and quiet, a clue .. . A long time ago, when I was fearless, I swam toward something. That’s how curious I was. It could have been anything, but I had to know.

Now, I can float. I like to think I can float.

Then, I was a pretty good swimmer. I could swim, see me swimming?

My people on the shore, Moonpie, Baby Rae, and Moonpie’s now resting-in-peace sister, Sweetpee … they didn’t know where I was going, because the fearless don’t always say.

They watched. They worried. And they must have seen what I was seeing — this bobbing thing, way out on the horizon.

As the ocean floor sloped and sloped and sloped away from my kicking feet, they watched, helpless and wondering, and I suppose I got a rise out of this.

Good. Risings was what I needed then, maybe even more than treasure. What it was, though, that I risked my ass for all those years ago, was an Igloo cooler with a half a loaf of sliced white bread in it, an open package of lunch meat, and mustard. Or in other words: sandwiches.

I risked my life for sandwiches!

And I don’t even particularly like sandwiches, I thought, watching a matzoh ball bob in my bowl of matzoh ball soup. That is so David Copperfield.

And these were some hard-earned matzoh balls. Not only because Soup Freaks is off my beaten path (unless I happen to be BARTing to a ballgame), but also because the matzoh gods were not looking out for me, on this particular day.

“Matzoh ball soup!” I said.

And the serverwomanperson digged and dug and couldn’t find hardly no matzoh balls in that there silver thingie of soup. Just one, and some broken off pieces of a couple others.

“Hold on a second,” she said, stepping away from the counter and returning, many months later, with a bag of frozen ones. At least they looked like they were frozen.

At least it seemed like many months.

Anyway, she was fixing to pour them into the vat when, apparently, a thought occurred to her: Did I want to wait for them to warm up, or…

“I’ll just take it as is,” I said, and that was how I wound up with a bowl of matzoh ball soup without hardly any matzoh balls in it. My fault, let the record show.

Theirs: to compensate, probably, they gave me three big pieces of bread — which seemed pretty generous, but I would have rather had a bigger bowl of soup with more things in it. I mean, classically, matzoh ball soup is not the most populated bowl of soup in the world, but, really? No carrots? No celery?

What little chicken there was was really not very good. It was peppered, and dry. Very dry. And there’s nothing worse than dry chicken in soup. Well, except maybe dry chicken outside of soup.

So I’m afraid I’m going to have to break with tradition here and declare Soup Freaks “just another restaurant.”

Not my new favorite.

David Copperfield, on the other hand. On the other hand, the Pixies. I haven’t read or listened to it or them in quite a while, respectively; but at times like these, when everything starts going wrong and doesn’t seem to want to right itself, we will grab at books and songs, if not straws.

If not drinks.

If not lunch itself.

See me swimming? Between waves, a mile from shore … the skinny girl, kicking frantically, breathing hard, and holding on for dear buoyancy to flotsam, jetsam, to little coolers full of someone else’s sandwiches. That’s me.

SOUP FREAKS

Mon.-Fri. 7am-8pm; Sat.-Sun. 10am-6pm

667 Mission St., SF

(415) 543-7687

AE,D,MC,V

No alcohol

 

Appetite: 2 new Bay cheap eats spots

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Appetite: 2 new Bay cheap eats spots

In the spirit of my recent “new SF cheap eats” article, here are two noteworthy new cheap eats joints East and South: Berkeley and Palo Alto.

ASIAN BOX

Asian Box is a newer take-out shop (with one narrow communal table inside and a couple tables outside) in a mobbed Palo Alto strip mall. What could be just another casual Asian food joint has two key things going for it. One is two former San Francisco chefs behind it: executive chef Grace Nguyen, of Out The Door’s Bush Street location, and Chad Newton, who many of us followed at Fish and Farm (where he created one incredible burger).

The other is that Asian Box’s affordable food ($6.95-$8.25) is ultra-fresh and satisfying.

It’s an assemble-your-own meal, starting with short or long grain rice, Asian vegetable salad or rice noodles. Choose a protein — I like juicy garlic soy glazed beef or creamy coconut curry tofu, and finish with add-ons like jalapeno, bean sprouts, carrots, peanuts, mint, basil, pickled vegetables, lime – all at no additional charge (except for a .95 caramel egg).

In terms of sauces, creamy peanut sauce with lime and coconut stands out, while there are also Sriracha and a no oil fish sauce. Vietnamese iced coffee and tart lemon lime marmalade ($2.95 – both winners) flow from juice dispensers, while, much as I wanted to try it, house Jungle jerky ($2.75) was sold out on my recent visit.

Though SF residents needn’t trek from the city, if you’re in the area, it’s easily one of the best cheap meals in Palo Alto and would be a lunch hit in SF if they had a Financial District location.

855 El Camino Real, Palo Alto. (650) 391-9305, www.asianboxpaloalto.com

BRASA

In the space were eVe used to be (which I included in the Guardian’s 2010 Best of the Bay), husband-and-wife owners Veronica and Chris Laramie, reopened the place as Brasa, a casual Peruvian eatery with lime green and neutral walls, and idyllic back deck. While they hope to revisit the eVe concept in a bigger space eventually, Veronica tells me the current goal is to open another Brasa.

The menu is simple, heartwarming Peruvian fare, if not solely worth heading across the bridge for, yet worthwhile if in the area. Classic Peruvian favorites like Lomo Saltado here become a sandwich ($8.25) packed with hangar steak, red onion, tomato, soy sauce, and French fries.

The house specialty is rotisserie chicken (quarter to whole chicken with 1-2 sides: $8.75-$21.75), crispy skin dotted with herbs. We have quality rotisserie in SF, but dipping sauces are a plus here, featuring common Peruvian peppers, aji amarillo and rocoto, my favorite being a green hucatay, sometimes referred to as Peruvian black mint, though it is actually an herb related to marigold and tarragon. The sauce is spicy, herbaceous and creamy.

Sip a refreshing chicha morada ($2), a sweet, purple corn Peruvian juice laden with clove and cinnamon, and finish with house alfajores ($3.50), dulce de leche sandwich cookies (though my favorite alfajores are from Sabores del Sur in SF) or Straus soft serve ice cream (cone $3, pint $6) infused with coffee caramel.

1960 University Ave., Berk. (510) 868-0735, www.brasajoint.com

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

Deutch maneuver

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0

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS “Berlin is awesome,” Kayday writes me, from Berlin. “We should all live here.”

Amazingly, I answer her in German. “Genau,” I write.

Berlin is awesome, true. But it’s one thing May through September, and something very much else the rest of the time. Is my opinion.

Kayday lives in Seattle, and complains about the weather there from September through July.

She doesn’t want to live in Germany, I feel certain.

When she was here, just a few weeks ago, she wanted to eat at Schmidt’s, maybe for practice. So we did. No complaints from me. Schmidt’s has the best wild boar sausage in all of San Francisco.

We also ate at my new favorite Chinese restaurant, in the Richmond, but I’m not going to tell you yet about that. Maybe next week. If you’re good.

Wild boar sausage, I’m pretty sure I already told you about. There’s Rice Broker though, in the Mission, which is another place where Kayday and me ciao’d down.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello.”

“Hola.”

And she tried to answer — probably in German — but couldn’t, because something had gone down the wrong pipe. Maybe, I’m thinking, a sesame seed. Or a teeny tiny speck of almond?

Both things were in her rice bowl, which was the two skewers of lemongrass beef one, with whole orange slices, string beans, and, yeah, almonds and sesame seeds.

Now, I’ve seen people choking in restaurants before. I’ve even been the person choking in restaurants. It’s no big thing. You cough, you turn red, you hold up your finger to let your dining companions know that, no, in fact you don’t need the Heimlich. Yet. And then you drink some water, cough some more, tear up a little, feel like an idiot, and continue eating.

So happens, the wrong-pipe problem is a recurring theme for me, in life. I have lots and lots of sympathy and patience, and too am ready — if necessary — to spring into action. Ever the nanny, I am trained in CPR and so forth.

“Hello?” I said again. “Are you quite sure you don’t need the Heimlich?”

“I’m OK,” Kayday said. “I just need to go for a walk.” And she excused herself. “Be right back.” And left.

This was a first.

I digged into my own bowl, which was rice porridge with pork-and-ginger meatballs, bok choy, and cilantro. It was excellent, and went down very smoothly.

While I ate, though, I couldn’t take my eyes off of Kayday’s bowl, which was beautiful. The meat, as yet untouched, glistened on its skewers. The orange slices shone forth, like little sunsets. The beans — it was just a beautiful bowl of food. Calling to me.

Kayday is a dear and good friend. She’s an important part of my band. It occurred to me she could choke and die outside on the sidewalk. Still, I decided not to eat her food. When she came back, I would ask. And she would share.

Then, the hell with it, I reached across the table and tried a piece of meat from her skewer. Tough city, go figure!

But, like I says, mine was very good. The meatballs were almost as smooth as the porridge, and good and gingery. And I loved my edamame snack bowl, with dandelion and cane vinegar.

Come to think of it, she’d had a snack bowl appetizer too. Pickled daikon and carrots. And I can’t remember now if I even tasted it, but it sounds pretty good, no?

Of course, this isn’t Kentucky Fried Chicken. But to its credit it isn’t Spork either. And even though it choked my friend, I like that Rice Broker is there. Here in the hood.

And anyway, she survived. She came back.

“Hello,” I said.

She said, “Hi.”

RICE BOWL

Wed-Sun 6-10pm

1058 Valencia, SF.

(415) 643-5000

Cash only

Beer and wine

 

The Katz correlations

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0

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Bagels aren’t my favorite thing. Maybe you’ve noticed. I haven’t new-favorite-restauranted a lot of bagel places, if any, through the years. But then one day I was on my way to BART, very much in need of caffeination, and Cafe Petra was, to my surprise, all boarded up.

So the next possibility was Katz Bagels, around the corner on 16th Street. I stood outside, looking in, but had a hard time pulling the trigger. You know how it is, sometimes, when you are too uncaffeinated to make a decision — even a no-brainer, like whether or not to get a cup of coffee. Or pull the trigger.

Trouble was, I needed a bite, too, and bagels are not my thing. I mean, given butter and jam, or lox, or cheese, I like bagels fine. It’s just: If I am totally honest with myself, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive them for not being donuts.

But I was standing there trying to decide if now was the time to try, when a happyish fellow came caffeining out, noted my attitude of indecision and said, “They’re good. Good bagels.”

So, OK. Went in. And then was faced with a whole new problem: what to get.

What I really want (if I can’t have donuts), is a cinnamon-raisin bagel, or blueberry one, with butter and/or bacon all over it. But I’m too ashamed to order it because, what will the Jews think?

San Francisco is not New York. Go ahead, little hippie, and have your toasted cinnamon-raisin swirl, or your blueberry bonnet with bows of bacon, you rube.

I couldn’t. I can’t. Stop taunting me, me!

This sounded good: the number three sandwich on the menu board — egg with spinach, tomato, onion, and Swiss cheese. Yeah, I could do that, and live with myself, for breakfast. Probably.

And coffee.

“Small coffee,” I said, because it was my turn. And I still didn’t know. So I said small coffee real slow.

“And a sesame seed bagel,” I said, “with eggs,” I said, “spinach,” I said, “hmm, tomato, onion, and . . . yeah, Swiss.”

“Number 3?” the woman said.

“Yeah. A Number 3,” I said, “would be another way of looking at it.”

She laughed, hurried to get me my coffee, and from that point on whenever she looked at me she laughed again. I had made a friend behind the counter! Which helps, where bagels are concerned. Because now, I’m thinking, I can probably go in there any time and order my bagel with ham, pineapple, and sprinkles on top. It doesn’t matter. She’s going to laugh at me anyway. With me.

For coffee, they serve Rodger’s individually dripped brews. No idea who Rodger is, but I do like his work. One sip, sitting at the end of the counter there, and my head cleared all up.

But I still didn’t know why Petra was closed. Or when. I had taken it for a neighborhood mainstay. Not that I ever went there. I mean, I did, for meeting people, when I used to date, because — even though it was only a block and a bit from my place — I never saw anyone I knew in there. Unlike, say, Java Supreme.

Petra was a nice place to sit. A nice place to, you know, get to know someone, A little. Without any fear whatsoever that Earl Butter would show up with a wooden tennis racket and/or Tupperware.

Wow, maybe my dating days coming to an abrupt end, thanks to Hedgehog, contributed to the downfall of the second-closest coffeehouse to my house, I thought, while waiting for my bagel at Katz’s. And I didn’t care what he was carrying, if Earl Butter came in here, I thought, I would buy him a bagel. Now that I am “in” with the counter woman.

Then I had another sip of Rodger, bless him.

My bagel came, and required salt and pepper, but was otherwise what else the doctor ordered. Delicious. Nutritious. There . . .

My new favorite restaurant is Katz. It’s just a nice, comfy bagel bar, with good bagels. Great coffee. A fine place to stop, on your way to BART, and think stupid things.

KATZ

Mon.-Fri. 6:30am-1pm; Sat.-Sun. 7am-2pm.

3147 16th St., SF.

(415) 552-9050

Cash only

No alcohol 

 

Playing Joe Cool

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0

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Last Straw Sullenger and me were walking. Just strolling around the corner, to Community Thrift, to see if they had some things. My list was long. But I was telling her, as we walked, about my football team — the “here” one — and how, after just three seasons, it was starting to come together for us. Two straight wins…

How a lot of our players who had never played football before are starting to really get it and kick ass, especially our quarterback.

“Great. That’s great. Great,” she was saying, and I looked up and saw Joe Montana walking toward us.

Now, I’m not one to generally even notice the presence of celebrity, let alone be moved by it; but in this case, I peed my pants.

Joe Montana, for you young, sports historyless ‘uns, is not celebrity. He’s Joe Montana. In the Mission, on the phone, jeans and a T-shirt, less balding and yes taller than I’d have figured, the oceanic eyes and that dimpled chin. In other words: swoon.

And .. . boom, he was past us, just like that, except Last Straw had to practically carry me the rest of the way to the thrift store.

Which isn’t to say I shopped.

I mean, I did. I bought a strainer. But my needs were so much more. So much more than that.

Seeing Joe Montana in the Mission is addictive, turns out. All I could think about while we were looking at desks was getting back outside and possibly — who knows — seeing him again.

We did!! Joe Montana! Again! Ten minutes later, still talking on the phone, just standing there next to a telephone poll outside the barber shop on 18th and Valencia, where Circus McGirkus used to work. Iss.

And we walked on by, trying to act casual while fainting and peeing our pants and shit. Anyway, I was. I’m not sure Last Straw is quite the historical (to say nothing of hysterical) 49ers fan that I am. I was in high school when Joe Montana started his career, changing everything. Seriously: seeing him, seeing us going from last place to first in two seasons, it changed the way I played football. And it changed the way I lived life.

As for him, he just wanted a haircut, probably. Anyway, as we were passing, he got off the phone and walked into the barber shop.

“You should get his autograph,” Last Straw said.

“On what? On my strainer?” I said.

I hate to bother people, let alone celebrities, let alone Joe Montana. But no one else was! Maybe no one else in the Mission is old enough or sporty enough to even know what Joe Montana looks like.

“Probably he’d get a kick out of it,” Last Straw said. “His age.”

I doubted this. But I said goodbye to her at her car, then ran to my apartment, changed my pants, swapped my strainer for a football and a Sharpie, and ran back out.

I had a better idea, I thought. I wouldn’t ask for his autograph. I would ask him to throw me a pass. I would tell him I play wide receiver for a women’s football team, imply that I had six months (or less) to live, and show him on my hand what I was going to do: Past the bus stop, fake left, and cut right toward the building. I’d look over my right shoulder as I made my turn, and the ball would be waiting for me.

I knew it would be there, having seen him play, many times, on TV and in person. It would be waiting for me. I would pull it in, and then, maybe, he would offer to sign it. Either way, I would live the rest of my life with a sense of having caught a pass from Joe Montana.

And, yeah, that would be enough.

Problem: He was gone. If it was a haircut he was after, his was the fastest one ever.

Ever since, I’m saying, I’ve been spending more time than usual on Valencia, with a football and a Sharpie in my bag. Did you notice that New Yorker Buffalo Wings is closed, and that signs on the windows point you toward Pizzeria, a few doors down? Earl Butter and I tried them. Meh.

But next week I’ve got a great wings place to tell you about, don’t worry.

PIZZERIA

Tue.-Thu., Sun. 3:30-10:30pm; Wed.-Thu., Sun: 11am-10pm; Fri.-Sat.: 3:30-11:30pm.

659 Valencia St., SF.

(415) 701-7492

MC,V

No alcohol 

 

Inside-outside

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le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS One of my favorite places to be is at the foot of Potrero Hill in Jackson Park, where I played pick-up baseball in the 1990s and soccer in the 2000s. It’s very unclaustrophobic around there, maybe you’ve noticed. Although: the air is thick with Anchor Steam hops and, for me, memories of athletic style glory such as grounding out to third.

Shit, I got old. Wait. Did I? I am sappy and nostalgic. My foot hurts and I have to “put it up.” I take fiber supplements. Loud music annoys me. I’m almost always cold. We are looking into getting a camper.

Very soon, if all goes as planned, I will be able to stick my hands in boiling water like Grandma Rubino did. And then I will know that I have made it.

Meanwhile, there’s laundry to do. I have a football game tonight and all my sports bras are stinky from playing soccer and soccer and racquetball and ping-pong, so — wait a minute — maybe I’m not old.

Yeah. Maybe loud music only annoys me when it isn’t the Verms. Which it was one time, at Thee Parkside. At the foot of Potrero Hill. Across from Jackson Park.

One of my favorite things about San Francisco these days is that bar food is stepping up — and in interesting ways such as crawfish grits and wedding soup at Broken Record, the whiskey-infused bacon burgers at Bender’s, and fried pickles and chili-cheese tater tots at Thee Parkside.

The burgers aren’t as good as the ones at Bender’s, though. Come to think of it, the tater tots aren’t either. But the music is better, especially on Twang Sundays. That must have been what it was when I saw the Verms there.

Now, the Verms. The Verms are by miles and miles my new favorite band. It’s Earl Butter! What this means is the songs are about underwear and pork sandwiches. In fact, as serendipity would have it, they played the pork sandwich song while we were eating ours.

We were me, Hedgehog, and Kayday, sitting and standing around a small, tall table near the door. Kayday wasn’t eating, and Hedgehog wouldn’t tell me what she wanted.

“Surprise me,” she said.

So I went out to the patio and stared at the menu for about a half hour. There were kids running around, people eating, people waiting to eat, people dancing.

It’s really nice, the indoor-outdoor layout of the place. You can adjust your volume, light, and air intakes simply by poking around the premises. In fact, there used to be a ping-pong table in the way-back, but I forgot to notice if it was still there.

Anyway: pork sandwich. Yes. And a bacon burger with barbecue sauce. Skinny fries. Tater tots. The idea being a 50-50 split.

This was before the goddamn gluten-free garbage, praise Jesus, or I’d have had to eat all the buns and none of the meat. As it was, I messed up anyway.

See, I love barbecue sauce on burgers. Hedgehog — surprise! — does not. Worse, when we halved the burger, luck would have it, she drew the slathered half and mine had next to none — just the first bite, so that I would know what I was missing for the rest of them.

Bite. Damn! Bite. Damn!

I wish we’d have worked it all out in advance, like communicative adults, but it’s hard in bars. The loud music. Lack of light.

By the time we even knew each other’s disappointment, it was too late: The burger was gone.

Ironically, while everyone loves barbecue sauce on barbecue, the pulled pork sandwich came without. Just coleslaw was on it, by which they mean pickled purple cabbage, and a special mayo-y mix, so… hold that.

Good food, great place, amazing show.

Hedgehog still has the set list. She takes it out sometimes, and looks at it.

Me, I’ve gotta go catch some footballs and pull some flags. Tomorrow, hopefully victorious, I set sail for Frisco — and will see you all in the flesh (or thereabouts) next week. At my new favorite restaurant!

THEE PARKSIDE

Mon.-Fri. 2pm-2am; Fri.-Sat. 3pm-2am

1600 17th St., SF

(415) 252-1330

Cash only

Full bar

www.theeparkside.com

Kicky kitty

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0

le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS There was a soccer game on TV. There was a cat on the pitch. It was running around, stopping, staring, licking, looking not-at-all confused and very much in every way like a cat. Except that millions of people were watching it, tens of thousands of them right there: laughing, clapping, and carrying on.

And who were all these sweaty men in striped shirts and high socks?

None of the players tried to help with the corralling of the cat. They appreciated the chance to catch their breath, I guess, while stadium officials and trained cat-corralling professionals did their bit. Or tried to. Let the record show: in its own sweet time, the cat trotted off the field the same way it had trotted on: of its own volition. And play resumed.

The stadium was not in our country. The television was. It was in my new favorite restaurant, Haltun, which is on 21st and Treat, just around the corner from the Mission Rec Center, where Hedgehog and me play our racquetball.

I love cats. I love soccer. I am a drooling idiot in the glow of any television set no matter what’s on, no matter how far away. Thus, I found it hard to undividedly pay attention to my dining companions, but did manage to catch a conversation between Coach and Hedgehog in which it was posited (by Coach) that I was the least queer person in the world (because I move in mostly-straight circles) and counter-posited (by Hedgehog) that I was the most queer person in the world (because I move in straight circles, and queer ones, and have slept with every kind of person there is including both flavors of trans ones, including gay men and now straight ones, and straight women and now gay ones).

“Bisexual isn’t less queer than homosexual,” argued my homosexual girlfriend. “It’s arguably queerer.”

“Yeah, but declaring yourself bisexual plays into the binary. What about genderqueers?”

“Oh, I’ve slept with them too,” I interjected, without looking away from the TV because someone (a human being, not a cat) was making a beautiful run. And: “Goaaaaalllll!!!!”

Here’s my rant: You can’t even watch TV with just an antenna anymore! TV antennas are exactly as obsolete as black-and-white. But did you know that every program used to broadcast separate signals for black-and-white and color TVs?

As I understand it.

They had to do a color “Get Smart” and a black-and-white “Get Smart,” and sling them both out over the treetops, I guess, or twist them both through one cable at the same exact time — and that all ended just two, three years ago, so I could as easily have said “Cheers,” or “Friends,” or, I don’t know, “Arrested Development.” By the way.

Probably I have this wrong.

But there are seven colors in a rainbow flag. My skirt has more colors than that! And, though there are a gazillion shades of gray, there is also black, and there is white. No doubt, gender — even genitalia — is a spectrum. Yet: There would appear to be penises. And vaginas! And, as hormonally altered trans people (not-always-willing poster children for in-betweenitude) can attest without even opening our mouths, testosterone and estrogen are two different things.

If you can, without saying a word, both refute and support the exact same argument … I’m not saying it’s queerer or less queer. The word I would use is bacon. It’s bacon.

Now, cochinita pibil is pork — just pork! — in a greasy red broth, with a flap of banana leaf hanging over it. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Well, it came with tortillas, which the server took great care to point out were “hand made” — and I’m sure they were, but they didn’t taste very special.

Hedgehog had something with turkey meat and a disk of pork meatloaf afloat, with an egg, in a nice broth. Simple, and exotic. At the same time!

Coach had a sampler plate of all things vegetarian. Come to think of it, her meal did have the most variety and color to it, so …

There’s that.

 

HALTUN

Daily 10 a.m.-10 p.m.

2948 21st St., SF.

(415) 643-6411

MC/V

Beer & Wine

Junk bonds

Andrew Lam
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0

CHEAP EATS Yeah, ever since they shot Prop 8 tentatively down, I have had to hire grad students and interns to sift through all the marriage proposals. Their job is to weed out the ones with typos in them, suspected vegetarians, those that contain the words “growth” or “cicadas,” and most importantly any that aren’t from Hedgehog, the dyke of my dreams.

As you might imagine, it’s grueling work. And since Hedgehog is not one to repeat herself, the “slush pile” is rapidly taking over our apartment.

Recycling comes on Friday.

Meanwhile, I think I understand now why the queers I play flag football with in San Francisco hate the idea of ever playing co-ed. I’m always saying, at our under-if-at-all-attended practices out at Big Rec, “There’s some boys over there with a football. Let’s play them.” And my teamies look at me like I just suggested charades, or voting Republican.

Well, my New Orleans flag football team is co-ed. And very straight, at that. Although our team color is pink, and our name is Piggy and the Conch Shells, and we lost our first game 63-6. (I could go on and on: I play for us, blazzy blazzy blah.) Anyway, so, last night, en route to winning our second straight game, I found out why no one I know votes Republican.

I was rushing the quarterback, see, and I was getting to him. If it was football football, I would have wrapped him up around the legs or waist, toppled him or driven him to the turf, and then done a funky fuck-you-I-kicked-your-ass dance. But no. It’s flag football. So you have to reach for and pull off one of three flags we all wear on a belt around our waist: there’s one on each hip, and one on the butt.

So I’m reaching for his left hip, and, understand, please: there are alleged blockers trying to be in my way, one of my blitzing teammates reaching for the right hip, and (does anyone see where this is going?) as soon as I make my grab, the quarterback twists away from the other rusher, leaving me with a handful not of flag, but of man-junk. Yes, I missed the sack, but did yank me some penis. Note: accidentally. And shorts-enshrouded. Nevertheless, he threw an interception.

Which is of course an even better result than a sack. But I couldn’t find it in me to do a dance, or celebrate, or even smile. I just stood there and felt squirgly. And hoped he wouldn’t get his way with the ref, at whom he was screaming. In vain, thank God.

What would the penalty have been? … Holding?

Illegal use of hands?

Ruffling the quarterback?

Later in the game, I did get called for roughing the quarterback when I popped him in the face, trying to block his pass. That time (wisely) he didn’t let go of the ball, and I pulled his flag. And the ref threw his. Still, the dude was so mad he kicked the ball into the stands — at which my 15-yard penalty became offset by his, ha ha.

In summary: I now know first-hand (ha ha again) why my queers back home no like play football with the boys. It was a disturbing moment for me, and I’m theoretically bisexual! I’ve held that shit before — albeit not on a football field. Not to mention he was a complete stranger. I mean: eww.

I did apologize to him after the game, and hinted that if he didn’t like to play rough, he might consider a boys-only league. Sike. I just said I was sorry I hit him in the face, I was trying to block the pass.

“I know. That’s ok,” he said. “I was mad at the ref, not you.” And he asked me out. (So I guess it was better for him than me.)

“No, thanks. Prop 8 went down,” I explained. “I’m a betrothalled woman.”

In all possible seriousness, though, my new favorite restaurant for real (if not for long) is Pho 2000, in the ‘Loin. They pile all the steak up together so it’s bright-red raw when it comes to your table. You want it cooked, you have to push it into the broth.

I’m telling you: Fuck Turtle Tower. 

PHO 2000

Mon.-Sat. 8:30 a.m.-8:30 p.m.; Sun. 8:30 a.m.-7:30 p.m.

637 Larkin, SF.

(415) 474-1188

Cash only

No alcohol

 

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