Paul Reidinger

Spire

David Talbot
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0
Spire

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE You can’t be stunned when a restaurant near the baseball park — and Spire is just steps away — has a big flat-panel TV showing Giants’ games. Spire has such a TV, so let’s grant a modicum of kudos for its public-spiritedness. Or at least its awareness of what its clientele is likely to find interesting. But the glowing oracle of sportsdom, while conspicuously slung from a wall just inside the entrance, isn’t the restaurant’s most distinctive design feature. That would be what I can only call the charcuterie bar — a gleaming slab of peach-colored granite that’s a little like the cured-meat equivalent of a sushi bar, except you can’t sit at it and order things. You can only watch, wondering if you’ve stumbled onto a secret Food Network set, and where are the klieg lights and cameras?

Despite the lack of seating, the presence of the bar does announce that food is serious business at Spire. This is no sports bar — although a word of warning — the place is noisy, a vibratorium. The building is a converted MJB coffee warehouse, and the exposed brick walls are braced by a line of triumphal arches. But whatever relief from impinging decibels the high ceiling might have provided is offset by the rock-hard flooring.

Naturally, chef Laird Boles’ kitchen turns out a charcuterie platter, and there’s also a selection of raw seafood, with crudo, ceviche, and oysters. (Boles once cooked at Waterbar.) But the menu, mostly, is farmers-markety. So a salad ($9) of stone fruit and Laura Chenel goat cheese wasn’t assembled atop any old lettuces but atop County Line 5 leaves; these were immaculate, and the stone fruit (cherry halves and wonderfully ripe nectarine) wasn’t too shabby either. And nothing says summer quite like stone fruit unless it’s corn, as in a sweet corn soup ($6) with the kernels puréed and food-milled to a bisque-like smoothness. “Sweet” wasn’t an idle modifier here, and I ended up having to ask for salt, more as matter of personal taste than in response to a miscue. Sweetness can be flat; salt deepens it and adds an extra dimension. Other extra dimensions included a dollop of sour cream in the soup itself and, alongside, a pair of puffy-crisp corn fritters riding the rails of piquillo-pepper coulis.

Chicken, we were advised some years ago by Anthony Bourdain, is the dish for people who can’t decide what they really want. This might sometimes be true, but it doesn’t do justice to the bird, which, if handled right, can be splendid. Spire’s half-chicken ($20), a Rocky the Range leg and breast, had the marvelous crisp skin and slightly pressed look I associate with the Italian technique known as al mattone, or under a brick. The chicken was presented with two pucks of savory bread pudding, a stack of sautéed mixed beans — haricots verts and wax (n.b. the menu said “haricots verts,” small proof of the larger principle that menu cards tend to be advisory rather than strictly honored) — a heap of sautéed baby shiitakes, and a fabulous reduced jus.

If you do know what you really want, you might very well want halibut ($24), and this is good, because halibut is just about the perfect fish in these parts. It’s taken from sustainable fisheries, it takes well to a variety of cooking techniques, and it tastes good. Here a thick filet was pan-roasted, then plated with lemon grits, tarragon leaves, and tomato quarters — a colorful, tasty ensemble redolent of the season.

It is rare now to have a disappointing dessert, but it’s probably just as rare to come across a dessert so rich you wonder if you can finish it. Spire’s chocolate almond layer cake ($8) looked unassuming enough: a modest, dark-brown disk with a comet’s tail of pitted cherry halves and streaks of caramel sauce, little embellishments that added visual texture while also implying that reinforcement was at hand should the star player be found wanting. But the cake itself was so engulfingly rich and moist, dessertdom’s answer to foie gras, as to obliterate any such need. I have never had a richer, moister cake. It was so satisfying as to be nearly fatal. But I did live to tell, and now I have told.

SPIRE

Lunch: Tues.–Fri., 11:30 a.m.–2 p.m.

Dinner: Tues.–Thurs., 5:30–10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 5:30–11 p.m.

Brunch: Sun., 11 a.m.–3 p.m.

685 Third St., SF

(415) 947-0000

www.spiresf.com

Full bar

AE/MC/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accessible

Izakaya Sozei

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Izakaya Sozei

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE A specter is haunting America — the specter of deflation, according to the worthies at the Fed, who, having played no small role in conjuring said specter, are now kind enough to warn us of it. Let the excellent adventure begin, but first, a stop at Sozai (full name: Izakaya Sozai), a twice-reinvented Japanese restaurant in the mid-Sunset, where the crush of youth is so massive that even the most slithery of specters would have a tough time worming their way in.

One tends to associate youth-crushed restaurants with Valencia Street, those droves of 30-year-olds in jeans and black shoes with disposable incomes adequate to support restaurant-going as a form of entertainment. Irving Street would hardly seem to be a serious competitor to the Mission extravaganza, and Sozai looks demure from the sidewalk: Japanese-style screens over the large windows and modest signage. But once inside, it’s all energy. The space seats only a few dozen, and as we all remember from high-school physics, compression produces heating.

The clientele is substantially Asian, which makes for a complex comment on the food. Despite the name, Sozai is far from a traditional Japanese restaurant. Its nearest relation is Namu, which stitches together Korean, Japanese, and Californian influences into a new piece of small-plate cloth. At both places, overflow spills onto the sidewalk, where wait-listers can be observed in deep communion with their smart phones, fingers jabbing away.

Sozai’s menu does offer a base of recognizably Japanese dishes, including otsumami, sashimi, nimono, and yakitori. The kitsune udon ($7) — fat wheat noodles in broth — is wonderful, despite a difficult-to-eat block of tofu floating on top. But the more exciting action is posted on the chalkboard; there the dishes can slide away from categories, and in some cases from Asian influences altogether.

An octopus ceviche ($8) served in a martini glass, for instance, with a gap-toothed fence of tortilla chips ranged around the lip, was like something you’d find in tony Peruvian or pan-Latino restaurants. The marinade was splendidly tangy; the octopus itself tough. But where would you look to find chunks of boneless, slightly fatty duck meat ($6) grilled on skewers after a bath in blueberry port? The port was vanishingly unpresent, while the meat itself was gamy and chewy, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Equally oddball were skewers of brussels sprouts ($5) wrapped in bacon and grilled. I am a big believer in both grilling and combining bacon and cruciferous, but here the method — which left the vegetable in a semi-raw state while failing to crisp the bacon — did not impress.

Pulled-pork croquettes ($5) resembled a pair of whole-wheat English muffins but lacked any crust or crispness and, worse, were seriously underseasoned. If it hadn’t been for the side dish of ginger-charged hoisin sauce, we might not have finished them. The bed of daikon threads did offer a subtle heavenly quality and some texture, but no flavor.

The kitchen’s best dishes seem to be the simplest and the most Japanese, and maybe this shouldn’t surprise us. Mackerel, or aji, tataki sashimi ($10) was about as straightforward as it gets, a low heap of fish strips with skin still attached. It looked like a gathering of eels.

A salad of yuzu-dressed mozuku seaweed ($4) couldn’t have been improved upon while acquiring a sheen of elegance from the martini glass it was served in. And a plate of blanched baby yellow carrots ($4) needed only a shallow dish of lumpy miso paste on the side to offer a complete, and remarkably vivid, experience.

Taking chances does raise the risk of failure, and Sozai’s kitchen takes more chances than most, perhaps with the understanding that even serious culinary failures are almost sure to fall well short of inedible disaster. But one of the desserts, fig tempura ($5) arguably crossed the line. It consisted of halved figs, dipped in a light tempura batter and fried just enough to be crisp (why couldn’t the croquettes have been this crunchy?) and arranged around a helmet of vanilla ice cream.

The figs were neither sweet nor mealy inside, so call that a draw. The ice cream was fine. But why oh why drizzle everything with a too-tart balsamic reduction? It looked nice, like chocolate syrup, but knocked the dessert off balance. If not for the ice cream, the figs and balsamic could have been served as an hors d’oeuvre. As a dessert, it left us deflated.

IZAKAYA SOZAI

Dinner: Wed.-Mon., 5:30–11 p.m.

1500 Irving, SF

(415) 742-5122

www.izakayasozai.com

Beer and wine

MC/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

Curry Boyzz

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Curry Boyzz

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE If no good deed goes unpunished, then it must follow, by some inexorable law, that no rule goes unbroken — not even my cherished guidance that oft-flipped restaurant spaces in this city tend to end up as Japanese places. Sometimes spaces go in another direction — like toward the Asian subcontinent. Early in the year, Curry Boyzz opened on a second-floor space, across 18th Street from DeLano’s Market, that for a number of years had been the home of Côte Sud, a credible French restaurant, and before that a Cuban spot.

The space is one of the more appealing in the area, in large part because of a glassed-in terrace that gives an expansive view over the street scene. Côte Sud made some tasty Parisian-style hay from this terrace while meaningfully contributing toward an elevation of culinary standards in the Castro.

But the times, they are a’ changin,’ and by the look of it, not for the better. People are more sensitive about bang-for-buck ratios than they were just three or four years ago, and hardly any culinary tradition gives you more bang for the buck than the south Asian (or, as the menu card puts it, “Indian-Pak”). In this important respect, Curry Boyzz (a sibling of Curry Stop in the Barbary Coast) doesn’t disappoint, although they might have spelled it “Bois” if they were interested in upping the twink, or at least the twink-involved, traffic.

You know you are in downmarket-land when you order at a counter and carry a number to your table. At Curry Boyzz you are further on your own scaring up utensils and napkins from bins near the entrance to the terrace. But — a thoughtful touch — there’s also a refrigerator filled with carafes of water, a flourish that puts this crucial matter right in your hands.

The menu includes many Indian staples, ably prepared, along with some unexpected items. Several involve karela, or bitter melon. It turned up cooked, with various meats, and also on its own ($5.99), rather pretty striped green strips in a stew with ginger, garlic, and onions. “Bitter” is a word that has no good connotation in America, where palatal pleasures tend to revolve around an infantile sweet tooth. But bitterness is one of the basic tastes, and is therefore essential. When moderated and modulated, as here, by strong counter-presences, it becomes something rich, deep, and satisfying.

Another dish I couldn’t recall having seen before was lamb cholay ($7.99), knuckles of meat cooked with chickpeas — but maybe that was just because my spice eye tends to be drawn toward lamb vindaloo. The cholay edition was well-behaved in the chili-heat department; its most obvious characteristic, in fact, was the presence of so many bones to be navigated around.

Tikka masala so often means chicken tikka masala, chunks of boneless meat simmered in a creamy curry sauce, but fish ($9.99) works just as well. We liked the big pieces, almost like whole filets instead of the more typical chicken chunks. And we loved the palak paneer ($5.99), the classic dish of spinach and chunks of white cheese, for its mysterious, transporting spice breath. Did I catch a whiff of some extra cardamom in there?

The ancillary items were also reliable. Pappadum (99 cents) were crisp and glistening with a sheen of oil. (Not all sheens of oil are undesirable.) Naan, on the other hand, weren’t glistening; they had the dry, slightly chapped faces of pita bread. Luckily, naan need not be moist and oily to succeed. Indeed, since naan chunks tend to get used to mop up sauce, a bit of dryness and absorbency is preferable, as with bath towels.

We were a little surprised to find the keema naan ($2.99), a flatbread disk stuffed with what the menu card called “ground meat” — shades of freshman-year mystery meat! but the faint gaminess suggested lamb — to be nearly as dry as its unstuffed sibling. No matter: it was good for sopping, and we had plenty to sop.

Considering that the terrace is glassed-in, we found the presence of bugs — tiny bugs, smaller than gnats — to be both ironic and irritating. But maybe even the bugs (or do I mean bugzz?) have found this cold and gloomy summer (the chilliest in nearly 40 years, say the TV weather boffins) to be tough going, and, like us, find themselves seeking shelter inside. 

CURRY BOYZZ

Sun.–Thurs., noon–11 p.m.;

Fri.–Sat., noon–2 a.m.

4238 18th St., SF

(415) 255-6565

curryboyzz.com

Beer and wine

MC/V

Modest noise

Not wheelchair accessible

 

Prospect

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Prospect

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE At last, a restaurant name we can believe in. That would be Prospect, Nancy Oakes’ new venture on the ground floor of a glassy residential tower that would probably seem like home sweet home to the Jetsons.

If you like Oakes’ other restaurant, the massively famous Boulevard, you’re likely to find Prospect a multilayered shock. The older place, which opened in 1993 and was one of the first tendrils of post-earthquake renewal along the Embarcadero, trades on the antique charm of the Audiffred Building, a 121-year-old, Parisian-looking structure that rode out the 1906 earthquake, as well as on its Pat Kuleto interior design, a warmly whimsical reimagining of a brasserie.

Prospect, by contrast, offers no such design charms and appears to be unconnected to any past, only to a future — a prospect? — that might politely be described as deracinated. The space is deep, high, and filled with plenty of natural light, along with (reclaimed) wood-plank flooring, hempy-looking fabrics, columns of sound baffling that resemble panels of corrugated cardboard (but feel like Corian) and pillars of naked concrete for a touch of modern urban grit. The result is … really not all that different from nearby RN74. Moderation in all things, including — as Oscar Wilde might have said — restraint.

The food is also more than subtly different from Boulevard’s. Oakes is one of the masters of a highly polished American cuisine that’s a little too hearty to be called Californian. Serving sizes at Boulevard have long been ample, in the American grain. But we were told right off the bat one evening at Prospect that we should revise our expectations downward with respect to size. In this sense Prospect’s prices, on their face quite a bit lower than Boulevard’s, are at least slightly illusory, especially if you double down on starters, as our server suggested.

But there can be no arguing with the actual food coming out of executive chef Ravi Kapur’s kitchen. The flavors are bold, the juxtapositions artful, and the execution solid. I was particularly impressed by a double-decker filet of petrale sole ($24). Here the fish was given a gorgeous bronze crispness, then presented with … no, not lemon and capers but a ragout of summer beans, king trumpet mushrooms, and a wondrous tasso aioli that was something like bacon transmuted into cream.

The fish and seafood cookery in general is outstanding, from a petite black cod filet ($15) bathing in a mild red curry broth and accompanied by shiitakes, snap peas, and a shiso shrimp fritter, to an opalescent mat of yellowtail crudo ($14), scattered with coins of pickled cucumber and served with an undulating seaweed rice cracker the color of wasabi but without the nuclear nasal blast. All this is noteworthy mostly if it’s been your impression, as it’s been mine for years, that the heart of Oakes’ gastronomic wonder-working has tended to involve meat and potatoes.

Meat isn’t neglected, however. The pork cheeks ($22) were particularly fabulous, with some of the tender-stringy character of short ribs. The meat was capped with ribbons of fennel-root confit and set on a bed of ancient grains (farro and amaranth, it seemed), with Santa Rosa plums, cloves of roasted garlic, and chunks of watermelon radish for contrast — a refreshingly unsweet and (apart from the plums) unfruity ensemble.

The flesh-free dishes are just as vivid. First-of-the-season tomatoes ($13), although a monochromatic red, benefited from the tanginess of sheep’s-milk fromage blanc. And slices of porcini mushroom ($16) found themselves splashing playfully in a balsamic-pancetta sauce with semolina (rather polenta-ish) and a tempura-like farm egg. Tempura recurred on the soft-shell crab ($14), which seemed unfocused and bland despite the flooring of jalapeño-corn relish and green-tomato tartar sauce. But then, soft-shell crab is an East Coast delicacy that can lose something in translation.

Desserts, like just about everything else on the menu, are small and intense. Chocolate orbit ($9) included warm flourless chocolate cake with a pat of bittersweet chocolate ice cream, and if that had been it, it wouldn’t have been much. But the cake sat on a bed of mojito granita, whose colorless grains belied a strong lime charge. Chocolate and lime? Believe it. Believe, too, in the peach hand pie ($9), with diced peaches, a brown-butter pastry pocket and, best of all, muscovado brown sugar ice cream. It’s not as sweet as you’d think. 

PROSPECT

Dinner: Sun.–Thurs., 5:30–10:30 p.m.;

Fri.–Sat., 5:30–11 p.m.

300 Spear, SF

(415) 247-7770

www.prospectsf.com

Full bar

AE/DC/DS/MC/V

Well-damped noise

Wheelchair accessible

Hunan Chef

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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1
Hunan Chef

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Many of us would probably agree that a certain sort of Chinese restaurant tends to be rather plain on the inside, with lots of linoleum, severe fluorescent lighting, and chairs that look like they were bought for 25 cents each from San Quentin Prison’s annual garage sale. Hunan Chef, on Cortland Avenue in Bernal Heights, gives us a variation on this familiar theme — it is ugly on the outside. It is, in truth, in a building so ugly, so faceless and phlegm-colored, that we are left to wonder how such a structure could have been conceived, let alone built.

The good news is that Hunan Chef is reasonably appealing inside. Once there, you don’t have to look at the outside anymore, so that’s a plus right off the bat. A friendly aquarium with languid gourami burbles near the front door, and an array of tchotchkes are arrayed around the dining room, including, toward the rear, a poster for Budweiser cerveza tacked onto the wall, for a hint of college-dorm nostalgia in multi-culti guise.

The better news is that Hunan Chef serves pretty wonderful food at modest prices. Most remarkable, the table service is friendly and efficient despite the bustling takeout service. This you hardly ever see, in my experience. Takeout takes priority in the same way a telephone call trumps a customer actually standing at the counter in a hardware store. If I see takeout bags being taken out in large numbers, I usually resign myself to slow, erratic service. But not at Hunan Chef.

The long menu includes many standards, and for the most part they don’t disappoint. Only the scallion cakes ($3.95) left us feeling a little deflated; the cakes — actually a single cake cut into triangles like a pizza — suffered from dryness, which can be a symptom of having been made beforehand and then left sitting around too long.

Potstickers ($4.95 for six) more than compensated. They were as big as a baby’s fist and juicy. Roasted duck wonton soup ($6.50) was also richly satisfying, a broad bowl of golden, oily broth backfilled with chunks of roasted duck and a wealth of wrinkly, pork-filled wontons. The soup alone would have made a meal for a single (takeout?) diner.

Generally I steer clear of curry dishes in Chinese restaurants. There is a yellow harshness I associate with curry powder spooned from a can. Hunan Chef’s Singapore rice noodle ($6.50) did have the golden hue that suggests the presence of turmeric, but the curry flavor was smooth and mellow, not at all metallic. Also, there were plenty of other colorful attractions on the plate, including shrimp, shreds of barbecue pork, broccoli florets, carrot slivers, lengths of scallion, bamboo shoots, chunks of green bell pepper, and threadings of egg, which looked like ganglia as seen under a microscope.

Cabbage beef ($7.50) didn’t look like much at all: pale gray-green cabbage leaves wok-fried with chunks of beef. But if ginger zing had a color, it would have been among the most colorful items on the menu. Carrot slivers helped, a little. Cabbage is a wonderful, supple vegetable that does suffer some from drabness and a reputation as poor-people food. As a boy, I hated it; now I seek it out.

The restaurant offers a range of what might be called signature dishes — dishes with “Hunan” in the name — among them Hunan chicken ($7.50). Here we found, along with chunks of boneless flesh, swaths of bok choy, button mushrooms, broccoli florets, carrot slivers, and whole dried red chilis. These last implied a sauce with some heat — Hunan being, along with Szechuan, among the spicier of China’s regional cooking styles — and there was indeed a hint of heat in the marvelous, garlicky red sauce. This was the kind of sauce that left you wishing Chinese restaurants brought you a basket of bread so you’d have a means of sopping it up. An alternative to bread is to have the leftovers boxed up. Once you’re in the privacy of your own home, you can do as you see fit.

Service was excellent. The serving of dishes was well-paced, empty plates were removed promptly, and water glasses never ran dry. I was reminded, as I so often am at Chinese restaurants, of the prep time involved in virtually every dish, the dicing, chopping, and shredding — an expense of human effort and energy that reduces cooking times and therefore the need for scarce fuel. As the child of an energy-hogging culture that burns fossil fuels to blow leaves from the sidewalk so the wind can blow them back again, I can’t help but be impressed by this.

HUNAN CHEF

Mon.–Sat., 11 a.m.–9:30 p.m.;

Sun., 4–9 p.m.

525 Cortland, SF

(415) 648-3636

Beer and wine

MC/V

Not noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

Brisas de Acapulco

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Brisas de Acapulco

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Across the street from Brisas de Acapulco, on a breezy stretch of Mission Street, is a concern named Roccapulco, a salsa-dancing venue that’s also a supper club. Roccapulco does serve food, in other words. So it was with a sense of mild bemusement that we found ourselves, on a recent (breezy) evening, watching a party of four young, or at least young-ish, men jaywalking their way from Roccapulco straight into Brisas. Ahead of us. The implication of this journey seemed to be that Roccapulco was fine for salsa dancing, but if you were hungry, you might find crossing the street to Brisas to be worth the trouble. One of the jaywalkers was an interestingly fantasticated drag queen wearing a dress, wig, and black, blocky spectacles. Is there a Jonathan Lethem look-alike contest at Wigstock now?

Inside we found — under an almost threateningly low ceiling — an elderly, perhaps Mexican couple having dinner while watching World Cup tumult on a flat-screen television mounted in a high corner and tuned to a Spanish-language station. The Roccapulquistas took a table almost directly under the screen. And … everyone lived happily ever after. If water is the universal solvent, then food — particularly good food — remains the great uniter. And while Brisas de Acapulco might be a neighborhood joint, its neighborhood is wildly interesting, an exuberant splashing of subcultures, languages, social practices, and ethnicities worthy of a Jackson Pollock painting.

And its excellent food (Mexican and Salvadorean) reminds us that there’s no cooking like home cooking, really. Yes, how marvelous that aspiring young chefs are sent off to expensive schools to study food — to dissect and analyze it, deconstruct and reconstruct it, then be duly approved by an educational bureaucracy. But there is much to be said for folk wisdom, for the passing along of old ways, old recipes, into new hands. The New World — new, at any rate, to some if not to others — was born in revolution, replacing an ancient human mosaic by another one, restless, innovative, and brash. These are the qualities that have come to define us. We believe in revolution and the scientific method, and we have little use for old knowledge.

But even the brashest and most revolution-minded among us would probably like the tostada de camarones ($4.95) at BdA — a flat, crisp tortilla heaped with shredded lettuce, cilantro, and countless bay shrimp seasoned with plenty of garlic and lime. It’s simple, elegant in its way, and unimprovable. Also shareable.

Given Acapulco’s balmy coastal setting, it isn’t surprising to find seafood besides bay shrimp figuring prominently on Las Brisas’ menu. There is an excellent, puckeringly tart ceviche ($11.95), as well as a wonderful dish of knuckle-sized prawns ($13.95) sautéed with garlic and chilies that melt into an addictive red sauce with just the right hint of heat. Caveat: although the prawns are headless, they remain in their shells. At first I failed to notice this and found myself with a mouthful of quite tasty shell. No doubt cooking the prawns in their shells adds to the flavor, but there is no graceful or spatter-free way for a patron to shell cooked shrimp swimming in sauce the color of blood. Recommendation: shell the prawns, please.

Despite the abundance of seafood at Brisas, meat is not neglected. If the gold standard for carnitas is set by Nopalito’s paper-wrapped version — at, say 24 carats — then Brisas’ version is 18-carat gold. The meat was crispy-moist, intensely flavorful, and shredded but not overshredded. It made a superior filling for a taco ($1.95), where it was by far the principal ingredient and did not find itself having to compete for shelf space with bales of lettuce or huge blobs of salsa and sour cream.

A little — all right, a lot — less tender was the guaracha ($10.95), a very thin beef steak laid atop a tortilla smeared with bean purée. Considering how much pounding the meat must have absorbed to become that thin, it nonetheless remained surprisingly tough. But then, “guaracha” means “old shoe.” Tough cuts of meat are often the tastiest anyway.

There is no shortage of ancillary starch. Dinner plates are laden with rice, beans, shredded lettuce, and tomatoes, while warm tortillas appear in those little tortilla warmers and the basket of chips, with salsa, is replenished and replenished. The house salsa is superior, with just enough chili heat to be noticed, adequate salting, and (an underappreciated quality) a viscosity that helps it adhere to the chips. The chips rocked too — incidentally. 

BRISAS DE ACAPULCO

Continuous service: Sun.–Thurs.;

10 a.m.–midnight; Fri.–Sat., 10 a.m.–3 a.m.

3137 Mission, SF

(415) 826-1496

Beer and wine

MC/V

Somewhat noisy, and an intermittent jukebox issue

Wheelchair accessible

 

Cigar Bar and Grill

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
1
Cigar Bar and Grill

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE As a child growing up in a smoke-filled room called America, I developed the skill of distinguishing among various sorts of fume — and there was a lot of distinguishing to be done, since all the adults around me were puffing away at some glowing protuberance or other. They were like human smokestacks. Cigarette smoke, to the child’s nose, was piercingly nasty, while pipe smoke sweetly asphyxiated, especially in the back seats of cars. Cigar smoke, however, had a no-nonsense robustness that made it bearable, at least if one rolled down the window from time to time and stuck one’s head out for gasps of fresh air.

Recently I have had occasion to rethink this hierarchy, and now I find cigar smoke fully as awful as the other kinds. It hovers, clings, and smothers, and this is bad enough if you’re just trying to breathe, let alone trying to eat, as you might be at the six-year-old Cigar Bar and Grill near Jackson Square. Tobacco smoke powerfully interferes with our sensations of taste and flavor. On the other hand, there is something to be said for the spectacle of strapping 25-year-old lads (many with their Yahoo ID cards dangling from their belts) manfully chomping on their rolled cylinders amid swirling wreaths of smoke. Did they remind me of baby robber barons, or of little boys clopping around in their fathers’ shoes, wing-tips five sizes too big? I thought of Bill Clinton, of course (who managed to do more for the notoriety of the cigar — without even lighting up! — than a thousand Dutch Masters commercials ever could), and then, inevitably, of Freud.

The saving grace of Cigar Bar is that the smoking goes on in a large open courtyard. Most of the smoke presumably rises and is carried off by the wind to join the rest of the city’s smog in the Central Valley, with only traces remaining to lend an unhealthy blue-gray haze to the window glass, like a cataract forming on an eye. Around the courtyard, in a kind of U-shaped arcade, are dimly lit, cozy dining areas with a definite Spanish flavor — low arches, adobe walls. (No smoking in these enclosed spaces.) Tobacco smoke might not pair well with any food, but Iberian design does put one in mind of Spanish-style food, and this Cigar Bar has, after a fashion.

It might be more accurate to describe the menu as offering foods of the Spanish-speaking world, given that the list of munchables includes tortilla chips ($7) with a first-rate, chunky guacamole and a pico de gallo with well-honed edges. I call that Mexican. Chorizo, on the other hand, is both Spanish and Mexican, but, as with its fellow shape-shifter, the tortilla, your expectation as to what’s coming will depend on which side of the Atlantic you’re on. Cigar’s bruschetta ($10) featured Spanish chorizo (a cured sausage with a dense, jerky-like meatiness), cut into fine dice and scattered amid basil leaves, chunks of Roma tomato, dabs of goat cheese, and some baby greens, with EVOO and fleur de sel as binders.

Other preparations seemed to lack any Spanish or Mexican influence at all — but that didn’t mean they weren’t splendid. The crispy polenta batons ($8.50), in particular, were sensational; they looked like small bricks dotted with bits of kalamata olive and cherry pepper and were topped with crumblings of bleu cheese and a few peperoncini. If you sometimes find polenta bland, here is your remedy.

The paradox of fish tacos is that they are at their most appealing and least healthy when the fish is batter-fried. If you grill your fish, as Cigar does ($9.50) — it’s tilapia, by the way, a reliable foot soldier in these kinds of operations — you do well to compensate in other areas for the lack of seducing crunch. Cigar’s answer was a generous shower of mango and jicama dice, along with dollops of chilpotle sour cream, whose smooth smokiness mingled with the fruit’s sweetness — while reminding us that we were in a smoky cigar bar.

You would expect tables-full of cigar-chomping — or, in a few cases, cigarillo-chomping — dudes to be interested in baby back ribs, at least when they’re not playing poker (do they ever play strip poker?), and the kitchen obliged. A half-slab ($11) was lightly slathered with a sauce the menu card unsurprisingly described as “smoky”; we found it just spicy enough to give a nice tingle on the tongue. The accompanying coleslaw was on the sweet side but still fresh and tangy. Would Freud have enjoyed this coleslaw, or would his attention have been riveted elsewhere?

CIGAR BAR AND GRILL

Dinner: Mon.–-Fri., 4 p.m.–2 a.m.; Sat., 6 p.m.–2 a.m.

850 Montgomery, SF

(415) 398-0850

www.cigarbarandgrill.com

Full bar

AE/DS/MC/V

Noise less of an issue than smoke

Wheelchair accessible

Pera

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0
Pera

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE If books and movies can have subtitles, then why not restaurants? A subtitle is like a bit of extra seasoning, a way of emphasizing certain meanings, and this is particularly important at a time when restaurant names can seem increasingly whimsical or obscure.

Pera’s subtitle (printed at the top of the bill and on its website) is “a Mediterranean affair,” which makes it sound like a cheesy movie about poor, doomed Princess Grace of Monaco. “Turkish cuisine” would be a bit more exact, but “Mediterranean affair” certainly sounds a romantic note, and Pera does have its low-key atmospherics, especially on summer evenings when elongated twilight stretches over the north face of Potrero Hill and glints through Pera’s windows.

Pera opened last November, under the auspices of Irfan Yalcin and his wife, in a space held by the Chinese restaurant Eliza’s since the early 1990s. (Eliza’s still exists at its longtime California Street location.) Turkish cuisine seems to be enjoying something of a boomlet around here in recent years, and why this is so is nearly as great a mystery to me as why we have so few Greek restaurants.

As it happens, and despite the long-term tensions between Greece and Turkey, Greek and Turkish cuisines are plainly related. Pera, whose menu tilts toward foods from Turkey’s Aegean coast, even offers versions of pastitsio, the baked pasta dish that is Greece’s answer to lasagne, and moussaka, the pastitsio-like dish of layered eggplant. But chef Muhammet Culha also turns out items I haven’t seen before on Turkish (or Greek!) menus around town.

Conspicuous among these is the talas boregi ($16), whose closest relation in the American food lexicon is probably chicken pot pie. The dish arrived as a triangle of phyllo wading in a shallow pool of coconut curry sauce (I had never before come across coconut milk in Turkish cooking). Within the pastry envelope was a piece of smoked, boneless chicken breast, while elsewhere on the plate lay a garnish of green apple, sliced thin, and some currants. In a sense, this dish was the philosophical opposite of that other great Mediterranean cuisine, Italy’s. The Italian kitchen emphasizes simplicity, directness, and the primacy of a particular ingredient or seasoning. By contrast, Pera’s talas boregi orchestrated a diverse cast of characters into a bewitching harmony, a sum greater than its parts.

But Turkish cooking can be just as direct and simple as Italian. Sometimes, in fact, it can seem Italian, as with spanaki ($6.50), spinach sautéed with garlic and pine nuts just as it is in Sicily. (“Spanaki,” we should note, is the Greek word for spinach — the Turkish word is “ispanak” — and Sicily was settled by Greeks in pre-Roman times.) The condiment consisting of yogurt, cucumbers, dill, garlic, and olive oil, whether called tzatziki or cacik ($2.50) is also about as basic as it gets and shares a deep and obvious root with the Indian yogurt sauce raita.

You can get the tzatziki, along with a host of treats to dunk in it, as part of the meze platter ($14), which is a sampler and therefore irresistible. The ensemble includes dolmades (stuffed grape leaves), saksuka (roasted eggplant with bell pepper, potato, and caramelized onion in a garlic tomato sauce — a lot like caponata), and zucchini cakes, along with olives, feta cheese, and triangles of warm pita.

Since the Aegean is a sea, we might expect to find seafood on the menu, and we do, including wonderful fish patties, or balik kofte ($10), a pair of hamburger-flat disks presented with concasse tomatoes and mango dice. (Do the Turks grow mangoes?) Also quite nice was a filet of grilled salmon ($18), topped with a Meunière-like sauce of white wine, lemons, garlic, and capers and plated with vegetables and what the menu card called (in Greek) patates tiganites, or fried potatoes — sautéed cubes, really.

For dessert you can have baklava, if you like your phyllo drenched with honey, but the more compelling choice is yogurt with honey ($6), which must be counted as a dessert that is actually, definitely good for you. (Both yogurt and honey are fermented foods, rich in probiotics.) Yogurt from the eastern Mediterranean is especially creamy and rich, as here — almost like tangy-sour cake frosting. One small surprise: no cherries on the menu, for dessert or otherwise, though the cherry is profoundly — or we might even say majorly — associated with Asia Minor.

PERA

Dinner: nightly, 5–10 p.m.

Lunch: daily, 11:30 a.m.–2:30 p.m.

1457 18th St., SF

(415) 796-3812

www.perasf.com

Beer and wine

AE/DS/MC/V

Manageable noise

Wheelchair accessible

 

Osteria Stellina

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0
Osteria Stellina

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE If you think food Valhalla is the Ferry Building, you haven’t been to Point Reyes Station lately. The Ferry Building is just a building full of food — a nice building with interesting food, I concede — whereas Point Reyes Station is basically a village consecrated to food, Foodville USA. It’s full of produce markets, butchers, bakeries, creameries, and restaurants, seemingly to the exclusion of everything else. The village, which sits on Highway 1 near the foot of Tomales Bay in the far west of Marin County, is just a few blocks’ square, but those blocks are chockablock with people wandering on foot from one little food heaven to the next.

If Marin County doesn’t make my list of favorite places, it’s mainly because of the dense population corridor along U.S. 101 in the east. To the west, though, beyond the Mercedes-clogged tracts of Fairfax and San Anselmo, the land relaxes into open, rolling country plied by cyclists and dotted with stands of oak trees and boutique agricultural concerns, many carrying the “Marin Organic” label. And the capital of this peaceable (if kingless) kingdom is Point Reyes Station.

Given the bucolic setting, I was a little surprised to step into Osteria Stellina, one of the newer and most heralded restaurants, and find myself in a rather plain gunmetal-gray dining room. It was like being in the officers’ mess on a battleship. Gray is a nice color for flannel suits, but on the walls of a restaurant — a restaurant, moreover, serving a Cal-Ital menu that bursts with flavor — it struck me as overcautious.

Still, the nautical hint isn’t entirely misplaced. Point Reyes Station was once a port, and nearby Tomales Bay produces a wealth of farmed oysters. Naturally, Osteria Stellina offers these (from Hog Island) raw, and also (from Drake’s Bay Family Farms) atop a pizza ($18). This was as improbable a home for oysters as I’ve ever come across, but it did work. It helped that the rest of the pie was liberally spread with leeks braised in cream (from neighboring Straus Creamery), lemon thyme, and parsley — a tasty, green-yellow paste like a less manic gremolata. A small downside: the paste made the crust slightly soggy.

Damp bread isn’t always a disaster. We were smitten with Stellina’s version of panzanella ($18), the salad whose key ingredient is stale bread, moistened with vinegar and proof that thrift need not be dull nor otherwise feel like deprivation. This panzanella was the kind the king might be served, if west Marin had a king; it was made with heirloom tomatoes and (non-stale but perhaps toasted) Brickmaiden sourdough bread and further fortified with shreds of local chicken, Point Reyes mozzarella, greens, olives, and a balsamic vinaigrette. Panzanella is irresistibly flavorful, easy to make and share, and wonderfully redolent of both summer and elegant frugality, and I wonder why we don’t see it offered more often on menus.

Another Italian favorite that seems underrepresented in this country is the combination of cannellini beans and tuna. At Stellina this dish ($13) was made with conserved tuna (which I supposed to have been poached in olive oil), and it took an additional charge from celery and organic baby fennel, along with lemon quarters to squeeze over the top.

Even something as unassuming as a grilled-cheese sandwich ($14) can become special if it’s made with superior bread and interesting cheeses (fontina and, from Valley Ford, Estero Gold) and plumped up with braised veal shanks and caramelized onions. A kind of osso buco sandwich.

Stellina’s desserts have an artisanal intensity. The strawberry “pop tarts” ($10), a pair of shortbread-like pastry squares wrapped around a layer of fruit preserves, were enhanced by a scoop of lemon-buttermilk ice cream. This dessert was a whimsical reimagining of a Saturday-morning breakfast favorite from the 1960s. The fig crisp ($10), on the other hand, was direct and powerful — mostly fruit (including some blackberries) with just enough pastry and ground almonds to give context through texture.

The wine list is neither too long nor too short, and it offers local and Italian wines at moderate prices. Organic house wines (sauvignon blanc and zin) are available on tap, and all the wines except the sparkling are available in carafe or bottle. I was thrilled to find a greco di tufo, an obscure Italian varietal grown mainly on the far side of Mount Vesuvius. It goes well with oysters, and pizza too.

OSTERIA STELLINA

Dinner: nightly, 5–9 p.m.

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

Brunch: Sat.–Sun., 10 a.m.–2:30 p.m.

11285 Hwy. 1, Point Reyes Station

(415) 663-9988

www.osteriastellina.com

Wine and beer

DS/MC/V

Somewhat noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

La Briciola

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0
La Briciola

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Seven years ago — I long to say, “four score and seven years ago” but that would be stretching a point — I considered an Italian restaurant, Vino e Cucina, on a SoMa stretch of Third Street notable for its grit. After dark, in the shadows of the crumbling viaduct carrying traffic to and from the Bay Bridge, you could easily imagine yourself being inside one of Tim Burton’s Batman movies, and to step into Vino e Cucina was to find refuge.

These days the neighborhood’s aspect is quite different. The viaduct has been rebuilt, tony-looking housing has popped up all over, and Vino e Cucina is now La Briciola. The refuge angle is less sharp now, but La Briciola is still welcoming in that distinctive Italian way that manages to be informal and formal at the same time. The interior is done in shades of brown and cream; if it were a cup of coffee, it would be a macchiato, an espresso marked with some foamed milk. And the service staff practices a well-mannered demonstrativeness that will probably seem familiar to anyone who’s ever eaten at a trattoria in Rome.

The food, rooted mostly in the cuisines of Tuscany and Piemonte, tells us a nuanced tale about Italian cuisine’s complex relationship with innovation. If a dish has been made the same way for generations — has, in effect, been perfected — then why tamper or fiddle around with it? Yet this is America, where newness is celebrated with an almost religious fervor. So which will it be, perfection or newness?

Executive chef Gian Luca Toschi’s best dishes are the traditional ones, though these aren’t necessarily old warhorses. For instance, I’ve never seen fagottini ($14) or Italian crepes on a menu before; these turned out to resemble a pair of giant dim sum pouches, wrapped up like gunny sacks and filled with chopped mushrooms and carrots. The earthiness of the filling was enhanced (and that’s putting it mildly) by a cream sauce of mushroom and truffle oil.

Veal, on the other hand, tends to be ubiquitous in north Italian cooking, and La Briciola offers a lovely version “alla valdostana” ($22), the name referring to an alpine region known for its fontina cheese. The veal was cutlets, pounded thin and rolled around a core of fontina cheese and speck (smoked prosciutto) into stubby cigars. If you like chicken kiev, you’d like this.

At the side of the plate lay a berm of vegetables, lightly steamed but still bright with color — broccoli, carrots, quartered new potatoes. If food were a game of chess, they would be pawns, worthy but not of enormous interest. These pawns did attract my interest, though, because they were exactly the same as those on a plate of food across the table, seared tuna with sesame sauce ($22).

The fish was fine. The sauce, like liquid amber dotted with black sesame seeds, was beautiful rather than flavorful despite the presence of shallots and vin santo. Sesame belongs mainly to the cuisines along the rim of the Indian Ocean; it’s not a natural part of the Italian kitchen, so it wasn’t shocking that the kitchen didn’t do much with it. But it was the sameness of the vegetables that captured my attention. It was as if they’d been slung onto passing plates in some kind of hash line. Of course restaurant kitchens are assembly lines, and of course economies of scale are important — but so too is the illusion that each plate has been carefully and lovingly assembled by hand, like a Louis Vuitton bag. And the illusion is so easy to create; a single variation — green beans instead of broccoli — would do it.

And speaking of green: green is a color, and a little color would have been welcome in the octopus salad ($12), which consisted of pale white octopus flesh, (white) cannellini beans, and whitish barley kernels. Some color was provided by pickled carrot shavings, but these were ungainly and awkward to eat. Still, the salad, as amended with squeezes of fresh lemon, satisfied, and it did reflect the Italian ethic of simplicity.

Chocolate volcano cake ($8) has been widely done, but it seemed strangely appropriate to find it in an Italian restaurant since Italy is among the more volcanic of lands, and Italians do love their chocolate. An issue with these cakes is that the chocolate magma can sometimes be molten enough to burn your tongue, but here it was pleasantly very warm, not hot. This was a welcome variation.

LA BRICIOLA

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

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

489 Third St., SF

(415) 512-0300

www.labriciola-sf.com

Beer and wine

AE/DC/DS/MC/V

Reasonable noise

Wheelchair accessible

 

Heirloom Cafe

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
8
Heirloom Cafe

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE The Gospel According to Matthew offers no restaurant commentary I’m aware of, but it does remind us that “you will know them by their fruits” — the King James Version of the holy book gives us the fruitier “ye shall know them by their fruits” — especially (to make a slight inference) heirloom fruits. Or restaurants. If you want to know what a neighborhood is like and how it might be changing, you look at the restaurants.

Recently The Wall Street Journal ran a story suggesting that the Mission District is rapidly being colonized by techsters who live in the city and commute to jobs on the Peninsula in shuttle buses provided by their employers, among them the colossi Google and Apple. The map showed the corporate bus stops, though not the location of Heirloom Café, which opened in April in a gorgeous box of a space at Folsom and 21st streets. But if the shuttle-bus routes are adjusted so that the techsters can be dropped off there and go straight in to dinner, I won’t be surprised.

Heirloom is the kind of place that, five or six years ago, you would have expected to find opening in Glen Park or outer Noe Valley. It is a respectful, conscientious restoration of an old Victorian space, with wood-plank floors, cream-colored walls, lots of natural light, ceiling fans, and tables (including the long communal table) simply but handsomely dressed with white linens. Its menu is refreshingly brief and implies a lineage, at least in spirit, from Chez Panisse and Zuni Café.

But it is an odd experience, I must say, to stand on the sidewalk outside the door and watch the local world go by. Heirloom sits in the very heart of the Mexican Mission, and might as well be the embassy of some faraway country no one has heard of. The neighbors pass by with scarcely a glance at the place or the menu card posted in the window. The people who do pause, and then step inside, all seem to be wearing Dolce & Gabbana eyewear, or at least look as if they’ve tried on a pair or two. Worlds collide, sometimes, but they can also coexist, in the same time and place, as if in parallel universes.

The cooking is as elegant and understated as the interior design. Small touches make a big difference, as in the wonderfully crisp matchstick frites scattered over a salad of smoked trout ($12), frisée, and haricots verts. The fries brought a lovely lightness and crunch to an already complex salad. A mushroom tart ($10) was similarly, subtly enhanced by the tang of bacon. The pastry crust had the tender snap and tastiness of real butter.

On occasion, the magic ingredient goes missing, as with the mussels ($10). These were served with a classic white wine broth, which was a little sharp and sour, especially if you’ve been spoiled (as I have) by such innovations in this area as Thai-style red curry or beer-with-chorizo broths.

And some special ingredients won’t be to every taste. The burger ($12), for instance was served on an English muffin in the presence of pickled carrots, but the dominant reality was the epoisses cheese, whose ripe pungency gave pause. At first bite I wondered if the meat had spoiled — the cheese was that strong. I continue to question the French-style cheeseburger, I must say. High-quality beef generally doesn’t need much support, let alone interference.

A nice illustration of knowing when to leave well enough alone involved the poached halibut ($22), which turned out to be nearly as rich and creamy as the potato purée it was served on. Halibut is something like the perfect fish — meaty and substantial, mild-flavored but not bland, wild but taken from well-managed fisheries. To find it handled with restrained grace is the jewel in the crown.

The menu offers a roaming cheese service from a wooden platter. For $3 per variety, you can treat yourself to such delights as fleur de marquis and tomme de savoie, and you don’t have to do it as dessert. You could have cheese as a starter or intermezzo if you wanted — and if you did it that way, you might scale down to a splendid postprandial cookie ($2), oatmeal with chocolate chips and walnuts. They left out the kitchen sink. Just as well. 

HEIRLOOM CAFÉ

Dinner: Mon.–Sat., 6–10 p.m.

2500 Folsom, SF

(415) 821-2500

www.heirloom-sf.com

Beer and wine

MC/V

Can quickly get noisy

Wheelchair accessible

Ironside

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
1
Ironside

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE When the Giants opened their new baseball stadium on China Basin 10 years ago, an improvement in ballpark food was immediately noted. You could have ahi tuna while watching Barry Bonds, and this was — at least for some, at least for a time — an ethereal combination. The ballpark even had a fancy restaurant attached, Acme Chophouse, but the shift in food culture rippled beyond the stadium proper into the surrounding blocks, which were rapidly becoming residential.

Because baseball is the core of all-Americana, it isn’t surprising that baseball-influenced food has a definite American flavor. Yes, in many ways San Francisco is the least American of American cities, and we love our ahi tuna, but we like mac ‘n’ cheese too. And no place I’ve been to lately in the environs of the baseball park more nicely captures in food this complex sense of city and country than Ironside.

The restaurant opened last autumn on Second Street, just a half-block or so from the ballpark. And if you sit at a window table on a mild evening, watching the crowd either assembling or dispersing, you have the pleasant sense of peeking in on a Fellini film: faces, body shapes, clothes, shoes, conversations, emotional fields, all drifting past like fish in a huge aquarium.

Not that the inside is hard on the eyes. It’s a handsome confection of wood, brick, glass, and stainless steel, the blending of rustic-industrial and über-urban that at its best, as here, is simultaneously minimal and warm. The look is a cozier version of nearby Zuppa’s. The food, though, is another story — a lovable hodgepodge executed with verve and presented with exuberance.

In the American grain we have the mac ‘n’ cheese ($9), made with Gruyère and (for aromatic effect) smoked cheddar cheese — just enough style to be distinctive but not so much as to become an overwrought mess. Also: meatballs ($8), in a spicy tomato sauce and presented with elegant but semi-useless points of toasted baguette. Incidentally, are meatballs American, Italian-American, Italian, or Swedish?

Salads (for me) seldom command much interest, but Ironside’s arugula salad ($10) is a modest masterpiece: a green carpet of baby leaves dotted with chunks of crispy prosciutto, ribbons of shaved fennel, spicy pecans, and sections of blood orange. The binding agent is nominally a white balsamic vinaigrette, but really it’s the lovely balance of salty, tart, sharp, and crunchy. To get the full reaction you have to be sure to get a bit of each constituent in every bite, which can be tricky.

Flammenkuchen ($10) is the German word for the Alsatian flatbread known in French as tarte flambée. I haven’t seen one of these on a local menu since the demise of mc2 in the dot-com crash of nine years ago. Ironside’s toppings — of bacon, beer-braised scallions, and crème fraïche — are pretty much the traditional ones. We liked the light, crispy crust but found that the pie as a whole needed a bit of salt, maybe because crème fraïche isn’t as salty as cheese.

Bigger plates are at greater risk for becoming dull than are their smaller siblings, probably because a main dish in our culture is usually a big chunk of flesh that tends to overwhelm everything around it. A seared filet of bluenose sea bass ($19) the size of a bar of soap is a sizable piece of protein, but at Ironside it isn’t permitted to take over the dish. In fact, it could almost be seen as an accompaniment or condiment to the large, colorful heap of shelling beans on one side of the plate and the berm of crispy kasha on the other, with a cordon of luminous carrot beurre blanc — a wonderful, simple idea — to sew things up.

Such a final saucing flourish would have helped at least one of the desserts, the brownie and banana sundae ($7), which was really more of a big — and chewy and moist — brownie flanked by banana halves and topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and some whipped cream, than a sundae, which, strictly speaking, would be ice-cream-centric. The drizzling of chocolate sauce seemed unequal to the task of holding all this together.

Our handsome young server could have been an extra from Milk. I hadn’t seen such evocative facial hair since those long-ago days when actual clones roamed the earth. He thanked us profusely for everything. As Joan Crawford might have put it, just whom is thanking whom here?

IRONSIDE

Lunch: Mon.–Fri., 11 a.m.–2:30 p.m.

Dinner: Tues.–Sat., 5:30–10 p.m.

680A Second St., SF

(415) 896-1127

www.ironsidesf.com

Beer and wine

Mc/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accessible

Ruchi

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
1
Ruchi

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE The boomlet in south Indian cuisine that began a few years ago with the opening of Dosa has now given us Ruchi — and meanwhile Dosa itself is on the march, having toted its dosas from the Mission uphill to Pacific Heights. Ruchi, like Dosa, offers dosas — pan-fried disks made from rice and lentils — but the two restaurants’ dosa styles are quite dissimilar, about which more presently.

Ruchi opened about six months ago on a stretch of Third Street in SoMa that, like so many stretches of so many streets in SoMa, is flooded with speeding traffic. The automotive torrent is certainly a hazard and almost certainly a disadvantage; (the original) Dosa, by contrast, occupies the old Val 21 space at Valencia and 21st Streets, with tons of pedestrians and a big public parking garage around the corner.

But Ruchi’s location does have its advantages. What was once an industrial neighborhood, largely empty at night, is increasingly residential, with new housing developments popping up right and left. There is even — almost — a quaint village feel to Ruchi’s block of Third. Across the way is a nice Italian restaurant, La Briciola, and if you were to wave at its patrons, it might be a little like waving at your fellow villagers across a placid creek, once a mere trickle through your settlement, that abruptly somehow became a whitewater. Still, they could see you and they might wave back.

Inside, Ruchi is a tasteful, muted modern, in earth tones. Just past the door is a length of slatted fence that looks like something to keep Spot the dog penned up in the kitchen instead of letting him run around peeing on every rug in the house. On the one hand the design is a little generic, but on the other it stands patiently in the background while the food steps up to be noticed. Our server one evening described south Indian cooking to us as “aromatic,” which for me helped explain the wonderful, pungent presence of fresh ginger in so many of the dishes.

Ginger, when combined with garlic and scallions, is strongly redolent of the wok cuisines, and whether or not Ruchi’s greens pullakoora ($8), a spicy spinach dish, was cooked in a wok, it had the sharp freshness of stir-fried vegetables you might find in a Chinese or Vietnamese restaurant.

The utappam dosa ($8), a house favorite according to the menu, surely hadn’t been cooked in a wok, but it did carry a strong charge of ginger, along with scallion and green chili. If you are used to Dosa’s dosas — thin, crisp, and folded in half — then you might find Ruchi’s version, which resembles a slightly spongy pizza scattered with toppings, unexpected. We were told to cut it up like a pizza, and we did, satisfyingly.

South Indian cooking might indeed be aromatic rather than spicy, but Ruchi’s menu doesn’t lack for spicy items. The mirchi bajji ($5), in particular — serrano peppers coated in chickpea batter and fried to look like little corn dogs — is as blazing a dish as I’ve ever had. Although I like spicy food, I could only eat two before the heat, building slowly but inexorably, forced me to pull off the road with steam billowing from under the hood.

Chili overheating, like influenza, is an affliction that just has to play itself out, and there isn’t much you can do except be patient. Sips of water and beer offered moments of respite, but I had higher hopes for the yogurt sauce surrounding the lentil patties in a dish called dahi vada ($6), until we recognized that there was chili heat lurking in the apparently cool, creamy, wintry yogurt. When the water gushing from your fire hose turns out to be gasoline, you experience a setback.

Kebabs of chicken tikka ($9) — boneless cubes of a rather orange hue, like tandoori chicken — were expertly seasoned and wonderfully plump and tender. But a kachoomar salad ($5), though a colorful jumble of diced onions, cucumber, tomatoes, and cilantro, was a little too salty despite the advertised (and presumably acidic) lemon vinaigrette. The saltiness came from what seemed to me like fish sauce — another hint of southeast Asia.

And, for the second week in a row, a winning dessert makes an improbable appearance. I’ve had plenty of kulfi (a kind of ice cream) before and never been particularly wowed. But Ruchi’s pistachio version ($5), though possibly the least colorful item on the menu (it looked like a bit of ice floe), gave intense pleasure both as flavor and texture, the latter a fudgy denseness with the faintest hint of granularity. Housemade, too; accept no substitute.

RUCHI

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

Dinner: Mon.–Sat., 5–9 p.m.

474 Third St., SF

(415) 392-8353

www.ruchisf.com

Beer and wine

AE/MC/V

Not noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

Golden Era

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0
Golden Era

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE When you step into Golden Era, you pass through a narrow door and descend a few steps, as if into a subterranean world of disrepute. But you land on a landing, instead of at a bar crowded with sooty Mafia dons, as you might have expected, and from the landing you descend another brief staircase to the dining room, which opens out expansively around you. The experience is a little like the one long offered at Postrio, Wolfgang Puck’s (now closed) restaurant near Union Square.

One difference is that while Postrio was very much about au courant glamour, Golden Era shimmers with a sense of lost glamour. The large dining room, with its high ceilings and wooden arches, is a little dowdy, but its bones are impressive. It’s like a beaten-up pair of good shoes. Local lore teaches that the building was once a residence hotel run by Swedes and the spacious dining room a space for the serving of a Swedish menu. And I can’t imagine a Swedish menu without meatballs.

You won’t find meatballs on the menu at Golden Era — in fact, you won’t find any meat at all, or dairy, since the restaurant is vegan. (Another huge difference from Postrio.) And you won’t find anything Swedish. But you will find wonderful Southeast Asian cuisine, including many dishes that traditionally include meat, with vegan artifice substituting for flesh. As a rule I don’t quite like this kind of vegetarian cooking — a "steak" concocted from a portobello mushroom or some such, often fails to convince. Menu cards that make liberal use of quote marks, as Golden Era’s does, also raise a flag or two.

Despite the quote marks, the food is splendid. It compares favorably to that of Millennium, the fancier and pricier (and worthy) spot in the Hotel California. While a vegetarian or vegan kitchen might seem limited at first blush, with so many fundamental ingredients off-limits, the best such kitchens respond with verve and innovation. Because they can’t rely on the innate impressiveness of a beautifully cooked steak or a fish roasted whole, they must redouble their attention to other details, like composition, color, and texture. This the Golden Era kitchen consistently does.

It would be hard to put together a dish that better demonstrates these attentions than crispy chow mein ($7.95), a bird’s nest of crunchy noodles filled like a savory pie with a wealth of vegetables, including broccoli, carrot, bok choy, and mushrooms, all steamed to a slight tenderness while retaining their resiliency. The miracle flavoring was (we thought) mushroom soy sauce, slightly thickened and glossy, almost as if butter had been added — but butter is a vegan no-no, so how was the transformation accomplished? If by corn starch, then the hands in the kitchen are skilled indeed.

The Vietnamese crepe ($7.50), a huge yellow mezzaluna, arrived with a bouquet of fresh herbs, cilantro, mint, and basil. We were given instructions on how to combine the two, but either we didn’t understand or just forgot, and we ended up just slicing the mezzaluna into strips (like a quesadilla) and scattering bits of the herb bouquet over the top. The crepe’s filling seemed to consist largely of underseasoned rice noodles, so the flavor boost from the herbs was important.

No flavor boost was needed for the potstickers ($5.50), which were filled with a ground substance very like pork (tofu?) along with plenty of ginger. Just to make sure, and for that last kiss of verisimilitude, the potstickers were served with a shallow dish of nuoc nam laced with carrot threads. We also found no flavor shortage in the seaweed salad ($7), a tangle of green filaments, like spinach vermicelli after a bad night of tossing and turning, dressed with crushed sesame seeds and plenty of sesame oil.

For sheer wallop — and proof that lively spicing goes a long way toward compensating for lack of flesh or dairy — there’s the spicy noodle soup ($7). The fat noodles and chunks of tofu offer attractive ballast, but the charge lies in the complex, incendiary vegetable broth. To alert the unwary, red sheets of chili oil shimmer on the surface, like rays of a summer sunset glinting from a pond.

"Vegan dessert" sounds like what the late Herb Caen used to call a "self-canceling phrase." But Golden Era’s desserts could pass at just about any restaurant in town. Both the blueberry cheesecake ($4.75), creamy and lemony with a liberal dribbling of blueberry coulis, and the mocha chocolate cake ($3.50), as velvety and rich as a cashmere greatcoat, were accomplishments any Swedish pastry chef would have been proud of.

GOLDEN ERA

Wed.–Mon., 11 a.m.–9 p.m.

572 O’Farrell, SF

(415) 673-3136

www.goldeneravegetarian.com

No alcohol

MC/V

Muted noise

Difficult wheelchair access

Chile Lindo

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
1
Chile Lindo

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE “Errata” is one of those delightful words with an undelightful meaning. It means, basically, “oops” — assuming we are in polite company. In less polite company, you would probably hear a number of variations on a plain Anglo-Saxon word beginning with f.

For a writer, there is scarcely a more mortifying experience than to realize — too late! as Othello says to Desdemona before snuffing her — that some hideous mistake or error has leaked into print. When I was in college, we used to type up our essays on erasable-bond paper, so if you messed up you just rubbed out the offending words and phrases and typed in the right ones. But newsprint does not offer this luxury, although the cheaper sorts of ink do sometimes smear your fingers.

In years past, I wrote a side column on this page in which, from time to time, I noted various blunders of my own. In part, these acknowledgements helped salve my own conscience (yes, I was wrong or wrote something stupid, but I admit it); but in larger part, they amounted to a small public service. Although an error printed in a newspaper is not erasable, at least it can be mooted by more accurate information.

Foul-ups are, along with death and taxes, an inevitable part of life. One’s fondest hope in this regard is not to reach the epic heights of Gerald Ford, who in a 1976 presidential debate claimed that Poland was not subject to Soviet domination, to audible groans from the audience. This writer is content to bungle much more modestly than that, as in (as once happened) getting the title of a book under review wrong. Or, more recently, in asserting that La Trappe (discussed in these pages on April 21), “could be” the only Belgian restaurant in town. Leaving aside the spongy equivocation, the claim overlooked the years-long (and spreading) presence of Frjtz, which the errant writer (i.e. me) had once reviewed. I would only add that, because in error as in myth there is often an element of truth, La Trappe is a full-service (i.e. full table service) restaurant, whereas Frjtz wasn’t, at least when I last went. (You ordered at a counter and carried a little number to your table so the food-bearers could find you later.)

Of more import was the granting (on May 5) of “wheelchair accessible” status to the Little Chihuahua on Divisadero Street when in fact (according to an irate reader) there is a blockading step at the entryway. Of less import was the misuse of the Japanese term “izakaya” (March 24), not a descriptor for a particular style of cooking but a noun for a place where that particular style of cooking is offered. I can’t imagine anyone was misled or otherwise inconvenienced by this (what in the law would be called “harmless error”), or by the misspelling (March 10) of “matcha,” the green-tea powder that has an unfortunate way of ending up as a flavoring for ice cream.

These are the recent boo-boos I know of. If there others (and how could there not be?), I would be glad to hear about them. Well, maybe not glad. Maybe grateful. Also mortified.

“Empanada,” the second of today’s E-words, means, basically, “embreaded” in Spanish. We in California tend to associate these calzone-like stuffed envelopes with various Latin American cuisines, but they were brought to the New World by the Spanish, and to Spain by the Moors, whose Muslim roots reached deep into the Middle East. So the heritage of empanadas is entangled with that of pita and lavash.

At Chile Lindo, a tiny empanada emporium on 16th Street near Theater Rhinoceros, the menu consists of three kinds of empanada, each $5. The traditional ground-beef stuffing is known, in Chile, at least (the owner is Chilean) as pino (made here with Niman Ranch beef), and there is also a vegan version made with soy. Each strikes a distinctive balance between savory and sweet. One is aware of the presence of both black olives and raisins — a signature combination of the eastern Mediterranean — and also of cumin and paprika. If you were served either of these in Turkey or Israel, you wouldn’t think twice about it. Only the cheese empanada, stuffed with melted jack and cheddar and lengths of japaleño pepper, strikes a note we might think of as Latin American.

Chile Lindo does offer limited seating on a line of barstools on the sidewalk under the window, but plenty of the traffic appears to be takeout. There is also a giant, gleaming espresso machine for morning people. Chocolate empanadas would be a nice touch in this regard — patience, my pretties! *

CHILE LINDO

Mon.–Fri., 8 a.m.–10 p.m.; Sat., 10 a.m.–6 p.m.

2944 16th St., SF

(415) 621-6108

www.chilelindoempanadas.com

No alcohol

Cash only

Street noise

Problematic wheelchair access

Garcon!

David Talbot
-
0
Garcon!

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE When Garçon! succeeded Alma about four years ago, I thought: well, there goes the neighborhood. Alma had been a rather special place, a temple of nuevo Latino cooking, and it had a witty name that meant “soul” in Spanish while slyly referring to the owner-chef, Johnny Alamilla. “Garçon,” by contrast, is a word of near-abuse that gets shouted at servers in French restaurants in dumb movies — or, occasionally, in real life, at real servers by dumb people.

The word “garçon” should probably have an exclamation point appended to it as a matter of routine, and — huzzah! (or voilà?) — the signage at Garçon! includes the exclamation point! In the restaurant’s early days, the signage was dismal, a sharp falling-off from Alma’s, and I took this to be a bad sign: just cheap-looking banners rippling in the breeze, as if they were having a Labor Day clearance sale on washers and dryers.

The improved signage suggests that Garçon! has settled into its rather choice location. There is a certain amount of history to live up to. In addition to (and before) Alma, the nicely windowed corner space at the corner of 22nd and Valencia streets was home to the Rooster, which was interesting in a slightly odd way.

Garçon! isn’t odd, but it is a good, solid French restaurant in a neighborhood that has just about every other kind of restaurant other than. So maybe it’s a little eccentric after all, or maybe just unexpected. Certainly it’s good-looking; the Iberian-grotto look of Alma has been swept away in favor of metropolitan polish; Garçon! might be one of the most Parisian-looking restaurants in the city, with its vintage Dubonnet posters and individual lamps on each table (each fitted with a CFL, for greeniac cred). Their glow warms the dark wood of the tables.

Chef Arthur Wall’s food is of the hearty school. This is not a restaurant you will leave hungry. If you have any doubts about getting your fair share, you might be interested in the prix-fixe, $32 for three courses, which is a little high to provide true economy of scale but does ensure that you get three courses. It brought me, one evening, a substantial coq au vin, a dish I don’t see offered that much any more although, like its close relation boeuf bourguignon, is one of the staples of French country cooking. At Garçon! the coq turned out to be a whole leg (thigh plus drumstick) braised in red wine with bacon, carrots, and pearl onions — a fairly wintry dish to be offering in mild springtime, I thought, but the meat was tender and juicy, and a wonderfully thick sauce had gathered at the bottom of the earthenware crock.

The pork chop ($23) didn’t appear on the prix-fixe menu — maybe because it wouldn’t fit. It was a massive fist of meat, nicely cooked to a hint of rareness and laid atop a bed of symmetrically diced potatoes. A bit less overwhelming in scale, and more stylish, was duck-leg confit ($19 — not a bad price), stylishly presented with a potato mousseline, braised baby leeks, and sections of mandarin orange. Only the duck fiend would have had this after having had duck-liver paté ($9), a creamy, mild square like a thick slice of white cheese, along with toast points, arugula, apple slices, and a red wine syrup that could have passed for some kind of berry coulis.

As a Francophile, it does slightly grieve me to say that French handling of the hamburger can sometimes leave something to be desired. At Garçon! you can have your burger ($12) decorated with a slice of cheese ($2) of your choice — brie, say, to go with the brioche bun for what I thought of as the Frenchburger. The meat turned out to be okay if overcooked (I asked for medium-rare, got well-done), and the bun was fine if a bit puffy. But the cheese! Mon dieu! Brie does not belong on a cheeseburger; it resists melting and acquires an unappealing mustiness from the heat. The fries were decent but could have been more crisp and golden. If you need a rinse aid, you might be interested in the burger and beer ($15).

The dessert menu includes a glimpse of the sublime: a chocolate ganache tart ($9) accompanied by sour cherries, mint, and a puff of whipped cream that one time was made with goat cheese and another with plain sweet cream. The accompaniments are nice, but the tart, with its flaky-crisp pastry crust and voluptuous chocolate filling — like a cross between pudding and fudge — can stand on its own. I’m tempted to add an exclamation point but won’t. 

GARÇON!

Dinner: Tues.–Thurs., Sun. 5–10:30 p.m.; Fri.–Sat., 5:30–11 p.m.

1101 Valencia, SF

(415) 401-8959

www.garconsf.com

Full bar

AE/DC/MC/V

Somewhat noisy

Wheelchair accessible

Southend Grill ‘N’ Bar

David Talbot
-
2
Southend Grill ‘N’ Bar

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE If “i” comes before “e” except after “c,” then “bar” comes before “grill” … well, I would have said always, but recently I came across an exception to this rule. This would be Southend Grill ‘n’ Bar, which opened toward the end of March in a Valencia Street space long occupied by Café Arguello.

The flipping of these two words from their familiar, not to say ossified, positions is more than just a bit of wordplay or a flouting of some alphabetical-order rule. When “bar” comes before “grill,” the subtle implication is that drinking is the first order of business and that food, while not exactly an afterthought, is supplemental. Eating while drunk can mean that standards loosen as to what one is eating (and, for that matter, drinking). Putting “grill” first, on the other hand, advises us that a place isn’t serving food just to help move the booze — that while the feel might seem little different from a standard B&G, the emphases have shifted.

Southend doesn’t look much changed from Café Arguello. The long, high-ceilinged box of a dining room (which sits right at the corner of Valencia and 26th streets) still has a slightly formal, slightly hushed tone; the walls have been repainted, but they’re still hung with artwork, including an impressive piece by Rafe Mischel, and candles still flicker in the evening air.

And the bar still stands, in a far inward corner of the dining room, where perhaps it serves as a kind of magnet. At dinner one night we bore stoic witness as three raucous female police officers whooped their way through the dining room to the bar, where they whooped some more before departing (with yet more whoops) in the direction of Mission Pie.

The food is very different from the Spanish cuisine of Café Arguello days, of course. Southend’s kitchen takes its cues from around the world — though not from Spain. There is a certain amount of bar food, including firmly crispy onion rings ($4), a dish I dislike as a rule, but not here, and potato skins ($7) baked with cheese and bacon and served with sour cream. If there is a food more redolent of 1980s happy hours at boîtes in the suburban Midwest, I can’t think what it would be. These were slightly underseasoned but plush to the tooth and very satisfying. Also a bit underseasoned was a bowl of (meatless) pinto-bean chili ($5), although a skin of melted cheese and a strong cumin charge made up most of the deficit; I just had to add a sprinkle or two from the tabletop salt shaker to bring the chili into trim.

Little flaws permeate the cooking, but without seriously diminishing its pleasures. The ground beef in the Thai lettuce wraps ($7) was a tick or two past well-done, but it remained tasty and quite spicy. And because the lettuce leaves were fresh and moist (as if just sprayed by one of those sprinklers you see in supermarket produce sections), the meat’s lack of moisture wasn’t fatal.

We were told that spinach ravioli ($10) was dressed with what our server described as a “creamy” pesto sauce. (You can also get the ravioli with alfredo sauce.) The pesto might indeed have been creamy when made, but when tossed with the ravioli it turned soupy. Still, the dish remained flavorful. And we did find real creaminess, along with the dulcet breath of tarragon, in a side of cole slaw ($4). The crispness of the cabbage shreds (a mix of red and green) suggested that it had been made just recently.

Bigger appetites will be drawn toward the chicken milanese ($12), a full (not half) boned breast of chicken, breaded and sautéed until crisp and golden, then served on a bed of wilted arugula. Chicken is often quietly dissed as characterless, but, as this dish proves, it can sometimes stand on its own without high-powered sauces and rubs.

A salmon filet ($14) didn’t get the breading, but otherwise it was similar, with wilted spinach substituted for the arugula and a nice pool of spicy aioli as a further enhancement. Our only squawk here was that we’d ordered the salmon burger. Our server did acknowledge the mistake and took responsibility for it; she also said she would charge us only for the burger but only knocked 20 percent off the filet instead. The multiple stories irked me more than the few dollars, but it is probably a sign of how tight things remain that those few dollars matter.

Consolation: an ice-cream sandwich ($5.50) made with oatmeal-raisin cookies. We whooped, discreetly. *

SOUTHEND GRILL ‘N’ BAR

Dinner: Mon.–Thurs., 5–10:30 p.m.;

Fri.–Sat., 5–11 p.m.; Sun., 5–9:30 p.m.

1499 Valencia, SF

(415) 648-8623

www.southendsf.com

Beer and wine

MC/V

Not as noisy as you might expect

Wheelchair accessible

 

Little Chihuahua

David Talbot
-
2
Little Chihuahua

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE On the hunt for the Little Chihuahua one unsettled April evening, we came upon … a little cockapoo, or maybe a Tibetan terrier. The dog, wrapped in a coat of shaggy fur the color of milky coffee, was moored to the façade of a Lower Haight storefront and had been provided a stainless-steel water dish, which seemed superfluous. Since the storefront was occupied by the Little Chihuahua, a Mexican restaurant opened by Andrew Johnstone two years ago, we naturally wondered whether the dog was just waiting for its person (or persons) to finish eating within or was a mascot of sorts. Did Little Chihuahua’s chihuahua take the day off? The dog lay on the sidewalk, staring intently through the open door, which I interpreted as a clue that a vigil was being patiently held. Or maybe the smell of the food appealed.

Mexican food gets my vote as one of the world’s most underappreciated cuisines. Recently I made this claim to a health-nut friend, who scoffed at first but gradually warmed to the evidence. This includes: the dominance of whole-grain corn (in many varieties and cultivars), the omnipresence of beans, a light hand with red meat, a wide range of vegetables, herbs, and spices, many of them indigenous, and of course salsa, whose flavor-to-calories ratio is unmatched among condiments I can think of.

Little Chihuahua lays out an impressive salsa bar to enhance the chip-dipping experience, although the chips are pretty good naked — warm, with just enough salt to make the corn flavor pop. The salsas themselves range from a rather mainline version (tomatoes, garlic, chili, cilantro, lime), to a spicy tomatillo kind that looks like melted emeralds, to a chipotle-charged concoction with the innocent face of ketchup.

A small irony of pozole, the wonderful soup-stew of hominy in chili broth, is that it traditionally features pork, a meat brought from the Old World by the conquistadores. La Chihuahua’s pozole ($7.95) deploys pork, in the form of a small semi-slab of baby back ribs, but its most striking elements are the rich, slightly viscous guajillo-chile broth and an abundance of hominy kernels and pinto beans. It’s more stew than soup and very sustaining.

If Mexican food’s reputation has suffered on this side of the border, a good part of the blame must be attributed to the burrito, a neither-here-nor-there hybrid that emphasizes mass at the expense of just about everything else and, worse, comes wrapped in a flour tortilla. The flour tortilla must have its virtues — I’ve never seen burrito-sized tortillas made from masa — but we eat more than enough wheat flour in this country already. Having said that, the quesadilla with shrimp ($8.95) is lovely, with a blistering like that of a good pizza crust and a pronounced melody of marine sweetness proclaiming itself through the cheesy murk. For a bit of refreshing balance, the spicy cabbage salad ($3) makes a good choice; it’s basically like cole slaw without the mayonnaise (and fat) and is a bowlful of virtue, though we didn’t detect much spiciness, just plenty of lime juice.

There is a slight party atmosphere to the Little Chihuahua. Seating is mostly at long communal tables, and the clientele is young. So it’s no surprise that the nacho plates pack some real throw-weight. Even the meatless one ($7.95) will keep three or four hungry people busy for quite a few minutes. Of course it isn’t quite meatless if you get it with the refried pinto beans, which are spiked with chorizo and bacon. But there is a wealth of avocado, salsa, and sour cream, along with enough melted white cheese to make it seem like somebody spilled a bottle of Elmer’s Glue all over the chips.

The one element of Mexican authenticity the Little Chihuahua seems to lack is the presence of actual Mexicans. The crowd is heavily Anglo, and somewhere in this detail is a story about a hipster neighborhood that simultaneously resembles and differs from the city’s great hipster neighborhood — the hipster superpower — the Mission. It might also help explain why the Little Chihuahua will soon be expanding, not to 22nd and South Van Ness streets but to 24th and Castro streets — the heart of Noe Valley. That’s as dog-friendly a neighborhood as there is in this town. *

THE LITTLE CHIHUAHUA

Continuous service: Mon.–Wed., 11 a.m.–10 p.m.; Thurs.–Fri., 11 a.m.–11 p.m.;

Sat., 10 a.m.–11 p.m.; Sun., 10 a.m.–11 p.m.

292 Divisadero, SF

(415) 255-8225

www.thelittlechihuahua.com

Beer and wine

MC/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

Oyaji

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0
Oyaji

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Life does serve up the occasional delicious paradox, such as getting one’s first glimpse of the new iPad while sitting at a sushi bar in the outer Richmond. The iPad is elegant, yes, a jewel of a device whose colorful icons zip across the screen at the swipe of a finger, like images glimpsed through the windows of an accelerating train. But it is also the latest in a series of increasingly powerful devices that mediate our relations with the rest of the world. You do touch the iPad, true, to make it work, but mostly you stare at it, as if it’s a television.

The sushi bar, by contrast, is an unmediated encounter between customer and chef. No machines get in the way, not even servers, unless you order a beer or sake. There is no swiping unless and until you pay by credit card. The sushi bar in this sense resembles a New York deli: people at a counter full of food, looking and pointing at the food, the chef nodding and preparing the food and handing it back, maybe even watching in approval as it gets eaten. Directness.

This revelation — if that’s what it is — came to me recently at five-year-old Oyaji, a Zagat-rated Japanese restaurant at the edge of Lincoln Park. (The name means, more or less, “daddy,” in the Sean Connery sense.) The iPad was enthralling and magical, but I was more enthralled by the sight of our young sushi chef at his labors, expertly forming his rolls and hand rolls, wielding his sharp ceramic knives and handing us the results. Gleaming gizmo wizardry at one elbow, and spicy tuna at the other. Give me … well, it would be greedy to say both, especially since I don’t want an iPad.

Oyaji is good-looking in an unassuming way. Its most striking design features are the L-shaped bar, fashioned from blond wood and glass, at the rear of the storefront dining room and, overhead, a grid of beams laid out to form large squares, like upside-down seed beds. The lighting is low and moody, the crowds tending toward young and lively. I did notice one evening that most of the people sitting at the tables toward the front appeared to be occidental, while those at the bar were all Asian — at least until the iPad hipsters showed up.

The food is pretty conventional, mostly excellent, with a few blips. We thought very highly of goma-ae ($4), a boiled (but served cold) spinach, which had a faint sweetness and a bit of crunch from a gratin-like topping of crushed white sesame seeds. We thought nearly as highly of the wakame ($4), or seaweed salad. Less impressive were the sliced tomatoes with mayo ($3.50) — but then it was probably stupid on our part to order tomatoes in early spring — and the avocado roll ($3.50), which was dry.

Also a bit dry was the so-called Christy roll ($6), chunks of grilled albacore in a rice casing. I love albacore and prefer it to the more exalted sorts of tuna, perhaps because it’s more likely to be taken locally. But it does seem to be less fatty, and that reduces the margin of error when cooking it. The dryness issue recurred in the Hawaii roll ($5.50), though it was muted, if not mooted, by the presence of spicy mayonnaise. The spicy hamachi roll ($6.50), virtually the same dish, except with yellowtail instead of tuna and no clever name, was better.

Yellowtail also evidently helped lift the Crunchy Wedding ($7), one of those near-blockbuster assemblages that here included (in addition to the fish) avocado slices and tempura batter, again for a quasi-gratin effect. Similarly loaded was the Stirling ($7), with crab, avocado, fish roe, and crunchy protrusions of tempura shrimp. And for sheer elegance, it would be tough to top the spicy scallop hand roll ($7), a papery, dark-green cone filled with rice and scallops turned in spicy mayo, for a nice contrast between sweet brininess and creamy bite.

You’d have a hard time eating a handroll while dealing with your new iPad. The iPadders to my left seemed to have come to that conclusion; they had little discourse with our handsome young sushi chef and seemed to prefer the small plates of cooked food that were prepared somewhere out of sight in the rear (behind a battlement of beer boxes) and rushed out by acrobatic servers carrying one atop each upturned hand, as in the movies. A plate of meatballs flew past; I was tempted to swipe one but didn’t.

OYAJI

Dinner: Tues.–Thurs., 5:30 — 10:30 p.m.;

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

3123 Clement, SF

(415) 379-3604

www.oyajirestaurant.com

Beer and sake

AE/MC/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

La Trappe

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
4
La Trappe

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Trappist monasteries are renowned for their contemplative silences, during dinner in particular, as well as for their beer-brewing. To get a sense of how these conflicting tendencies work themselves out in the great world, all you need to do is step into La Trappe Cafe, which could be the city’s only Belgian restaurant and whose signage describes it as a “Trappist lounge.” If this is true, it’s certainly in the beer sense and not the silent sense. Of course, beer does not conduce to silence, especially in the young — at least not right away — and La Trappe is nothing if not a haven for the young. And it’s in North Beach! North Beach has young people, tons of them, not just aging Italian tailors. They come pouring through the door in groups of two, three, and more and head immediately downstairs.

Downstairs is where the action is at La Trappe. Upstairs, on the main floor, is a perfectly nice North Beach storefront restaurant with lots of windows and an exhibition kitchen. But descend the curvy stairway and you find yourself in a moodily lit realm that’s like a cross between a speakeasy and a medieval monastery — only louder. St. Benedict, the sixth-century figure whose rules guided Trappist monks from their beginnings in 17th-century Normandy, surely would not be pleased by the din. But he might well approve of the many varieties of beer on offer; some of the labels, such as Chimay (brewed by “pères Trappistes”), are among Belgium’s best-known exports.

How different is Belgian food from Dutch food or, for that matter, German food? The potato plays an outsize role in all these cuisines. In Belgium, the spud is turned into glorious fries, served with mayonnaise for dipping (a hint there of French influence, about which more anon), and La Trappe’s version ($6) of this national dish is beautifully rendered. The fries are properly ectomorphic, with sturdy, crunchy exteriors and voluptuous, creamy insides. That are served in the traditional paper cone along with two dipping sauces of your choice. These range widely and include several kinds of mayo (regular, wasabi, Dijon) as well as curry ketchup, which will be familiar to aficionados of the German treat Currywurst and is quite gingery — an index of freshness, I would say.

Belgium, though small, is an interestingly fractured land. The capital city, Brussels, is mainly French-speaking, while in the more northerly city of Antwerp the dominant tongue is Flemish, a language related to Dutch and Low German. La Trappe describes its asparagus ($8) as prepared “Flemish style,” and this means the spears are steamed, then sprinkled with what looks like a light snowfall of grated Parmesan but is in fact shredded hard-boiled egg. I would have preferred the cheese. The egg added nothing to what is one of the most prized vegetables in French cuisine.

But such blips are a rarity at La Trappe. The food is solid and satisfying across a broad range that runs from California familiars like calamari salad ($10), dotted with halved cherry tomatoes and dressed with a red-wine vinaigrette subtly sweetened, I thought, with a dash of balsamic, to Belgian dishes such as Oostend fish gratin ($12), which looked like a small shepherd’s pie: a crust of melted cheese atop mussels and chunks of cod swimming in béchamel sauce. One of its near relatives has to be macaroni and cheese, with seafood substituting here for the pasta.

In a city of bad burgers, La Trappe’s ($11) is exceptional. The menu card announces that the beef is grass-fed and organic, from Marin Sun Farms, and usually I would interpret these proclamations of virtue as a warning that the burger will turn out to be dry and tasteless. But not here. If you order it medium-rare, you’ll get it that way, with a well-seared crust around a succulent, rosy core. Add a slice of Gouda on top ($1.50) and have the brioche bun, and you might be holding the best burger in town, certainly one of them. The fries are probably superfluous, since you’ve almost certainly had a coneful or two as a starting nibble, but they’re also irresistible.

The dessert menu contains at least one item of genuine interest, a parfait ($6) layered with strawberries, whipped cream, and pulverized Belgian biscuits our server likened to ginger snaps. You even get a whole biscuit so you can see what it looks like in its pre-pulverized form. By order of St. Benedict?

LA TRAPPE CAFE

Dinner: Tues.–Sat., 6–11 p.m.

800 Greenwich, SF

(425) 440-8727

www.latrappecafe.com

Beer and wine

DS/MC/V

Deafening downstairs

Tricky wheelchair access

 

RN74

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
RN74

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE As we wait for someone to open a restaurant called Highway 29 — the ultimate Napa Valley wine-country spot — we are comforted in the knowledge that we already have RN74. You are absolved for not knowing that RN74, the road, is the Highway 29 of Burgundy. It runs south from the provincial capital of Dijon to Beaune, in the heart of the Burgundian wine country.

I am not thrilled with the local trend toward naming restaurants after European highways — the names sound too much like car names — but there is no denying the force behind RN74. That force is Michael Mina, and if there is a more lustrous name in the recent annals of San Francisco restauranting, that name has escaped my notice. Mina was the man who, for a decade, guided the kitchen at Aqua (after an opening starburst of George Morrone); he then went on to open his (first) eponymous restaurant in the Westin St. Francis in the summer of 2004, with another following at the Bellagio in Las Vegas.

The themes here would seem to be luxe and empire, but in both of those senses, RN74 upsets expectations. It is beautiful and elegant inside but not overwrought, and it is (so far) one-of-a-kind. The main disappointment, for me, pertains to location; as at nearby Roy’s, the windows gaze out onto Mission Street and the romantic spell fades. Maybe that’s why such effort has been spent on the window treatments, with row after row of louvered screens lending a sense of warm summer evenings while subtly filtering out much of the actual view.

The other tremendous design element is the huge wine board hanging high above the east end of the dining room. It resembles the big boards you see in French railway stations, black with ever-changing white letters, like a huge mechanized chalkboard. In train stations, the board gives destinations and platforms; at RN74, the data involves last bottles of wine.

Given the immense scope of the wine list, the mechanized chalkboard must be close to indispensable. You could easily get lost in the printed version, which runs for many pages in small print and includes bottlings from France, Italy, Spain, California, and elsewhere, more than a few of them running into the hundreds of dollars. But the big board flashes deals — we snagged the last of an Italian gamay for $42 — while the prix-fixe option, three courses for $39, also includes a crack at the sommelier’s choice of red or white Burgundy for $30.

The food is exemplary: much less intricate and overbearing than at Michael Mina while losing little or nothing in inventiveness and polish. I was especially impressed by the smoked-sturgeon rillettes ($9), which incorporated a responsibly farmed fish into a classic French technique to produce a beguiling result — a kind of shmear to be spread on toast points. (The fish had been combined with crème fraïche for extra velvetiness.)

When your risotto wins the approval of someone who dislikes risotto, you must be making pretty good risotto. RN74’s leek version ($15) included plenty of Parmesan cheese, green peas, trumpet mushrooms, and watercress; it had the look and texture of corn snow, and the grains were perfectly cooked al dente, with just a hint of chalkiness. No mush. And when your grilled Monterey Bay sardines ($14) are gobbled up by someone who doesn’t like sardines … well, Q.E.D.

The main courses are marginally less compelling, mainly because they are star-driven and tend to rely on large masses of protein rather than artful interlacings of varied ingredients. Still, protein has its charms: halibut ($27) poached in olive oil to an almost confit-like denseness and plated with asparagus and snap peas; a pair of rounds of center-cut ribeye ($30), still gorgeously purple-pink in the middle and riding a coarse magic carpet woven from green garlic and trumpet mushrooms, while a ravioli filled with potato mousseline sat to one side like a cupcake; a filet of striped bass ($28), intoxicatingly scented with herbs and served with little pebbles of crisped chorizo.

Beignets seem to be well on their way to joining crème brûlée and molten chocolate cakes on just about every dessert menu around. At RN74, the beignets ($9) look like little throw pillows someone spilled sugar all over, and you dip them in a whiskey-caramel sauce with a little whipped cream. More interesting was a chocolate-praline bar ($9) — if your tailor made bespoke candy bars, they’d be something like this. You can get throw pillows anywhere.

RN74

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

Lunch: Mon.–Fri., 11:30 a.m.–2 p.m.

301 Mission, SF

(415) 543-7474

www.RN74.com

Full bar

AE/DS/MC/V

Bearable noise even when full

Wheelchair accessible

 

Heart

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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1
Heart

Art/S Global Tapas

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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1
Art/S Global Tapas

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE You walk into a restaurant that offers “global tapas,” and you see a sushi chef standing behind a sushi bar, like an extra player who’s been thrown into some mammoth baseball trade to sweeten the deal, a utility infielder or the fabled “player to be named later.” Apart from this apparent anomaly, the restaurant is good-looking, with a long screen of dark wooden louvers to separate the bar from the dining room, halogen lamps like dangling stars, and plenty of green paint. The place is called Art/S, and the worst criticism that can be made of the physical layout is that the large front windows are filled with Lombard Street traffic.

A few years ago, an excellent restaurant called Sangha, in the Glen Park Village, offered a menu that mingled nuevo Latino and Japanese elements with surprising success (although it didn’t save it from closing late last spring). Still, the Sangha run suggested that Japanese cuisine was not necessarily insular and could sometimes be mixed and matched with other cuisines.

At Art/S, the riff is match, not mix. There is no overt cross-cultural pollination; the two-sided menu card offers a California hodgepodge, with Iberian and Mexican touches, on its front face, while the Japanese items are to be found on the other side. The twain do not meet. Over the head of the sushi chef is a long chalkboard — a kind of scoreboard for the food-involved — listing delicacies such as paella negra (made with squid-ink rice), but he can’t see it.

Paella is one of the few full-sized plates. Most of the dishes are smaller, though large enough to be shareable, and they range in tone from classic bar food to exercises in sophistication that would play well in the temples of haute cuisine downtown. We were especially impressed, in the latter vein, by the yellowtail crudo ($9), which arranged flaps of fish in the shallow wells of a long, narrow porcelain tray, thatched them with shredded radish and slices of jalapeño pepper, and gently doused them with a tart truffle ponzu sauce.

The bar-food angle is well-served by such shamelessly fatty crowd-pleasers as cheese croquette ($9), a blend of white cheddar and mozzarella cheeses like molten lava in a crust of fried breading and served with a ramekin of balsamic vinaigrette, as dark and viscous as used motor oil and quite tasty, though superfluous. Another small plate with similar visceral appeal is the Cali chili-fried potato ($5), spears of Yukon Gold sprinkled with chili flakes and presented with an addictive caesar aioli.

The Iberian-tinged dishes, interestingly, caused some division of opinion. The pintxos chorizo ($7) sounded Spanish, even Basque (“pintxos” is the Basque equivalent of “tapas”), but the chorizo lengths in question were Mexican, made from fresh pork, with plenty of garlic and chile. (Spanish chorizo is air-cured, like prosciutto, and typically seasoned with smoked paprika.) Atop each sausage cylinder, a tab of sweet potato had been fastened with a toothpick, and I wasn’t sure why. The tabs were as pale as Monterey Jack cheese and didn’t add much flavor or texture — not that Mexican chorizo needs help in the flavor department.

The Galicia octopus ($9), an earthenware crock filled with octopus and potato chunks in a spicy dark tomato-based sauce, also left a hung jury. The sauce had the faintly bitter bite of smoked paprika, which perhaps is an acquired taste, and I long ago acquired it; I thought it made a handsome contrast with the faint sweetness of the octopus. Others disagreed. Further objections were raised (rather spuriously, I thought) against the potatoes. They weren’t exactly necessary, but they did add some ballast to the dish. On the other hand, everyone like the spiced chicken tacos ($6 for two), which were made with proper corn tortillas and enlivened with blue cheese.

Fish: several varieties are offered as “sizzling” plates, among them an excellent mahi-mahi filet ($10), dense, meaty, and juicy atop a jumble of bean sprouts, green peas, yellow zucchini, goji berries, and Meyer lemon in a garlic sauce. For unsizzling, flip the menu card and find an extensive list of nigiri, sashimi, and rolls, including spicy tuna — the “ultimate” ($7.50) — and Cancun ($9), with smoked albacore, roasted jalapeño peppers, avocado, and spicy radish. The Cancun struck me as a Californication (a quite nice one, though), while the former strongly appealed to a member of our party who’d never eaten a sushi-style dish before: an already small world growing a little smaller.

ART/S GLOBAL TAPAS

Dinner: Sun.–Wed., 5:30-10 p.m.; Thurs.–Sat., 5:30–11 p.m.

2353 Lombard, SF

(415) 931-7900

www.artsglobaltapas.com

Full bar

AE/DS/MC/V

Moderately noisy

Wheelchair accessible

Nihon Whisky Lounge

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Nihon Whisky Lounge

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE Among the stand-tall, manly-man libations, none stands taller than whiskey, or (for Caledonophiles) whisky. Caledonia was the Roman name for Scotland, of course, and in Scotland the manly men drink whisky. And wear kilts. What is the implication of all this for us fey, pampered, urban Americans? At the edge of our very own Mission District, a five-year-old restaurant called Nihon styles itself a “whisky lounge” and serves the small plates known to the Japanese as izakaya. So: take Japanese food, present it in a gorgeous, moody setting, sprinkle far and wide with Scotch whisky (including 400 varieties of single malt) as if watering your Chia Pet, and and lo! you get hipsters. Hipsters don’t wear kilts — yet — but they do like to wear their tight-fitting shirts untucked. Why?

Nihon’s whisky installation is impressive: a soaring architecture of bottles behind the bar. The bottle battlement dominates the main floor (which you enter through a set of huge, frosted-glass doors trimmed with wrought iron) and rises nearly as high as the mezzanine, the place to go if you seek some coziness. On your way up, note the porthole and, at the rear of the second floor, a semi-private lounge set with comfy chairs and a sofa under exposed roof joists. The only fly in this rich design ointment is the view: the windows gaze onto the unromantic intersection of Folsom and 14th streets and the immense, neon-glare parking lot of Foods Co. No wonder the panes are hung with screens of fine steel mesh.

Izakaya-style food reminds us that Japanese cuisine includes cooked as well as uncooked items, although it’s probably a stretch to call Nihon’s cooking Japanese in any purist sense. Evidence of California whimsy is laced throughout the menu, perhaps nowhere so plainly as in the rolls, which bear clever names and, like the fancier sorts of burritos, emphasize variety and plenitude. The thunderbird roll ($16) is a cornucopia of tempura soft-shell crab, gobo, and daikon sprouts, topped by a roof of eel, avocado, tobiko, and a glaze of tsume — a sweetish sauce made from boiled eel. A bit too sweet, I thought, like over-honeyed barbecue sauce. Better was the quite spicy samurai roll ($13) with spicy tuna, rounds of pickled jalapeño pepper the color of black olives, daikon spicy sesame sauce, and habañero tobiko. The chili heat here was measured but intense and sustained. The kamikaze roll ($15) resembled the thunderbird more than the kamikaze, with the chief difference being salmon instead of tuna. Salads abound. A familiar wakame edition ($5) mixed the blackish threads of seaweed with baby greens for a nice textural contrast; the salad looked like a small wig someone had plugged into an electric socket. We did find the dressing too salty. The Nihon salad ($8), by contrast, a tangle of somen noodles and cucumber slices within a ring of thin-sliced, nori-wrapped rice coins, benefited from a white miso dressing that, like ponzu sauce, found a balance among salt, sweetness, and acid.

You can go spicy or not. On the mild end of the scale, we found that a plate of broccoli and cauliflower florets ($5) had been roasted just enough to give them a hint of give and char while (as with a proper stir-fry) leaving them with plenty of snap. Not much else was done to them beyond a splash or two of ginger-soy sauce; they were left to speak for themselves. At the far end: Dr. Octopus ($10), a row of broiled octopus flaps seated on cucumber coins and squirted with some sort of fiery red chili paste. Red chili paste can be a doomsday weapon, obliterating every flavor around it — and that was pretty much the case here, although (also as here) such obliteration can be exhilarating. Notable was the tenderness of the octopus, which can toughen so quickly when cooked. If it’s beautifully tender, who cares about some chili overload?

Green tea might offer many health benefits, but it’s problematic as a dessert player, with a tendency to be pale and bitter at the same time. Green tea ice cream? Wake me up when it’s over. So when our attentive, smiling server mentioned green tea cheesecake, I saw a set of lips across the table crinkle with distaste. But the cheesecake ($4 for a slender slice) turned out to be sublime, with the tea’s edge wrapped in creaminess and sweetness, like a chef’s knife in a handsome leather sheath. Across the way, those skeptical lips smacked with pleasure.

NIHON WHISKY LOUNGE

Dinner: Tues.–Sat., 5:30 p.m.–2 a.m.

1779 Folsom, SF

(415) 552-4400

www.nihon-sf.com

Full bar

AE/MC/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accessible

 

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