Recently in Eating in San Francisco Category

Times like these, I suppose you're never sure really which will be your last meal together. With only a week and a half left before we leave our little cloudy, cliffside home near San Francisco, I can think of little else. For example, a few days ago I thought sadly, this is the last time I'll get to sit in my garden and have a proper giggle with Squeaky McGigglesworth (you know who you are!). And last week, as Milton walked a narrow plank from a rooftop into my arms, I thought, hopefully, this is the last time I'll clamber up a neighbour's house to rescue my curious, high climbing cat.

It's worst with Martha and Stephen. Today, as Glyn lit the coals for the grill, and Stephen distracted the cat from the raw fish and shrimp by twirling a dandelion, I thought, oh no, this will be the last barbecue here with Martha and Stephen. And so I felt a general sense of despair at the moving, and the packing (of which I've done no more than the gesture of dragging the suitcases out to the living room).

When Stephen and I moved to San Francisco, our choice of neighborhood was dictated largely by where we could afford. As recent college graduates with no jobs lined up, we ended up in the Outer Richmond. We have an apartment we love with a rent reasonable enough not to require giving up eating in order to afford it. That's a good thing, because what we lack in clubs and shopping here in the Richmond, we more than make up with food.

We've got great sushi, Korean barbecue, dim sum, a wee tiny place with unbelievable thin-crust pizzas, some of the best roasted crab with garlic noodles in the city, a bistro so classically French you'd think you need your passport, and an intimate Italian place where the owner will serve you the most tender gnocchi you've ever had. They run the gamut from dingy noodle houses to refined destinations, and our favorite of the latter type is Aziza.

At Aziza, chef Mourad Lahlou has melded Moroccan flavors and techniques with California ingredients and style; the results are simply enchanting. Aziza has become a favorite date spot for Stephen and me. The dé cor is dim and sexy with rich colors and just a hint of exotic flair, essentially an ideal location for long looks and holding hands over the table.

When Stephen and I came to look at the apartment we now live in, I barely glanced at the tiny hole-in-the wall restaurant across the street. I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye and thought something to the effect of, "Huh, dingy." When we asked about the neighborhood, our future landlord mentioned that there was a place to get the best dumplings she'd eaten since she was last in Shanghai. It barely flickered through my mind that she was referring to the restaurant I'd seen before, that tiny establishment then called Shanghai Dumpling Shop.

After we'd moved in and explored, we realized that she could have meant no other place. Our first tentative foray into their menu ranks as one of our most treasured Bay Area surprises. The dumplings are indeed fantastic. So fantastic, some of the devotees like to keep them a secret. We can't help but feel possessive of this neighborhood jewel, tucked into the Outer Richmond, far from Chinatown and yet so much closer to China itself.

The joke is best illustrated by Prince Akeem of Zamunda, in Coming to America, who makes the innocent assumption that a city named Queens is the place to find his own true love. But instead, he meets devil worshippers, cross-dressers, freaky twins, gold-diggers, scary sex fiends, and self-obsessed starlets.

Because it's a kind of international, long-running joke that places named the Grotto, the Dive, the Shack, the Hole--will in fact surprise you with a well chosen wine list, a snooty waiter, vaguely themed small plates, and trendy bathroom decor. On the other hand, establishments with variants on all Regal names--the Palace of Blank, the Queen's Garden of Blank, King Blank's--will in fact turn out to be grotty, dives, shacks and holes in the wall, open 24 hours, cash-only, never any TP in the small unisex loo, maybe Chinese, could be Indian, where you get to watch T.V. at the same time as you eat, sort of joints. With absolutely nothing Royal about them.

But every rule has its exceptions. And just because the parking lot is deserted apart from a couple non-threatening hooded hooligans on too small bicycles, isn't to say staff won't be friendly and generous, and their doughnuts delicious.

I don't like the word alien, which describes me now even while I apply for citizenship. I don't like the word alien, but what is the right word for someone who ain't from 'round here? Some say the problem is not the language--alien, immigrant, foreigner, emigre, what's the difference? They say these words aren't indicative of xenophobia. They say the Immigration office has changed it's name to Homeland Security, but it still does the same thing; the War on Terror is now the Long War but it's the same war so...who cares? These sorts of people have never been fooled through the doors of an S&M bar, in the wrong sort of outfit, by a pub pun, or tricked into eating testicles on a stick under a cute pseudonym, or answered an ad for a job only to find that by staff writer, they meant ghost writer for a Romance novel set in World War II Paris--the first two chapters already written.

These people have never paid $7.25--that's seven dollars and twenty-five cents!--for a croque monsieur at Tartine only to be given something else entirely. Everyone recalls that morning at an outdoors cafe on the Left bank, when they ate their first croque monsieur with a cafe creme, people watched, read their Russian novella--even people who have never been to Paris remember this. When it comes to croque monsieurs, everyone's an expert.

They say that the developed taste for oysters, and a few same-sex flings are timeless. The veritable hallmark of style. They say this with a smutty smile, a raised eyebrow, and an obscene oscillating tongue--they're the Romans you see. And though they encouraged oyster eating--among other things--as far north as Hadrian's Wall during their occupation, for centuries after they left England, oysters fell out of favour and were rarely eaten--except for those poor Dickensian characters hungry enough to pickle them. Because, face it, you have to be pretty desperate to collect the little critters, and spend your evening forcing open their shells, for mouthfuls of low calorie brine and squish. But like fashionable things often do, they came in and out again. They became just for the miserable, just for the rich, they became strictly for those with sophisticated palates and so on. In. Out again.

But one too many oyster pies, baked up by grubby fingered workers, or one too many raw hors d'oeuvres parties at the beach house, and the polluted waters of the Channel and the Sussex coastline simply couldn't keep up. The treasured bivalves had to be largely farmed by the seventeenth century, that is to say, artificially bred, mostly for rich, fat people, for hundreds of years. As I imagine it in my lifetime, people believe that oysters belong to a certain class--the best get the best sort of thing. See, the people who can't afford oysters, can't possibly understand oysters anyway--their complicated, subtle flavour and texture, their corresponding prices.

But it occurred to me last week that it's no longer so. Oysters have become what ordinary men offer ordinary women when they want to get into their ordinary, elastic pants--it used to be sushi, I think. But no more, now it's oysters: the bourgeois delicacy--briny and raw, surrounded by myth and history, indicative of class and taste, seemingly impenetrable shell, possibly fatal, zincy little bastards.

Whether Herodotus is the father of history, or the father of lies, is completely irrelevant. I remain deeply attached to the image of the Egyptian Plover bird--its black crown, white head, and gaudy orange belly--hopping around and performing simple dentistry in the open mouth of a crocodile. It's a sweet picture: a deadly croc half way up the shore, it's great mouth open, in desperate need of a good flossing, and a little bird being welcomed in to pick off the decaying bits of meat. Because it's not a trick, the crocodile is not waiting for the right moment to snap the bird shut in its jaws. It's symbiosis. It's mutualism--the croc gets his teeth cleaned, his body combed for insects and parasites, and the bird gets a snack as well as protection from other predators. Everyone is happy.

I remember asking my cousin about this--the Asia-Pacific migratory water bird conservationist and educator--referring him of course, to a clear illustration by Quentin Blake, only to be given a confusing answer which I didn't really understand. Which brings me back to believing, wholeheartedly, in adorable situations in which smaller animals help out larger animals and trick evolution into gambling on them together, despite their weaknesses.

I had been driving for several hours, stingy eyed and hungry, through a snow storm--the narrow, ice crusted, mountain roads of Lake Tahoe less charming with every clank of the snow chains. Dawn approached, or at least, a sick feeling in my belly told me that it was time for breakfast.

Closer to the hotel, we called for directions. So you go past the Denny's, turn at the Long's Drugs, you'll see a K Mart etc. What? So it was just a regular American strip mall (nestled in the wooded bosom of the lake) lit with the same 24 hour signs as the ones we'd passed on highway 80. Except there was snow. And amongst the neon and snow, there was the most unexpected of breakfasts: the subcontinental, at Nikki's Chaat Cafe.

I am writing to let you know of the dining experience I recently had at the Dining Room in San Francisco. Along with another couple, my boyfriend and myself came for dinner to celebrate his birthday this past tuesday. We chose this restaurant for a number of reasons:

1. we both work as chefs and the Dining Room comes highly recommended
2. my parents had one of the best meals of their lives there two years ago
3. Ron Siegel was the first American chef to win on Iron Chef in Japan
4. I read that it has one of the best tasting menus in the city
5. my pastry chef told me that there would be a petit four cart--a petit four cart!
6. the restaurant has a five star and five diamond rating

Needless to say our expectations were quite high and we were very excited. My three dining companions and myself ordered the salt and pepper tasting menus. Three of us asked to do a wine pairing with each course and we all asked to see a dessert menu after our entrees. After a series of three lovely amuses bouches and canapes, our courses began.

The service and food was excellent until our beef came. No one asked us how we wanted our meat cooked, and when the meat came it was medium, pushing medium-well. One guest asked to send their meat back and have it cooked properly but the server informed us that the kitchen staff had all gone home and no one was there to make our food right. It was only eleven o clock and there were still a few tables seated and I found this appalling. Rather than offer us an apology, the server asked my dinner companion to cut the meat in front of him so that he could see it too. This seemed unnecessary, the point being that we were unhappy and being forced to settle with what we felt wasn't right.

After our entree, the desserts were brought out without offering us a dessert menu as we'd been promised earlier in the evening and without offering us a peek at the cheese cart, which we'd seen wheeled around the dining room for other tables. When we brought this to our server's attention, he brought us the dessert menus.

Finally, a small plate came for us to share of a few petit fours. This was a real disappointment for me as I was really looking forward to the petit four cart and had told my dinner companions all about it. I understand that we were a late table, ending our meal close to midnight, but perhaps if the staff is to go home early and the petit four cart wheeled away before the last table has had a chance to see it, then it's best not to offer reservations at 8:30. Around this time, the music stopped, and we were obviously being nudged to leave.

No one apologised for the number of unfortunate incidences, errors, and mediocre service that followed them and as we left the restaurant there was no one around to ask us about our evening or even wish us a good night.

Some mornings are wrong, right from the start: a stubbed toe, a faulty alarm clock, a cold water tank, an unexpected scratch from the cat...Today, I dropped a piece of sticky toast, buttered and spread with strawberry jam right onto the perfectly white floor cushion, my favourite piece of furniture--only to see it had landed the right side up. Yup, some mornings, I feel like I just may be the luckiest girl in the world.

If you're feeling lucky, like all the forces of the universe are on your side, and nothing could possibly ruin your day, then try your luck at Santa Ramen in San Mateo where the ramen is so delicious only a handful of lucky bastards get to eat it every night--except Tuesday.

If things aren't going your way though, you may wait hours for a bowl of the steaming stock and tender noodles only to be told as you reach the door to write down your name, that the noodles are, in fact, finished. The staff don't see you as hungry customers but rather walking cartoonish portions of noodles that they count as they seat. This means that once their last portion has walked in and the noodle pot is empty, the door closes and everyone is told to go home.

At six thirty, walking down B street with Leilani and Stephanie, we came upon the tiny, modest restaurant--only half-full and no queue at all! Seated immediately, we ordered tea, beer, deep fried tofu, and a bowl of salted edamame still in the fuzzy pod.

The waitresses, stunned by the lack of customers, seemed in the habit of turning their tables fast and returned every minute to bully a noodle order out of us. We panicked and asked for three stewed pork ramens with boiled eggs, pickled ginger and spring onions. The big portions came quickly, brimming with tender noodles and tasty broth. This is what you risk the rejection for. Trust me, it's worth it.