Posted by Anita on 05.24.07 10:13 PM
Sometimes, we just don’t post because we’re not eating anything interesting, and there’s just nothing to talk about. But I can assure you, that has NOT been the case these last couple of weeks. We’ve been eating our way around the bay, scheduled to the breaking point: Out of the last 11 evenings, we’ve had nine social engagements. No wonder I’m exhausted!
Our little foodie death march all started back on Tuesday the 15th, with my second of four sessions in Kasma Loha-unchit’s Thai cooking classes. I’ll post a complete wrap up at the end of the series, but suffice to say that if you’re looking to learn more about Thai cooking, look no further.
Then that Wednesday, we met up with DPaul and Sean to say farewell to our mutual friend Matt (who’s taking a sabbatical from San Francisco for a while) over a sangria-soaked supper at Piqueo’s, Bernal Heights’ new Peruvian cevicheria and small-plates joint. Although the impossibly long menu was nearly entirely different from our first visit a month or so ago, we enjoyed almost everything we’ve tried there so far.
Thursday of the same week found us stuck in traffic on the Bay Bridge approach, on our way to The Blue Door at Berkeley Rep. A car-snarl from hell — more than an hour from SoMa to the Bridge, thanks — meant we missed our Downtown reservations by more than an hour (we called!) and our consolation snack at North Beach Pizza was grim in every way possible. Truly, we were expecting mediocre but fast, and ended up with slow and barely edible.
Saturday we hit the Ferry Building market in the morning, running into Tea at the Rancho Gordo stand. Farmer Steve’s sure the popular boy these days, with dozens of folks stopping by to congratulate him on his much-publicized (and bilingual!) defense against Carlo Petrini’s ill-mannered slagging of the FPFM’s farmers and customers alike. Everyone must’ve bought a bag or three of beans as they stopped by to say “Good on yeh!” to Mr. Sando — many varieties were already sold out by the time we strolled up.
That same afternoon, we hosted two sets of friends and their 2-year-olds for a summer supper of bacon-cheeseburgers, mac salad, and red cabbage slaw, with complete strawberry crisp for dessert. The junior guests had as much fun as their mommies and daddies: Little Toby rocked out on guitar with Cameron, and Miss Martha endeared herself to everyone with sweet hugs and adorable curiosity.
Monday night, an impromptu get-together chez nous. Tea was in town for the week, so we invited her, plus DPaul and Sean (are they sick of us yet?) — and their sweetie-pie girl Reese — over for dinner. We snacked on pencil-thin asparagus dipped in homemade aioli while we tried out yet another recipe for grilled pizza. I’m still not convinced we’ve found a keeper in the pizza department, but the season’s first peach cobbler proved a hit all around. And when we saw Tea later in the week, she declared that the chopped salad we served with the pizza had earned a slot on the menu of foods she expects to find in heaven. (Flattery like that will get you invited back!)
Tuesday was Thai cooking class again, and Wednesday another dinner to-do: Cameron’s cousins and their 2-year-old (we’re toddler magnets!) were in town from Houston, on their way to Yosemite for the long weekend. Little Camden gobbled a Prather Ranch hot dog while the grownups feasted on tri-tip grilled up Santa Maria style (rubbed with an equal mixture of salt, pepper, and garlic powder moistened with oil), sliced thin and served with guacamole on Rancho Gordo tortillas, with a side of beans a la charra. And yes, another quickie dessert: Pear-rosemary crumble, and vanilla ice cream.
Tonight we met up with a gaggle of cool food bloggers from SF, the East Bay and beyond for dinner at Berkeley’s stalwart O Chame. We loved every appetizer we shared — especially the seared ahi cubes and their lovely horseradish drizzle, the grilled shiitake mushrooms with fresh asparagus, and the snackalicious green-onion pancake blocks. Our soba and udon bowls were so-so (flavorful broth, but overdone noodles) but scoops of balsamic vinegar caramel ice cream were hauntingly good… and rapidly gone.
A short stroll down 4th Street led us to Cody’s Books, where we listened to the charming Clotilde speak about her progression from software developer to food blogger to published cookbook author. She gave us all a chuckle when she spoke of the oddness of being a Frenchwoman writing an English-language food blog — to the consternation of some of her compatriots, she confessed — and her passion for ‘dangerous’ recipes like souffles and gougeres, where a cook never knows whether she’s destined for dinner or disaster. (Clotilde’s signing books Saturday afternoon in San Francisco, in case you’d like to meet her and get a copy of her lovely new book.)
Tomorrow? Ugh. I’m more than a little bit sick of cooking, and yet I don’t think I could bear the pressure of going out somewhere new, or even someplace fancy. So… we have reservations at Range, our delightful standby, where they know us just well enough that we can all relax, but not so well that we have to be social. I’m liking that idea a lot. I wouldn’t have missed a single night of the last 2 weeks, but I am sure glad that it’s done.
I’m half hoping that the bounty of the farmers market on Saturday snaps me out of my apathy, but I won’t be surprised (or even too sad) to find that I’ve burned out on planning, prepping, and putting food on the table… at least for a while. We’ve got a freezer full of incredible leftovers from the last six weeks of new-kitchen cooking frenzy, so it’s not like we’ll go hungry.
As we slow down a bit, I’m aiming to do a better job posting here on a more-regular basis. I’ve got a backlog — five posts’ worth and counting — of recipes, photos and stories that should last through a week of diminished cooking capacity. In the meantime, I’ll tide you over with a recipe for an simple (but apparently impressive) salad that’s quick enough for everyday, but with a just enough company-class touches for a weeknight dinner party on the fly. You can vary the vinegar, the cheese, the herbs, and even the olives to complement your main course.
Heavenly Chopped Salad
(adapted from Food & Wine, September 2006)
2 T mild vinegar (such as cider, champagne or sherry)
1 tsp. fresh lemon juice
1 small shallot, chopped fine
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground pepper
—–
2 cups chopped lettuce or baby greens
4-5 small Belgian endive (preferably red) halved, cored and coarsely chopped
1 English or Japanese cucumber, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch dice
1 pint grape tomatoes, halved
2T to 1/4 cup coarsely chopped chives (or other herbs, as you prefer)
3/4 cup pitted kalamata olives, halved (or other olives)
1/2 pound feta (or bleu) cheese, crumbled
Whisk the vinegar, lemon juice, and shallot in a medium bowl. Whisk in the oil until emulsified, and season the dressing with salt and pepper.
Combine the remaining ingredients together in a large bowl. Add half of the dressing, season to taste with salt and pepper, and toss. Add the remaining dressing (or less, to taste) toss again, and serve.
serves 6
Bernal, cookbooks, cooking, East Bay, entertaining, other blogs, restaurants, Thai
3 Comments »
Posted by Anita and Cameron on 04.11.07 7:57 AM
We haven’t been writing a lot of restaurant reviews lately, mostly because life has kept us from eating anywhere new or noteworthy. We’ve also both come to the conclusion (separately, we might add) that writing a negative review, or even a so-so one, is exhausting. You feel the need to justify every criticism, and defend every quibble. And, really, who wants to read our bitchy moaning, especially when it comes to a place that so many other foodies adore?
But a number of people have noticed our Perbacco shots on Flickr, and asked when we were going to post, so it’s getting to be more work ducking the question than it is to just… come out with it.
Let’s start out by saying we had high hopes for Perbacco. Not unrealistic ones, we hope, but strong expectations buoyed by heaps of affirmative press plus an early report that the chef, a former butcher, spends his weekends curing his own salumi. Truly, a man after our own hearts.
Our initial visit left us disappointed but convinced that the food was worthy if you steered clear of so-so main courses in favor of pastas. We both decided that it was only the colossally amateurish service that prevented us from having the sort of night that we’d gush about. But after a second visit yielded significantly better service but much worse food, we just can’t join the chorus of adulation being sung in Perbacco’s key.
To start with a positive note, the salumi options improved between our first and second visits. Our first time around, the starter menu offered only a single house-cured sausage plate and a large sampler platter, which forced a frustrating choice between a one-note (and, dare we say, stingy?) sampling and an appetite-spoiling array. On our second visit, we were happy to see some more-interesting options: both greater variety and a selection of smaller assortments, each with a different stylistic focus.
But uneven notions of scale and surfeit extend beyond the salumi at Perbacco. All through both meals, the theme continued: Too much, not enough, too much, not enough… like some practical joke played by the kitchen at our expense.
First: Overkill. On our initial visit, Anita loved the taste of her burrata appetizer, but quickly tired of its unctuous, truffled intensity. Cameron’s strongly flavored salad was another tastebud-killer: All the components hung together well, but by the time he was halfway through, the richness of chestnut honey, gorgonzola, and hazelnuts exhausted his palate. On our return trip, Anita’s beet-and-arugula salad offered just too much of the same flavors, over and over, without relief.
Next: Underflavored. Although the feta-like Castelmagno cheese on Anita’s beet-and-arugula salad provided more of a salty kick than was pleasant, the beets themselves were flat and nearly flavorless. On our second visit, Anita’s pasta didn’t appear to have any salt in the dough, and had been dressed with unsalted butter. A cauliflower passata presented a perfect, velvety texture, but didn’t actually taste like its sponsor vegetable — a cauliflower soup for people who dislike cauliflower.
We always feel sorry for chefs who present a traditional Italian three-course menu of appetizers, pastas, and mains. We Americans are so attuned to the pasta-centric dinners we grew up on that it seems almost futile for chefs to run the antipasti-primi-secondi route. We do our best to support the traditional flow when our appetite allows, but the too-variable portion sizes at Perbacco made this an exercise in futility.
We loved the tajarin (hand-cut tagliatelle) with pork-and-porcini sugo as a middle course on our first visit, but an entrée portion that we ordered on our second visit was only a smidge larger — nowhere near sufficient to serve as a main course. Likewise, the sides accompanying all three of the main courses we ordered (two the first visit, one the second) were so skimpy that you wished the chef would just offer his entrees a la carte and be done with it.
And frankly, Perbacco’s entrees are its weakest link. Anita loves milk-braised pork and she’s ga-ga for grits, so Perbacco’s pork shoulder al latte with whole-grain Anson Mills polenta and shredded Savoy cabbage seemed like a shoo-in. But the unappetizingly symmetrical chunk of pig — plated like Lean Cuisine on a small oval dish — lacked the cut-it-with-a-fork tenderness that’s the hallmark this traditionally braised dish. And again, the sides were laughably meager, a criminal offense given their peasant-like affordability. (Could there be anything cheaper than corn mush and cabbage? Why such tiny nibbles?)
Both times we opted for a trio of gelati for dessert. Presented in adorable ceramic dishes made to look like partially crushed Dixie cups, the flavors ran the gamut from delightful (a fleur de sel caramel that tasted identical to a version we made last year) to unpleasant (an overwhelming pistachio).
Sadly, we doubt we’ll take another stab at dinner at Perbacco. We can envision returning for a plate of salumi at the bar, alongside one of their well-made cocktails… especially the Rosmarino. And certainly, if friends suggested we meet at Perbacco, we wouldn’t decline. But for the price — dinner both times hovered near the $200 mark for a full complement of food but minus any blow-out wines or other additions — we can’t afford the gamble of another hit-and-miss meal.
Perbacco
230 California Street (near Front Street)
San Francisco, CA 94111
415.955.0663
downtown SF, Italian, restaurants
3 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 04.04.07 4:28 PM
I just loves me some lunch at a pub, I do I do. To be fair, I love eating at the bar just about anywhere. But a pub lunch is special: a good one is an oasis of calm happiness, and a great one can transform an entire day.
The Napper Tandy in the Mission District of San Francisco falls solidly into the “good” category. On the right day, it might make a serious push for “great”. The Tandy has all the trappings of the sort of place that on Friday and Saturday nights serves raunchily named shooters to the loudly drunk. But in the afternoon and early evening, it attracts locals, laborers, and workers either on their way to or returning from shifts at other food-service businesses.
There’s a happy mix of beer on draft: nothing too adventurous, but you can get Smithwick’s and Guinness pulled with reasonable skill. The menu has plenty of choices and, if the fish-and-chips are any indication, the kitchen can be trusted. To be fair, it’s unlikely that any of the food at the Napper Tandy is as first-rate as the fresh, house-cut chips. But those chips are so damn good that even getting close to the mark would be a worthy accomplishment.
The Napper Tandy
3200 24th Street
San Francisco, 94110
415.550.7510
bar culture, restaurants, The Mission
3 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 03.27.07 4:56 PM
Not long ago, I waxed caustic about the dearth of decent pizza in San Francisco, and I pretty much threw the entire city under the bus. But someone somewhere must have been listening, because not long after I posted my rant, Gialina Pizzeria opened.
Chef Sharon Ardiana—whose resume includes stints at Sol y Luna, The Slow Club, and Lime, among others—has put together a very cute little pizzeria in a Glen Park storefront that used to house an unloved (and unmissed) business that served disks of dough topped with tomato sauce and whatever else came to hand.
We’ve been to Gialina a couple of times now, and I’m already looking forward to a return visit. The decor has been updated with lots of trés chic wood veneer and enormous black-and-white family photos from Chef Ardiana’s childhood. The pictures could feel gimmicky, but they don’t—they’re simultaneously hilarious and homey. It feels like you’ve been invited to dinner with the relatives and close friends.
And, just as happily, the food is worthy. The pie dough is pulled into rough circles and passes the critical test of tasting good all by itself. The toppings are good… not mind-bending, but good. The salads have been felicitously composed, and we thoroughly enjoyed the antipasti platter that we ordered on our first visit. The ricotta cheesecake adequately fills the stomach slot labeled “cheesecake,” and there’s a Nutella dessert pizza that looked like a chocolate coma in the making.
A word (or, actually three) about the service: Friendly, welcoming, and as professional as anything that you’re going to find in a neighborhood restaurant. Special bonus points: While you’re waiting for a table, you can leave your cell phone number and bounce down to Glen Park Station (a proper old-school SF bar) for a drink and a quick game of liar’s dice.
Welcome, Gialina. We’ve been waiting for you.
Gialina Pizzeria
2842 Diamond Street
San Francisco, CA 94131
415.239.8500
Bay Area, Italian, restaurants
6 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 02.25.07 6:16 PM
If there is an edible gardening art more arcane or mysterious than successfully growing fruit trees, I don’t want to know what it is. The landscaping consultant whose professional advice I regularly seek is the representative of Friends of the Urban Forest in Bernal Heights and maintains an “experimental garden” where he coaxes fruit trees of all descriptions to flourish in our odd local microclimate. But even he is often reduced to a shrug. Who knows if they’ll even survive, let alone bear fruit? They’re living things, and they don’t read rulebooks — they just grow. Or not.
So I feel incredibly blessed that the trees we’ve planted in our backyard all appear to be thriving. Our Meyer lemon is loaded with eight or nine fruits, our bergamot has two or three orbs of its own and has absolutely exploded with fresh growth, and if our itty bitty Makrut lime tree keeps growing the way that it has, I’m going to be able to build a house in it.
Right now, I’m the most excited about the Santa Rosa plum tree that last week sprouted what seems like hundreds of little green/white buds. A thin, whippy thing when we planted it a year ago, it seemed to limp through the year, leaves shotgunned by some unnamed brown fungus. But it kept growing all the while and now, after some judicious pruning, it looks strong and beautiful.
The conventional wisdom is that flowers fortell fruit. Maybe. There are so many things that can happen or not happen between now and a midsummer harvest. Not enough water, too much water, pollination failure, heat, cosmic rays, or even an injudicious application of soft jazz at the wrong moment could send things horribly astray. I hope that this summer we’ll be soaking plums in brandy, but for now it’s enough to live in the moment and love the beautiful buds and flowers as a harbinger of spring.
Bernal, garden
3 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 10.31.06 12:29 PM
San Francisco is my adopted home, and I have sworn that the day that Barry Bonds leaves the Giants is the day that I’ll buy a cap and cheer for Los Gigantes. But my sports roots are still on the East Coast, with the New England Patriots and Boston Red Sox.
As a transplanted fan, I’m always on the hunt for places to watch my teams. I haven’t truly embraced the Connecticut Yankee yet, mostly because it’s so far away from both my office and my house. With the Pats coming up against the Vikings on Monday Night Football, I thought I’d give the Hi Dive a try.
The first thing to get straight is that while the Hi Dive used to actually be a dive, it is a dive no longer. That section of the Embarcadero used to be a bit sketchy, but as soon as the Giants baseball park was built the late 1990s, SOMA started turning into condo-land. Now the Hi Dive is clean and comfortable.
It seems like a fine place to catch a drink after work, but I can’t recommend the food as anything but a sponge for alcohol. The fried calamari was strangely soft, and the burger could have been from a cafeteria steam table, even though they advertised Niman Ranch beef. Top it off with a completely uninspired draft beer selection–come on, five taps and two of them are Coors Light and Stella Artois?
I can’t recommend it as a sports viewing venue, either. There’s a large flat-panel television at one end of the room. But only two tables and one end of the bar have a truly unobstructed view.
The staff, however, was very friendly. And the Pats administered a beat-down of the Purple People Eaters. Bring on the Colts.
Hi Dive
Pier 28-1/2
(Embarcadero at Bryant)
San Francisco, CA 94105
415.977.0170
bar culture, downtown SF, drinks
2 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 09.11.06 3:57 PM
The food took forever to come out. It wasn’t good when it arrived. The servers were tripping over each other. There was a waiting list as long as your arm at 9:15 on a Sunday morning.
But hang up the sarcasm phone for a second and listen: we’re really, really pulling for Toast Eatery, a contemporary diner recently opened in Baja Noe Valley.
Ever since we finally threw up our hands over Al’s Cafe Good Food on Mission street, we’ve been longing for a good breakfast place that didn’t require a visit to the peninsula. Anita had been hearing about Toast’s debut so we planned an early (for us) attack on the corner of Church and Day streets.
We were completely unsuccessful in beating the crowds that inevitably surround any halfway-viable brunch joint in Noe Valley. The interior isn’t large, but Toast boasts a number of sidewalk tables. A little flexibility bought a significantly shortened wait for seating: we scored two stools at the bar, a choice that paid dividends later in the meal. The interior is invitingly painted and tiled, and sports cute light fixtures and accoutrements. It’s a clean, well-lighted place for grinds.
The menu at Toast could be taken from any one of a million diners across the nation: scrambles, omelets, pancakes, french toast, eggs benedict, corned beef hash, and chicken fried steak. Lunch/dinner options include soups, salads, burgers, and sandwiches, with plenty of traditional favorites: french dip, club sandwich, cheese steak, hot pastrami, and chili.
We chatted with one of the proprietors who was running herd on the front of the house and handling the counter traffic. I asked if they had real maple syrup, and he said that they were planning on adding it for an extra charge, but they hadn’t yet. Major points. I encouraged him to follow through. In my book, real maple syrup is one of the simple things that a breakfast joint can do to rise above the crowd. I’m happy to pay the extra buck, and I won’t order pancakes without it.
The servers were obviously still getting their act together, but everyone was hustling and mostly friendly. Anita ordered chicken fried steak and some orange juice, while I went for eggs benedict and coffee.
Half an hour later we’d finished the Sunday paper, I was on my third cup of coffee (not bad tasting, nice big cups), and we were hungry. When the food finally appeared, it became clear that the kitchen is still getting its act together, too. The hollandaise was a strange dark brown color, watery, grainy, and inedibly salty—as if it was made from a mix and someone used a cup of powder instead of a tablespoon. Anita’s food was no better: Sysco battered steak patty cooked with zero love and covered in gravy from a mix. Our hashbrowns were just barely cooked. Finally, in a barely believable bit of irony, the english muffins on both our plates were completely…wait for it…unToasted.
Sigh.
I complained (nicely) about the benedict and our seating choice paid off. The man in charge got instant feedback, and I was quickly supplied with a replacement (bagel with lox and cream cheese). Anita struggled through her plate, as there wasn’t anything returnably wrong with it. The scrambled eggs weren’t bad, at least.
We’ll almost certainly return, for two reasons. First, we badly need this kind of place nearby. With the exception of Joe’s Cable Car, it’s impossible to get a non-ethnic meal in our neck of the woods for less than $70 (for two)Â that doesn’t suck five different kinds of ass…and even then you’re taking your chances. Emmy’s Spaghetti Shack doesn’t count because you have to be on the ice to score and if you don’t take credit cards, you get to stay in the penalty box. Plus you can end up waiting for an hour for a table if you don’t whack someone first.
The second reason that we’ll return is that I think the folks at Toast have their heads on straight and they’re very obviously still sorting out their kitchen. The response to my complaint was fast, professional, and there was genuine interest in what went wrong. Plus, there were lots of positive little we’re-paying-attention details: organic, Fair Trade coffee served from thermal carafes instead of left cooking on burners; a small, low-end, but intelligent wine selection; very cool silverware; and, of course, real maple syrup on the way.
No guarantees (witness the continued incompetence and eventual fall of Chez Maman Bernal), but consider this review a bug report and give Toast a try after they’ve had a chance to pump through a few release candidates.
breakfast, Noe Valley, restaurants
9 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 09.08.06 12:13 PM
I’ll cut to the chase: I think Pearl’s — the newish SF outpost of a Mill Valley icon — has a lot of potential, especially if you order correctly. Someone’s obviously put a lot of thought into the menu, where you’ll find gourmet-ish upgrades like buffalo burgers and natural beef (for an extra $1.25-$1.50) and seasonal fresh-fruit shakes, alongside Pink’s-style gutbombs like The King: “A 1/4 pound burger crowned with a hot dog, cheddar, American cheese, and thousand island dressing.” Whoa.
The place is clean and crisp, without feeling sterile. Counter service was on the ball, and the prices seemed in line with similar joints: We paid a bit more than $20 for the two of us. You could see the fresh fruit for shakes in pourable containers in a little fridge near the register, and everyone backstage looked like they knew what the hell they were doing. They even offered frings, so I didn’t have to choose between two equally appealing side orders… sa-weet.
Unfortunately, I was so distracted by the surprise option of fries with rings that I didn’t specify what kind of cheese I wanted on my Pearl’s Deluxe, so I got some particularly nasty American technicolor-orange stuff. The theoretical 1/2-pound patty was flat, machine-made, and downright industrial. It came with a decent, but obviously store-bought bun, plus nice leafy lettuce, cardboardy tomato, and sliced onions. The meat was cooked to medium — as they said it would be by default — but tasted manky enough that I don’t think I’d dare order it again.
Cameron wisely opted for the natural-beef upgrade on his mushroom-bacon burger; his Jack cheese tasted a little less processed than the American, the ‘shrooms were good (although they paled in comparison to those at Joe’s), and the patty looked like it had been formed by human hands. Unfortunately, they’d cooked the living daylights out of it. Medium? Nononono… this poor patty was scorched to fare-thee-well-done. Still, it remained reasonably juicy and definitely worthy of another try.
How ’bout those sides? Both fries and rings were from a bag, but actually tasted like someone had bothered to find the best premade versions they could get, rather than the cheap, sugar-coated nasties you find most places. Similarly, Cam’s vanilla malt — although made with soft-serve ice cream — was actually creamy and malty, without the gloppy texture you usually find with extruded dairy.
Will we go back? Probably, yeah. But I’ll stick with the natural beef, make sure to specify real cheese, and ask for my burger to be cooked medium-rare.
Pearl’s Deluxe Burgers
780 Post Street (at Jones)
San Francisco, CA 94109
415.409.6120
downtown SF, meat, restaurants
Comments Off on Pearl’s of promise
Posted by Anita on 09.07.06 4:23 PM
After waiting expectantly for word of the Bourbon & Branch grand opening, we made reservations a few days ago. We received an email moments later with the speakeasy’s top-secret address — but alas, no secret password. We arrived a bit early for our 8pm reservation last night, and found the location without much trouble, thanks to an amusing sign. After buzzing the doorbell, we were admitted to an incredibly dark space and greeted by the bartender; a hostess asked for our reservation details and seated us after some initial confusion.
As our eyes adjusted, we saw that our booth’s table was actually a tapered, foot-wide plank with an inset mirror. It was difficult to read the menu — a multipage tome housed between wooden covers with the new B&B logo laser-etched into the grain — by the light of the small oil candle, but we recognized a few worthy favorites from our Zig Zag days, including the Aviation and the Drink with No Name.
Once we fully got our bearings, the space felt more than a little hokey, like a community-theater set for a working-class ’20s bar. We both loved the pressed-tin ceiling and the multilevel layout, but the red flocked brothel-style wallpaper seems rather twee, and the whitewashed brick wall behind the bar, garnished with votives in glass holders, feels more Southwestern than speakeasy. Even the bathroom design was more than a little off: black walls, black floor, black loo, black basin… lit by four candles and a single dim bulb. Honestly, is it too much to ask for a little light?
After a thorough perusal of the menu — accomplished while twitching every time my eyes lit on one of a dozen typos — I opted for a drink called The Avenue: Bulliet bourbon, Calvados, passionfruit juice, grenadine, and orange-flower water; Cameron asked for an Aviation. Our waitress (a laconic Latina sporting a plunging neckline and an utterly unnecessary push-up bra) returned a few moments later, letting me know that they were out of the juice for my drink. I reverted to my standby, the Old Fashioned, heartened by the menu’s claim that B&B uses the original recipe. I also asked for a glass of water, and she offered still, sparkling, or tap. Maybe I don’t get out enough, but this was a first for me: Paying to stay hydrated in a bar.
Drinks arrived promptly, and we started to notice the table’s flaws. Even with only two of us at a four-top, it seemed impossible not to find something — a glass, a candle, a bulky menu — to knock, nudge, or otherwise propel into the darkness. Cam pronounced his Aviation heavy on the juice; I thought it tasted good, if not particularly balanced. My OF was served in a properly sized glass, a diminutive single-rocks number. As I sipped it, it became apparent that its only fruit was the wide lemon-twist garnish… no muddled orange!? Believe you me, I despise those fizzy messes of mash that most bars pass off as Old Fashioneds, but this vintage version was a bit too austere for my tastes. (Still, it’s hard to complain too much about a barkeep reverting to an antique formula.) My water was refilled as needed; Cameron was never even offered his own glass — a mortal sin in my book. Good bars serve water without asking, and keep glasses full; you’re happy while you’re drinking, and you’re even happier the next morning.
Our second round included a Vesper for Cameron — not listed on the menu, but properly concocted (with perhaps a gilding of orange bitters?) and served in a petite v-glass — and a Spanish Rose for me. The latter was noted in the menu as one of the bar’s signature “drinks from people we like,” credited to a former Enrico’s cocktail-slinger. The recipe included Plymouth gin, Licor 43, lemon (juice, presumably?) and a sprig of rosemary. Sounds good so far? Picture it served in a tip-prone red-wine glass, over an astounding amount of ice. It tasted pretty good, but I was utterly embarrassed to drink this foofy pink monstrosity in a place that’s so damned cocktailian that they prohibit patrons from ordering a Cosmo.
We gave up our table well before our two-hour slot elapsed, having run out of excuses for staying. We’ll come back and give B&B another whirl some night at the bar — the folks up there definitely seemed to be having a more interesting time.
Bourbon & Branch
a secret location near Jones & O’Farrell
San Francisco, CA 94102
bar culture, downtown SF, drinks
2 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 09.03.06 10:18 AM
Joni Mitchell Syndrome is one of the hazards of having lived in several different neighborhoods in the same city. The main symptom is the unconscious romanticization of old stomping grounds (see “Both Sides Now (Clouds)”). It’s particularly frustrating around mealtime, when the first option that pops into your mind–and will not be dislodged–is a favorite nook that used to lie within walking distance but now entails a 30-minute trek by car, motorcycle, or public transit.
With that in mind, you’ll understand how excited I was on Friday night. I was suffering from an acute case of JMS, longing for a quick, informal dinner. “Oh, that I still lived in the Lower Haight,” I moaned (to…to myself. Like Mick.), “I could grab a falafel at Ali Baba and wash it down with a few pints at the Toronado.”
Happily, at that moment I remembered VinoRosso, a wine-bar-plus-nosh that had opened recently on Cortland, the high street of Bernal Heights. Wine instead of beer…salumi instead of chickpeas…sold!
It was awful.
The space was cute enough, and I thought that I’d scored when a couple along the banquette got up to leave just as I walked in, opening a cozy nook that seemed ideal for a light, relaxed, dinner (I’d brought a book). I remember noticing a couple of babes-in-arms at other tables but didn’t give it much thought, as it was early. I could not have been more wrong. I’d only just ordered a glass of pinot grigio and a caprese salad when the little one to my left started screaming…followed by a chorus from the three at the table of parents in a window seat. Mind you, this is not a large restaurant. My table in the back of the main seating area was no more than three or four strides from the door.
I’ve watched very young children melt down in restaurants. Once the volume goes up and the tears start, the civilized thing to do is to gather the bairn up, walk outside, and commune with the night air until the tantrum has waned. Playing airplane, making whooshing or cooing noises, and offering favorite toys or foods are all acceptable variations, so long as they occur outside.
But while the parents at VinoRosso were in full distraction mode, it was all happening inside the enoteca. Everyone was determined to plow through whatever bottles of plonk that they had just overpaid for. The din was horrific. It was so loud that I couldn’t taste the wine. Much to my dismay, I did taste the caprese when it was delivered: rock-hard supermarket tomatoes accompanied by mozzarella so old that it had developed a rind.
A rind. On mozzarella. Ew.
VinoRosso
629 Cortland Avenue
San Francisco, CA 94110
415.647.1268
Bernal, Italian, wine & bubbly
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