Last week, working on a big deadline, I became a time-strapped shut-in. During the day, I sustained myself on caffeine, hummus and scrambled eggs.
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You’ve probably heard: After years of stern wrist slaps, The City’s Department of Sanitation finally delivered Tu Lan a killing blow. The iconic dive was shut down in late July, and barring a highly forgiving appeals board, won’t be allowed to reopen. It’s no surprise, to me or anyone who visited this Sixth Street funhouse, that Tu Lan wasn’t the cleanest. Still, the violation list was hard to digest: meat festering on countertops, gloveless staffers scratching themselves and prepping food, a skittering menagerie of roaches and mice.
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After my first visit to Pig & Pie on official review business, I kept finding unofficial reasons to go back. One morning, I thought a Sriracha-drizzled egg and sausage roll might disrupt my breakfast bagel rut. After a Friday night whiskey date, it seemed like a slice of pie would hit the spot. And on deadline day, I craved a little Chicago-style procrastination (aka a beef dog festooned with pickled peppers, tomatoes and mustard).
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When I met my friend A for lunch at Moya, I learned she hadn’t eaten Ethiopian since a life-altering experience in 2002. A’s story involved sweet nostalgia, for an evening spent with a tall, elegant Ethiopian man. The night climaxed with him scooping up delicious, home-cooked morsels and feeding her by hand. “Could any other Ethiopian food compete?” asked my friend.Ah, probably not. Still, I hoped our meal might stir some remembering of that night, a catalyst to awaken her rose-tinted memories. Moya, in particular, may have been ill-suited to the task at hand.
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I talked to a chef recently who couldn’t contain his envy at American Eatery’s primo location in the Ferry Building: “It’s like, a guaranteed revenue stream!”
Maybe, maybe not. The Ferry Building doesn’t lack foot traffic, but there’s also no shortage of competition. Would you want to square off with Il Cane Rosso, Delica and Out the Door?
Good thing American Eatery brought its A-game.
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At first glance, the casual observer might say Dixie is built for bros. The space is dark-hued, all earth tones and hardwoods. Front-of-house staff — predominantly male — assumes the guy at your table will make crucial ordering decisions for the women. And the soundtrack features Camaro-ready guitar rock and blues about unfaithful women.
In its stately manor way out in the Presidio, Dixie has the trappings of a male-run Southern plantation. But its menu is a post-gender mashup, marrying meat-and-starch sensibilities with fresh produce and a light, artistic touch.
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Like a Jimmy Buffett daydream, the idea for Copita was hatched on a boat, over margaritas.
Restaurant mogul-yacht owner Larry Mindel had some friends out on the water last year. One of his guests, food luminary Joanne Weir, had just wowed the crowd with a fresh batch of margaritas. On the spot, Mindel made a magnanimous, tequila-fueled promise: He would partner with Weir on a Mexican bar-in-restaurant, if she found the right space.
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For us New England transplants, lobster rolls sit on the same precarious pedestal as a New Yorker’s cheese slice or a Texan’s slow-cooked brisket. We’ll swear blood oaths to our favorite seafood shacks and savage any bistro that defiles the form.
It’s a basic formula: hot dog bun lightly grilled in butter, packed with chilled knuckle and claw meat, lightly dressed in mayonnaise.
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An excerpt from the posted rules at the Red Door Cafe:
“No egg white orders. If you alter our menu, you will be spanked and sent home to cook for yourself.”
“No ‘ice water with lemon’ and no ‘just hot water.’ It is cheap, suburban and annoying.”
“No angry, entitled and Alpha spoilt mama’s boys or angry-cheerleader wannabe girls.”
Lazy bloggers have compared the Red Door’s owner-chef to the Soup Nazi, but that doesn’t begin to describe this sassy, saucy, eventually exhausting man.
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During my first meal at the Chubby Noodle, I endured a sonic assault of chirpy, bubble-gum electro-pop straight out of a junior high cotillion. Also setting the mood was an NBA game on multiple screens and a shrill tiara party in the corner.
But amid this audio melee, I barely looked up from my food. Only after I’d eaten the last morsel of tender fried chicken, slurped down the rich ramen dregs and hit the bottom of my savory grits, did I notice, “Hey, this place is annoying.”
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Maybe no one told you, but there’s a theme bar in Brooklyn called Mission Dolores. There’s nothing too egregious — just a West Coast beer selection, one modest mural and access to decent tacos. It attracts both San Francisco ex-pats and local scenesters, clued in to the Mission’s allure.
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Two years ago, my lovely girlfriend, Sarah, moved here for a job. To entice me to follow, she custom-tailored my San Francisco visits: shrimp tacos at Pancho Villa, fresh bread at Outerlands and, most importantly, Saturday morning at the Alemany Farmers’ Market. Very clever, Sarah is.How could I not be seduced by Alemany’s rows of genial hawkers, pushing pink mushrooms, fresh oysters, duck eggs and pomelos (a booming baritone: “Po-mellll-oh!”)? It’s sweet ambrosia for the home cook; the California magnet pulled me westward.
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Two months ago, the Fi Di got a farm-to-table lunch spot called Harrow, a stylish outlier in the high-rise hinterland. It certainly isn’t the first place in the neighborhood to name-check farms, use artisan bread and strive for “organic when possible.”But most of Harrow’s competitors (Urban Picnic, Boxed Foods Company, etc.) feel sterile, almost corporate. They may have gotten the memo about well-sourced ingredients, but no one taught them how to be cool.
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I’ve heard a lot of lip service paid to “transforming Bayview,” but Kristin Houk and Matt Trahan aren’t empty talkers.
To reach their goal – giving the neighborhood an eating option that’s both healthful and affordable – the couple cleared out more than 11,000 pounds of trash from a blighted vacant lot. They got their hands dirty.
All Good Pizza is the product of their toil, a little white trailer bounded by a jungle of succulent plants. You sit at customer-decorated picnic tables on an outdoor patio.
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Let’s get this straight: Mission Bowling Club is actually a bowling alley. Yes, lanes may run $55 an hour, you can sip prosecco instead of swill Coors Light and the chef was on Food & Wine magazine’s Top 40 Under 40 list.
Still, the vibe isn’t precious. There are frequent theme parties, with Mylar balloons, tiaras and sheet cakes. Classic rock is on heavy rotation. Nobody’s too cool to cheer.
“Most people who come to Mission Bowling don’t read Eater SF and all that,” chef Anthony Myint said. “They just want to bowl.”
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URL: http://www.sfexaminer.com/people/jesse-hirsch?page=2
