The hydra of restaurant lust -- which is never satiated, really -- can spur a trip of thousands of miles or a walk across the street. By crossing California Street from my office building last week and walking into Tadich, I finally got to do one of those things I had pledged for myself, but for some reason had never made happen. (Tangent: Some of the people who endure mountain treks, triathlons and marathons, I’m told, cross the finish line and before collapsing yell to no one in particular: “Only 33 more things to do before I die!” My pursuits are a little more pedestrian.)
I’ve had downtownish jobs for more than 10 years and have mastered most of the budget-lunch options there: Pancho Villa tacos off the Embarcadero, Burger Factory’s double cheeseburger on a wheat bun for $3.95, the Wildflower salad run for less than $8, or if I’m really cooking, less than $7 (leading to my First Rule of Wildflower: Add beets, and the likelihood your salad will be more than $10 approaches one). With a coworker leaving for London, though, my time had come.
I knew enough to make our Tadich date for 11:45 am, and I suspected seasoned diners would do the same, since showing up a few minutes after noon spells doom. Indeed there already are some twosomes ahead of us, but the counter is pretty open. The hostess (who along with the rest of the staff is wearing the kind of white smock my dad used to make and sell) just tells you to follow the folks in front of you. So you walk down the aisle and hang up your jacket, just like everybody else.
The waitperson behind the counter, without rushing, recommends the crab cakes, cioppino and charbroiled Petrale sole. He also says that Tadich feeds hundreds of people every day. You realize that’s why you’ve sidled up and hung your jacket. The whole setting, with the fixtures set not to burn bright but just right, the coat hooks, the setup for the glassware, liquor bottles, beer taps, soda gun and cut lemons, the old-school house china and smocks, everything’s basically there for one thing: for you, and you wanna get fed.
As folks wait behind you, the staff gets them drinks without neglecting you at the counter. (One guy leaned over me and ordered a shot of schnapps and a bottle of Corona. He paid with a $100 bill, leaving $3 for the tip.) I’ve already started with the clam broth, which is nearly clear, not salty, not briny, not subtle, just brothy. In between courses, the hostess/staffer gets the stainless-steel vessel for the bar mixer and puts a little ice in and then cracks an egg into it, adding gin and orange juice. After blending, she gets some cinnamon to finish the drink, which is a gin fizz or Ramos fizz, I’m not sure. But having some extra left in her vessel, she gets two short highball glasses and lets us try some, topped with cinnamon, off the cuff.
The drink isn’t sweet, but neither is it savory. The gin’s in there, but cinnamon gives it that Mom-made-it touch, which you see is completely consistent with the make-yourself-at-home-in-Mayberry feel of the entire room. You’re actually stimulated not so much by what’s coming and brought to you, but by how. You’re actually comfortable where you are, and you’re being tended to.
The Petrale sole ends up being a bit larger than the oval plate, and has its requisite sampling of veggies, broccoli and snow peas, as well as a generous serving of home/steak fries. The tartar sauce arrives separately, just as I asked. The pinot grigio I paired is fine, and not outrageous at $6.75 a glass. The fish is perfectly cooked; the skin on the underside has slightly caramelized, and the flesh has telltale grill marks. I put salt, pepper and lemon on everything.
For dessert, the staff recommendation is to avoid the bread pudding due to its sheer size, and down the counter there’s one being served the size of a couple VHS tapes. I have the rice custard pudding, which again isn’t overwhelmingly sweet or sensational. It is what it is, comforting in its texture and coolness.
This lunch for two easily is more than $50, and although I’m expensing it (we did talk shop) it’s not something to dwell on. It’s one of my best lunches ever, and I spent the rest of the day in a somewhat exalted state. The questions I kept going over, which in our food world are the ones that speak to why we make reservations months in advance and schlep around continents and put up with the haughtiness of it all, were the following: What popped out in what I ate? Which flavors, ingredients or elements shone?
At Tadich, none of that is the point at all.
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