While stewing (more like constipating) over my latent blog entry, "The Case Against Food Porn" (let me give you a taste: "I balled Salman Rushdie! Have you heard of him?"), I've done several things worthy of note, including passing on various complimentary wine tastings and consuming escargot. The overnight in the wine country always works out great for K and I, as it did for that couple in the room above, who balled for hours starting very early in the morning. (Now that I've used that expression twice, you won't see me dribble it out again.) "Good on ya!" I say.
I enjoyed the escargot with puff pastry and parsley foam at Santé, which manages to live up to the breathless marketing and reviews. Great prep and execution on the dishes, impeccable service, fine linens. Also a divine room with my kind of music -- swinging hard bop without the vocals. Too bad the cheese course is too rich for my blood these days. (This is what happens when you put a scale in the men's room at the spa.)
If anyone else has had snails, would love to trade notes. Yet the most memorable meal was in nearby Glen Ellen, with its more downscale family atmosphere and a few flies here and there. I had the Sonoman, which is the grilled turkey sandwich on really dark whole-wheat bread with Vella peppers and onions, plated with a hefty mixed-green salad. You know how some places put their dressings in those little plastic cups? Have you ever had dressing out of there that not only held the right proportion of oil and vinegar and spices, but also had the right tartness and peppery bite? I know my sandwiches and salads, and everything on this plate was delicious.
K and I just hung out after eating and read a couple of newspapers. Staff didn't even blink. Hey, Rachael Ray digs it too. Swing by next time you're up there.
12/10/08
Teed Off: A dump that serves osso buco
It's not quite 8pm on Tuesday night, and the bartender is screaming. People are cupping their hands to their ears so that they can hear him screaming. They are screaming back at the bartender. No one can hear anybody talking, because all they can hear is a steady stream of classic and contemporary hip-hop, played at near-club volume. Run-DMC, Warren G, Ludacris, repeat. ("I got ho's in different area codes!") Laz is screaming, Lash is screaming, and I am screaming.
Welcome to the Tee Off Bar & Grill, an inelegant tavern on a forgotten block of the Outer Richmond. A long-shuttered Albertsons stands across the street, where the remains of a disused Safeway crumbled for years. Elsewhere on the block are a sweet cafe with a pleasant backyard, a sushi joint favored by the Lefferts crew but not so much by me, a dry cleaner that prides itself on Internet service, a moderately expensive Middle Eastern place whose doorstep I have never darkened, a hybrid Burmese-Thai place that outshines Burma SuperStar without the wait, and a Chinese restaurant you don't need to hear about. Wait, is there still a bait-and-tackle shop too?
The buzz has grown for the Tee Off out here in the 121, mostly thanks to its impending appearance on the Food Network's Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. ("We're going to be on the Food Network soon," says the bartender, "I think probably next month." The other bartender told me the same thing in September.) Whenever it actually happens, the Tee will qualify for the last of the three titular traits -- ripped barstool covers with fluff coming out, years-old graffiti in the men's room, beer-impregnated carpet, warped pool cues. There's a seven-foot-long table in the back that has only one chair, because they've stored a couple of large television sets underneath it. Inertia rules the day.
And yet, the bartender uses the word "sous-chef" to describe a fellow employee. On this particular night, the wipe-off whiteboard menu features seared pork tenderloin with wild rice, mushroom pizza, ribeye and porterhouse steaks, battered mushrooms, a pulled pork sandwich and osso buco, in addition to burgers, mac & cheese and other traditional bar fare. In a memorable turn, they offered a kangaroo entree a few weeks ago, and risotto regularly turns up too.
We get pints of Poppy Jasper, a malty ale from Morgan Hill's El Toro Brewing Co. that's apparently named for some local rocks. The Tee knows its market: well-selected microbrews, and yellow American lagers with hipster appeal. The tapsman doesn't even bother to wipe down the bar in front of us. It's all right.
My pulled pork sandwich arrives in about 20 minutes. It's huge, served on a sourdough roll with fresh greens, sliced Roma tomatoes, pickles and white onion sitting on the side. Crisp, seasoned shoestring fries are all over the plate. They haven't slathered my sandwich in barbecue sauce, but have helpfully provided a cardboard six-pack holder with hot sauce and other condiment options. It's a little fatty, entirely satisfying, and costs $9. BroGo's burger has deep-fried onion rings piled on top, and looks equally strong, priced at $11. I'll leave it to the others to describe their fungus-topped pizza, since I still avoid that kingdom.
*
As satisfying as my meal was, I had to get out of there. Two hours of punishing beats are a bit much, no matter how finely I'm treating my palate, and at least one of the locals in the back seemed like he was ready for trouble. (In perhaps ten prior visits, spread out over my nine years in the hood, I've seen people get dragged out of there twice.) Also, it was 52 degrees outside, and 58 degrees inside the bar. People were sitting around drinking whiskey in parkas and scarves. When I returned to my frugally-heated 66-degree home, it felt like an oven. Bet the Tee is warm in the kitchen, though -- that's where the action is.
Welcome to the Tee Off Bar & Grill, an inelegant tavern on a forgotten block of the Outer Richmond. A long-shuttered Albertsons stands across the street, where the remains of a disused Safeway crumbled for years. Elsewhere on the block are a sweet cafe with a pleasant backyard, a sushi joint favored by the Lefferts crew but not so much by me, a dry cleaner that prides itself on Internet service, a moderately expensive Middle Eastern place whose doorstep I have never darkened, a hybrid Burmese-Thai place that outshines Burma SuperStar without the wait, and a Chinese restaurant you don't need to hear about. Wait, is there still a bait-and-tackle shop too?
The buzz has grown for the Tee Off out here in the 121, mostly thanks to its impending appearance on the Food Network's Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. ("We're going to be on the Food Network soon," says the bartender, "I think probably next month." The other bartender told me the same thing in September.) Whenever it actually happens, the Tee will qualify for the last of the three titular traits -- ripped barstool covers with fluff coming out, years-old graffiti in the men's room, beer-impregnated carpet, warped pool cues. There's a seven-foot-long table in the back that has only one chair, because they've stored a couple of large television sets underneath it. Inertia rules the day.
And yet, the bartender uses the word "sous-chef" to describe a fellow employee. On this particular night, the wipe-off whiteboard menu features seared pork tenderloin with wild rice, mushroom pizza, ribeye and porterhouse steaks, battered mushrooms, a pulled pork sandwich and osso buco, in addition to burgers, mac & cheese and other traditional bar fare. In a memorable turn, they offered a kangaroo entree a few weeks ago, and risotto regularly turns up too.
We get pints of Poppy Jasper, a malty ale from Morgan Hill's El Toro Brewing Co. that's apparently named for some local rocks. The Tee knows its market: well-selected microbrews, and yellow American lagers with hipster appeal. The tapsman doesn't even bother to wipe down the bar in front of us. It's all right.
My pulled pork sandwich arrives in about 20 minutes. It's huge, served on a sourdough roll with fresh greens, sliced Roma tomatoes, pickles and white onion sitting on the side. Crisp, seasoned shoestring fries are all over the plate. They haven't slathered my sandwich in barbecue sauce, but have helpfully provided a cardboard six-pack holder with hot sauce and other condiment options. It's a little fatty, entirely satisfying, and costs $9. BroGo's burger has deep-fried onion rings piled on top, and looks equally strong, priced at $11. I'll leave it to the others to describe their fungus-topped pizza, since I still avoid that kingdom.
*
As satisfying as my meal was, I had to get out of there. Two hours of punishing beats are a bit much, no matter how finely I'm treating my palate, and at least one of the locals in the back seemed like he was ready for trouble. (In perhaps ten prior visits, spread out over my nine years in the hood, I've seen people get dragged out of there twice.) Also, it was 52 degrees outside, and 58 degrees inside the bar. People were sitting around drinking whiskey in parkas and scarves. When I returned to my frugally-heated 66-degree home, it felt like an oven. Bet the Tee is warm in the kitchen, though -- that's where the action is.
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