Nobody Beats the Whisk at Zuni

Now there have been two occasions over the past 10 years where nothing else seems appropriate other than a midday meal at Zuni, and on both occasions I've had variations on the humble chicken egg that will withstand another 10 years of countless unmemorable meals, peppered with standouts.

The last, last time, I was joined Paul Festa and James Roe (and perhaps even someone else, I don't remember) and I had poached eggs with chimichurri -- the kind of eggs that are dropped in a centrifuge of boiling water and cooked in seconds. That was awesome, and on the same footing as my recent frittata, the simplest preparation of eggs, shallots, shaved pecorino, arugula and balsamic vinegar. Dynamite. I also had oysters. Barely made it back to the courtroom to finish out my jury duty.

The only point of contention was the too-rich, too-spendy Chardonnay, recommended by the server (who perhaps was looking to serve lunch to the too rich to care). What struck me most was contrast in the class habitus, if you will, of the dining room and the courtroom. Everyone has a jury-duty story, and like real-estate or DMV stories almost all are boring, and mine wasn't really different -- a trip-and-fall case on Caltrain. Still, there's something weird and interesting when 30 or so people have to get together and talk for a few nerve-racking minutes about themselves.

There were just as many single people as coupled people and divorced people. Some were native San Franciscans; others had been here five years. The economy had run roughshod over various attendees, yet there also was an immigrant engineer, a woman who did purchasing for boys' clothes at the Gap, a guy who did historic restorations and someone who retired from bridge repair for Caltrans.

But look at the sidelined potential in our workforce: One guy in the jury box said he'd been on SSI for 20-some years; a lady behind me gasped. A hipster said he worked at a café. When asked about it, he acknowledged being the assistant manager. (Why not just say so?) One of his housemates this or that and the other, well, he had no idea. Everyone laughed. Another guy was trying to go to school while teaching dance a few times a week. The cute brunette who graduated with a degree in sociology a few years ago is but an assistant to the administrator at a law firm. Maybe they're all happy as clams; what the hell do I know. Sitting at Zuni, though, it's hard not to feel like a hothouse flower -- with the table linen, the shellfish and Chardonnay and elegant eggs with a sheen of shallots, shaved cheese, tiny arugula leaves and a few drops of balsamic.

Good thing the parties settled; plaintiff sought redress and apparently got it before any more public resources were squandered. Which brings me back to why service is interesting and also weird: It's like a temporary case study of how we all make our way in the world, glorious and messy.