Another Victory for the Humble Earl

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.

Lucky Star

No matter how hard I try, I can't stop eating. K has learned to schedule activities around a meal. "We're meeting so-and-so at 11 and then we can walk to the lunch spot. OK?" I nod and begin daydreaming.

This time our walk brought us to B Star, which I believe is an outgrowth of the still hugely popular Burma Superstar a block over. Haven't been there in a decade, and I'm sure it's still quite good.

But the mojo I think is now at B Star. I couldn't quite figure out what to get, which is something that happens, like, never. Should I have a soft-shell po' boy or the mango salsa tacos? Can one eat too much soft-shell crab, or too many tacos? (I still drool at the memory of the crab I had on our honeymoon in Maryland, pulled out of the water 15 feet from my table the minute I ordered it. Then there was the taco stand, rather a taco lot, at Santa Monica and Vermont in L.A., which had the handwritten sign in Spanish that said, and I'm paraphrasing, "Please bear with us. We are working to comply with the city health department." Everything there was $1.)

K had the French toast with Nutella and strawberries.

I had the pork belly with white beans and bok choy.

I asked for a bit of Sriracha. Not even a grain of jasmine rice was left over.

Lunch or brunch or what have you, we won't be doing Q. We're not ready to splurge on Philippe's Clementine. The B is our shiny new thing.

Around the Neighborhood with 80 Bucks

While I scrounge around to remember what the lovely, saucy, superknowledgeable ladies brought me at Beretta (like the charred radicchio with ... ), I give you my tab from Kabuto. Yes, I was warned about Kabuto, stuck sort of nowhere a few blocks off Park Presidio. But do I ever listen?

1849 Oysters, 2 pieces (oyster, uni, quail egg, tobiko): $10
Abalone, 2 pieces: $10
Akamutsu (snapper?), 2 pieces: $10
CeViChe (flash-fried seaweed, halibut, salsa), 2 pieces: $5
Escolar, 2 pieces: $6
Shima Aji (like butter), 2 pieces: $7
Osumimono (clear soup): $4
Wakame (seaweed and greens salad): $5
Asahi, black: $5
Hojicha (green tea, free refills): $2

That adds up to $64, and tax is about $5, and I tipped too (imagine) so there you go. It's perhaps my most expensive single meal, and have to say one of the best. See you there during the next boom.

City Sitting Room. Village Parlor. Group Home

Town Hall is a step removed or cut from the same cloth as Salt House, from the same partnership, which means it's like Salt House but different. (My mom had the buttermilk fried chicken. Can you get much more regional American? You can. I tried a couple barbecue places in Lockhart, Texas on the same day -- in fact for the same meal. Variety's a beautiful thing.)

Rambling aside (and when someone else is paying with this particular partnership, one rambles), the highlight aside from the Caliza was my entree, which was better than anything else anyone had: the roast quail. It's plated with clams on their shell, tiny balls of chorizo, a mash of purple potatoes, peas, Italian parsley and a drizzle of Meyer lemon. This is fine fine dining. So many ingredients, colors and textures, and it succeeds. What region of America is this? Maybe a bunch of them -- all of them in the same meal. Variety's too much of a wonderful thing.

Greek to Me

Fleeing the fog and the Bay to Breakers mess (a disaster for the city environmentally and possibly lethal to anyone in alcoholic recovery), K and I headed to the South Bay to dip in a pool. Wading in the 80-plus degree heat, no clouds in the sky, Kristen tells me she wants some Greek food. I love it when she says "I want some Greek food."

Right before six we walk right in to Evvia, which I now realize is the Palo Alto sister to the a-little-stuffy Kokkari here in the city. No way I'd ever have wandered to the Jackson Square place in a shlightly shweaty T-shirt and faded black jeans, but by tucking it in I was making a gesture toward being presentable in Nerdsville. The hostess didn't even blink and sat us down straight away.

Quickly, the starters: lentil soup for the lady, grilled octopus with roasted red peppers and olives in a frisee salad for me. Fabulous, and a nice pairing to a dry glass of Santorini white. The main courses did not falter: souvlaki for K, and a grilled branzino with lemon, olive oil and braised greens for A -- A for Atkins.

The fish was perfectly cooked and delicious; never mind the bones when it's this good. But what are the greens, I asked, chard? No, said the Latino busser, es horta. What's horta? Well, the waiter elaborated, it's a spinach-like Mediterranean green that's grown on spec for the restaurant in Watsonville. Hot damn!

For dessert, we had the baklava, and this time it was done right.

Evvia and Kokkari ain't cheap, as everybody knows (about $50 a person), but the room is convivial, service is excellent and the kitchen knows what it serves and why. An excellent ending to a Sunday in the sun.

Sol Food: Update

It's been about six months since we hit Sol Food in San Rafael, and quickly let me report that the music's still loud, the beans are the bomb, the plantains flash-fried and the letter from Angelo about the color scheme remains in its place on the menu box outside. It's not like no one sees it; queues still stretch out the door.

So it raises an interesting question: Who woulda thought that there would be enough of a market in Marin, of all places, for P-Rican bistec, pork, chicken and plantains? I don't believe it's simply the reasonable prices; San Rafaelers can spend more. (There also are no liquor sales, not even beer and wine, one of the solid profit centers of any eatery.) It must be the casual and welcoming environment -- you come in and order at counter and food comes and then you eat. You can bring kids and take half of your plate home. No big fuss, and that's refreshing.

Laz & Lash: Satiating South of Market

-----Original Message-----
From: Laz
Sent: Wednesday, April 30, 2008 12:05 AM
To: Lash
Subject: South Park Cafe

For the second or maybe third time in memory, El Lefty again graciously invited your blogger, El Gran Laz, to the House of Mays (now sans Bonds, and depending on the rotation, no Blowout Zito), and after the requisite rendezvous at Perbacco we were perched at the counter of South Park Cafe for another excellent series of degustations -- and so influential was this last seating that I brought the wife back the very next night to sample the plates.

Now I'm struck with this idea that chef Ward Little at South Park has been doing his thing for some time now; I remember first seeing it 10 years ago, after the neighborhood was well on its way to transformation. (Apparently the area used to be a good place to ditch a stolen car or score some dope.) But like good sex with your steady, something about dining there seems invigorating every time. What and how is this? Lash and I will pass some comments by email, which I'll pop up here.

Let me start with some general thoughts: First, the scale of South Park Cafe may very well be perfect. With 10 to 15 tables, the staff doesn't have to travel very far to make their rounds. You're just as comfy at the counter or on the banquette. The lights hang from the ceiling, but not too low yet not too high. As for the back of the house, there seems to be enough room around the stove and grill for a couple of cooks, although I haven't seen what's called the cold station, much less the prep.

Second, don't mess with the best. If you can sell a top-notch steak and frites, the freshest salads with select bits of pig and dynamite desserts along with an eclectic set of wines and other beverages in a laid-back room, why gussy up with gimmicks and attitude? Your regulars probably keep coming because there's a dearth, to be blunt, of the bullshit they deal with elsewhere.

Last point: Maybe it's the bits of pig. The appetizing terrine (which sounds delicious even if you don't remember what it is, like profiterole) had some, as did the lentils and cabbage in my roast duck entree.

ELM, how does this sit with you?

Original Message:
-----------------
From: Lash
Sent: Wed, 30 Apr 2008 15:21:30
To: Laz

The South Park always sits well with me. I'm there several times a year during baseball season. Sitting at the bar for a martini, a glass of red and a light shared dinner is my favorite pregame ritual, and I've never had a bad meal. Never. I don't think I've ever had a bad dish, not even one that was well intentioned but went wrong.

Think about that. How is it possible to get it right, every single time? Am I just extraordinarily lucky? Perhaps, but the old saw about making your own luck holds sway here. You've hit upon some of the reasons: the room, its scale and its warm lack of pretension set the mood; one tends to be more forgiving when completely in one's element. (Though I've never had to be forgiving.)

The menu is rock-solid and simple, although many of the dishes are deceptively simple. Take the red-rice salad we ordered: rice and grilled vegetables. How often do you spend $16 or whatever it was on a large ramekin-sized mound of rice and a modest helping of grilled veggies, wipe the plate clean and feel like an honored guest? Ward's trick with the rice: just enough ground coriander seed.

Side note: Have you ever bitten into a coriander seed? It's overwhelming and nauseating. It's not just spice; it's a glimpse into the pure essence of spice, and it's far too much for a human being to handle. To bring that down to acceptable levels yet keep it so obviously, strongly coriander, is a magician's trick, in my book.

What did you have when you returned with your Lovely and Talented?

Pasta for Lunch, Atkins for Dinner

After making more than enough gemelli for a nice couple of lunches, it was time to cut the carbs. Good thing the city still has outstanding, reasonably priced eateries to go along with those fortunate to have no-questions-asked expense accounts. (Thanks go to the gang of Jomo, and also to The Prisoner.)

With folks in tow, it was time to make another restaurant selection and reservation, and given that their palates lean mostly Italian, it was time to visit Jackson Fillmore Trattoria again. I ate there once, ages ago, and remembered it as a good place to take parents. I actually made this patronizing observation to my old man at another local Italian place, and he took more than slight offense, especially since he was paying. But not only is he over it now, he's also onto something about how unique places like Jackson Fillmore are in San Francisco.

Jackson Fillmore's unique because it's near the corner of Jackson and Fillmore in a somewhat nondescript storefront, yes, and because the food is drop-dead dynamite at a midrange price. All of our entrees were less than $20 and most of the starters peaked at less than half that and everybody got knocked out. Chicken king Phil (the dad) had half a roast bird in what was described as a Sicilian style, and it was no ordinary poulet roti -- this was moist and succulent even in the breast. My big score was getting the pan-fried pork chops with fried herbs, served on greens. Great texture with pork and the herbs, and no starch!

As good as our main courses were, we couldn't stop talking about the starter the waiter recommended, carpaccio di zucchini, julienned zuch with pecorino and toasted almonds. Nobody ever had anything like it and probably won't find it anywhere else. Our guy also tipped me to a fine glass of tempranillo. We hope to be back soon, while it's still catering to schnooks and their parents.

Review: Salt House/SF/USA

My current read is David Kamp's "The United States of Arugula," which is broadly about the emergence of our national cuisine due to the vim and vigor of the Great Gourmets (Beard, Claiborne, Child, et al.) and grand capitalism trailing gustatory trends. "So, you want baby greens? You want Scharffen Berger? You can have it all."

Where a place like, say, Zuni has been pointing this way all along, a place like Salt House in the financial district, I'd say, no longer has to genuflect toward France or Italy. We've come a long way, baby, and Rupert's paying.

With shellfish so fresh and rabbit so tender and a wine list so versatile, the Old World never really goes away, but it's like a culinary Obama moment, where the California or continental cuisines are day-old definitions. Striped bass with red cabbage and chorizo? Fine. Parsnip soup? It's wintertime. Fulton Valley chicken and fingerlings? You're welcome.

Great lighting, warm furniture to offset the cool-glass picture windows, attentive and informed service, a little loud but a lot of fun. Perfect portions. Homemade cookies.

Now going for two years, you've got to hand it to the management -- not just for keeping the expense-account crowds coming, but for finding the foodie sweet spot and serving it up. If the Fanch is reading, maybe she can talk about the partners running this show (along with Town Hall). They've got it dialed in.

Bistro East, Part 3

I'm a bit remiss in finishing the report of our trip to New York. The weekend got off to a rousing start when I met a certain ex-Kazakh gentleman Thursday eve at the venerable Knickerbocker Bar & Grill on University. We sat at the bar and kibbitzed with the harried bartendress, ate guinea-hen quesadillas (really), and ordered something like a few martinis. Whatever the final count, it was enough to prompt the 'tendress to offer us, unprovoked, a drink on the house.

By 8.30 my friend was piling into a cab to get to his next social engagement. I staggered back to the in-laws and tried to pretend to be half-sober. My cover was blown a couple hours later when Da Fanch opened the bathroom door and found me kneeling in prayer to the porcelain goddess.

The next day, work at the Madison Ave. headquarters of the Singular Capitalist was a bit rough. My head cleared a bit after a dash through the rain and lunch at a hot-pot pho joint on 32nd St. with my editor.

By evening, I was raring to go. After a tour of the Gray Lady's new armoire, my Riv-eting companion and I hit the West Village, which probably means a lot less today than it did, say, 25 years ago. We found a darling little spot run by Venezuelans, Flor's Kitchen, which was fairly cheap and down-home enough to serve gristly but super-flavorful steak and greasy but super-flavorful arepas. Just like Hugo's mama used to make it.

The culinary highlight of the trip, however, was served not at a restaurant but Saturday night in my in-laws' dining room. Cousins of Da Fanch brought venison from their upstate farm. We salted and peppered several steaks, seared them and finished them in a hot oven. It was meat the way off-duty chefs eat it: hot, browned outside, red inside, with a pan sauce that's half red wine and half blood. Chew on that for a while.

I've actually left out a few interesting meals, but like me after 10 days in New York, this post has had enough.

Bistro East, Part 2: Otto

No way we could spend a week in New York and read Heat (full review later) without darkening one of Mario Batali's doors. So with Da Fanch's gourmand cousins in town from Norwich, all seven of us walked over to Otto, his pizza place.

In Heat, Buford reports that Batali took many weeks, maybe months to get the pizzas, cooked on a flattop griddle, not in an oven, to the point where customers stopped sending them back. ("There were complaints. They were too spongy. They were undercooked. They weren't crispy. You couldn't cut them with a knife. Joe wasn't sleeping: 'Everyone is suddenly a fucking pizza expert.'" - p.160)

We didn't send ours back, though we didn't think they were oh so molto. I had the bottarga and fennel; Fanch had the mushroom. We liked the crust; we liked the sauce; but both toppings were too salty, the mushrooms unpleasantly so. I fretted: perhaps they're supposed to be salty, and we're not eating them with the right appetizers, or something. Perhaps we're not good enough.

This was crazy talk, of course. Someone in the kitchen had a heavy hand with the salt. Period.

Everything else was top-notch. The apps came in large ramekins and several went around the table. All delicious, especially the cold lentils, the octopus, and the eggplant caponatina, all redolent of late-night outdoor Mediterranean dinners eaten ad hoc, dish by dish at the proprietor's whim.

The waiter showed great patience as we maneuvered the Schnoodle's stroller through a maze of tables, and again as certain members of our party took interminable amounts of time to decide what to order. We also had internal disagreements about the wine selection -- what seemed like hundreds of Italian wines to choose from, none less than $35 a bottle, and none of us knew a thing about them. The waiter was unflappable. He recommended a bottle, not cheap, and damn if he didn't match it to our criteria. We ordered a second bottle.

Stuffed to the gills, we ordered a couple desserts anyway: the olive oil and ricotta coppettas (coppette?). Olive oil gelato at first sounds like a candidate for a Yuck?, but it was sublime. Gotta get the A-Ron to put it on his menu at the next Page Street party.

One complaint, other than the pizza, was the noise level. I was sitting under a speaker, and the music, a mix of guitar rock and Brit-pop that might well have been streaming right from Mario's iPod, kept changing volume level with songs getting cut off in the middle. I know it's a pizzeria, but at these prices, the kids in the kitchen shouldn't be fighting over the stereo.

Coming soon, part 3 (mistakenly advertised in the last post as Part 2): Revenge of the Beefeater, a Venezuelan hideaway, and Oh! Deer.

Bistro East, Part 1

Greetings from Gotham. (And photo by cpzhao -- click here to see more!)

Showing off the Monkeypants to friends and family has been a nonstop endeavor and no easy feat. We knew that from the get-go when, waiting for our delayed flight to board at SFO last Friday, the captain came out to the gate to say it was some of the worst weather he'd ever seen in his career. He also said the grounds crew couldn't even load baggage because they worried the wind would rip the cargo door from its hinges. Oh, and Lila was completely congested with her first-ever cold.

We finally made it with nary a scratch (not even a peep from Lila despite the congestion and pressure) and settled into bed Chez Fancher before midnight local time. Less than 24 hours later, true to form, we were stuffing ourselves at the Saigon Grill on University between 11th and 12th Sts. There were seven adults, one rambunctious toddler, and our Miss Monkeypants, and we all ordered a dish plus a few more. Plus a couple bowls of soup because, hey, it's winter and we all had colds.

Somehow it all disappeared. We have a major difference of opinion, however, as to the quality. I'm feeling magnanimous. I thought it was pretty good. Perhaps I was dazzled by the quantity and the friendliness of the staff who accomodated our requests for stroller parking, a booster seat, and a small plate of plain egg noodles for 2-year-old Ezra. The Fanch begs to differ: "It sucked," she said, which, when pressed to explain, she upgraded to "really really mediocre."

A few nights later we left La Monkeypants with her grandparents for our first date night. Nervous as we were, we went all of two blocks away to a swanky tapas place, Alta. Lovely room, adventurous, extensive menu, but then there was Dean.

Dean was the first waiter who addressed us (though others later would bring dishes and take follow-on orders), and he was an idiot. "Excuse me," I asked, pointing to one of the menu items, Danish Pork Ribs roasted with kecap manis & coriander. "What's kecap manis?"

"It's the stuff it gets roasted with that makes it kinda sticky," was roughly his explanation. Not very descriptive, I thought, but I moved on.

"What's 'fideos vermicelli'? I don't know what fideos means."

"I dunno," said Dean. "I'll go ask."

He came back a while later and said, "Some kind of pasta."

I formulated how to proceed, and Dean -- a very busy man -- started to turn. "Um..."

"What?" he said. Not "Yes?" or "Sorry" or "Pardon me." "What."

"I figured that from the 'vermicelli' part," I said. "But I don't know what fideos means."

I think he shrugged and walked away. I was too stunned to think clearly. It was the most unprofessional act in a nice restaurant I'd ever seen. I wondered if he was the half-retarded son of the owner. There could be no other explanation.

The food was good, the Spanish Manhattan was one of the few $10 drinks I've ever felt was worth it, and the tapas were often spectacular and never dull except for the avocado relleno with crabmeat and shrimp. Silly us: to New Yorkers an entire avocado artfully sliced and stuffed with spicy seafood salad is $11 worth of exotic in January. To Californians, it's an easy 4-pack mesh bag at Trader Joe's.

The Fanch was so appalled with Dean, that a $50-per-person meal could be served by such a dolt, she mentioned him to the maitre'd on the way out. How did we know his name? On my way back from the loo at one point, I passed him trying to chat up one of the waitresses outside the kitchen. She was adding up a check and was barely listening, but another waiter passed by and said with a little passive-aggressive laugh, "Get back to work, Dean."

Part 2: Revenge of the Beefeater, a Venezuelan hideaway, and Oh! Deer

Kirin Chicken

Either it was boot camp Tuesday or the guy sitting behind me on the bus Wednesday, but by noon Thursday I was pretty much toast from a cold. The Limited brought me all the way back to where I started the day, 25th and Geary, and woozy as I was I was not going to pass on Kirin.

The room is a few notches above lots of other Chinese places, with a mix of incandescents and CFLs instead of factory-floor fluorescent tubes, but the brown carpet has got to go. At any rate, I beelined for the lunch special won-ton soup with shredded chicken. The shredded chicken is in fact a nice mix of light and dark meat julienned with the cleaver, piled atop of a steaming heap of won tons and choy sum in broth. A couple dashes of hot chili and you have what the doctor would order.

p.s. Chinese cuisine of the Kirin type goes in and out of favor with people -- whether it's the grease, quality of ingredients, dining experience, whatever. I understand, at the same time that I recognize it as a little picky. This is soup, rice plates, vegetables whipped in a wok in a flash. In my condition, how could I endure anything else?

Review: Balboa Sushi House

Is there a restaurant more inviting than the Balboa Sushi House? With its profusion of house plants standing in pots and hanging from hooks, its fish tanks, and assortment of lamps, baubles and knick knacks everywhere, it feels more like a college-town coffee house than Japanese restaurant.

The service -- that is to say, the friendly lady who runs the place -- is no different: warm, comfortable, relaxing. Last night we had to see some folks on Balboa, and by the time we were done, we figured we might as well grab a bite in the neighborhood and pray that La Malita Monkeypants wouldn't get too cranky.

She got cranky. We had to hold and feed her, which meant putting the hot soup to the side. After bringing our orders, Mrs. Balboa Sushi House did a remarkable thing. She cooed a bit over Lila then asked to hold her. Uh...well...sure! we said. There was only one other customer, so she held her for at least fifteen minutes. We ate in peace and listened as our hostess showed Lila around the room and spoke universal baby-language with her.

As for the food, it's run of the mill Japanese. My hot soba had nice large pieces of broccoli and cauliflower and didn't skimp on the chicken. The gyoza were light but devilishly crispy. Fanch's bento box was nothing special. It was nothing to make a detour for, and there are much better sushi options within a block or two. But it's a great place to go when your priorities are a cozy room, a hot bowl of noodles, and a few minutes of babysitting.

Review: Kazu Sushi

The world's pelagic fish population might not be around when Miss Monkeypants is old enough to eat sushi, so we figured she should at least have some exposure before it's too late.

Friday night we bundled her off to Kazu Sushi on Irving between 9th and 10th -- it used to be Chika, and it's unclear if the ownership or just the name changed.

It had a few problems. The room was chilly, and the space heater deployed across from our table didn't help much because -- oops! -- it wasn't plugged in, as I found out about half way through the meal. Not surprising -- the staff was a bit scattered. But they remained friendly and happy to coo over a newborn. They were impressed, as were the couple at the next table visiting from Portsmouth, N.H., that she could take the hubbub; at one point she sat in my lap, sipped from a bottle, and surveyed the scene. (For what it's worth, the Portsmouth woman's brother, who lives here, told her Kazu was his favorite sushi place. I didn't ask for his name.)

The food was better. The numerous specials were all in transliterated Japanese. I asked our waitress to describe them in English, but it was rudimentary information at best. (A typical exchange: "What's this?" "Rrr, mmm, how to say, eh...pork." "Pork?" "Yessu. Pork. Glillu.")

I ordered a couple mystery dishes, just for the hell of it. It's one of my favorite activities: sampling apps that only a native Japanese might love. (Monkfish liver pate is one of these that have tentatively crossed the line into sushi-bar acceptance in certain American quarters.) The gamble paid off with the shishamo, small grilled anchovies or smelt, perhaps, that were eaten whole, head and all. It fell flat with the cold soggy pickled... I think they were sardines.

I loved the sushi we ordered: nothing too wacky, a white tuna tataki roll and a dragon roll with spicy salmon.

Coming soon: The Fanch reviews an invasive species, the grand opening of Pacific Catch where the beloved Canvas Cafe used to be.

Review: House of Banquet

I am a simple man. On Sundays, unless I've committed to beaten eggs in my Calphalon, I'm crazy for the cuisines of the Far East -- particularly those heavy on the dumplings. Doing errands on foot and on the early side yesterday, I sought out the sit-down places of inner Clement. After a false start across the street (dim sum for take-out, or for taking into a separate seating area, meh), I ended up at House of Banquet, a double-decked establishment that I never conceived of visiting before.

The hostess sees me coming and opens the door to let me in. She smiles when I ask if dim sum was being served. "Upstairs," she said. "Every day." OK, sold. I head up.

As you can see from this image, courtesy of House of Banquet's Web site, you could have a little fun with the dining room's interior desecration. Gold drapes over mirrors, octagon-shaped light wells, chairs in orange, blue or beige upholstery set off by a massive mural: all the design touches of Johan van der Smut, a Dutch scalawag better known as Goldmember. At the very least it's stimulating. The piped-in music is some R&B station, so I'm taking this all in to Junior Walker's "Shotgun" and then "Good Times" by Chic. Yeah, baby.

Here's something else that's interesting: These kinds of establishments apparently are up to certain other standards. Not saying anything. All of the chairs at my table, for example, were stained. (Orange isn't that good at hiding blotches of soy sauce or who knows what.) My plate and tea cup were chipped more than once; you couldn't miss it. The headwaiter approaches, and he seems like a nice guy, looking good in a jacket and tie with a blue collared shirt. He's really nice, asking me if I want anything in particular. Yes, I say: I'd like Shanghai-style pork and ginger dumplings. He'll get that for me, he says. I can't help but notice that his jacket is soiled, enough so that you can tell even five feet away. He could get it laundered, but maybe he's busy and keeps this one handy at the restaurant. I don't think he minds, and he stops at the table of three Chinese ladies next to me to kibbitz every now and then. They love it and don't seem to mention it. Just saying.

The carts start making their way across the floor with their pork buns and porridge and chicken feet and assorted other delicacies, and the waitress makes an effort to try to translate, with the help of the Chinese ladies. They have a few laughs and don't come up with anything in English. No matter; I know this drill. I pick up a couple things I've had before and some newish things, like chive dumplings and a variation of siu mai that looks like Japanese gyoza. My neighbors giggle. I'm having fun eating the buns with my hands, listening to "1999" followed by Big Boi's "The Way You Move."

The headwaiter stops by a couple times, checking on my teapot, asking "Everything OK here?" in a casual manner. Yes, it is. I end with a special dessert, four green-tea puffs in little crinkle cups, with poppy seeds and paste inside. The ladies approve, going "Waaah!" when they're brought out. I'm sure they're flash-fried, but are not oily at all, capping the steamed indulgences earlier with savory-sweet decadence.

I put a $20 into the tab booklet and head out; the headwaiter gives me a head bob and thanks me again. The hostess downstairs smiles. "How was everything?" Great, I say. See you next time. Bye bye.

Review: Little Star

I'll keep this short, as this is a restaurant review without the restaurant. Twice we've had takeout from Little Star, and twice we've peed in our pants over how good it is. Last night: a deep-dish sausage and green pepper, and a thin-crust with chicken, feta and artichoke hearts. We have one slice of deep dish left today, and we're going to fight over who gets it.

Taking It From the Bottom

That didn't come out right. What I mean is that I want to reach around and work backwards from my li'l cheat sheet. I could write for about an hour about umami and hanging out with Gary Danko and his art collection and how I did not name-drop the blog. (I was working.) I could take another half-hour or maybe more and say how eye-opening it was to visit the piers at the end of Taylor Street, with dozens of seafood processors and distributors supplying ocean protein to who knows how many people and whether it's a good idea that we eat fish the way we do anyway. Better to dish about the puffed-up jerks in Marin.

I'm dying to get this off my chest: K and I run up to San Rafael's Sol Food to visit our friends Cecily, Jim and their 2-year-old mambo king Colin. (The kid likes salsa music, what can one say.) Business is booming: The corner cafe on 4th is still there, serving takeout like a house afire, and there's now another more-sitdown place a block down on 3rd. As we walk in to get our rice and beans on, I notice there's a letter in the menu box.

It says something along the lines of the following: "Mrs. Hernandez, nice to see that you decided to open a separate restaurant. I've enjoyed your food. But while the green color you've chosen for the exterior may be appropriate for Puerto Rico, it's not appropriate for Marin County. I will no longer patronize your business until you change your color palette. I also will ask my friends not to eat at your restaurant." Signed, "Angelo."

Meanwhile, the line's out the door for the bistec encebollado and plantains fried five ways. The place looks great, the music's hot, the food's on the money. Jim asks me if this is authentic. I say yes. Because it is. Sunday's special, which starts getting served at 4 pm, is arroz con gandules and pasteles.

As for you, Angelo, let me tell you what's appropriate for Puerto Rico: Vete pa'l carajo, comemierda.

The Worst Restaurant Neighborhood -- Explained

I vote for Laurel Village/Presidio Heights. At least on the surface it has the elements you'd expect to sustain lots of good restaurants: walkability, good transportation, and neighbors with plenty of pocket money. There is undoubtedly a market for good food. Check the meat at Bryan's, the shelves and produce bins at Cal-Mart, and the lines at all times of day at Peet's Coffee. This is by and large high-quality stuff, and people in this tony part of town are willing to pay for it.

The neighborhood is also home to plenty of cafes with bites to eat, some of them quite cozy. I'm particular to Cafe Luna on Sac near Presidio and Lo Cubano at the east end of Laurel Village.

So why is the restaurant fare so bleak? Other than Ella's on California and Presidio -- famous for breakfast but, as we found out last year, it deserves a visit for dinner, too -- there is nothing. If you want to sit down, it's either overblown fancy tablecloths (Magic Flute and Spruce, both on Sac) or quasi-fast-food chains (Pasta Pomodoro, Askew Grill, Rigolo -- all three of which are pathetic). The prime location in the JCC, kitty-corner from Ella's, is a cursed space. The most recent attempt there, some sort of Asian fusion thing called 415, died a speedy death. It's a bad sign that other than Ella's, the Italian deli A.G. Ferrari is the best option in the neighborhood.

What's the deal? A few theories: Families. Laurel Village is home to a ton of fashionable moms and their offspring. People who take kids to restaurants want the option of pasta with cheese or grilled chicken skewers. A funky Thai bistro is a bad choice for a cranky toddler and a mom trying to get back into her Sevens. Boring white people. The neighborhood, by my less than scientific appraisal, is overwhelmingly white, rich, skinny and interested in shopping. (See above: fashionable moms.) Not a great formula for fun, funky, adventurous foodstuffs. My neighborhood has its share of cheap franchised eats (even a Pasta Pomodoro), but thanks in part to the student population there's also nearly every ethnic flavor within reach, usually for less than $10. The workers. Most employees in the neighborhood are medical workers. CPMC and UCSF have big campuses, and Sacramento St. is home to half the world's shrinks, it seems. Nurses and doctors who have just finished a grueling shift are not likely to ease into evening over a leisurely meal. They might not even end their shift in the evening. The Inner Sunset has a big influx of med workers, too, but the demographics of those who live here is much different.

Again, my beef is not with the markets of the neighborhood; they're expensive, but it's only sticker shock if you normally shop at TJ's. You wouldn't save much shopping at Safeway over Cal-Mart, methinks. (Feel free to disabuse me of this notion.) What's more, the deli counter at Cal-Mart stocks delectable and difficult-to-find white anchovies.

There are other S.F. neighborhoods with fewer restaurant options, but none so miserably fails to live up to its unspoken promise.

Review: Be My Thai Guest

Frequent, er, subscribers to my food rants will remember the gist of this: Thai food is mostly the same ingredients tossed around in different sauces. It has some standouts -- pad Thai, tom kha -- except that everybody serves them the same way. The same could be said, patient friends argue, of pasta at trattorias.

But that grain of truth dissolves given the umbrella of regional styles and flavors in Italian cuisine. (You'd be challenged to find angel hair tossed with, say, a cream sauce.) Saucy Thai dishes in general are gooped up with rice. It doesn't seem to be the most interesting way to eat, and the venues by and large are staid and ugly. To this day I'm puzzled why chicks dig it.

That said, I have a favorite Thai place: the exciting Be My Guest Thai Bistro on Clement. What I think has happened in this case, based on a chat with an apparently senior staffer during my first visit, is that the next generation has come in and made its mark.

The room, first off, is modern with some Sleeper-white walls, furniture, linens and touches; soft, creative lighting; and an actual bar that can stocks beer on tap, a sensible wine list and house cocktails. There's a flat screen with some college game and the tunes are a little techno, but already this is a massive improvement from 95% of the Southeast Asian eateries out there.

As plates arrive, there'll be some variety to their sizes and shapes, and one in particular is oblong and asymmetrical and I love that. In a way it reminds me of what Paul Festa used to do at his place, with the tilting glasses and triangle plates, and that chandelier in the foyer is nothing but incandescents of various sizes.

Kristen's chicken special has traces of a roux from the dredged cuts (mostly thigh meat) of bird, and is tossed with julienned peppers, green onions and cashews. It's not saucy and it's delicious, and still we couldn't finish it. I had the egg noodle soup ($8.95) with roast duck, baby bok choy and wontons, and the broth triggered something.

At first I thought it was hot and sour, but I think it's a Thai soup base with fermented soy. I think. I've got my nose in the bowl, looking for mushrooms or some other component besides the duck braise that's imparting that musty, mysterious earthiness. There must have been a few other unspectacular soups before that have led me to this point. I'm looking forward to giving it another go.

Whether it's Italian, French or Thai, this what I like about bistros: resonant country cooking in a newfangled way.