Appetizing Aioli

A quick double-whammy today: The MarketWatch Radio Network did a thing on how consumers are cheaping out by not ordering appetizers, including soups and salads when dining out. Sounds like the consultancy is serving up some junk science to get some free press, because of course the pervasive small plates are basically just a bunch of appetizers. Ask me one day about my introduction to quick tapas in Madrid.

I just had an appetizer the other day, along with a drink post-haircut at the Hotel Monaco's Grand Cafe, already one of my favorite San Francisco venues and my go-to in the Union Square environs. I am now even prouder to announce that the Grand Cafe has one of the best happy hours in the city, period.

The bar menu from 4 to 7 is grouped not by offerings, but by price, with bites and beverages paired. I had the salt cod beignets, which were parked in aioli, and a Kronenbourg draft, $4 each. I was tempted to try the boudin blanc, which I was told is duck, with a porter from Marin Brewing Company, $7 each. Homemade chips and Sierra Nevada on tap are $3 apiece. There's also a pissaladerie for $5. Maybe I'm a sucker for the packaging, but I'm bowled over by pairings every time. (I've stopped ordering wines by the glass and instead am asking the server to pick something for my starters and main courses. We talk about the suggestions and sometimes taste something and then talk some more. Wine lists can be too much work, and the staffers have knowledge they're eager to share.)

Incident of note: While I was sitting at the bar, a quintessentially San Francisco thing happened. A wino walked in and sauntered over to the service station. Without raising his voice, the bartender says, "You have to leave." The guy, sort of regular-looking in a jacket and baseball cap, replied in conversational English but I remember it as "Arrrahghgahhhghaahr." The bartender stands firm, no change in expression. "You have to leave."

When the barman turns to phone security, the wino reaches over to the by-the-glass bottles and picks up some red wine, already opened. He looks at it in the light from the window, and sees that it has but a finger left. He puts it back where it was. The bartender calls out from the telephone: "I'm calling." A bouncer, a not too tall fellow, is there in an instant. The bartender says, "Search him." The wino holds open his jacket. He and the bouncer walk out. It probably happens eight times a day.

Maybe at some point in the city such an occurrence would have that old Barbary Coast/Kerouac/Bukowski quality, but even then it'd be a stretch. For more than a few years now it's just been a nuisance issue. Patrons like myself watched and waited for it to be over so we could get back to daydreaming and taking a little break from busyness.

I'll leave you with my simplified aioli recipe, based on Jamie Oliver's. It was great with the giant artichokes the in-laws got in Gilroy on their drive up.

1/2 small clove of garlic, peeled
1 teaspoon salt
1 egg yolk
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
About 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Juice from half a lemon
A bit of mayonnaise to thicken
Freshly ground black pepper

Start by finely chopping the garlic or mashing it in a bowl, adding in the salt. I love mashing garlic. Spoon in the mustard, and separate an egg yolk with your hands and throw it in. Whisk with a whisk or a fork. Slowly pour in the olive oil; keep whisking. Squeeze in the lemon juice, and stir in a little mayo until it's the consistency you want. Crack some pepper there and you're done.

Goodbye to All This

Now that the one-month leave I took to care for Araceli is about to end, I have a couple of thoughts. Come to think of it, I always have a couple of thoughts now that I have Araceli.

One is that we are a remarkably wealthy country despite the nasty unemployment. Look at the folks out and about all the time. For instance, half the people on my block don't seem to have the usual work commitments; by 10 am at least half the garbage bins have been moved back inside. Then there's the constant traffic on the arterials, along with the usual goings-on at Amoeba on Haight during the middle of the day.

Second thing, how is it that a Mission-style burrito pushing $7 and beyond? Is it because I am pushing 40 and started hitting the taquerias two booms ago, when a trip to El Farolito set you back $2.46? (It's hard to forget those Mexican morsels, coming standard with fresh avocado and a fine pico de gallo.) Zona Rosa rolled a nice spinach-tortilla tube for me, throwing in the chopped onions and cilantro, and while enjoying it I couldn't help doing math. If the average tab is $8, how many customers do they need to make their nut? If I ran such a business, I'd call the landlord and offer him a burrito a day in exchange for lower rent. If he balked, I would counter by charging him extra for chips (they're not that good anyway) and then have him lower the rent.

Recession schmecession, places like the Eos wine bar are still turning tables, catering to customers with happy-hour offerings along with some nice plates a bit north of burrito prices. I met Jomo and his Torontan friend Ed there with half-carafes of South African chenin blanc and Chilean cabernet, plenty of pours for $10 each. The oysters also were $1 apiece, but turns out they were flown in from the East Coast somewhere and while plump weren't Tomales Bay quality. The manager made a point to walk around and check on each table, chatting up Jomo about his last take-out order. With the deals and small plates and the human touch, they're working it to keep everyone happy.

Post-production pick-me-up

El Jomo and I went down to Mountain View for an afternoon shoot and then shot back to the city to go over the video. The work session quickly adjourned to Perbacco, where we got to sample of couple of newish things. (So old-fashioned.)

First there was the roasted red and gold beets with arugula and Castelmagno cheese, and then came the seared squid with bean puree and lemon. (Tasted like Meyer lemon, but the online menu says preserved lemon.) Damn if they weren't dynamite. The highlight involved the bartender Scott, of course, and his improvised set of connected straws for Jomo to slurp some of my Ligurian white.

Mostly Plants

K recently dazzled me with two big pans of lasagna, a food memory now slightly tinged by the fact that it had two pounds of the red stuff. Today I have to pat myself on the midsection, because except for two tiny, tiny slices of smoked ham I had a meatless day.

Lunch was at Wildflower, spendy and toothsome as always, and for dinner I scrounged around the fridge for the last of mushrooms and celery to sauté, tossing in a clove of garlic at the end. Meantime I prepped the assembly: First the tortillas, then the brie, smoked cheddar, ham, spinach new from the TJ's bag. Topped the stack with the veg, and in the same pan folded in the two torts.

Five minutes later, a flip. Five minutes later, they sit on a plate, and I scoop out half an avocado on 'em. Finish with some salsa from a jar, and feed.

Aziza Night

K and I popped into our neighborhood destination restaurant for a couple of the seven seats at the bar for a little drink and bite. In the middle of doing two of the things we enjoy best and two of the things our friends enjoy best, inspiration strikes. But first the rundown:

Kristen has her glass of sparkling rosé. I start with the gin ginger, a typically Azizan concoction. Imagine categorizing your liquors, then pairing them with fruit or what have you that can be muddled or infused. My mix starts with muddled ginger and squirts of lemon/verbena, then a healthy pour of Beefeater and some simple syrup. It's iced, shaken, served. Delicious.

For the nosh, we share the usual delicacy, grilled flatbreads with spreads: roasted eggplant, yogurt dill and now chickpea, a novel variation. Feeling toothsome, I go for the sardines. They are arranged in a star patten in an enormous, round pasta plate, filleted and grilled, atop lentils, chopped peppers and fennel. I don't say a thing until I scoop up the very last dash.

So I'm making an executive decision: Alex and Jomo, mark your calendars and tell your sweethearts that I'm taking everybody out to dinner the weekend of Sept. 27-28. Table is for six. No excuses or contingencies. Final date is TK, and it'll be my treat.

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

California-Arizona Travel and Life

The banana bread mix from TJ's is in the oven and I'm due for Satchmo's red beans and rice at Elbo's at 4, so here are some quick road-trip notes.

Foodies and winos, you know this is a wonderful state. In Palm Springs, of all places, I got turned on to a knockout Galician white. (Fanch, take note.) In Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo, the wine bars were on par, if not better, than any place anywhere else. On the other side of the epicurean coin, there's something to be said about the comforting sameness of Mexican restaurants.

The best table salsa was that place on Rosedale in Bakersfield, although the joint in Parker, Ariz., across the Colorado River had a nice mix in its salsa bar. (All beverages also clocked in at 96 ounces. No wonder ... O, you know.) Tacos came hard and soft. El Rancho de Tía Rosa in Mesa, Ariz., took the cake for its succulent meats and also appears to be the most consistently crowded, for good reason.

The biggest hit were the rib-eye "sliders" at Intermezzo, the wine bar I found wandering in the Paseo off State Street in Santa Barbara. Biggest flop was the Caesar at the Parker Palm Springs (purloined pic of porte cochere is above), which I tell everybody is Merv's old place, although the management did email me asking for feedback. Now they've got it.

Review: EOS Fails to Excite

Alex’s dad and step-mom took us out for a lovely b-day fete a week ago at EOS in Cole Valley. We chose it because it’s new to us, it’s close (I was still on bed-rest) and it’s always busy, surely a good sign.

The restaurant has a good layout, with tables nicely spaced apart and a very tolerable noise level, but there’s a coldness to it. Sleek black tables with very uncomfortable chairs, which might as well be made of cement and give little back support, simply weren’t very inviting. I prefer a chair that feels good and a table setting with a cloth, flowers or candles to liven it up.

Then there’s the service: indifferent. Our waitress disappeared for long stretches, making it difficult to order a second glass of wine, and the small plates came out staggered at odd times, with long yawns between them. I certainly didn’t feel rushed out of the restaurant, but I did feel quite hungry by the time the final dishes were laid to rest.

Then there’s the food: uneven.

The first “small plate” to arrive was the spicy pan-fried long beans, nice, but no better than your typical green beans at a neighborhood Chinese restaurant. Still, the portion was generous.

Our salads, which arrived next, were a mixed bag (no pun intended). Mine, with cabbage, radicchio, green papaya and mango was colorful, flavorful and crisp, and not too sweet as I’d feared. The classic Caesar, however, was bland, unmemorable.

The other appetizer, grilled baby octopus with fennel and cress salad, had potential. The charred meat was satisfying and nicely offset by the lightness of the salad, but was marred by so much salt that it was as if the cook had forgotten to wash the ocean water off the ingredient.

Our “entrees” likewise were puzzling. The tea-smoked Peking duck breast, with gingered plum compote, was cooked perfectly, very flavorful and not greasy as duck tends to be. But the duck was warm and the compote cold, making for an unfortunate clash of temperatures in the pairing.

Also, for $16 bucks, this should have come with some kind of side vegetable or grain, rather than just four pieces of lonely duck meat.

The grilled New Zealand rack of lamb with summer squash and gremolata was juicy and zingy, but so salty it overpowered the dish -- just as the oversalting had nearly ruined the octopus.

Perhaps the best dish was the hazelnut-crusted Halibut. A terrific, crunchy shell coated the meaty, tender slab of fish beneath. It snoozed on a bed of pea shoots and bok choy, a delicious combo.

Sorry to say we won’t be going back to EOS. To be fair, I hate small plates and the restaurant does not indicate anywhere on its web site that it’s guilty of this sin.

So I felt irked immediately after sitting down and learning I would probably leave hungry. But I tried to be open-minded. Unfortunately, the food and service didn't overcome my misgivings about this evil genre of restaurant.

Review: Pres a Vi

This generation needs an Eisenhower, someone to sound the alarm about the growing threat of the small-plates/wine-bar complex. You know the scam: $13 dollar "large bites" and $8 glasses of wine, prices justified not by size of portion but by words per menu description. When a single salad is "blended," "layered" and "finished," it's time to stand up and speak truth to power.

Which brings us to Pres a Vi, a new place tucked into one corner of the Lucas Empire in the Presidio that seemed as good a lunch destination as any after a long walk at Crissy Field. The menu at first was inviting. Nothing over $15, with several dishes (including burgers and sausage sandwiches) arrayed together in what seemed a reasonably priced entree division. Turned out it was all small plates. "And what about the burgers? Are they like this?" I asked the waiter, making my fingers into a circle the size of a Kennedy half-dollar.

"No, the burgers are full size," he replied.

So, confusion right off the bat. That made me go down the list and ask, "What about this? And this?"

We started with potato wedges ("roasted," "fried" and "tossed") that were dry and mealy on the inside. More annoyingly, they had a name, "Jo-Jos." We also split an order of grilled asparagus named "Delta Grass" that tasted amazingly like grilled asparagus.

The next round were the non-entree entrees: tuna tatiki, Korean BBQ-style beef, and rock shrimp risotto. The tuna was raw but a bit chewy, not supple, with a lot of fussy stuff on top. The other two dishes were fine but damn small for their prices.

We ended with a beet salad named "Roasted Beet Salad," easy enough to figure out, but surprises lurked within. The description included "onion ring," which I thought was rings of raw or perhaps pickled onion. In fact it was an Onion Ring, a rather large one: breaded, deep-fried, and topped with the aforementioned beets. I did not expect and did not want a deep-fried onion ring with my beet salad. It was not cheeky or post-modern or retro; it was wrong.

So was the bill: $80 for three people, with only one of us (me) drinking alcohol (a $6 Anchor Steam draft). And the service: weird. Overly attentive, as they tried to clean the table of crumbs after each round and kept asking us how we were "doing," but in that California spacey way. And the feng shui: the room sucked all the energy out of the space, for some strange reason. Fanch pointed out the window sills were just slightly above eye level, making it difficult to look out at the nice view of the Palace of Fine Arts.