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?

Cioppino Secret

New Year's Eve dinner with my dad, stepmother and their friends in Santa Rosa: the featured meal, their NYE tradition, was a hearty cioppino. Why so good? The chef let us in on a little secret: crab butter. No, it's not a flavored dairy item. I had to google around a bit to figure it out.

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: 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.

Puck Me? No, Puck You

Here's Anthony Bourdain on Wolfgang Puck's bone to pick with foie gras. Typical Fight Club sandwich:

"I think he should stop worrying about cruelty to animals and start worrying about all the customers he's flopping his crap on at airports. ... He got squeezed and pressured and phone-called from all angles, and like a good German shopkeeper he folded and sold out the people hiding in the cellar next door. I got no respect."

http://tinyurl.com/2z6b26

Yuck? Pork Tri-tip and Broccoli

Maybe this is a yuck stretch, but it's something that meets the main criterion for this kind of post: impromptu combination of leftovers. I heated up a cast-iron pan where I roasted a split chicken breast the night before, adding a little olive oil to the caked-on spices and fat. Chopped up some thin slices of pork tri-tip into diagonals, and threw them in when the pan sizzled. Then tossed in steamed broccoli and about a tablespoon of dry sherry to deglaze. Two or three minutes later, I spooned out a stir-fry of sorts.

Yuck? Scrambled Eggs and Anchovies

I used white anchovies, the kind marinated in a vinagry brine, not the salty brown slivers from the tin. This is probably cheating, because I can eat anchovies all by themselves. But I wondered if the textures of scrambled eggs and soft salty fish would mesh. They did, but I think a key is to scramble the eggs to firmness with even a bit of brown around the edges. Runny scrambled eggs and anchovies would be less appealing, though it certainly wouldn't stop me.

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.

Gary Danko Wants His Umami

The video I shot recently got good play over the weekend on WSJ.com:

Yay! This was a heck of a lot of fun. My colleague Stacey Delo also makes a lot of the work look easy. Have me over for soup and ask me about it.

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.

Yuck? Dover Sole and Croissant

Thawing a chicken to roast and yet peckish, I take out the last fillet of sole left over from the improvised cioppino the other night. I cut a croissant from Schubert's in half and toast it quick. Topped it with the warmed fillet, which was pan-fried in a little butter and seasoned later with lemon juice. A little taramosalata, and bam!

Very good. Croissants make most things very good.

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.

Yuck? Popcorn and Salad

We nearly reached the end of our bag of popcorn at lunch today, and I had this bright idea: why not sprinkle the last bits, the small crunchy griebens at the bottom of the bag, over my green salad?

The salad featured canned tuna, red bell pepper, and chick peas. The popcorn was a perfect accompaniment, sort of like bacon bits without the fake pork flavor.

Yuck? Not at all!

Yuck?

Welcome to the Bistro's new irregularly scheduled feature, "Yuck?", in which we combine two tastes that don't normally go great together. The idea comes from my previous post about subbing hummus for butter. It works for lox and tomatoes, but will it spread nicely with sweets? On the face of it, why not? Peanut butter is a salty goo; butter can be salty too.

Feel free to add to the Yuck? ouevre. If you test something out, post it with a Yuck? heading so we know what's coming. We're not turning mayonnaise into foam or weaving pea-shoot nests for our foie gras dumplings, so it's the least we can do to contribute to the literature of culinary experiment. Ready? Here goes.

Hummus + Blueberry jam on toast

The verdict: Tastes surprisingly bland. Instead of the salty and sweet playing off each other as they do when, say, meat and fruit are paired, they seem to cancel, leaving the main sensation one of texture, not taste. And unfortunately, it's not a winning texture. The reason peanut butter (or even cream cheese) works with jam is the toothsome resistance. Hummus has none. Combined with jam, it feels like baby food in the mouth.

Don't Go Get the Butter

No matter how much Marlon insists, there are alternatives. I'm no health freak, but I can see the day coming when my doc has that discussion with me. It's like a birds-and-bees talk with your dad when you're 13, except you're 55 and your doctor is probably younger than you. And instead of sex and girls, it's about salt and saturated fats.

Here's my suggestion: instead of butter on your toast, use hummus. Instead of a bagel with cream cheese, try tahini. (Yes, even with lox. It's good!) These days, most S.F. cafes stock one or the other, so you can indulge outside the house. At the Hugo St. Cafe (no relation to the Bistro), I often opt for a bagel with hummus and tomato.

"But" -- I can see your inner child pouting already -- "what about jam? What about la confiture? You can't spread those on hummus, yuck! Morning won't be the same! Your suggestion cuts off all possibility of sweet morning comfort!" Ah, perhaps not. I'll address this later.

The only problem: hummus and tahini -- I really like the TJ's tahini, by the way -- won't help on the salt front. Just don't tell your doctor.

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.

The Worst Restaurant Neighborhood in San Francisco

I vote for Laurel Village/Presidio Heights. I'll explain why a bit later.

Blog List for Holiday Weekend

Here's what I've got in the hopper:

1. My visit with Gary Danko, at Gary Danko’s apartment.

2. Crab-salad sandwich from Alioto’s #8. I stood there at the end of Taylor and realized, "I’ve never been here."

3. Chicken parm last night, fast and furious.

4. How Knocked Up sucked. An L.A. story where people didn’t care about food or pretty much anything? I’ll fit it in somehow.

UPDATE: 5. How could I forget? Had a nice pan-fried piece of cod fish at the sit-down annex of Sol Food, a block down from the original corner counter, and a man named Angelo (Festa? Wouldn't surprise me) penned a letter stating how the color scheme was not appropriate for Marin County. This made my week.

Shot Across the Bouillabaisse

> A cook who is paid $15 per hour at 40 hours per week earns an annual salary of $31,200, while a server earning minimum wage plus the San Francisco median rate of $30 per hour in tips brings home $81,411 per year.

http://tinyurl.com/yv57uf

How the hell is this sustainable? Isn't it counterproductive? The good news is that our food and restaurant customs are spreading like wildfire all over the country. (It's been called our national cuisine, for lack of anything better to call it, and also because that's what it is.)

If we can't swing the prices here, at least we'll be able to enjoy interesting things somewhere else.

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.

Review: Lavash

Brand-new joint on Irving in the Inner Sunset: Lavash is next door to L'Avenida and is run by the same guy. Lavash is the food of his youth -- Persian kebabs and salads. We stopped by for lunch and could barely find room for the stroller, as the interior consists of only two tables, a counter and a grill against the far wall on which the staff cooks the kebabs: Chicken, lamb/beef, veggie and shrimp. We sampled everything but the shrimp and enjoyed them all. Nothing spectacular, but that's fine. It was well worth the reasonable prices: the $12 combo plate easily feeds two.

We also dipped into the small but excellent roster of time-honored sides: a raita-like yogurt, a chopped cucumber/tomato/onion salad, and my favorite, a large hunk of feta cheese served with walnuts and fresh herbs.

The owner chatted with us about cabbages and kings, all manner of things: the merits of Bulgarian vs. French feta, the delectable German bakery that was on 9th and Irving when he first came to the neighborhood more than two decades ago, the films of Iranian director Abbas Kurastami, and the pleasure of watching his teenagers reach 18 and suddenly decide they want the food, the language, the culture of their families after childhoods of uber-American immersion.

It's hard to make a tiny space feel hospitable -- the other Middle Eastern place down the street, Yumma's, certainly doesn't go out of its way to do so -- but Mr. L'Avenida Lavash has done it. He has even put out a bottle of wine and shot glasses for those who want a little adult beverage, gratis, with their meals or while they wait for their take-out.

Faux Sonora-style Eggs

This is adapted from El Cholo's Sonoran-style plating. Eggs cooked any which way will do. The secret is in the stacking.

3 scrambled eggs with avocado, tomato and cheese or whatever
2 cups of cooked rice and black beans
chopped spinach
a couple of corn-wheat tortillas from TJ's
hot salsa

First I sautee a shallot in a little olive oil and butter, then make the eggs, throwing in cheese first and then the avocado and tomato once they set a bit.

Blacken the tortillas on the burner a bit, and then set on warmed plates. Spoon around some rice and beans on that base; sprinkle on chopped spinach (if you want to add sour cream, do that here), and then top with the eggs from pan.

Dress with some habanero-lime salsa from TJ's, and you're done. Permutations abound.

The Father of Invention

As most of you know, the Bistro Hugo has a new, very persnickety customer who insists that the kitchen stay open 24-7. In some ways she's not hard to please; as long it comes from a boob, she doesn't really care what she eats.

Any kitchen is delighted to have a patron who sits down and asks for "the usual," I guess, but how many cranky critics need their diapers changed between the appetizer and the main course? Michael Bauer, I'm looking at you.

The adult section of the Bistro has not completely shut down, of course (you thought otherwise?). We've had plenty of outside supplement, but worry not, we haven't gone completely frozen pizza and microwave Indian. (I hope soon to post the recipe for Uncle A-Ron's Spectacular Chili Bomb, secret ingredient: chick peas.) The trick is to take the odds and ends and come up with something that feels new enough to make a sleep deprived home chef feel worthy again, even for a brief moment.

We had a small piece of leftover lamb in the fridge the other night. I chopped it into rough bite-size pieces, trimmed some but not all the fat, and sauteed it in olive oil with half a shallot, a splash of red wine, and a can of cannellini beans (I recommend the small, firm S&W brand). We served it with its own juice over couscous, and with a small glass of red wine and a couple candles on the table, it was a brief respite from the 3-hour diaper-breastfeed-sleep cycle that our newest Hugonaut has established.

I love cannellini as what our friends at Chow call a "cheater" food: an easy pantry resource that embellishes all manner of dishes. I've tossed a can into soups, stews, pastas, and salads. As with all canned beans, it's better to give them a quick rinse under cold water before using. Note: The TJ's version are too big and get too mushy for my taste.

And poof! There was Plouf

On a warm October night under clear skies, serendipity and a touch of glamour enveloped Belden Place, the all-restaurant alley that serves up European fare in a seamless indoor/outdoor culinary experience unlike any other in San Francisco. Business dinner at Plouf with the crew from work yielded an impressive light entree of opakapaka, which if I heard the waiter correctly is a type of butterfish. A delicate parsnip cream was nestled underneath, with a handful of crispy fried parsnips draped on top. Taste and portion size hit the spot. We paired dinner with a bottle of sauvignon blanc for the four of us. (Thanks, boss.)

I was glad I didn't wuss out and get the ravioli. I'm not that adventurous when it comes to seafood, so very happy I didn't miss out on the butterfish dish's medley of flavors. Just when I thought it couldn't get any better my dessert choice had me practically licking the plate: Banana profiteroles! And none too syrupy to overpower the senses.

Wish we had a few more Belden Place-like alleys to choose from in these parts!

Poz-sole

Turns out that both spellings are acceptable for the hominy soup, posole or pozole. Here's what I made tonight, based on the recipe from the Santa Fe School of Cooking:

1-1/2 pounds posole, picked over and rinsed
Sofrito: lots of onions, peppers, garlic in a little vegetable oil
Small can of tomato sauce to finish the sofrito
1 quart of chicken stock
1 heaping tablespoon of Chimayo-style red chile powder,
of medium intensity
1/2 teaspoon coriander
Salt
A few cubes of frozen cilantro, from TJ's
Optional: 4 or 5 chicken-chorizo sausages, also from TJ's

This goes a little like the dried beans: Start with your posole in a big pot, cover with 3 inches of water, boil for two or three hours. Given that I started at 4 in the afternoon and wanted to eat by 7, I started the hominy off with some boiling water from the tea kettle. Basically you want to simmer this grain good, covered, till the kernels are soft and beginning to burst. You may need to pour in more water, or maybe not.

Separately, soften up on medium-high heat the onions and peppers. (I used one red and one pasilla. Also had some extra white zucchini just to get it out of the fridge, but this is unorthodox.) A little salt and ground pepper are good here, of course. Add the garlic, and once it's fragrant, stir in a small can of tomato sauce. You get these shorties for like 60 cents at Safeway and can help you out in many pinches, aside from making sofritos.

Once you've gotten this going for a while, turn off the pan's heat. Check your posole on the other burner; if they're OK or you're just impatient, combine the sofrito in the pot. Now it's time for the stock and spices: chile powder, coriander. Taste it 30 minutes later and then salt the soup. You should feel that sweet heat from the Chimayo chile, which is considered the finest in northern New Mexico.

You can let the soup reduce and thicken some more, or not, but just before you kill the heat pop in the cubes of frozen cilantro. One last stir and you're done. Remember to chew your grits.

Optional: Cut some chicken-chorizo sausages into rounds and throw them in to the hot broth before the cilantro. They'll cook through in a few minutes. Slices of boneless chicken breasts are fine as well, and cook even faster.

Review: Hotei

Neighborhood standbys are tough to gauge. You learn to love, or if not to love, to live with the shortcomings, and soon you're so grateful there's a place you can fall back on you haven't noticed there's a serious problem. When it becomes to much to ignore, you feel bad pointing it out, like you've aged a bit and finally noticed that your favorite kindly uncle has chronic halitosis.

I've always liked Hotei even while acknowledging their noodle broths were too salty. It's a place to get Ebisu sushi without waiting two hours at Ebisu, and they provide a large bowl of hot noodle soup -- soba readily substituted for udon -- for a moderate price.

But our dinner there the other night, a night on which we didn't want pizza or Thai or Vietnamese or brochettes at the new Bistro 9, reminded me of Mifune, the place in Japantown. In other words, slapdash food -- the veggie pot stickers were particularly bad -- indifferent service, a perfunctoriness that feels like burnout. And yes, the same overly salty broth.

Speaking of the neighborhood, my man Wilson at Yummy Yummy got a shout-out in the Chron's Bargain Bites. OK my friend!

Review: The Pizza Place on Noriega

As promised by The Fanch, Sunday night we staked out the latest neighborhood pizza spot with a bit of buzz, the Pizza Place on Noriega (yes, that's the full name).

The pies didn't match the heights of Pizzetta 211, still the banner holder of Fancy-Pies-in-the-Hood. To be fair, that's not what The PPoN is aiming for. Call it sophisticated dude-pizza, perhaps, with names of pies like "The Spicoli" and "Meat Head." No quail egg and lamb-mint sausage on the toppings list.

We had the Rotten Robby and built a second from the basic margherita, adding spinach and caramelized onions. It's thin crust, and the toppings are fresh and generous. But the crust left us disappointed. It was thin but not particularly crispy or toothsome, more a white-bread version of a thin crust. And a couple of the toppings didn't work; the pesto on the Robby was administered in blobs; catching one in a bite was too much pesto at once. On the other pie, the caramelized onions were too cloying for my tastes, and, like the pesto, unevenly spread. A more careful hand in the kitchen would do wonders. As fellow Bistrovian BrO never fails to remind: "Attention must be paid!"

We also ordered two apps, a large mixed salad and roasted cauliflower: Well done, nicely dressed, and generous portions both.

It's nearly at the beach, Noriega and 46th, and when we walked in much of the clientele were young adults with hoodies and cold-weather knit caps drinking draft beer at the bar: a fine apres-surf setting. The room is big, full of fun (often winkingly bad) art, and high-ceilinged. It's partitioned in two by a wall that allows the kitchen/bar and dining sides to feel each other's presence but blocks some of the bar noise from the eating area. Because of its high ceilings and, as I discovered half way through the meal, an open skylight, the room was also chilly, a bit of a turn-off for what's otherwise a friendly, funky joint.

Worth going back? At less than $20 a person (two of the four in our party had a glass of wine; no dessert), it was the right price, much more reasonable than what you'd pay at Pizzetta or Gialina. And I really liked the room, chill notwithstanding. (Next time, wear the ski cap!) With a few tweaks, or perhaps knowing the strengths of the menu, it would be worth another visit. Perhaps we can ask them to leave the crust in a bit longer.

From Kristen: Soup for You

When Anthony and I embarked on a pork and pink-bean soup with corn-muffin croutons this weekend, I had modest expectations. I have long lacked kitchen confidence, a side effect of my general laziness toward cooking and a chronic lack of imagination in front of a full refrigerator. But with the changing of the seasons has come a roaring appetite -- not just for food but for the making of it.

I found the recipe in this month's Food and Wine magazine, and pretty soon I  was mixing batter for the ultra-easy Johnny cake that would provide the croutons. Then I chopped onion and garlic while A got started with the bacon strips. We softened up the basics and threw in a little green and orange bell pepper before adding the maple syrup, which pleased my East Coast sensibilities.

Soon came the beans, browned bacon and chicken stock. Anthony went off recipe and tossed in some boneless chicken. A garnish of chopped red onions topped it off. I'm delighted to report the end result bore a close resemblance to the picture on the page! [An example is at right. -- Ed.] We lapped up several bowls' worth as if we were famished farmers working the plow all day. Ah, the nostalgia of harvest.

Only thing I would change next time is I'd cut the amount of bacon in half -- less of the strong taste and animal fat go a long way.

Breakfast Butt-rito

"We don't try to hide what these are," Haley said. "When consumers go to other fast-food places they feel like they've got to buy two of their breakfast sandwiches or burritos to fill up. This is really designed to fill you up."

Pizza My Heart

Everyone's noticed that this town has gone pizza-crazy recently. When I moved here 7 years ago, there was nary a good pie to be had (perhaps Pauline's was the pinnacle at the time).

Today there's a great diversity of dough, sauce and cheese on offer, and a much higher threshold to cross to enter the city's competitive pizza joint landscape.

It's not surprising that Michael Bauer has jumped on the bandwagon, starting a weekly blog entry about pizza around the Bay Area. So far, he did a good job nailing Gialina in Glen Park. But we'll have to wait and see what else he uncovers. One place we haven't tried that has been amped up in the press lately is the Pizza Place on Noriega, supposedly an East Coast-style dough thrower. When we do get around to sampling their pies, we'll share the verdict here first.

Kid Stuff

New link to some old colleagues: Gastrokid, a blog by ex-Standardites Hugh Garvey and Matthew Yeomans. A quick spin through their material yields this interesting tip: only buy meat that's on sale. Read on to find out why.

Try Waxing

> Mrs. Useloff, 36, was once a picky eater herself. Although she drank gallons of milk, she couldn’t abide raw fruits or vegetables. New foods with strange textures literally frightened her. The aversion lasted until her 20s, when she worked to overcome her fears. Even today, she refuses to buy cucumbers.

Probably because she already has one up her butt:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/10/dining/10pick.html

I'm having a fine day otherwise, but while suddenly irritating, let me ask this: If you have kids but don't blog about them, are they really there?

Shouldering the Burden

Anyone know what to do with those boneless, skinless strips of pork shoulder from TJ's? They cook (and overcook) in mere minutes in a skillet. Are they supposed to be coarsely chopped and simmered low and slow in a sauce, like a mole or chile verde? Thrown into a pho soup with noodles? Also, please tell me what to do once I've already browned them whole.

Review: From Blue Jay to Nopa

The Blue Jay Cafe and Nopa are two ends of a spectrum, two ends of a new destination corridor that for better or for worse the out-of-towners have marked on their maps, still a bit titillated by the "random shootings" the neighborhood was "once mostly known for."

This past week I ate at both and, not entirely putting thoughts on class and gentrification aside, enjoyed both thoroughly. A quick summary of each:

- The Blue Jay is a soul-food place, a nod to the neighborhood's decades as African-American but staffed by young white ladies upfront and Latino guys in the kitchen. I'd eaten there once before with uninspired results. Unable to get into Little Star Pizza without waiting an hour, Tony and I walked into Blue Jay on the late side Tuesday to the sound of Ozzy Osbourne on the house speakers. Two tables over, a patron complained to his tablemates that his beans were thoroughly uncooked. The waitresses seemed barely interested. Uh-oh.

My fears were unfounded. The large salad we split was excellent and lightly dressed, which in itself was stunning. I pegged it as the type of place that ruins a salad by slathering it. The side cornbread was scrumptious. Same for the entrees -- mine the red beans 'n' rice with andouille, Tony's the burger with a fried egg atop. The music remained rock 'n' roll but the volume receded to a suitable volume (suitable to two guys in their late 30s, at least), and the service was friendly and attentive. I was impressed, and I said so with a derisive snort aimed at the trendier spots down the street.

- Nopa would be a far easier target for anti-gentrification sentiment if it weren't so damn good. The Fanch and I had a belated mutual birthday/anniversary splurge Thursday and used a gift certificate we'd been saving. We reserved a week in advance for 6pm, the first seating of the evening, and even then had to wait til 6.10. (At least they didn't pull the abhorrent Slanted Door routine of forcing their reservees to wait an hour just to build a line and buzz.)

Soon we sat. I'm not sure why, but I was a bit put off by the tiny amuse-bouche placed before us: two slivers of apple each with a dab of almond butter. Perhaps the precious size, barely a whisper of food, but hey, it was free.

We started with a marinated squid salad and roasted sardines, and both delivered what I always look for in a restaurant that charges a premium: something I've never had before. In the squid salad, it was spicy roasted chickpeas, a delightful nutty counterpoint to the chewy tang of the squid. With the sardines it was the tarragon-infused broth -- the sardine filets perched above the broth on bruschetta-like bread rounds that sopped up the liquid.

Our third appetizer, the flatbread with fennel sausage, could have passed as an entree. Unlike the other apps, it was both more familiar and more generous a portion, something a skilled home chef might bring out to feed friends in front of the TV. It was upscale comfort food at its finest, with gruyere, caramelized onions and radicchio rounding out the toppings.

Our entrees were the vegetarian tagine and lamb shank, and after gorging on the flatbread we figured we'd have to take one of the entrees home. We took home less than we expected, mainly because the tagine was an irresistible example of simple food done exquisitely. The jumble of veg -- potato, turnip, red pepper, eggplant, chickpea -- tasted so fresh it made me suspect the restaurant had a roof garden. The turnips in particular were fabulous, slightly nutty and spicy but without the whiff of ammonia that makes kids, and many others the world over, hate turnips. Sprinkled throughout were toasted almonds and generous spoonfuls of lemon yogurt.

The turnips also showed up with the lamb shank, much to my delight.

As for service, the waitress recommended two glasses of red and each time nailed the description and the pairing I hoped for. (The Grenache-Cinsault '06 Cotes du Rhone with the appetizers, followed by the Corvina Valpolicella with the tagine.)

All this excellence wasn't cheap: $140 for two including tip. It's a bit unclear how the restaurant wants to be a neighborhood hangout where locals go two or three times a week -- something the chef once told our own intrepid restaurant reporter. I don't think he means the same locals who also make Popeye's Fried Chicken a neighborhood hangout. (Or even the Bean Bag Cafe.) I guess you could pop in on your way home from work and sit at the bar with a $12 burger or a $16 tagine, but like so many things in our little island town, the perspective has gotten a bit skewed.

Review: Bistro 9

Bistro 9 opened a month or so ago on 9^th Avenue, a casual Moroccan-Greek joint run by the folks behind Kan Zaman and the Citrus Club. I imagine it hopes to capitalize on its proximity to Park Chow a few doors down, picking up the usual evening overflow, and so far it seems to be working

Alex, my mom and I ate there Saturday and were cautiously impressed with the whole package--food, service and ambiance.

We all ordered the kabob platter plus, which includes three meat skewers, two sides and rice pilaf, but made sure not to duplicate choices to sample a wide range of dishes.

The place excels at grilled meat. My chicken skewers in a mint-cumin-yogurt marinade were tender and flavorful as were Alex’s lamb and salmon and my mom’s tangy kefte beef ones.

The sides, however, were uneven; my grilled vegetables a bit underdone and my pearl couscous too mushy, but the beet salad satisfied and the wonderful grilled eggplant slathered in tomato sauce melted in your mouth. Unfortunately, the white bean Provencal was flat. Still, the rice was fantastic and the portions were huge.

Overall, the restaurant had a cheerful hum. There’s a lovely patio out front, a warm, candle-lit main dining room with an exposed brick wall that runs along one side and an L-shaped patio out back with heat lamps, where we sat since it was a fine September evening. The service was speedy and courteous, and the check very, very reasonable.

We also eyed our neighbors’ roasted chickens and Greek salads, which looked great. All in all, I’d say it’s definitely worth returning to as a neighborhood staple, but I don’t think it merits a special trip from other parts of town.

Fork New York

Setting aside the daily lunch grabs at the DJ cafeteria (you'll never meet nicer guys behind a counter, anywhere), not out of anything negative but out of expediency, I loved everything I ate in the city last week.

A few things popped out; there were some oddities, like that ice in beer I saw in Pennsylvania the last time I went east. Speaking of, every single beer at the Kerbs Boathouse concession in the park is $7, bottle or draft, domestic or imported. I had a Hebrew National for $5 and found a bench in the sun. Oh yes.

Why are scrambled eggs cooked to order at most Greek diners, upscale or not, too dry? Do you have to ask for them wet? Does every single place to eat buy cannellini beans from the same supplier? Probably.

The two worthy meals of note: In reverse order, Uskudar is a tiny Turkish place in the Upper East's avenues that we popped into because it got blurbed in a copy of New York magazine we lugged around. Starters were not auspicious or impressive at all, and a little pricey. A side serving of same-old cannellini, and not many of them, sautéed with a little onion and tomato paste or something shouldn't be $7 or $8. (A similar-size portion of fava beans with tomatoes and French feta at Aziza, by contrast, comes piping hot out of the oven and is worth whatever the market will bear. Which at Aziza is a lot.)

For main course I winged it and was won over by the manti (one version at right) which are Turkish dumplings in a tangy yogurt sauce. A single one of these morsels of meat-stuffed dough can sit on a nickel, and I had me a bowl with about five bucks' worth of nickels. The highlight, however, was inviting an older couple to sit at an adjacent table and having very casual, nonintrusive chatter at comfortable intervals among the four of us.

Turns out they've been coming to Uskudar every Monday for 25 years. Turns out they have actually been to my hometown of Mayagüez a few times to visit a friend. It blew me away. I got so giddy I didn't catch the gent's name. I wish my mom woulda been there; she knows everybody.

Then there was the delightful Da Andrea on Hudson, where we met Amy, a former colleague of Kristen's, along with Amy's husband Paul and a strapping almost 3-year-old Max. A&P used to live in the Village and in the same building as the couple that runs Da Andrea. Naturally they love Max. They also know what Max loves best.

Neither Michael Eisner nor Michael Ovitz in his heyday could have gotten bottled water faster than Max gets his Parmesan, sliced fresh at the table, chop chop. The host and co-owner (whose name I forget, again giddy on my way out after the Italian double kiss) was patient, listening and recommended a few dishes for us even as the place was about to pop with people. Of course, she goes and orders up most of the things on the menu and some specials off it to go with them.

The first flotilla of plates was dizzying -- grapefruit-red prosciutto with soft, flat buns to make mini sandwiches, soft polenta that warmed you all over, the octopus salad, I can't recall them all. Complete knockout. No idea why I passed up the veal sweetbreads for the lamb shank with the same damn cannellini, but that's the way it goes. There was plenty of meats and pastas to share anyway, and they were very good.

After a round of desserts, check comes and it's $99. I pick it up and Amy and Paul leave a $25 tip. Max takes his penne to go.

My thoughts: It's a beautiful thing about the city that you meet all sorts of people, some of whom beam when they see good friends coming into their restaurant with other soon friends. But sitting there taking it all in, I had to ask Paul: How do New Yorkers pick a favorite restaurant, particularly an Italian one, in a neighborhood drowning in red sauce? Word of mouth, he says. Thoughts? I know I've done my part for Da Andrea.

Only in New York

Haven't found the time to squeeze in reports from my recent trip yet, but I had to chime in with a Bruni Alert: sidewalk dining, which of course we understand as disgusting and do it anyway. Kind of like that show with Pat O'Brien as well as the Drudge Report.

FB liked his own piece so much that he followed up on his blog with something from the mailbag:

> “I am reminded,” the reader wrote, “of one of my favorite vintage New Yorker cartoons, where a mother is sitting with her young son at a Manhattan outdoor cafe and urging him to ‘hurry up and eat before your food gets dirty, dear.’”

Review: The Brickhouse

This comes a bit late, as baseball season just ended, but I have a new contender for favorite pre-game pub. I'm a big fan of the 21st Amendment, which I've never reviewed but will someday, and you can't beat their homegrown, but the Brickhouse offers a different atmosphere. It's quiet, it's airy, and the slightly punky, slightly granola wait-staff and high wooden rafters give it more the feel of a farmhouse collective than a sports pub. (And no, it's not a brew pub, but with Anchor Steam on tap, it's close enough.)

Like the 21st, the Brickhouse pares down (and prices up?) the menu on game days -- burgers, sandwiches, salads, and the like. (Non-game days feature more variety.) I had the veggie chili (pretty good) and a large spinach salad (very good). Too small a sample size to say anything definitive about the food. Consider it a developing situation.

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.

Pizza My Combo, Take 2

Best pizza combo ever?

* Sliced pesto-chicken sausage
* Kalamata olives, chopped
* Arugula, slightly sauteed first with garlic (and added to the pizza half-way through the 10-minute bake so to avoid over-crisping)

Bargain Bites Riposte: Lime Tree

The Chron has published this year's Bargain Bites list. I'd like everyone to weigh in on the picks. Feel free to span more than one per post. I'll go first:

Lime Tree, 6th and Irving. Cheap, sure, but not even worth the bargain price the several times I've stopped in. My heart breaks to write this, as the owner is the sweetest man in the Inner Sunset. Perhaps he's finally gotten it together, but I visited at least four times in its early days, each time coming away disappointed with the eternal wait for fairly straightforward food (even with no other customers in sight), and with the middling quality. With the Chron's blessing now bestowed, maybe I'll give it one more shot.

Fight Club Sandwiches

Grain of truth alert. Paul Levy writes:

> The food writing that's in vogue today consists chiefly of a bellow of bravado. It's a guy thing, sure, but (with a few honorably hungry exceptions) these scribblers mostly ignore what's on the plate. They view themselves as boy hunters and despise sissy gatherers, thrive on the undertow of violence they detect in the professional kitchen, and like to linger on the unappetizing aspects of food preparation.

Bam! See for yourself: http://www.slate.com/id/2174218/

Mark to Market Bar

The Bistro Hugo's Mysterious Jomo brought me to the Ferry Building, to the Market Bar at 1 Ferry Building on the Embarcadero, and the first and last time I stopped in there last the place was clean out of beer. Tragic.

So here's the rundown: Plenty to drink this time. After wetting my whistle with a Guinness and then a Meteor Pils (from Alsace?), I ordered up half a carafe of dry rosé for the table, along with the prix fixe menu ($35) for myself. My first dish was the rabbit ravioli with chanterelles, an absolute knockout. Then I had the pepper beef filet, pole beans and a little chipotle, perfectly paired with a Grenache blend from the Chateau de Montmiral, Gigondas in the Rhone region ($38), picked kinda randomly and rubber-stamped by the patient and gracious staffer. The dish was perhaps a little overspiced, but perfectly cooked. I also got to tell my favorite cognac story.

My companions noted how the place filled up, and that was a surprise for me for a Wednesday, but hey, it's boom times. Thanks, Jomo!

Here's Looking at Louis

Now catching up with my notes from my last trip, as I prepare for our week in New York. (Any suggestions out there for me?)

Better late than never to commend the fine Bar Louis in the adorable Milford, Pa., hotel where we vegged like royals, in part because it rained. But the place is a great room and has a refreshingly reasonable wine list and desserts that are rich and yet inhaled. It's the kind of place that's stimulating even for just a nightcap while gazing upon Warhol and Lennon gazing back at you, and informal to the extent that somebody will be hanging out nursing Foster's in a glass with ice. Ice in beer, it must be an East Coast thing. Saw this a couple of times.

Kristen and I shared a great bottle of Champagne with some amazing cheeses, the real splurge of the night. Being summer, the roasted corn chowder was dynamite. My Caesar and her salmon with asparagus and balsamic reduction were as good if not better than any others we've had to date. My entree, unforgettable, was the sushi pizza -- a sort of okonomiyaki, a base of sushi rice and rice flour with ahi tuna, a little wasabi cream (I think) and fish roe. It's become a bit famous, very savory and not overpriced at $15.

The upstairs dining room is only open Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays and is prix fixe at $60-$80. I'd love to try it someday. Nevertheless, Bar Louis has made a stamp on this former timber town on the Delaware River. I think about it all the time myself.

June Swoon

A couple years ago fellow Bistrovian BrO turned me on to the marmalade of June Taylor. Best marmalade I've ever had, and better yet I had it all to myself, as The Fanch can't stand the stuff.

Our old friends at Chow have a video interview with June here.

Review: Le P'tit Laurent

This corner bistro at the Glen Park crossroads of Chenery and Diamond is so French I was shocked when one of the unfailingly young and friendly waitresses was American, not French. Given its Francophilia, perhaps I should have been more shocked the waitresses were friendly.

But there they were, young and chatty and not unpleasant on the 37-year-old eyes, approaching each time with a "Messieurs, alors..." (OK, gentlemen...) to see if my tablemates and I, all late 30-something husbands having a brief boys night out, were ready to order. The answer was mainly no, as we were catching up on not having seen each other for many years, and our particular young and easy-on-the-eyes mademoiselle remained, yes, friendly, even a little jokey.

One of my friends' wives, whom we visited after our boys-only dinner, remarked that she found the service a little rude, but I thought it more off-handed. A slightly larger problem was that the service was a little forgetful. With a smile and wee Gallic shrug our waitress, and one or two others, apologized for not bringing this or that (water, our bottle of wine, a second helping of bread). It didn't matter because we had already set the unhurried pace of the evening. The service simply met us halfway.

I prattle on about the service for another reason: there isn't much to report regarding the food. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't distinguished. Decent bistro food, I guess you could call it. I had the rabbit prepared Normandy style, if I remember correctly, my mates each chose a fish -- monkfish in lobster-bacon sauce and the night's special swordfish. Each of us reported the same reaction: decent enough. Not particularly delicate or subtle, somewhat meager proportions, and less than maximum presentation effort. You could generously call it "unpretentious," and for lower prices, sure, why not.

But main courses were in the $16-$20 range, perhaps even a bit more, apps up to $10. What with rents and labor and fuel prices and foie gras backlash, perhaps that's the going rate these days for a decent-enough neighborhood bistro meal served by good-naturedly insouciant French women (do they bring them in on H1-B visas?) in a cozy neighborhood spot. If so, you could be far more disappointed, but on the whole, c'est dommage.

In this city we're up to our stamped-tin ceilings in wannabe authentic bistros, so you should have no problem finding one closer to home at the same or even better prices without having to wander over to Glen Park.

Sustainable Tuna

Look for the American Albacore Fishing Association label in finer sushi parlors everywhere.

Recipes: Chron Chicken

The Chronicle this morning published a paean to the simple roast chicken, with a few not-so-simple recipes thrown in. Click through for the article and several recipes, but here's the one I'm itching to try:

My Dad's Best Ever Chicken
(from Traci Des Jardins)

* 1 large free-range chicken, whole, about 5 pounds
* 1 bunch basil, leaves only
* 2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
* 4 tablespoons Dijon mustard
* 1 tablespoon dried thyme
* 1 teaspoon dried oregano
* 1 teaspoon savory
* 1 teaspoon dried sage
* 1 teaspoon dried rosemary
* 1 teaspoon ground cumin
* -- Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
* 1 lemon

Instructions: Preheat oven to 500°. Loosen the skin of the chicken by running your fingers up under the skin of the breasts. Stuff the basil leaves and garlic under the skin, trying to distribute evenly. Combine all of the dried herbs. Rub Dijon mustard over the entire bird, and then sprinkle the herbs over the entire skin of the chicken. Season the inside of the cavity and the skin generously with salt and pepper. Finish by poking holes in the lemon with a fork and placing it in the cavity.

Place the chicken in a roasting pan and cook for 50 minutes to 1 hour, or until the internal temperature reaches 165°. You may have to reduce the temperature of the oven by 50° after 15-20 minutes if you notice that the skin is getting too dark too quickly. When the chicken is done, all of the juices coming from the cavity should be clear. Remove the lemon from the cavity and squeeze the juice over the chicken. Serve with any variety of accompaniments such as mashed potatoes, roasted heirloom potatoes and corn or parsnip puree.

What's Cooking with You?

As I do every couple of months, I remind you all that the "What's Cooking" box at top right is open to guest chefs. When you're delighted with what you've just dished up, send me a paragraph and I'll post it.

Lazy Monday roundup

Weeks' worth of meals have come my way since I've come around, and instead of a roster or ingredients dossier, I have a few threads to put together, in no particular order.

Food is like music and like so many other things, in that some people spend an enormous around of time and energy crafting and harmonizing and others don't care if you get soggy fries with that. Forget about going on vacation: At the beginning and end of the last work week, I sipped at slow gin/Ramos fizz before lapping up the cioppino at Tadich (thanks to the gracious Jomo), and that was in every way a counterpoint to the crap I had at at Harrington's, which does not give a hoot if its salads or sandwiches are lousy or its fries are soggy, since you're drinking anyway. Funny how the average customer's income at both places is about the same. Just goes to show you can run a hedge fund, but your taste will forever be for shit.

What is it about a composed salad that is so hard to understand? Why is serving a simulacrum acceptable? Harrington's has no excuse for its lame-ass everything, being in San Francisco, but I felt particularly violated by a so-called Niçoise salad I had at a fancyish bar and grill in Easton, Pa. -- the Boston/Bibb lettuce pulled and plated wrong, the glaring omission of olives for God's sake, a piece of tuna that either was past its prime or proof that the grill needed cleaning. Because it smelled like armpit. Best thing about the bar and grill, a watering hole for big-shot lawyers and others working in the county courthouse and prison up the street, was the beer. $2 for local pints!

The setting was almost as sketchy and depressing in the Mission Saturday, on the block with the two small-plates-and-sangria drunk tanks. (We had a gift certificate.) Formally, this type of food makes no sense, and I'll save that rant for another post. First off, you can't tell the staff apart from the clientele. Am also glad someone took the trouble to get goopy cream into a squeeze bottle, but zigzagging it on black beans isn't impressive or appreciated anymore.

One of my favorite times at table over the recent period was when Kristen and I got gyros at a Greek diner in the town of Milford, Pa., on our stint away from the Lehigh Valley. The pita sandwiches came warm, wrapped they were in wax paper so that they stay hot and so that you can actually pick them up. The fries, for the record, were crispy crisp. These things are satisfying, and I can't think of an excuse for those who want to get by with less.

I want to wrap on another up note: We won over a couple of converts by bringing croissants from Schubert's over to brunch just earlier today at Alex and Emily's. A few minutes in the oven, and their savory flakiness (the pastries, not the hosts) resets perspective. You are what you say you eat.

Recipe: Lamb With Thyme and Orange Peel

I'm trying this one tonight, but subbing lemon-scented thyme for regular thyme.

Meat + Paper = Meatpaper

"We are your journal of meat culture."

Review: Mi Lindo Yucatan

It was the rare Saturday sit-down lunch without out-of-town guests or birthdays or any other excuse. Just the snap decision to cool our heels in the midst of errands, and upon a recommendation we stopped at Mi Lindo Yucatan on 24th between Castro and Noe. Not a hood often fêted for its Mexican food.

Start fêting. It was one of the best meals I've had all year. Mi Lindo Yucatan is not a taqueria, though they have tacos on the appetizer menu. It's a family-run restaurant, with iconic Mayan figures on the walls, a modest number of tables, and big windows that invite people-watching. (Alas, no sidewalk seating.)

Fanch and I split a veggie tamal to start. The cornmeal sheath was satisfyingly toothsome but light on the tongue. The veggie filling was uncomplicated, unspectacular, but fresh and tasty. The homemade salsas on the side were a subtle but welcome departure: the verde with a bit more smoke and pique than normal, and the rojo with a faintly sweet undercurrent.

My main was a grilled pork plate -- again, nothing complicated. Raw shredded cabbage, chopped radish, slices of avocado, a side of whole black beans, and a dollop of stewed tomato rounded out the plate, with a cloth napkin cozying three hot homemade tortillas, some of the best I've ever tasted. Served in large postage-stamp sized slices, the pork stayed juicy, lean and tender, no easy feat.

Emily had a spinach salad with mango, avo and grapefruit. For $2 extra she had an entire grilled chicken breast sliced atop. The chicken was tender, lightly spiced, and from the lingering whiff of char obviously cooked to order -- this was no precooked, presliced salad topping. I couldn't have made a better vinaigrette. With my bottomless glass of ice tea (fragrant with bergamot), the total bill came to $27.

The service was warm -- the older woman (Mom?) who ran the place and a younger woman (daughter?) split the table duties and beamed when I told them I would never eat store-bought tortillas again.

Best Cheap Lunch in San Francisco?

I used to tell myself back in 1980 (when I worked in downtown Nevada City for Crittenden Publishing) that what what my town needed more than anything was a good $3.00 lunch. Whudda guessed I'd find it 27 years later in San Francisco?

Zapata's at the northwest corner of 18th and Collingwood is a modest taqueria (a redundancy, I know, but a useful one) offering the usual fare, which no one needs me to list. Very rarely, the cook tapes a handwritten special on the spit guard separating the mostly illegal, no doubt, immigrant servers from their customers. This isn't the world's best taqueria, though I'd rate it above average. A weakness: its slim selection of salsas and no cut limes.

A major strength: The fish taco. These are much more generous and flavorful than the standard San Francisco specimen. Can't tell you what it is, but the main ingredient, cooked to order right in front of you on the always-sizzling griddle, is white, fresh, firm-fleshed but somewhat flaky, and remarkably flavorful. Your choice, natch, of black, pinto, or refried beans and either mild or spicy salsa. You can also choose between regular and super, which adds -- unnecessarily in my opinion -- guacamole, sour cream, and maybe cheese. I always order black, spicy, reg. The unusual and impressively successful ingredient Zapata adds to its signature fish taco is fresh mushrooms, a lot of them, griddled along with the fish.

A single regular fish taco comes with a little rectangular paper box of fresh corn chips. You can load up with roasted tomato salsa, a raw radish or two, and easily call this lunch. Or at least I can. With free water, the midday meal comes in at $3.10.

I'm always satisfied, never tempted to have more, and go back regularly, as does Dan. There's no reason for this to be a secret. Tell everybody!

Your turn: Any other nominations for San Francisco's best cheap lunch?

Recipe: Zucchini-and-Fennel Salad

This comes from the NYT mag, and it has a problem: sogginess. The finer you cut, slice, shave, or grate squash, the more water it releases. The writer, Daniel Patterson, alludes to this in the intro -- "One problem with squash is that it’s largely water, so my initial idea for a gratin prompted visions of a soggy mess" -- but the recipe itself has no such warning.

Zucchini-and-Fennel Salad With Pecorino and Mint

1 ¼ pounds zucchini

½ cup torn mint leaves

1 cup shaved aged pecorino Romano

1 small head fennel, cored and thinly shaved

Juice of 1 lemon, plus more as needed

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more as needed

Salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Use a vegetable peeler or mandoline to thinly shave the zucchini lengthwise. In a large bowl, toss together the zucchini, mint, pecorino Romano, fennel, lemon juice and olive oil. Season with salt and black pepper. Add more lemon juice or olive oil to taste. Serves 4.

We compounded the problem by grating the zucchini instead of using a mandoline (which we don't have) or vegetable peeler, but I would think the problem would remain even after using those instruments.

Other than the excess liquid at the bottom of the bowl, the salad was wonderful, a perfect balance of flavors. It begs the question, to which perhaps someone here has an answer: what's the best way to wring the water from the raw squash? Paper towels? Colander?

I Thought I Used a Little Too Much Wasabi...

Turns out it was the salmon.

Recipe: Summer Eggplant Salad

On a rare warm Inner Sunset summer night, this recipe hit the spot, and it was the rare clip-job recipe that was spot-on. I wouldn't change a thing. One caveat: do not under any circumstances use cow's milk feta (such as Athenos -- disgusting). If it doesn't expressly say sheep's milk, walk on by.

In case you can't log in to the NY Times Web site, here's the recipe:

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 3/4 pounds eggplant (any kind, or a mixture), trimmed and cut into 1-inch chunks

3 ounces feta cheese, crumbled (about 2/3 cup)

1 clove garlic, minced

1 tablespoon capers, chopped

1 pound mixed bell peppers, seeded and cut into 1-inch pieces

1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved

1/4 cup fresh mint leaves.

1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Whisk together the oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper.

2. Toss eggplant with 1/3 cup vinaigrette, reserving the rest. Arrange on a baking sheet. Bake, tossing occasionally, until tender and golden around edges, about 30 minutes. Let eggplant cool somewhat. (It can be warm but not hot enough to melt feta or wilt mint.)

3. Whisk feta, garlic and capers into reserved vinaigrette. In a large bowl, combine eggplant, peppers, tomatoes and mint leaves. Toss with vinaigrette, and serve immediately or within several hours. (It holds up all day.)

Yield: 4 to 6 servings.

El Bala$o

If it’s a Tuesday at about 8 and you’re in the Upper Haight, where the heck do you get a decent bite?

Three of us checked out a couple of places, including Citrus Club, which a little crowded, and we weren’t patient. (I’ve been there once, and can’t say I’m keen on another visit. Funky Thai, big whoop.) We settled on El Balazo, which was nearly empty, and I think I know why.

The cheapest burritos, for example, can be had for more than $7 with the tax. They’ve got pretty basic plates (two tacos with rice, beans and tortillas) for about $10. I even remember some dinners going for more. Or maybe I just remember being ticked.

I ended up getting two tacos (shredded beef, chicken en mole) for $6 -- no beans, because those cost extra here. The tacos were good, and the signature side of cabbage salad is always nice. But $6?

The rents on Haight must skyrocket every year; one look at the food board at Balazo and you know they’ve been jacking up prices with some regularity.

I can get two friggin’ huge, knockout, fresh-grilled tacos on the Embarcadero for Christ’s sake for less than $5, stuffed with meats and beans and very hot pico de gallo, which is usually called salsa. The salsa bar is also better at Pancho Villa at Pier 1, with roasted jalapeños, not just the pickled ones.

I’ve no real beef with ripping off tourists or kids who don’t know any better. If the only reasonably priced foods a business district can offer are pizza slices, though, let me be among those who say gracias, pero no gracias.

Mixology

1-1/2 oz. Tanqueray Rangpur gin
3/4 oz. Campari
3/4 oz. Villa Italia blood orange soda from Trader Joe's

Shake with ice, and serve up.

I came up with this on Friday night. It's descended from the Negroni; I'm starting to think that any drink that's one-third sweet vermouth needs a tweak. I even put a shake of Angostura bitters in there just to see how it would work alongside the Campari, but it wasn't necessary. This is a summertime drink best served very cold on a warm evening. It works as an apertif. Pair with something by Lee Morgan.

The Tanqueray Rangpur probably works in a G&T, but it's not Martini material; I guess you could work with it in a Gimlet too. Inessential in your liquor cabinet.

Name my drink?

More Flapjacks, Please

The Fanch reports:

It's only recently I've become a more confident flapjack flipper. For years, I felt that I couldn't really master pancakes. Too thick, too thin. Doughy and raw inside. Or leaden and one-note.

But in the past year, I've learned the trick: separating and beating the egg whites. A recipe from Alex's Aunt Dena for orange souffle ricotta pancakes turned me on to the power of whipping egg whites to loamy peaks before folding them gentle into the batter. Dina's are citrusy and light, but also creamy from the ricotta.

This weekend, we had another success with a buckwheat batter mix from Bette's Dinner in Berkeley, which also called for the egg trick. We also added blueberries to the batter for color and flavor, and topped the perfect pancakes with strawberries and peaches. Easy and delish.

Review: Buy Me Some Bi-Rite

The Fanch reports:

We had quite the foodie weekend with our visitors from NY, Hillary and Kofi. We started out chez Bistro Hugo Friday evening, where we whipped up a sensational meal culled from the fruits of Roz's garden.

A tangy, light cucumber, avocado and heirloom tomato salad laced with cilantro and grapeseed-oil vinaigrette accompanied a hearty roasted-green-eggplant-and-sausage sugo over whole-wheat pasta.

The next morning, we were ready for more indulgence, heading off to the Farmer's Market for an orgy of fruit, from green figs to soft-ball-sized peaches. But a highlight, in addition to our Bodega Bistro experience, outlined by Alex below, was Saturday evening's dessert.

At Dan Becker's urging, we decided to try Bi-Rite Creamery, the new ice cream shop on 18th off Dolores, a block that already had an embarrassment of culinary riches before its latest addition opened.

Inside the brightly lit, compact store we found alluring flavors, from honey-lavender to salted caramel. We tasted a few and made our strategic choices: balsamic strawberry, coffee toffee and chai-laced milk chocolate. All winners. Good thing the pints cost $7.99. Otherwise, I would have been tempted to take some of this divine dairy home.

Review: Bodega Bistro

I'll keep it short: Best Viet food I've had in San Francisco and perhaps the best meal I've had all year. The best dish among many was the roast squab appetizer, served atop caramelized onions and golden raisins and with a salty lemon pepper dipping sauce on the side. Bonus points that they serve it with the head and claws for the adventurous to gnaw.

Also delicious: the papaya salad, tossed by the waiter at the table, which saves it from the typical papaya-salad fate of getting too mushy; the roast pork and vermicelli (bun) with lettuce leaf wrap; and the three-kinds-of-beef pho, with a broth that was rich but not greasy.

The Way We Eat Now

Propagandists in general need no extra megaphones, but I know and appreciate good agitprop when I see it. Here's the latest from Michael Jacobson from the Center for Science in the Public Interest, in my junk-mail pile: foods you should never eat. He underlined it. Because he means it.

Try his "Angioplasta: Ruby Tuesday's Fresh Chicken & Broccoli Pasta." Funny, it doesn't sound that bad. It has fresh ingredients, pasta is light and broccoli is supposed to be this miracle food, right?

Check the full description: "Fresh, pulled white-meat chicken, fresh steamed broccoli and penne pasta tossed in Parmesan cream sauce, then baked." The dish has 2,060 calories and 128 total grams of fat -- which Jacobson calls the equivalent of "two sirloin-steak dinners with Caesar salad and buttered baked potato." Italics are mine. Because I love Caesar salad.

Would you like something for dessert? There are a couple of good ones here: a Mint Chip Dazzler at Häagen Dazs, and the Cheesecake Factory's 6 Carb Cheesecake.

The Mint Chip thing has three scoops of ice cream, hot fudge, Oreos, chocolate sprinkles and whipped cream, adding up to 1,270 calories and 38 grams of saturated fat. Jacobson says this is like a T-bone steak dinner with Caesar salad and baked potato with sour cream.

Maybe you should go for the low-carb cheesecake. One piece has 610 calories and 29 grams of saturated fat, which Dr. J (he says he has a Ph.D.) equates to eight ounces of prime rib. No salad or starch, though.

You wonder why we're going to hell as fat as cows. Keep the diet diatribes coming!

Review: Papalote

May I suggest a tag line: "The Taqueria for People Who Don't Like Taquerias."

Alternately: "We Should Have Gone to La Corneta."

The homemade salsa was as good as advertised. Everything else was crap, from the one-tortilla tacos (two per taco is standard to prevent disintegration), to my dull chile verde, to Fanch's grilled chicken plate (dry rice, dry tough chicken, only two tortillas on the side), to the absence of a DIY salsa and chip bar (though there was a help-yourself jar of jalapenos by the register).

Here's the ultimate insult: I wasn't allowed to order two tacos with a different meat in each. Two tacos per order, and only one meat choice. "But I want to try two different meats," I said. "Then you have to order four tacos," was the reply. Complete, utter, unprecedented bullshit.

I should have known. Always be suspicious of a taqueria with no Latinos at the tables. Skinny white girls with $200 jeans who eat taqueria food with a knife and fork do not generally make for knowledgeable patrons. Call me judgmental.

Headline of the Week

"Arroz con Caca," in the SF Weekly. Here's La Rondalla's glowing grade of 49 from the city's Department of Public Health. Yuck.

Recipe: Plum Berry Crisp

This was the hit of our dinner last night. Here's the recipe, but La Chef de la Fanche makes a couple notes:

* Added lemon zest and grated ginger to the fruit mix before putting it in the oven.
* The recipe calls for a little too much butter, which keeps the top of the crisp from getting crisp.
* Serve with vanilla ice cream.

Wine: Rabbit Ridge Allure de Robles

I found it at TJ's, its inconspicuous spot on the shelf marked by a celebratory sticker of a silver medal from some contest or another. At $5.99, I figured it was worth a shot. It was indeed. Our oenophiliac dinner guest last night also gave it a thumbs-up, and that was the last third of a bottle that had been opened three days previous. we drank it with a lamb-and-roasted-veggie lasagna.

Note: the bottle did not specify the year, which I believe makes it the "NV" (no vintage?).

Returning to TJ's yesterday, the Allure was awarded its own end-of-aisle display, the type normally reserved for Charles Shaw. Get it while it's hot.

Lunch: Café Chez Carla

I admit it: I've been digressing to kinda gross Subway for quick work lunches again, but only once or twice a week, and only because I only want to spend a lousy $3. (I saw some guy substitute fresh spinach for shredded lettuce, and boy, does that make a difference.) So in short order I am disgusted and looking to refresh the options, without waiting for Rupert to send raises.

I've narrowed Wildflower down to Fridays, with the lighter salad a perfect lead-in to the weekend. But now I am sick of it, too. My colleague Jomo, known for the $12 Wildflower salads, has looked to greener pastures as well, and he turned me on to Café Carla, which I've noticed a couple of doors down from Soup Freaks (home of the $7 soup and lame chicken-sandwich combo). Except that it's called Chez Carla. I still think Café Carla is better.

So I walk in and right away I love the piped-in salsa. Taquería María in San Rafael probably tunes into the same satellite-radio stream. I start tentatively -- serving myself very small portions of greens, a little angel hair with veggies and fresh herbs, roasted mushrooms and zucchini, sautéed green beans and a tiny piece of chicken -- bracing myself for the $8 tab. Someone comes out to ring me up, and my jaw drops: $4.26. Unbelievable.

The woman mentions something about a $4.99 minimum, but hands me a frequent-diner card (10th salad free, max. $7) and tells me not to worry about it. Everything looks great and has fresh basil and cilantro, and turns out tastes great and is not over- or undersalted either. (I didn't even touch other hot items than chicken.) It's a delicious and satisfying lunch, though four hours later I snack on an apple and some nuts. But that's the way you should eat anyway.

The chicken, I learn from this podcast I found, is first roasted and then deep-fried. God, I am happy.

I can't wait to go back tomorrow. How many times can you say that about a place? Dispatches and salsa playlists to follow. (Day 1: "Pedro Navaja," Ruben Blades.)

Fish, Your Wish V

Meanwhile, the saga of the tamago vs. the sashimi and whatnot continues. Turns out that the wealthy big shots wolfing down as much fish flesh as their expense accounts can cover are skewing the demographics for mercury poisoning. Sheesh.

Fish, Your Wish IV

Simply going with wild-caught fish won't let you off the hook. The last two weeks we've bought the wild-caught red snapper at TJ's, but I just looked it up on the Monterey Bay Aquarium's Seafood Watch guide: depending on where the red snapper is caught, it might be best to avoid it. I've added the guide to our link list on the right.

A few other fish commonly found at TJs or other outlets:

* Tilapia. Make sure it's farm-raised in the U.S.
* Salmon: Wild-caught good, farmed bad.
* Mahi-mahi: I was surprised -- it's generally OK to eat, sustainability-wise.

Fish, Your Wish III

So glad the word's gotten out. Here’s the story on the front page of today’s WSJ (subscription required):

> African waters are losing fish stock rapidly, with ramifications both to the economies of Africa's coastal nations and to the world's ocean ecology. Over the past three decades, the amount of fish in West African waters has declined by up to 50%, according to Daniel Pauly, a researcher at the University of British Columbia.

The Mauritanian locals can’t compete with the big trawlers, which have depleted the stocks in their home regions.

If you can’t read the story, let me know in a polite comment and I’ll email it to you.