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.