Bring on the Bell’s.
I was recently heartened to learn that Illinois once again has access to the malty, hoppy nectar of the gods that is Bell’s beer. No longer must you cross state lines in search of your Oberon or Double Cream Stout, Illinoisians. For that I salute you… and am starting to think moving back to Chicago might not be such a bad idea.
But I love San Francisco. Even with the ridiculously high rents, the permafog and the crazy old ladies carrying live chickens in brown paper bags on the bus, there are very few things that could tear me away.
And Bell’s is that good. Yes, it’s so good that anytime I go back to the midwest, I take an extra suitcase to fill with 6-packs. And I always end up trying to sneak past with a bag that’s over the allowable luggage weight, so I’ve learned to force my mother to park at the airport and accompany me to the check-in counter – in the event that I need to sacrifice a few bottles from the overstuffed, oversized suitcase to make it on the flight, I know that they’ll find a good home.
So now that Bell’s has made it back to Illinois, I’ll no longer need to abscond with my mother’s car to drive in a blizzard over to Indiana and pick up my annual stash replenishment… but I’ll still be forced to hoard my stash, parceling out bottles to those I deem worthy of the rich brown elixr throughout the year.
So, in the spirit vested in me by the news of Bell’s return to Illinois, I entreat you to join me in finding a way to bring the Third Coast to the West Coast – let’s get some Bell’s Beer in our local bars and spirits retailers. And let me walk down the street to pick up a six-pack of Bell’s Amber instead of traveling halfway across the country to replenish my ever-dwindling stash.
Are you in?
600+ SF Restaurants impacted by recall of spices
In San Francisco, there are over 600 restaurants and retailers (622, according to a spreadsheet released by the California DPH.) affected by the recent recall of spices packaged by the Union International Food Company under the labels Lian How and Uncle Chen. The list includes a bunch of liquor stores and groceries where consumers may have unwittingly purchased the potentially contaminated products… but hundreds of restaurants are included in the list as well.
The establishments include a large number of smaller Asian restaurants and corner stores, but also include some well-known SF establishments ranging from the low-cost dives where you’d likely expect to get food poisoning anyway, to like Burma Super Star and Mandalay, Boogaloo’s, Emmy’s Spaghetti Shack, Bissap Baobab, the King of Thai chain, Peasant Pies, Osha, Seller’s Markets, to places that are a little more ‘up there’ Espetus Churrascaria and Tryptich. Even bars like Delerium are affected. [See the full list after the cut.]
In a quick glance at the restaurants, I didn’t notice any of the restaurants which label themselves as ’sustainable’ sticking out as being on the list… but that doesn’t mean that I think this is a “sustainable vs. industrial” food production issue, as it might appear. And I’m not laying any fault on the restaurants themselves…. not really.
What it really communicates to me is the bizarre disconnect between us and where our food comes from – especially when we’re dining out in restaurants. When I was still a vegetarian (at least when in Florida and the Midwest), not only was it impossible to find out where my food came from – most of the time, I couldn’t even find out if there was chicken in it or not. The wait staff usually doesn’t know… and in many places, there’s a communication gap between the servers and the kitchen. Although in San Francisco, it’s a little different… you’re usually able to find out if there’s meat in a meal… but if you have other dietary restrictions, restaurants are still not always accommodating – they’re unwilling to let you know what’s in a dish to protect their recipe, they simply don’t know, or they unintentionally (or, perhaps, sometimes intentionally) disseminate misinformation.
Note: the next page takes a while to load with all the restaurant data.
Read more…
Food recalls running rampant – can we know what we’re eating?
So far this year, a number of separate food recalls have been issued due to salmonella contamination from a handful of manufacturers – including thousands of products from hundreds of different labels, products that include Peanuts, Pistachios, Egg rolls, Pepper, a slew of other spices… even organic eggs have felt the crunch. And the food has made its way not only into the products we purchase from the grocer, but into restaurants and even school cafeterias as well.
But most of the time, we don’t even know what’s in our food, let alone where it came from… so when there’s a peanut recall, even if we toss any peanut butter we have in our cupboards, we might not think to look at the labels on our salad dressing, frozen pad thai, or even our pet food.
I suppose this is, in large part, a consequence of our convenience-based society, the ridiculously large scale that food is produced on today… but at this point, it is a wholly unnecessary one. Today, the technology at our disposal that could allow us to know where our food comes from – be it the myriad ingredients from sources currently unbeknownst to us, or purchased from the weekend farmer’s market. The main roadblock preventing this today is not that it is impossible to create a way to track our food back to the farm, or even that it would be too costly to implement a real-time tracking system accessible to consumers.
What I fear will prevent this from becoming reality is the very real fact that the manufacturers’ ability to keep us ignorant of where our food is sourced from helps them to maintain their profit line. Were we to know how our food is sourced, the degree of homogenization, and the risk at which that places us and the integrity of our food supply, demands would be made for changes that would be a real cost to the large-scale food producers of the nation. And so long as it is simply optional for food manufacturers to provide this information to the consumer, it won’t be done on a large enough scale to truly be useful… for it appears that trade secrets are more likely to be a concern than consumer safety. Still, there’s no reason we shouldn’t get started.
But I’ll get into that another day, I suppose.
More about the recalls:
- Pistachios and Peanuts: Far too many labels to list
- Spices from Union International Food Co./Uncle Chen & Lian How Labels
- Organic Eggs: Kirkland and Safeway O Organic Labels
Food is a matter of taste: Reflections on Michael Bauer’s Top 100 – and the ensuing chaos in the comments section.
I finally got a chance to peek at the the SF Chronicle’s list of the Top 100 SF (Bay Area) restaurants this afternoon. Although I don’t necessarily agree with everything included or excluded from the list, the comments added to the Top 100 list for 2009 proved to be a much more interesting read. Many of the commentators for some reason or another, felt the urge to call Bauer out, ranging from the reasonable (Tartine is off the list?) to the utterly ridiculous. But now that we are shifting from a sole reliance on faceless, yet trained food critics to hearing the opinions of the critical masses – those faceless critics of unknown background proliferating on the interwebs – the harshness of criticism leveled at food critics from the ‘common folk’ appears to be on the rise. Reasonable? Irrational? Keep reading, then you decide.
Arepas in the evenin’, arepas in the morning…
In my first year out of college, my good friend Edhy and her family who hail from Venezuela introduced me to the magical world of arepa. Arepas are quite possibly Central/Latin America’s finest solution to the fast food conundrum: a thick corn tortilla, sliced open and stuffed with cheesy goodness. They’re similar to pupusas and gorditas, in that they’re flat and stuffed, but the similarities end there.
Sorry, I just couldn't wait long enough to take pictures.
Pupusas and gorditas are typically made from the commonly available Maseca brand masa harina (in the US, at least): decent for making tortillas for wrapping tacos, etc., but something is lacking when it’s the focus of the meal. It’s the Pan – the brand of cornmeal used to make the arepa that makes them the golden standard of stuffed masa snacks.
In most of the nation, arepas are difficult to come by, but in Miami, I found arepas all over – at Don Pan, at the corner bodega, and even in the freezer section at Publix. I found them for breakfast, lunch and dinner, stuffed with scrambled eggs, beans, bbq pork, roast pork, sweet corn… while there are some traditional recipes, it seems that when it comes to arepas, you might be able to make anything work, so long as you have the right masa.
Random Facts:
Pan doesn’t undergo nixtamalization, the process used to produce most masa harina. To make most masa, corn kernels are cooked and soaked in an alkaline solution (like limewater). This helps to loosen the hull from the kernel and breaks down the bits of cell walls that we can’t digest to make the nutrients in the corn more available. The hull is discarded, and only the germ (the meat of the kernel) is used to produce masa. This is typically a good thing, since it increases the levels of niacin, calcium, iron, copper and zinc that our bodies can use, as well as killing off some of the bacteria and fungi that might be hanging out as well. However, those chemical reactions also change the kinds of proteins in the masa, and get rid of the hull too – changing the taste and texture of the masa.
Sadly, though, San Francisco is a largely arepa-less city: the sole vendor I’ve discovered in these parts is a tiny place called “Mr Pollo,” just south of the 24th St. BART station in the Mission. And while the arepas made on that greasy grill behind the counter are cheap and delicious, they only have arepas con queso… and their hours tend to be fairly unpredicatble.
So imagine my glee when on my first visit to the brand new Duc Loi Supermarket at 18th and Mission, I finally tracked down some Pan (aka P.A.N. Harina de Maiz), the flour by which Edhy’s mom swore when making her arepas. In the aisles of the I jumped up and down, then squealed and did a little giggly dance, much to the amusement of the friends with whom I was shopping for fixin’s for that afternoon’s tamale-making party. Read more…
On the origins of being a foodie; or The Foodie Manifesto.
“You are what you eat” is a phrase often repeated, but aside from the common use of the phrase to turn one’s focus towards healthful eating, the true meaning of the phrase is typically glossed over.
I am what I eat. Every bone in my body. Every hair on my head. Every muscle and nerve and the blood running through my veins comes from the food I eat. Everything that I eat becomes a part of me – of how I look, of what I do, of who I am.
And since I have become who I am through what I eat, every part of my life has been touched by the food I consume in some way. Realizing and accepting this is what makes me a foodie.
Some use the term “foodie” as a pejorative, casting us as elitist, rejecting the good, regular food of the “people” in favor of fancy cooking. They only eat food made with ingredients that have an extra 20 adjectives tacked on: just plain chicken isn’t good enough for them: they need Fulton Valley free-range grain-fed chicken.
But we have faces; we have roots in the places we live, and we expect the same from our food. To understand who we are and where we come from, we need to understand our food: where it is from, how it is treated, what it is fed.
Everyone – whether they realize it or not – has had the experiences from which foodies are born… when combined, these stories form the history that ties together what we eat with our bodies, our families, our communities, and the places we call home – in short, what makes us who we are.
Here are some of my stories; the origins of my foodiosity.
On the (wine) Road, part one
This weekend, thanks to a last minute invitation, I ventured up to the Wine Road barrel tasting in a minivan full of fellow oenophiles. While I’ve made many, many treks to Napa, I had yet to visit the vineyards of Sonoma County. And, for that oversight, I’m now kicking myself in the ass.
Fields full of vines standing sentinel against a backdrop of rolling meadows and forested hills, Sonoma reminds me so much more of the bountiful agricultural lands of the midwest than the flat, enclosed valley of Napa. And the smaller vineyards, some with their tasting rooms fashioned from old barns and tool sheds appealed more towards a sense of community and connection with the land than the haute and oftentimes garishly overdone mega-vineyards of the Napa Valley.
And in one of those tasting rooms née tool sheds at the Porter Creek Vineyards, I encountered a magnificent wine that totally subverted the conventions which typically make me less than enthusiastic about white wines.
Porter Creek Viognier Timbervine Ranch
It’s rare that I’m absolutely stunned by a white wine. I’ve found most viogniers to be lacking depth, a little bit too heavy on the citrus, and perhaps too acidic.
The 2007 Porter Creek Viogner has complexity, isn’t grapefruity, and isn’t acidic… but is still light and has a beautifully clean finish. It would pair beautifully with simply prepared chicken or the lighter game birds, or with a non-fishy fish: I’d love to try it paired with mahi/snapper and a mango salsa. Or I’d be happy to have a glass (or two) on its own. And as far as I could tell from the barrel tasting, the 2008 Viognier promises to follow the same path.
Me Do My Myself: renegade baking, creativity, and Fashioning Technology
I had my first renegade baking experience was when I was 4. My mom was outside working in the garden, and my friend and I decided that we wanted to ‘bake’ for the first time. Unfortunately, we couldn’t reach the recipes, so we just threw everything in our reach that looked like ingredients in the bowl. But (luckily) we couldn’t reach the stove or the oven, and when she came back inside, she found us with a big bowl full of a green mess.
About 45 minutes after enquiring as to what we had put in the bowl, our green monster cake came out of the oven. She had magically turned it into a verdant, yet quite tasty spice cake (a miracle, quite possibly, as the two items I recall within reaching distance from our fridge in those days were anchovy paste and Aquavit).
Why is that memorable? It taught me creativity and ingenuity in the kitchen can sometimes lead to fantastic, although slightly bizzare results. Thanks to that fantastic experience, to this day I’m hard pressed to follow a recipe to the letter. I have an appreciation for all types of cuisine, and I’m open to the bizzare.
And I really like green food.
But now I have a problem. I’m addicted to books full of fantastic diy projects – various forms of knitting, electronics, sewing, glasswork, cookbooks… but I never seem to actually MAKE anything from those shelves full of books, taking up so much valuable space and collecting dust in my tiny San Francisco apartment. Read more…
Game Deck at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk: Beer Fail.
Game Deck at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk
400 Beach St
Santa Cruz, CA 95060
Water, so much like the air around us, is necessary to survival, and denial of access to water is like the denial of our very right to exist. However, although water should be free, we now must pay a price to exist, to drink the nectar which sustains our existence. As such, I propose a shift to a new way of thinking in which the cost of water is the baseline cost of all goods: the cost of water is now the cost of human existence. And should we choose to continue to exist, we have no choice but to bear the cost of that existence. Thusly, the cost of water is the neutral economic baseline from which our existence must arise.
As such, if water is neutral, this means that I can consider the $3 bottle of water at the Game Deck bar in the Neptune’s Kingdom gaming complex at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk to be the neutral baseline from which to judge the cost of all other goods (or at least all other water-containing beverages).
And if that $3 is the irrelevant baseline from which we must proceed , that means the $5 for a Bud Light really = $2… and the Red Hook and Anchor Steam, only 25 cents more ($5.25), really costs $2.25. And in my book, $2.25 isn’t bad for a draft beer.
Regardless of my ability to convince you of my new economic theory of Liquid Neutrality and its impact on the relative (or my ability to successfully rationalize away my paycheck on alcohol)… $5.25 ain’t that bad for a draft beer and a place to escape the throngs of strollers
and uncontrolled children running rampant on the boardwalk below. Especially if there’s pool, air hockey and foosball to go alongside, short lines for clean and staffed restrooms, and a stimulating game of put-put to follow.
Then why two stars?
No, it’s not because of the overabundance of nostalgia on the walls, touting the rich history of the boardwalk: touting the appearance of such jazz greats such as Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw, while today performers at the Boardwalk rank among the likes of Sha Na Na and Eddie Money.
No, it’s not even because of the excessive exhibition of FUPA and overuse spandex by my fellow clientele.
It’s because when I pay for an Anchor Steam, regardless if it’s $2.25 or $5.25, I WANT AN ANCHOR STEAM. I don’t know what that tap was hooked up to, but it wasn’t the hoppy goodness I’ve come to know and love from the folks of the ABC.
That is all.
Mars and Venus can’t find burger at Saturn Cafe
Saturn Cafe
145 Laurel St
Santa Cruz, CA 95060
(831) 429-8505
Say you’re craving a big bowl of gnocchi in a walnut-gorgonzola sauce, so you go out to eat at a place called Mars. Once there, you ask the waiter to make sure there’s no chicken broth in the sauce ’cause you’re a vegetarian, you wait for your meal to come out, and when it’s finally delivered to your table, you discover slices of prosciutto on top because there’s prosciutto in every dish at the restaurant? A small sign outside mentioned that they make their own cured meats, but didn’t say anything about every single meal being laden with prosciutto or sausages.
Although I’m now a recovering vegetarian, having been on that end of the spectrum for about 15 years, I was disheartened to have a similar (albeit opposite) experience when we headed to the Saturn cafe to satisfy our burger craving. Large signs on the windows heralding the presence of “Burgers” and “Shakes” and only a small sign above the door touting their fantastic vegetarian (but notedly, they didn’t say “ALL-vegetarian”) menu.
Luckily, after spending 15 years as a vegetarian, I’m well attuned to noticing the phrase “100% vegetarian.” And I noticed it on the menu the second I sat down… and two seconds later, I was out the nearest emergency exit door. Had there not been such a conflict between what was advertised and what was on the menu, and had I not been craving a big hunk of ground beef molded into the shape of a patty, I might have dove into any seitan-containing item on the menu… but I don’t take kindly to manipulation, and I wasn’t going to feel guilty leaving a restaurant which lured me in by false advertising.
But I’m a mid-century modern junkie. One star: for the decor alone.
It tastes nothing like Greek to me.
Daphne’s Greek Cafe
344 Westlake Center
Daly City, CA 94015
(650) 991-3496
No.
This is not Greek food.
Some of it looks right. The vegetarian platter had things that looked and somewhat tasted like dolmas, bland hummus and pita.
But what were the hockey pucks? You call that falafel? And the oversized Totino’s pizza rolls? Don’t even try to tell me that crap is spanikopita with a straight face. Deep-fried and greasy as hell, the spinach and cheese was more akin to frozen pizza snacks or even egg rolls than anything any self-respecting Greek restaurants back home would even consider serving. And the tzatziki was just wrong. It was incredibly thick and seemed more like sour cream with dill than the tzatziki I’ve had anywhere else; no cucumber was noticeable at all.
The overall quality of the food, although it was nowhere near authentic it would have warranted two stars. But the last star gets taken away for my last bite. Even though I still had 1/3 of my meal left, but after tasting mold, the rest of that food went right where it belonged: into the compost.
One star, Daphne.
#fail.
The Bashful Bull Too
3600 Taraval St
San Francisco, CA 94116
(415) 759-8112
My cat’s breath smells like cat food.
…No, wait…
My cat’s breath tastes like cat food.
…Oops. Let me try that one more time…
My corned beef hash tastes like cat food.
I really don’t get what everyone over on yelp is talking about: this corned beef hash is absolutely disgusting. The taste and texture is exactly what you would get if you opened up a can of moist cat or dog food, flattened it into a pancake, and pan fried it. The two eggs were rubbery. It was not a good meal.
As this is the only diner in my neck of the woods, I’ve been on other occasions, and although they weren’t fantastic dining experiences, they were tolerable. Actually, the grilled cheese with pineapple + avocado was fairly tasty… but about $8 more than I’d pay to make it myself (if the light in my kitchen actually worked…)
The only item I’d truly recommend: the avocado milkshake. True, it isn’t the only place in the city serving up the combo of avocado and ice cream… but if you find yourself at the beach, it’s a tasty, creamy, refreshing way to cool off on one of those rare warm, sunny days in the Inner Farallons.
Drop-dead gorgeous, Martini FAIL.
Jason’s At Gray’s Mill
211 N River St
Montgomery, IL 60538
(630) 801-1492
We all know those people who are absolutely drop-dead gorgeous from a distance, but when you get up close there’s just something missing… a tooth… intelligence… knowing how to pour a drink?
Jason’s is located in a gorgeous old stone building with a nice, historic interior, but at the bar, they served the WORST chocolate martini I’ve ever consumed (and before I learned the way of the gin and tonic, I consumed a lot of them). In the far western suburbs, for $8, I expect better than bottom shelf vodka. I expect to taste some chocolaty goodness. I DO NOT EXPECT HERSHEY’S CHOCOLATE SYRUP IN MY CHOCOLATE MARTINI.
And when I complain to the bartender, I expect you to make me a replacement sans the abrasive taste of the mass-produced chocolate syrup drizzled in the glass. I DO NOT EXPECT YOU TO TELL ME “WELL, THAT’S HOW WE MAKE THEM.”
Yes, the building is historic and beautifully maintained, and I’m sure it’s quite possible that the food is good, especially in comparison to other dining establishments in the area (e.g., Select Restaurant). But in my book, the arrogance of the bartender upon serving a vile drink combined with the “music” featured on a Saturday night (a bunch of high school kids having what sounded like a band rehearsal accompanied by the squealing glee of their girlfriends*) does not a classy experience make.
*Yes, they were indeed high schoolers. I knew one of their brothers.
Yamo is lots, but not a lot.
Yamo
3406 18th St
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 553-8911
1/3/2008
Lots of food.
Not a lot of money.
Lots of people calling orders in for pick-up.
Not a lot of seats.
Lots of tasty, filling mohinga (fish chowder with noodles).
Not a lot of love for the samusas, unless soaked in the mohinga.
Lots of people coming in and asking for a free sample of the soup, then leaving.
Not a lot of protection from the cold and rain blowing in the open door.
Not as high-end as Mandalay or Burma Superstar.
Lucky means it’s 24 Hours… not because it’s any good.
Lucky Penny Restaurant
2670 Geary Blvd
San Francisco, CA 94118
(415) 921-0836
1/3/2008
Having spent innumerable wee hours during my teenage years at Denny’s, rolling into Lucky Penny at 3 a.m. on NYE proved exactly how I expected it to be.
For some reason, after a full analysis of the menu I decided it was a good idea to order the Hot Roast Beef Sandwich. According to the menu, this dish consists of “sliced hot roast beef served open faced on a slice of taxas cost, with mashed potatoes and coleslaw topped with our smooth gravy” (did I mention I had been traveling since 4 a.m. the previous day? And it was New Year’s Eve?) Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the mashed potatoes that were swimming in a puddle of thick (but, as advertised, smooth) brown goo.
Nope, it wasn’t good. But t wasn’t entirely disgusting (the slaw was actually fairly tasty) , and I didn’t suffer the next day (but I did mention it was New Year’s Eve, right? I’m certain must have consumed enough champagne to sufficiently lyse any microbial cell membranes).
But hell, they’re one of the very few places in The City open at 3 a.m. And since I don’t ever plan on visiting Lucky Penny when I’m fully capable of thoroughly analyzing the experience, I’m overriding my usual “3 visits before reviewing” rule. Chances are, if I can palate the food, I won’t be able to remember it well enough to be useful anyway.
Dude, where’s my Bells?
For those of you who miss Bell’s Beer as much as I do, Delock’s is the closest place to the Illinois state border, one mile south of I-80 with a full selection of the wonderful brews at decent prices.
What six-packs did I bring home in my trunk last night?
2 Bell’s Amber.
1 Bell’s Porter
1 Bell’s Double Cream Stout
1 Bell’s Java Stout
1 Bell’s Sparkling Ale
1 Bell’s Best Brown Ale
1 Bell’s Batch 8000
1 Bell’s Winter White
1 Bell’s Cherry Stout
1 Bell’s Expedition Stout
1 Bell’s Two-hearted Ale
and 1 large bottle of the Three Floyds porter
There were even more Bell’s varieties that I couldn’t fit in the cart… I felt the need to limit myself somewhat.
The only problem is how I’m going to fit all that beer in my suitcase for the flight back to San Francisco, though…
Delock’s Discount Liquors
822 Ridge Rd
Munster, IN 46321
(219) 836-2088
The Mayor of Butchertown
Sam Jordan’s Bar
4003 3rd St
San Francisco, CA 94123
(415) 282-4003
Sam Jordan’s isn’t a dive bar, it isn’t a lounge, it isn’t a club. It’s a piece of San Francisco history. Opened in 1959, when what’s now known as Bayview was instead known as Butchertown, the meatpacking district of San Francisco, where the Islais Creek ran red with the blood from the slaughterhouses and cowboys ran herds of cattle through the streets.
Sam Jordan was the mayor of Butchertown. When you came to town, you hadn’t really arrived until you met Sam. When you came to Sam Jordan’s, you’d meet Sam. And when you came back, he’d remember you.
While so many bars in this city are a place to imbibe, a place to find someone to take home for the night, a place to find a fleeting source of entertainment, Sam Jordan’s is a place to find a true community. You walk in, and you’re greeted not just by the bartender when you sit down for a drink, but you’re engaged by the clientele, invited to share in their conversations, invited into their community. You can still find the original bartender there, only now he’s on the other side of the bar.
Sam has passed on, but his family has retained ownership of the bar. And his daughter, Monette, is quite possibly the best bartender I’ve ever had the pleasure of being served by. With a crowd full of rambunctious men on the other side of the bar, she’s got what it takes to keep her own. And she remembers my name, what kind of dog I have, and where I work.
There’s nothing on tap, bottled beer only. There’s a full bar, including a bottle of mezcal con gusano. During the holidays, you can add eggnog to your brandy for $1 more.
Unfortunately, I went on a Tuesday, which is the only day the kitchen is closed, so I haven’t been able to try what some call the ‘best ribs in San Francisco,’ but I’ll be going back soon enough. Perhaps even tonight, since one of the regulars invited me to his birthday party.
Five stars for the most welcoming experience I’ve had at a bar in the bay area… and thank you from the white girl with the good future behind her.
Eating the Golden Pagoda
Burma Super Star
309 Clement St
San Francisco, CA 94118
(415) 387-2147
Before I decided to move to San Francisco, one of the first things I did was check to see if there were any Burmese restaurants in the City. Coming from Chicago and Miami where there are none, this was one of my major criteria for finding a new metropolitan area in which to reside. In large part, Burma Superstar helped me make my decision. Yes, I moved here largely so that I could eat Burmese food… you got a problem with that?
But in the year and a half I’ve lived here, why have I only been there ONCE? It’s not the food, which is excellent. Rainbow salad, the clay-pot chicken, the Superstar noodles, the coconut rice… fantastic. Tea leaf salad… good, although I do prefer Mandalay’s version sans laitue. Litchee mojitos made with soju? Niiiiice.
So why have I only been there once? I don’t wait two hours to eat.
Can I call ahead and order takeout? I’ve heard the answer is yes, but I’ve never tried; by the time I get home with my $40 worth of food to gorge myself on, it’ll be cold.
I moved here for you, Burma Superstar. Why won’t you see(t) me?
I prefer the flavor of Burmese cuisine with stronger Thai and Indian influences to the Chinese influence at Mandalay… but I prefer the fact that I can get a seat at Mandalay.
Why no second location in the city (no, B-Star doesn’t count)? Why not buy out the WaMu next door to add a second kitchen and more seating? Or WHY NOT TAKE RESERVATIONS? All you have to do is call to let them know their table is ready, like you do now… if they’re not inside within 3 minutes, it’s, like, their loss and someone else’s gain.
Take reservations or otherwise cut down your wait time, you get 5 stars.
But otherwise, I can’t wait 3 hours from putting my name on the list to getting food on the table in front of me. One star off for each hour = 2 stars left.
Please let me know when you change your mind. I’d love to see you again.
I miss you.
Papa Del’s West
[SUBJECT: Zachary's Chicago Pizza]
[WARNING: the following review reflects the opinions of a highly biased former Chicagoan]
Zachary’s is not truly authentic Chicago-style deep dish…
But it is good.
A panel of two Chicagoans have approved the following analysis of the standard spinach and mushroom deep-dish pizza:
The sauce is fresh-tasting and zesty, although a bit too fresh-tasting for true Chicago standards, but no complaints.
The cheese is high quality.
The spinach was fresh-tasting and well cooked, not exuding moist-ness into the pie.
The mushrooms were properly cooked.
The fillings were abundant, but not over-abundant.
The crust was… ok. For graduates of UIUC, it resembles a Papa Del’s dough crust than the delectable yet filling Chicago-style cornmeal crust a la Lou Malnati’s. It did seem to have more effort put into it than simply doubling the amount of dough found in a thin crust, which many Bay Area “Chicago-style” pizza parlors (*cough*Paxti’s*cough*) seem to find acceptable.
In the final analysis, it was pretty good, evidenced by the fact that my first bite put a huge grin on this Chicago-style deep dish snob’s face. Truth be told, I’d go back, and am one of the SF residents clamoring to see a Zachary’s open up on this side of the bay.
But it still isn’t a substitute for the Lou. Thank goodness for FedEx overnight.
They call this pizza?
[SUBJECT: Patxi's Chicago Pizza in Hayes Valley]
[WARNING: the following review reflects the opinions of a highly biased, former Chicagoan]
No.
A spinach and mushroom deep-dish pie:
Mediocre sauce. In Chicago, the only place you would expect to find sauce like that is at the pizza place in terminal C of the O’hare airport.
Watery spinach, and not nearly enough of it.
Were there even any mushrooms? In 3 slices, I found 2.
The crust, though, is the defining feature of this pizza. Take two California-style thin crusts, smoosh together, roll out into a thicker crust, and put it in a deep dish pan. That’s all it takes, right?
No.
Overall, Paxti’s isn’t disgusting, it’s just… wrong. I’ll give one extra star for immediate seating, and the service, which was pretty good.
But I’ll take away that star for being the force behind the eventual demise of Powell’s Place. I’d much rather have good chicken ‘n’ waffles at this location than airport-food-court-quality pizza.
Sorry.
Little Star
[WARNING: the following reflects the opinions of a highly biased former Chicagoan]
One night, I was stuck at home alone when a magical pixie showed up on my doorstep carrying a little star.
The poor little star had grown cold during the long train ride from the mission to Ocean Beach, so the pixie turned on the oven to provide it warmth.
The little star was filled with things I’m not used to finding inside a crust like that… in the land I am from, ricotta and feta are not found inside the crust…
But the crust of the little star was golden, and crispy and delicious, covered in stardust, almost like those I have become accustomed to in the land I am from.
But it is true that it was a *little* star. While the crust on the bottom was thick, the sides weren’t deep, leaving little room for the wonderful things a little star should contain. But what little it did contain was good and did not moisten the interior of the little star, which would certainly put out its glow.
And as the little star was good, we consumed it’s radiance, and diluted only with the nectar of the gods.
But then a monster appeared who tried to capture and torture the magical pixie. But luckily, the pixie fled in just the nick of time, leaving the monster to grumble with a rumbling belly – a belly that could not contain the radiance of the little star.
*stardust = cornmeal
Bangers & Mash. Or just the mash.
[Warning: this review contains language considered vulgar near the turn of the century and idolatry of potatoes]
Holy crap, those mashed potatoes are good.
Seriously good.
Damn good.
Almost as good as my mom’s… and my mom’s mashed potatoes are fantastic. So good, in fact, that in high school, when a group of friends came over, they would demand that she make 10 lbs of mashed potatoes, which would all be gone by the next morning.
The mashed potatoes at the Chieftain are incredibly fluffy, but they retain enough potato chunks to yield a remarkable texture… and they’re incredibly moist and tasty, topped with a Guinness-based gravy and served alongside some bangers, baked beans and beer.
Seriously, they were so good even though I was painfully full, I could only force myself to stop eating them when I convinced someone else to finish them so that potatoes of such high caliber would not go to waste.
Seriously.
One other bit of useful: they take credit cards for food and bar tabs.
I just needed to share how good the potatoes were. You need to know.
The Chieftain Irish Pub & Restaurant
5th and Howard, San Francisco
Beer and Starved Rock
When traversing the town of Utica on the return trip from Starved Rock State Park, Duffy’s Tavern restaurant is always my last stop before hitting the interstate.
Why? Delicious food. The deep-fried appetizers have an outstanding batter, and they’re vegetarian friendly. In this part of the state, that’s quite an accomplishment.
But more importantly, the last time I came here, they had Bell’s Double Cream Stout… ON TAP! After a glorious day of hiking around Starved Rock, nothing made for a happier girl than the dark, creamy richness that they poured ever-so-beautifully into my pint glass. Except maybe the second pint they poured. Well, the beer and successfully outrunning a tornado on the drive home… surviving was a pretty nice cap to the day.
They call themselves “The Best Irish Pub In Utica,” but I’d venture to call it the best Irish pub west of I-355. I’m very glad to see that they recovered from the tornado that swept through the area a few years back. And should I ever find myself heading across the Illinois River Valley on I-80, I know where I’ll be stopping for dinner.
Duffy’s Tavern
101 Mill St
Utica, IL 61373
(815) 667-4324
Beware: chodes ahead.
If you or those with whom you associate enjoy Kells… you might be a douchebag. Or underage.
I went to this place once, and it is worse than a frat party. Crowded, sticky, noisy, filled with c-i-t* and the pungent aroma of all possible substances from excretion or emesis.
Unless… you know what? This place doesn’t even deserve the time it would take to write a review that is useful, funny, or cool.
If you value your personal space, sense of smell, or sense of dignity, don’t go to Kell’s.
*chodes-in-training
I’m just not feeling Lucky.
I’m just not feeling Lucky.
You know how sometimes when MUNI has broken both your body and your soul…
so you’ve been living off of your emergency food rations that you’d stockpiled in case of a natural disaster…
because you haven’t been able to go to the grocery store in over 3 weeks and you’re sick and tired of eating food that comes out of a box, jar, or aseptic package…
and all you want is a nice, juicy steak with a baked potato and side salad…
but nobody delivers to you because you live all the way out in the middle of BF NOWHERE?
So, finally, you get a chance to go to the grocery (in this case, the day-old Lucky, previously known as Albertsons) in an effort to sate your hunger for real food…
But you can’t really walk further than 7 steps without something giving out, so you have to cruise the store in one of those motorized carts…
And as soon as you reach the back of the store, the cart, which had a seemingly full battery at the beginning of your quest, starts jerking and then dies inexplicably, while stockboys laugh at you and ask to see your license…
So then you must enlist the aid of one of the boys in the butcher department both to serve you up a single filet Mignon AND go to the front of the store to get your gimpy ass a regular cart…
And you then must proceed to slowly shuffle, pushing with your one good arm over to the produce section for your potato, then all the way across the store to the bakery for a loaf of bread, then wait in the checkout line..
Yeah, that didn’t really make me feel too Lucky.
+2 stars for the kind gentleman who hooked me up with my steak and a cart
+1 star for the 3’s a crowd policy. Although at first I thought this may be some bizarre corporate policy aimed at ending threes0mes in the workplace, turns out that if there are three people in line, they’ll open a new register.
Lucky loses those last 2 stars for having broken gimp carts and a ridiculously marketing-driven store layout that necessitated my hobbling all over the place (and 45 minutes) to obtain my 4 items.
Grocery shopping in Little Havana
Have you ever seen someone try to negotiate the price of every single item in their cart while in the checkout line?
How about all three people in front of you trying to negotiate the price of every single item in their carts while in the checkout line?
Only at the Publix at 27th Avenue and Coral Way in Miami, where it takes a minimum of 45 minutes to get through the checkout line.
Two stars for sometimes having the food I want. Sometimes.
Screw that. I’m going to Milam’s instead.
Flanigan’s Shenanigans
Flanigan’s has terrific nightly specials. And they’re all designed to get you to buy beer.
Monday: buy a pitcher, get a huge plate of nachos. Free.
Wednesday: buy a pitcher, get an order of wings. Free.
Every night after 10: buy a pitcher, get an order of wings. Free.
You can see why a bunch of broke-as-shit grad students ISO beer would come here. Buy beer, get free stuff. It just makes economic sense.
Aside from that, Flanigan’s is a South Florida chain, with South Floridian items like dolphin fingers/sandwiches, black beans and rice, dulce de leche (albeit as cheesecake) and key lime pie on the menu.
Even though they’re a chain, the food is at least two or three notches above that found at Chili’s or TGI Friday’s: they use fresh fish, and it seems that the food is actually made in-house, not made at some central distribution center and then shipped to restaurants. There’s also a very diverse menu, capable of satisfying herbivores and omnivores alike.
The desserts aren’t bad, particularly the Shenanigan… just make sure to have a few broke-ass friends to share it with. And the waiters aren’t too shy of management to make the birthday girl a special whipped cream birthday “treat” tableside.
If you’re looking for great, fresh, authentic South Florida cuisine, you might want to spend a little more elsewhere. But if you’re looking to eat, don’t want to spend too much, and don’t want standard chain fare, or just want free stuff with your beer, give Flanigan’s a shot.
A little Death by chocolate… in the Shakespearean sense.
Death by Chocolate has become a bit of a cliche when used to describe desserts of various types: Death by Chocolate cake, Death by Chocolate cookies, Death by Chocolate gelato, Death by Chocolate ice cream, and so on. It’s overdone. It has been usurped by the gods of marketing to the point of utter meaninglessness.
Fredericksburg, VA 22401
(540) 370-4390
The best eatin’ in town…
When I was young, my grandmother owned a condo in a retirement hamlet in north central Florida. What is there to do in Winter Haven, FL? Now that Cypress Gardens has closed… absolutely nothing. But when she passed away, the condo stayed in the family. Why? Sure, there was sentimental value… but the real reason: Winter Haven is only a 25 minute drive from the best damn barbecue I’ve ever had at Jimbo’s.
Speaking of ribs: fall off the bone, juicy ribs, cooked overnight in a real smokehouse shack out back. Damn tasty chopped (not pulled) pork sandwiches. Incredible, golden brown hush puppies. Sauces with the perfect blend of spices and tang that tastes good on everything except the desserts. Creamy, delicious cole slaw.
But the real reason I was eager to go to Jimbo’s on family vacations, even during the 13 years I was a vegetarian? The best pickles in the whole world. Smack in the middle of each table is a stainless steel mixing bowl filled with freshly made chunky dill pickle slices that are crunchy as all hell, but still taste like the cucumbers from whence they came. Hush puppies doused in BBQ sauce and pickles made for a happy vegetarian in the midst of the mounds of meat piled on the plates of my family members.
But now that I’ve once again joined the ranks of the omnivores? Jimbo’s is the sole reason I’m looking forward to my next trip to the land of the geriatric set.
Would I take my dad there? Hell, he took me there.
Jimbo’s Pit Bar-B Q
1215 E Memorial Blvd
Lakeland, FL 33801
(863) 683-3777
Eat truck and be happy.
Any true conniseur of Mexican food knows that the best tacos and refritos come not from fancy-pants sit down restaurants… they come out the side of trucks and vans along the side of the road… or sometimes in a parking lot.
Of the 9 of us that trekked over to the El Norteno taco truck, I heard no tale of gastrointestinal woes… perhaps that’s because we’re all hardcore enough to handle the heat and leave the others behind to Chavos.
Red’s Java House
It’s a warm sunny day, the boss is out of town. Around noontime, emails start to circulate around the office, the body consisting of only one word: ”Red’s?”
This is one of the office favorites for an extended lunch. Red’s has a view of the bridge and waterfront to rival any of the higher-priced dining establishments along the Embarcadero from a great patio area in back. So what if it’s a converted chunk of parking lot? Just ensure that someone is guarding your meal when you run to grab another pitcher… the seagulls/pigeons/little wren-like-creatures are quite ruthless when it comes to abandoned meals.
But we don’t take the 10 minute trek just to consume the scenery. Although at each visit there’s some renegade who orders the double-decker hot dog, veggie burger, or chili (all deemed tasty, by the way), the fish ‘n chips are what most bring to the table… and for good reason (personally, so far, my favorite in the city). Light, crispy batter, tasty, perfectly moist fish, and enough fries for two or three people to share. And even when the line stretches out the door, you can end up with food-in-hand within 15 minutes.
For those who aren’t on the clock, the full bar out back has beer to pair well with every meal… AND (gratuitous college reference) a bartender from Jupiter’s, one of my favorite bars back in Champaign, Illinois. Unfortunately, as a result, I’ve never moistened my lips with the nectar for which they are named. Some morning, perhaps, if I’m not yet un-hung-over, I’ll drop in for the breakfast and a cup of java.
Oh… did I mention a two-piece fish ‘n chips and a beer is still under $10? Take that, every other overpriced pub in the city without a waterfront view. N’yah.
Pier 30
San Francisco, CA 94105
(415) 777-5626
Random acts of deliciousness
Who would ever have imagined, a little taqueria inside a grocery store in the midwest would serve up such crispy, juicy, perfectly seasoned chunks of meat fresh off the grill… wrapped in fresh tortillas, topped with cebollitas and cilantro, side of rice and beans… and near-perfect salsa verde that makes your lips tingle gently for hours afterward.
The carne asada at Casa Blanca was the final straw that permanently turned me after 14 years of being a vegetarian. But sadly, to this date, I still haven’t found any better.
Aurora, IL 60505
(630) 851-7777
Breakfast at the end of the world
Three days in a row? Yup, he wanted to go again.
Solid food, ingredients are a couple of tiers up from greasy spoon, but still served with enough grease to tame my tummy the morning after a night on the town. Scrambles and omeletes galore, but the various incarnations of eggs benedict are what usually garner my attention. John’s potatoes are tasty enough to warrant take-away when I’m serving up a batch of my pancakes for breakfast at home.
Four stars for the food, but an extra star for the artwork on the wall: alongside the standard shots of the Embarcadero and construction of the Bay bridge, movie stills from the dawn of technicolor and a huge black velvet Elvis in the corner mate with the rockinest non-functioning jukebox in the city.
John’s falls just shy of five stars for serving up long pours on their espresso drinks and only having pancake syrup, not real maple syrup. Yeah, it’s a diner, but if you’ve got it on the menu, you’ve gotta bring it.
But did my dad ever find his “Frisco” french toast? Yup, he found it at John’s. It wasn’t organic, it wasn’t fancy-schmancy, and it wasn’t even served with real maple syrup. But it was made at the edge of the world in San Francisco, and it turns out that was enough to make it special.
San Francisco, CA 94116
(415) 665-8292
Cuisine: American
Not having dinner at Magnolia.
Wait for a table at Magnolia? We did.
Get seated at Magnolia? We did.
Eat at Magnolia? We didn’t.
Instead, bushy-bearded Master of the Waitlist comes to our table and asks if either of our names is Howard*. Upon realization that neither of the women sitting at the table is likelly to be named Howard, MOTW informs us that we can’t just sit down wherever we want. Although we inform him that we had indeed been seated, he reiterates that it wasn’t our turn. Subsequently, after staring blankly for half a minute, he walks away and returns with the waitlist.
“See? It’s not your turn yet.”
Blank stare.
He walks away, returning with Howard and Friend, who then stand beside the table and wait.
We get up and leave.
I seem to recall enjoying the food and drink the last time I was able to get a bar seat at Magnolia, and I don’t mind waiting for a table… but making a customer get up from their seat due to a mistake on the part of your staff? The waitstaff (and inparticular, the bushy-bearded MOTW) need to get their sh!t together.
Magnolia does have one thing going for it, though: the Magnolia brewpub occupies a storefront which was once a brilliant contribution to the San Francisco community: Magnolia Thunderpussy’s late night erotic dessert delivery services (although Magnolia was a burlesque performer, I believe it was the desserts that were erotic, not the delivery service).
But still, they don’t deliver, and you can’t get a seat. The beer is o.k., but the prices are ridiculous.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Or just to obfuscate the fact that I don’t remember the guy’s name.
The delicious golden standard by which all pizza is judged.
Lou Malnati gave a great gift to the world: A fantastic cornmeal crust, fresh fillings, excellent cheese, zesty yet not overbearing sauce, a good cheese:filling ratio, and high quality tomatoes on tope (a rarity in the Midwest) make this the gold-standard by which I judge all pizza. Case in point:
When I moved to San Francisco, and found a one-room furnished apartment near the ocean, rent-free for one month, in exchange for one medium Lou (spinach, mushroom, tomato).
It’s that good.
While it is possible to have a few kinds of Lou Malnati’s pizza overnight-ed across the country, I’ve discovered that it works just as well to order whatever kind of pizza you want at least two days in advance, pick it up, and pop it in a freezer bag (e.g.. the ones you can find at Trader Joe’s for $2.99). Carry it on (if that’s still ok with the TSA), or pop it in your suitcase and check it. Mine stayed frozen longer than 12 hours, with no evidence of topping loss! Upon arrival at your destination, preheat, bake about 30 min., and it tastes just as good as if it were served to your table at the restaurant.
I’ve been doing this for ~10 years, from the east coast to the west coast… even on an overnight stopover while flying from Japan to Miami. The elaborate mechanism I’ve developed for carting a Lou across the country should tell you something… If you’re a fan of *real* Chicago-style pizza, you *need* to try the Lou.
I’ve tried all the other deep-dish Chicago-style pizzas, and while each brings some desirable quality to the table, Lou Malnati’s is the only one that pulls ‘em all together to make a deep-dish pizza, not a doughball with cheese and tomato sauce. Plus, I’ve tried their pies in the city and the suburbs, and quality has remained pretty consistent across the different locations.
And a note from recent émigrés from the midwest: you can get your fix via mail order at http://www.tastesofchicago.com/ (you can get to it by way of www.loumalnatis.com too). It has to be overnighted on dry ice, and so it costs a pretty penny for one or two, but you can get a 4-pack for $80 (that’s less per pie than I’d pay for the closest substitute by my house!).
Sadly, though, you can’t order the Lou. So… if anyone from Chicago is planning on visiting San Francisco in the near future…
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Lee’s has dozens of other fantastic flavors of ice cream. My other favorites include Arbuckles (more similar to a Stracciatella than regular chocolate chip ice cream), and a deliciously creamy coconut ice cream.
Lee’s is located in the Old Town area of Fredericksburg, a great place get a cone and wander around on a warm summer night. There’s always a line, but service is speedy, and friendly as could be. Lee’s also has a wonderfully chilly water fountain to wash away whatever guilt you may experience after downing one (two….three… four….) scoops of the most delicious ice cream you’ve ever tasted.
Do yourself a favor and try the Death by Chocolate. But if you’re on a date, make sure they get another flavor… otherwise you won’t get any for a week. It’s that good.
* If you don’t know what I mean by this, you obviously weren’t paying attention when you read Romeo and Juliet in your Junior year of high school. Learn…