Pearl's Burgers

Oh man it's so dang good....

(but not as good as Houston's.)

Coi

It is said that the great surfers live in pursuit of the perfect wave, traveling the world’s turbulent shores to put their lives at peril in hopes of a rush bigger and badder than the last. It’s the downside to obsession, this insatiable hunger. So it can be with, among all things, something as ordinary and mundane as eating. Diners of a certain class map the frenetic career paths of celebrity chefs, trot the globe for new taste sensations, and promptly book reservations to every restaurant opening, all in search of the next rush. It’s little wonder that they gather in cities like New York and San Francisco, which are densely populated with world-class restaurants. When dining out in such a city is nearly an addiction, it is no small thing to say that at a small restaurant called Coi I had my most memorable meal of the past two years.

Diners to whom thrills mean inventive and novel construction (think Alinea and El Bulli) or seven stars between the Michelin Guide and The New York Times (think French Laundry and Jean George) may find that Coi hardly incites a modicum of enthusiasm. There are indeed some elements of novelty – a first course salad of grapefruit, ginger, tarragon and peppercorn comes with a drop of oil made from the essences of the same to be applied to your wrist as you eat – and already there is some critical praise. But the real root of Coi's success stems from a simple return to the elemental, a philosophy that has somehow languished in the periphery of the culinary scene but seems due for the spotlight given the increasing attention to organic and local sourcing of ingredients.

Many restaurants advertise their relationships with local farms. But how many have you seen list the farms right next to the menu? Indeed, vegetables take center stage at Coi, and even this diner who regularly raises a brow and curls down his lips at even the most agreeable vegetarian didn't mind. For the spectrum is dazzlingly broad, and the preparations stunningly spare. The candied fennel, for example, was a simple wedge on a puff pastry strip, bound by cauliflower puree and a little vinaigrette drizzled around the plate; the kampachi sashimi was accompanied not by pickled ginger and pungent wasabi, but raw japanese radishes which offer a more pristine and delicate sensation; you are invited to smell the blossoms that in the field provide the particular nuance for the honey that arrives with the cheese course. Rustic and at the same time supremely elegant. But above all it was a return to the most elemental quality of food, the quality that makes you think the food came straight from the farm and right to your table, only slightly edited from their natural state, the chef as a mere conduit, a medium who simply coaxes and cajoles. This simplicity makes the Dionysian compositions at Michael Mina or La Folie seem vulgar, ostentatious, self-conscious.

It is not surprising that Daniel Patterson's cookbook is called Aroma and emphasizes the complex sensual response we have to simple aromas that are associated with food. The book is an exploration of distinct categories of scents and various methods to harness ingredients for their particular aromatic personalities. This highly cerebral method for such pure sensual effect results in what I believe to be the most exciting dining experience currently offered in this city. Matched with gracious service and a plush, modern decor, it is also the finest. Others will disagree - they will cry for the mackerel lozenge and toast sorbet of the new guard, or call out the many stars garnered by the elite among the old guard. I am all for novelty and for critical endorsements, and in my own pursuit of the next big rush, I would have agreed with these detractors. But dining at Coi I discovered that nothing invigorates the jaded but addicted diner more than having brought to his senses in such a spare, poetic way the purity of a fennel, a carrot, a grapefruit... or whatever is growing just an hour away.

Delfina

Unlike their French, or even Asian, counterparts, Italian restaurants have the extra burden of impressing a crowd too familiar with the category. By the time diners are old enough to afford fine dining, they've already been introduced to ravioli by Chef Boy-R-Dee, chicken parmesan by The Olive Garden, and classic spaghetti by Mom with assistance from Ragu on nights when she was too tired to cook anything elaborate. Thus the schema for an entire swath of Italian cuisine in most minds is well established. The problem, of course, is that in the process of being absorbed into the American kitchen vernacular, pushed "forward" by the American need for convenience and universal appeal, the cuisine evolved so far from its origins as to be almost unrecognizable. Indeed, our current schema is a false one.

It shouldn't be a surprise, then, that to the uninitiated the menu at Delfina may appear surprisingly common. Tomato salad with fresh mozzarella, polenta, roast chicken, for example. Melons and prosciutto may push things, but not very far. They even have spaghetti, which may stir some skepticism among those expecting a meal to match the national reputation Delfina has gathered over the years. Foodies on their maiden visit to the restaurant would do well to order for once something familiar or obvious, because that is the very purpose of Delfina: it reintroduces the prototypes of food we all think we know so well but don't. It reinvigorates the cuisine with the absolute best ingredients and well researched methods.

On my most recent visit I ordered the spaghetti. The pasta was perfectly al dente, as one should expect from $11 spaghetti. But what elevated it was the way the sauce, far more vibrant and less sweet than anything in a jar, sticks evenly and generously to the pasta, the way a drizzle of olive oil just before serving provides a subtle but splendid sheen, and the way fresh basil and peperoncini fragrantly punctuate the dish. Its charm arises from its unpretentious attention to detail, its simplicity. In the same way, the roast chicken seduces the diner. A half chicken, roasted with some salt and pepper, arrived on a plate with nothing besides a clean reduction of fresh chicken stock and a few plump royal trumpet mushrooms. A rare moment of ostentation came in the form of bone marrow accents on the flatiron steak, but even then the marrow was strewn about in small kernels so as to impart its richness without vulgarly announcing its identity, a humiliation bone marrow faces too often as it is becoming a banner of inventiveness and peculiarity among foodies. In fact, I had to pick one up and check with the waitress to make sure it was bone marrow.

The electric charge of the ambience is a stark contrast to the straightforward sensibility of the food in which it is served. The tables are packed close together, the density raising a raucous worthy of a popular Manhattan restaurant. Look, however, at the waitstaff - lithe, inked, and meticulously disheveled - and you're reminded that Delfina is distinctly San Franciscan. Look, too, at the diners, huddled happily in these close quarters. They actually love the simplicity of the food; they find the full and precise return to its origins gratifying. And it shows on their faces. No wonder Thomas Keller pointed to this restaurant before any others when asked which restaurants he visits when he comes to the city. The popularity of Delfina is proof of the conscientiousness of the patrons. Look and you are reminded that this is San Francisco, where every day its citizens' schemas of Italian food are remade.

Range

Somewhere between the broad band of casual dining and the lofty peaks of four star dining is a narrow segment of restaurants that serves as the backbone of most metropolitan dining scenes. Too polished for paper napkins but relaxed enough to forgo tablecloths, these restaurants cater to those who care enough to ask where the lamb on their plate was raised but are frugal enough to enjoy it only occasionally. And thus some of the exacting standards and refinement of haute cuisine is trickled down to a larger audience, as if to stem, however hopelessly, the pragmatic and detached approach to food that has dominated the post-Industrial age of manufactured meals.

Of these restaurants, where entrees run roughly beween $15 and $25, a few stand out in San Francisco: Myth, Delfina, Woodward's Garden, to name just a few. But while all of them have brigades of loyal, defensive patrons and reputations that rival some of the great restaurants of this city, only one managed to garner a Michelin star. Range sits at the edge of the Mission's "Gourmet Ghetto" with a cool confidence, though which came first - the star or the confidence - is hard to tell.

Michelin's stamp of approval notwithstanding, Range's confidence is somewhat surprising given that the restaurant seems to struggle with its identity. It's not exactly a see-and-be-seen kind of a place that draws the young, stylish trust-fund set, nor does it really cater to the pre-symphony demographic, and it apparently avoids that mysteriously affluent Mission hipster crowd despite its location. The service staff is neither noticeably warm nor aloof, is efficient but unenthusiastic. There is the occasional stroke of personality and fleck of quirk, but these are just ornaments against the general palette of vanilla. In fact, one might describe the place as bland, or perhaps even dull. The vibe is altogether unremarkable.

But still, it succeeds. And it succeeds best when and where it aspires to be more than what it is; when it reaches for two, and perhaps even three, stars. I once had a flat-iron steak that had a superb crust around a buttery, tender interior, accompanied by a veal sauce that caused me to drop my fork and sink back in my chair. The strawberry shortcake from the same evening was comprised of small, sweet, fragrant strawberries, a light, crisp shortbread, and just the right amount of fresh whipped cream. It was a dessert that, even as I reread this, sounds so ordinary but was, if you would trust me, something of a revelation. There is even the small detail, that does not go unnoticed, of home made truffles that arrive as petit-fours. During these moments one star seems like an injustice.

Inconsistency, however, is what keeps Range down. One week after that superb steak, I had another that was tough and sinewy. The sauce was dull, lifeless, and questionably propped up by too much sweetness. A tomato salad, as familiar as strawberry shortcakes, failed to surprise the way the dessert did. The strawberry ice cream profiteroles with lemon cream and pistachios was nearly inedible. The ice cream was icy, the choux pastry frustratingly hard, and the lemon cream did nothing to improve the situation.

Consistency. It separates the good from the great. While one should demand perfect consistency from the great restaurants, one must forgive the occasional moment of failure from the category of restaurants in which Range resides. But in assessing a restaurant it is not enough to consider the lack of off nights. One must consider the height of the high points. For when Range succeeds, it succeeds spectacularly. Herein lies the measure that, in my opinion, makes Range the finest among its peers. So should you, on your first visit, have a disappointing steak or a mediocre salad, you would do well to suspend your judgment and give it another go.

Acme Chophouse

There is no greater manifestation of masculinity in the culinary world than a steakhouse. I don’t mean masculinity in the beer-drinking, dirty-talking sense. The masculinity I’m referring to opens the door for women, works hard for a living, knows how to wear a suit, and goes to the same barber every four weeks. This masculinity smells of oak and tobacco, sounds strong and baritone. A proper steakhouse is all this manifested; all others can be immediately spotted like a man wearing blush.

When San Francisco built a world-class ballpark with brick walls on the shore of its bay, it shed the qualities for which it is well known – new technology, social liberalism, progressive politics – to build a temple to a type of Manhood that seemed long forgotten in this city. So the idea to incorporate into the plan of the stadium a steakhouse on its most prominent corner seemed so natural that one wonders why every stadium doesn’t have one. A popular restaurateur (Traci des Jardins of Jardiniere fame; after all, this IS a city that takes food seriously) was given the opportunity to concept and run the high-end steakhouse. The match seemed like a solid one. Even the name chosen was apt: Acme Chophouse. Straightforward and manly.

The ballpark and restaurant are located in a wildly booming area of San Francisco along a stretch of King Street that has witnessed in the past several years the rise of thousands of loft units and scores of New Economy businesses. I stopped in to Acme Chophouse one day expecting to participate in the lunchtime bustle of this thriving area - especially since it was a game day - but was surprised to find that less than 10% of the large restaurant was occupied. I was the lone diner at the bar. This, it turns out, is no accident.

Just to be clear: I won’t blame the steak itself. But then Thomas Keller once noted that anyone can cook something that’s supposed to taste great. You can make great food with relative ease if you’re given sweet Maine lobsters, prized truffles from Perigord, or wagyu beef that melt from the warmth of your hand. To make the point clearer, try making something appetizing out of pig trotters and stomach lining. Acme Chophouse starts with the same beef that’s featured in a dozen other high-end restaurants in the city, so I’m not convinced that the quality of the beef is responsible for its dismal state.

What, then, if not the steak itself, makes a great steakhouse? Well, the answer is not as simple as making a great steak. (Buy a high quality steak – ribeye recommended, salt and pepper liberally, bring to room temperature, heat a thin layer of canola oil in a heavy pan until it starts to smoke, sear the steak for several minutes on each side or until a nice crunchy crust forms on either side. Remove from heat, tent with foil, and enjoy in about 8 minutes. Medium rare and fantastic.) Perhaps it’s the service, or the ambience. Or something more concrete than that. Is it the side dishes, or the weight of the steak knife? No, that doesn’t seem to quite get at it either.

Is it too soft to say that it’s a matter of Heart? Because THAT statement does feel right. Acme Chophouse has no Heart. A place with Heart forces all the right elements into place and a diner can feel it: long after the dinner when all the concrete details have faded deep into the inner fibers of our hippocampus, we remember with a breeze of nostalgia how much we loved being there. And that thing that makes us feel this way is what’s created by the Heart. The Tadich Grill, to name just one, has it. You can’t pinpoint one single element; It all just works together.

Yes, my flank steak was well seasoned and had a nice flavor. But it arrived with a pile of diced Yukon potatoes, a few sprigs of watercress, and a feeble attempt at a horseradish cream sauce. Preceding that were three shrimps from their raw bar. At $2.50 a piece, I expected some hefty prawns. But no, they were rather small, the kind you should use only in a stew. The bread never arrived. The soda was flat (the small detail of bottled cola would have had such impact). And the décor is indistinguishable from The Cheesecake Factory’s (actually, the area would be better served with this chain restaurant). No… nothing came together.

I wonder if this is just a money-making venture by Chef des Jardins. But given the lack of patrons, it’s clear that she hasn’t learned the fundamental principle that you reap returns only when you invest. In the precarious business of fine dining, the biggest investment is your heart. And like the cowardly lion, Acme Chophouse doesn’t have one.

Canteen

Of the many important responsibilities of a watercooler food critic, none is more grave and telling than his role as advisor to friends and coworkers on where and where not to dine. The questions are often specific: Where should I take my wife for our ten year wedding anniversary? Do you know where they make good Northern Chinese hand-pulled noodles? My in-laws are visiting from Chicago; who serves the biggest portions? But the most common – and most difficult – request is invariably delivered in a hushed underground voice, and before the question is punctuated I can tell what they’re after: the hidden neighborhood gem that, romanticized in their mind’s eye, glows amber-hued and serves the kind of comfort food that your great grandmother supposedly used to make in a wood-fired brick oven. (Unless she was Korean. Then she most likely served a small bowl of rice and stew made from old kim-chee.)

The inherent problem with hidden neighborhood gems is that the ones that are so good that you wish they would stay secret for your own private pleasure are, for the very same reason, publicly exposed. And the better the restaurant, the swifter its outing. So it was inevitable that Canteen skipped the clandestine affair with neighborhood locals in-the-know and wed itself nearly immediately to high-profile critics, with mentions from the Chronicle to several national food magazines. The story is a seductive one: a young rising-star chef leaves a prominent establishment to start a hole-in-the-wall restaurant as the arena for a very personal exploration of the relationship between man and food. After my visit, however, I have to wonder whether the attention and acclaim it has received is well deserved.

Canteen has many of the ingredients that make a great neighborhood restaurant. First and foremost, it is small. If it was an ipod, it wouldn’t even be a nano, it would be a shuffle: there is space for 20. It’s tucked away in an obscure part of the city - the TenderNob - adjacent to the lobby of a quirky hotel that looks as if it charges by the week, day, or hour. And finally, its menu is short but broad, and emphasizes fresh, local ingredients. So far, so good.

But Canteen ultimately fails because it also lacks several essential ingredients. The décor is pleasant, but its personality is forced. Obscure books are stacked to give the diner the impression that you’re dining in a well lived-in room. My friend leaned over to whisper that it looked like a staged kitchen in an Ikea showroom. By the front door a horizontal coat rack hangs above a pair of simple but stylish chairs: a shot straight out of a pottery barn catalogue. I didn’t know if I should order six of those chairs for my dining room or the Cod with Artichokes for my dinner. Personality was absent in the service as well. I hoped for the warm greeting one gets from a favorite aunt. Instead, the waiter greeted us quickly as he rushed by to grab something for another table. We came in for a hug, and we received a handshake. It was all so disappointingly perfunctory.

The short menu, updated weekly, reads just as it should. It tempts the diner with rustic but elegant fare: Beef roast with mashed potatoes, chard, and jus; cream of lentil soup; Ling cod with artichokes and Meyer lemon cream; Almond cake with cherries, prunes, and Armagnac; Chocolate and hazelnut pot de crème. The dishes are hearty and robust, conjuring up images of old groves, misty coastlines, and strong, stout farmers’ wives. But these pastoral pleasures and agrarian reveries come at post-industrial metropolitan prices. The entrees are priced at a hefty $22-26, a range that puts it in the same league as restaurants that serve far more exquisitely prepared dishes. Scott Howard, Range (recipient of a Michelin star), and Woodward’s Garden all offer better food at comparable prices.

Still, in this crowded space, there is room for Canteen. It is a program restaurant: there is a specific theme, a staged setting, paid actors, and its name evokes the specific scale and the particular temporal spirit of the place even before you step inside, as if it was the anticipatory title of a play. And program restaurants always have a way of attracting diners who regularly crave a theatrical display. Based on how difficult it is to get a reservation there, Canteen seems to attract plenty of them. For me, however, this pastoral drama, pleasant though it is, is so straightforward that there is no promise of deeper layers to be discovered in subsequent visits, no new nuances to ponder or subplots to explore. I'm happy to have tried Canteen, here in the country's Broadway of restaurants, but I'm ready to hit the next show.

Michael Mina

The best thing to happen to the Bay Area dining scene since Alice Waters started a revolution and Thomas Keller raised the bar to world-class heights was the arrival of a small clandestine band of food critics and their stingy, it turns out, purse of French stars. All controversies aside, the Michelin Guide caused nearly every top restaurant to put their best foot forward for a few months in hopes of earning those coveted Michelin stars, of which even the rumor of a loss of one famously precipitated the suicide of a top French chef. There have been reports here and there of extra ass-kissing by greeters at the podium, the strange disappearance of unattractive waitstaff, the word "chicken" on menus giving way to "poulet" or, at places that were really trying to impress, "poussin." Things got really hot here in the foggy city, and some of the heat seems to have stayed.

The biggest improvements I've noticed to date are at Michael Mina. I have to confess that I didn’t notice them immediately. So strong were the defenses of my biases against the restaurant that they relented in stubborn increments for several weeks. But finally they succumbed to the memory of the succulent kobe beef, the playful but luxurious lobster “corndog” amuse-bouche, the sommelier who lingered on a busy night to chat and engage.

Michael Mina serves two menus: a 3-course choose-your-own-adventure ($88), and a standard multi-course chef’s tasting menu that runs into the triple digits. I opted for the former, which is further split into two sections for each course: triptych plates that feature a single prominent ingredient prepared three ways and the chef's signature dishes like his black mussel soufflé, lobster pot pie, and tuna tartare. During my initial visit a few years ago, I found the triptych preparation to be oppressive and overly ostentatious, but this time around I thought it was playful and clever, keeping even the most jaded tongue alert and amused. But playfulness, no matter how clever, quickly becomes exasperating if it isn’t backed up by solid execution. At Michael Mina, I couldn’t find one detail about the food to complain about, no matter how hard I searched. And although I can’t recall exactly what I ate - weeks separate that dinner and this review – I remember quite vividly the unique sensation in my mouth that can be created only by that ineffable quality we sometimes lazily label as “fresh” or clumsily describe as having “clarity” or “sparkle” as I have in previous reviews.

The biggest improvement was in the service. In my initial assessment back in September of 2004, I complained that a three course dinner felt laborious, that I had to hail a waiter every time I needed more water or bread, that I had had better service at Chevy’s. This time around, the waitstaff was omnipresent and invisible: I always had everything I needed without noticing any intrusions to my conversation with fellow diners. The sommelier, as I mentioned before, provided the little measure of dialogue that makes diners feel engaged.

Of course, not even the Michelin Guide can change every bad thing. The restaurant still opens up into the tacky lobby of the Westin St. Francis and the tall ceilings and concrete pillars still give one an impression of being in a cacophonous cave. The bluish-grey palette was supposed to evoke the fog, but in this setting, it conjures up stones and hirsute dwarves. But once the food arrives, full of wit and beauty, the ears ignore the echoing clamor and the eyes become myopic, seeing only the gastronomic composition on the table. So impressed was I by what I ate that, with my apologies to Monsieur Passot, I have to end with this statement: this is the best food I have had in San Francisco.

And in case you're curious, Michael Mina earned an impressive two Michelin stars, the highest rating for any restaurant in the city.

The French Laundry

None of the dozen or so cooks seems to be in much of a hurry. Their movements are methodical and in constant velocity. It’s about control, precision, finesse. Finesse. The word and its definition, printed on a large white paper banner, hangs over the main kitchen door, and although no one is looking up to read the words you get the sense that they’re all thinking it, chanting it over and over in their minds, marking the rhythm of their labor. The room is spotless and surprisingly quiet – Emeril Lagasse is nowhere in sight or sound. His BAM! would be a bit out of place, like Koko the gorilla in Gump's stemware department. This kitchen belongs to Thomas Keller, who oversees the team at the heart of the most celebrated and mythified restaurant in America.

“Welcome to The French Laundry.” The greeting is so simple, so ordinary that it surprises you once it’s uttered by the hostess at the podium. To get here, you’re likely to spend hours on the phone for days, hoping to break through the busy signal. Then finally, one day, the phone actually rings, it RINGS! But even then you’re put on hold. Is this some sort of sick joke, you wonder. The reservationist finally picks up, and you ask if there are any tables open on ANY day at ANY time in the next two months, which is how far out they accept reservations. You tell them it’s your ninetieth birthday, you say you’re Oprah, you say you’ve slept with the second pastry chef, you say you have lupus. You lie (except about that crazy drunken night with the pastry chef. Yowsa). And after all that, the chance that they’ll say “we’re all booked up” is achingly high.

This is the Meal of Your Life. On my most recent visit, there were two tasting menus, one the chef's menu and the other a vegetarian offering, both twelve courses and offered at $210, including gratuity. All meals at The French Laundry begin with a small scoop of salmon tartare on a sesame tuille shaped like a miniature ice cream cone. The whimsy of the composition immediately softens the starch of the setting. Diners, who have been sitting silently and a bit nervously as if they’re awaiting the Pope in his private receiving room, relax and smile. They loosen their spine and lean back in their chair. You’re eating a salmon ice-cream cone, and you realize then that this meal does more than deserve your respect, it demands your enjoyment.

The most recent menu included a cauliflower panna cotta with oyster glaze and Sevugra caviar, poached halibut on spring vegetables, white asparagus salad with sour cherries, lobster with sunchokes and morel mushrooms, crisp duck, wagyu beef with Japanese vegetables, a pair of dessert courses, and a seemingly endless stream of mignardise – revelations cascading in courses. And this truly is revelatory food. My most vivid memory is of a salad composition from my first visit to the restaurant that elevated the common celery into an extraordinary flora marvel. The celery, cooked slightly so as to maintain a measure of its crunch, was matched with truffles, a pairing that exaggerates the pleasant bitterness and Spring freshness of the celery against the earthy fragrance of the truffle, two familiar and contrasting ingredients exposing the other’s finest qualities. My mind opened up to possibilities heretofore unconsidered.

There is a clarity and a sparkle to the dishes. The clarity is achieved by an intensification of flavors through reductions, inventive layering, and restraint. It’s typical to see a single central ingredient used in several different forms in the same dish. One salad employs tomato tartare (oven roasted to intensify the flavor) as well as tomato powder, chives as well as chive oil. A dish is also never crowded with too many flavors and textures, allowing a few to stand out crisply and boldly. The sparkle is obtained by setting proper contrasts of flavors (the truffle and celery being a great example), using only the cleanest stocks for sauces, and leveraging vinegar to endow dull flavors with life. The flavors dance on the palette, vivid and vital. And so it was with the panna cotta, and the halibut, and every other dish, all of which proved to me that these are the archetypes of their categories. Halibut here is what any other halibut dish strives to be but never successfully traverses that ineffable gap that separate the two.

The service is in top form. Though it lacks the je ne sais quoi of the service I encountered at Bastide (Los Angeles) or at Alinea (Chicago), the staff here is the most knowledgeable I’ve ever met. They’re trained to know where every ingredient is harvested or raised, where every plate and spoon is manufactured, and our server this last visit even tossed out of his magic hat the two theories that explain the notch in the sauce spoon. They have polish too, but they’re entirely friendly if you want to joke with them (and I always make a point of doing so to test their mettle, or patience my friends might say). They glide through the room, evidence of the training received from professional ballet dancers. This is, after all, theater.

At the end of the meal, slightly inebriated, both belly and spirit expanded, my mind wanders, gently gliding over the past four hours, lifting them permanently into my memory. Thoughts stretch further back to the weeks when I first thought of making the reservation, stretch further back into years when I first sat in this very dining room. And further back still to the wonderful and rustically extravagant meals my mother prepared during my childhood. My life is collapsed before me, and all my memories have to do with food. This place, an old stone building in the gently rolling hills of Napa, casts a spell on its diners. Food becomes life, and not just a metaphor.

Our waiter leads us to the kitchen for a brief tour, one final generous gesture. The cooks are busy at work at the summit of their shift, but still unhurried. And I realize that this is the source of The French Laundry’s witchcraft, where a dozen men and women have given their lives, happily sacrificing so much to work here from morning to late at night, concocting their potent spells. But as C.S. Lewis once reminded us, spells do more than cast enchantments. They can also break them. As I walk off the premises and take off my jacket on a hot Saturday afternoon, I wonder whether I’m waking up from one or re-entering another.

Koi Palace

I'm going to make a bold claim here. Right in our own backyard (Daly City) is the best dim sum restaurant in the Western hemisphere. No, I haven't been to every dim sum restaurant in the Western hemisphere, but I stake my claim confidently for three reasons: first, San Francisco boasts the second largest Chinese population in our half of the world, and it is, by a good mile, the best dim sum I've had here; second, I compare it favorably to the dim sum at the American outpost of what is widely considered the finest dim sum restaurant in the world (perhaps I should make the bolder claim that it's the best dim sum in the WORLD); third, I'm prone to hyperbole. Anyway, to continue with my hyperbolizing....wedged between an Outback Steakhouse and a nondescript office building, Koi Palace cranks out one bamboo steamer after another of near perfect dumplings. It's no wonder that empty chairs are seen for a few brief seconds only while tables are turned, and that scores of people are lined up outside, patiently, even gratefully, waiting for their chance to yum cha.

Koi Palace is huge. I haven't counted but there must be seats for several hundred, easily, and I'm sure more than the fire marshall allows. Unlike most other dim sum restaurants where large metallic carts are pushed along by strong-legged Chinese ladies, here trays of a few steamers are floated along by strong-legged Chinese ladies (more on them later). The key is to order as much of the food you like from the menu early on, and then supplement them with the occasional floating tray item. I suggest taking a regular with you to help with the ordering.

The best item is the Shanghai dumplings, the dumplings by which all other dumplings - not to mention the restaurant that serves them – is measured. Minced pork and a cube of solidified consommé wrapped in a delicate yet firm hand-rolled flour wrapper. The consommé melts during the steaming process and produces the distinctive soup inside. Carefully pick one up with your chopsticks, place it in a soup spoon, bite a small hole in the skin, and slurp out the soup. Then dip the dumpling into the accompanying sweet vinegar and eat it whole. It soothes better than music and comforts quicker than chicken soup.

Potstickers are typically made as if to compete with meat pies and deep dish pizzas for sheer weight and blunt flavors, but here they have a thin crispy skin and a clean, nuanced pork flavor. They’re my favorite potstickers. Koi Palace also serves the best shiu mai I've ever had. The broad rice noodles with shrimp? Heavenly. The shrimp and spinach dumpling? Devilishly delicious. But leave room for dessert. The Chinese - like most other Asian societies - don't really care to exert much effort on dessert, but one couldn't tell from Koi Palace's egg custard tarts, sugar egg puffs, and black sesame balls. Their embarrassingly odd names notwithstanding, they are proud displays of pastry achievement.

Service is the great flaw. It's indifferent, inconsistent, and sometimes down right rude. When the ladies floating the trays around aren't aggressive, they're manipulative, intent on pushing a few too many plates and steamers on your table. I'm certain they work on commission. I've learned, however, that they respond well to an equally aggressive customer. I gesticulate with excitement and laugh heartily with friends as we talk, but the moment a runner approaches I grow stone cold, my voice drops an octave, and I yell "NO!" before they even ask. On occasion, they narrow their eyes and flash a crooked smile that says "touché." Bad service aside, I love this place and I'm grateful that I live so close to it. When out-of-town guests visit, it's one of the few restaurants that I have to force upon them. And amazingly, we all walk out stuffed for about fifteen dollars a person. A true bargain.

There is a fourth reason why I claim Koi Palace must be the best dim sum restaurant in the Western hemisphere. People often mistake popularity for quality. The line at lunch time often extends out the door at one local Jack in the Box, Eliza's and Henry's Hunan have 20 minute waits on most nights, and the tourist-trap Scoma’s is the highest grossing locally owned restaurant according to one media source. If the place is packed then it must be good, the logic goes. The flaw in this reasoning is that it doesn't consider WHO the place is packed with. It doesn't discriminate between those with discriminating palates and those without. Indeed, a restaurant can be accurately judged by taking a peek inside and seeing who's eating and how. The only Chinese people at Eric's (for the record, I do eat there occasionally) are the wait staff. Koi, on the other hand, is packed with real, authentic Chinese folk, all yapping away in that most lyrical of tongues, serving each other portions of Chinese broccoli and passing along the har gow. Observe a while and you know you can trust these people to judge a proper har gow. And if you look carefully at the table next to the kitchen entrance, you're likely to see a man of thirty or so staring at the door waiting for his Shanghai dumplings to emerge like a puppy waiting for the can opener to finish it's job. And hopefully, you can trust him too.

5 Favorite Things to Eat (or Drink) for Under $5

San Francisco is known for its fine dining - take the top ten restaurants here and it'll stand up to the top ten from any city (including New York). If you're on a budget, however, it seems like you have to settle for greasy burritos with pre-cooked carne asada, or a slice of bland pizza that's neither as robust as those from Chicago nor as crisp and tangy as those from New York. But fortunately you don't need to compromise quality when you want a little treat in the Bay Area. This is, afterall, the Fertile Crescent of America. So here are my five favorite things to eat (or drink) for under $5 in the Bay Area.

Canales at Boulangerie de Polk
Canales originated in the Bordeaux region of France. Bite into one and you’ll sense that it’s unlike anything you’ve ever had. The uniquely crunchy, crackling shell is achieved by coating a copper mold with a mixture of butter and beeswax. And just inside the shell is a moist, almost creamy (although it’s solid) cake that is often compared to crème brulee for its modest sweetness and luxurious egg-and-cream richness (in fact, canales are sometimes referred to as the portable crème-brulee). I’ve had them at several places, but the best ones are at Boulangerie de Polk and its sister shop Boulange de Cole. They pair deliciously with a tall cup of light Darjeeling tea (no cream or sugar needed). $1.75

Boylan’s Cola
Once in a while, a product comes along that totally jars the entire category. You think you know cola, don’t you? Who hasn’t had a coke or a pepsi? In fact, the top three soft drinks in the world are Coca Cola, Diet Coke, and Pepsi. They’ve become so ubiquitous that there’s very little questioning what cola should taste like. We think we know. Enter Boylan’s Cola. It’s a small bottler based in San Francisco and they’ve been around for quite some time, but without quite the marketing muscle of its larger competitors. Just try it. Open a bottle, listen to the fizz, and take one sip. As one friend (who is known to be the model of self-control) emphatically exclaimed “It REALLY tastes like COLA!” And there you have it. It really tastes like cola.

$1.25 - $1.75. Available at a variety of fine markets throughout the bay area, including BiRite in the Mission District.

Shanghai Dumplings at Koi
A friend told me that a long time ago an Emperor in China called on every region to bring the finest examples of their region’s best dish. They all gathered together and the Emperor feasted on every morsel, and that event gave birth to what we now call dim sum. And of all the foods he ate, he declared that the dumplings from Shanghai were the best. And I’m not one to argue with emperors, especially one that loves food and can have you quartered by horses with a mere gesture of the royal hand. Shanghai dumplings are essentially a dollop of minced pork wrapped in a thin but dense flour-based wrap. What makes them so special is that a small solidified cube of a rich stock, which melts in the steaming process, is placed with the minced pork, creating a “soup” wrapped inside the dumpling. The Shanghai dumplings at Koi are my favorite because they have a pure pork flavor that is unobstructed by an abundance of garlic, chives, or ginger, as is the case in many other restaurants. Here the dumplings have a clean, delicate flavor and the subtle sweetness of the pork comes through. Dip it in the house vinegar, and you have a match made in heaven… er, Shanghai.

$3.90 for 4 dumplings. But order at least 10. No, make that 20.

Dark Chocolate with Burnt Caramel confection by Michael Recchiuti
If you’ve read my blog entry “I’m a Snob” you know by now that I love chocolaty confections, and Michael Recchiuti’s Dark Chocolate with Burnt Caramel is the finest confection I’ve ever had. (And trust me, I’ve had lots of chocolates from all over the world.) No wonder it’s his signature confection (his initials are printed on the chocolate). Mr. Recchiuti cooks his caramel just up until it’s about to burn, resulting in a mild bitterness that adds depth and complexity to his confection. There are others, and I’m certain you’ll find your favorite. Perhaps the Piedmont (hazelnut), or the Kona (kona coffee), or any number of other confections infused with a variety of other ingredients including pink peppercorn and jasmine tea – all bold yet refined. I’m getting a hankerin’ just writing about them right now.

Approximately $1.25 - $2.00 per piece. Available at the Ferry Building, Neiman Marcus, and Confetti stores.

Frosted Mocha at Café Borrone
It’s a mocha shake with whip cream. But put down that straw and bring out the steak knife and fork. This is thick and serious. Drink one a week and within a month you’ll start to see some hair growing where it has no business being. Haagen Dazs coffee ice cream, ground espresso beans, chocolate, and perhaps a few drops of milk are blended together. Then placed on top is a curl of whipped cream, whipped in some secret manner that produces the thickest, smoothest whipped cream available anywhere. This was mandatory drinking when you had to pull an all-nighter in school, but I say it should be mandatory drinking for everyone at any time.

$4.95, Café Borrone (Menlo Park)

Terra

There are expectations, of course; those lines we inevitably draw in our minds and from which a good part, if not the whole, of our experience is measured and ultimately judged. That is, perhaps, why I can rave about the crisp chips at Chevy’s as fervently as I do about the crisp sturgeon at the French Laundry, and why a McDonald’s hot fudge sundae can satisfy my sweet tooth nearly as well as the warm cherry clafoutis from Gary Danko. For better or worse, expectations define our experience.

Before going to Terra I had done the standard research. I read every page of its website, talked to a few people, looked up its scores on Zagat.com, and scoured the web for reviews from both critics and diners. Consider the facts: A Japanese chef (and the Japanese are nothing if not meticulous) trained in French Californian cuisine; Access to ingredients so fresh that they make France’s three-starred chefs sweat with envy; A list of awards and critical reviews that are second in Napa Valley only to The French Laundry, which is hardly a bad position to be in considering that Mr. Keller’s restaurant is arguably the best in the country. I went to Terra with reasonably well-informed and carefully measured expectations.

The menu combined French, Italian, and Japanese elements, just as advertised. My problem with multi-themed menus is that it’s difficult to develop a cohesive theme through multiple courses: either one is limited in their selections by settling on a single theme, or one has to put up with disruptive shifts across several themes. For example, I began with Seared Hamachi Sashimi with Hijiki and Daikon Sprouts served with a Ponzu Vinaigrette, then traversed 13,000 miles for Pan Roasted Lobster and Scallops with King Trumpets and Garlic Lemon Parsley Butter Sauce.

Beyond a difficult menu, the food itself strived to be inventive but was entirely uninspired. Try as he might, Salieri was no Mozart. Terra supporters might claim that it may have been an “off night” but that could hardly be the case when the mediocrity was pervasive and problems were the norm. The hamachi sashimi was overpowered by the ponzu, traditionally used sparingly in Japanese cuisine, and everyone who had a bite of my entrée agreed with furrowed brows that the garlic in the sauce was far too forward.

The other appetizers were hardly better. The Tartare of Salmon and Hamachi with Sesame Tuile lacked any differentiating element, except, perhaps, for the overbearing intensity of the sesame of the tuile. It simply wouldn't stand out at any of the dozens of small neighborhood restaurants throughout San Francisco. Although my fellow diners praised the Braised Lamb Shoulder Ravioli with Mint and Raw Feta Cheese, I thought the dish languished as the smoky grilled artichokes conspired with the mellow, gamey braised lamb. The mint and feta stood no chance of balancing the dish against their combined heft.

It says something that the highlight of the evening was the Broiled Sake Marinated Cod with Shrimp Dumpling and Shiso Broth, a dish that is served with slight variations at a dozen other high-end restaurants (including Nobu and Aqua) and hundreds of more humble Japanese establishments across the country. It’s tasty, but so are churros, and I didn’t need to see it on yet another menu, much less in Napa Valley. Admittedly, I happily indulged in it as the best dish on the table. The richness of the foie gras sauce in the Grilled Squab with Corn Bread Pudding couldn’t compensate for the toughness of the meat. (One must ask, how tough can the meat of an eleven week old pigeon be?) And the pork chop was unhappily smothered with too much pesto and came with gnocchi-like pasta called cavatelli. One bite sufficed.

We ended the meal with the Yogurt Souffle Cake with Nectarines, the Warm Blackberry Pie with Buttermilk Ice Cream and the Tiramisu. I don’t like Tiramisu, so I passed on it. The Yogurt Souffle had a delicate fresh flavor and successfully married flavors: yogurt, nectarines, and Beaumes de Venise. But the best dessert was the warm blackberry pie. It was delicious because… well… because warm blackberry pies are inherently delicious. You have to put effort into making it unappetizing. I wasn’t convinced that Lissa Doumani, Hiro’s partner and pastry chef, improved on a classic.

The wait staff was friendly and courteous, though lacking a bit in polish. Asked for recommendations, and there were hesitations. I find encouragement in waiters who immediately jump to a recommendation with convincing exuberance. When I requested that my sencha (a fairly high grade of green tea) come slightly cooler than normal (knowing that their normal would be too hot for green tea, which should be steeped in 140-160 degree water for no longer than 90 seconds), it arrived scalding hot and too much acidity from the tender leaves were released. But the waiter quickly arrived with a second and more successful attempt when I informed them of the mistake. Quick recoveries define good service.

Just last week, a friend and I attended the symphony. Leon Fleischer, one of my five favorite pianists of all time, was performing a Mozart piano concerto and Hindemith’s rediscovered Concerto for Left Hand with the San Francisco Symphony. Neither of us enjoyed either piece, but we were convinced of Fleischer’s genius. His tone was supple, his phrasing genteel, and I would have happily listened to him perform Michael Bolton transcriptions. His quality as a musician was evident despite the mediocrity of the music itself. Likewise, I looked beyond my gastronomic preferences for Mr. Sone's reputed brilliance. I looked for some inspired genius that might have been handicapped perhaps by the ingredients he had to work with, or by the need to cater to the undiscerning but wealthy Regulars who keep his doors open. Was it hidden under the squab, or tucked away in the tartare? I found nothing. Perhaps my expectations were terribly miscalculated.

http://www.terrarestaurant.com

Masa's

The Prelude
About three years ago I went to Masa's and an evening of uninspired food, indifferent service, and a high price tag ended with a very disappointing petit-four experience. I love petit-fours. I love stuffing my mouth with a dozen little gems even though dinner is packed tightly halfway up my esophagus and, at the same time, pushing lunch out the other end. I love the variety of petit-fours and how they symbolize the restaurant's extravagance. It's as if they're asking you to stay a few more minutes and eat carefully crafted treats even though you've just had two dessert courses, an offer that seems so generous and over-the-top that it leaves some visitors giddy with disbelief. So I was disappointed when the cart came by a few years ago and the server placed just a few pieces on a shiny tray and walked off robotically, leaving me wondering if I'd been a bad guest. I felt half guilty and half angry. I could've used about nine more pieces. I wanted some more petit-fours but the evening was over. And now, three years later, I sat alone at the restaurant, curious to see if things had improved.

The Review, in Twelve Parts
1. There was some fumbling in the beginning. The bartender brought me the menu as soon as I sat, and after I ordered the first runner delivering the canape nearly collided with another waiter who, holding a menu, didn't know I had already placed my order. When things settled and and the dust cleared, I found a small espresso cup in front of me. Mushroom bisque - a favorite of mine. I looked at it for a moment, the white foam, the latte color underneath. I smelled it, the aroma rich and earthy. I tasted it... but too much cream. Cream brings body and silkiness to a soup, but put one drop too many and at some unmeasured point the cream dampens the intensity of the theme ingredient. And dampened it was.

2. Fried tofu on seaweed salad? Perhaps it's because I grew up on the stuff, but I was hardly amused by this amuse-bouche. Imagine if you were served a square of peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich on white bread at the Ritz Carlton dining room.

3. I only recently began appreciating caviar (I hear that lady from Neiman Marcus calling me a snob again). It tastes and feels the way pearls look - smooth, silky, minerally. It's surprisingly versatile - serve it on salmon, oysters, potato blinis, use it as garnish on soups even. Here it was served on a brioche toast with a poached quail egg. The very slight crisp of the brioche and the creamy body of the egg went perfectly with the caviar, adding the warmth that caviar, served naked, can't deliver. I could've made an entire breakfast out of this.

4. Call me a purist, but I don't like sushi served at French or American restaurants. Don't get me wrong - I'm a huge sushi fan. But it's one thing to enjoy it in a proper sushi restaurant, and quite another in a Western restaurant serving haute cuisine, where the whole point is transformation of raw ingredients into something greater. There must be an emergent quality to the end product. You and I can both slice a piece of nice sashimi-grade tuna and it will taste just as good as it would if Thomas Keller himself sliced it. Which is why he once said that he loves preparing organ meats (offal) because they don't naturally taste good. It requires a tremendous amount of technique and creativity to soften, stretch, and pull the flavors so that something that doesn't taste so good tastes good - and that's the whole point of great cooking. So why was I served sashimi of big-eyed tuna on hearts of palm and daikon sprouts with a wasabi-soy dressing here at Masa's? It tasted good enough, but I have to question its purpose.

5. The crab salad was special. Lumps of chilled maine crab were served on fava beans, waterchestnuts, and croutons, and accented with two drops of chili oil. The flavors were light, a breeze carrying the cool coastal air of Maine in your mouth. The chili oil, an ingredient that caused me to raise an eyebrow at first, proved to be a clever and imaginative counterpoint to the crab. The variety of texture really made the dish fly. The soft meatiness of the crab, the firm density of the beans, the vibrant crunch of the waterchestnuts would have done well by themselves. But the tiny croutons that stayed crispy for the 30 seconds it took me to inhale the dish added a stunning quality of genius to the construction of the course.

6. The fish course was sturgeon on wilted spinach, raisins, cauliflowers, and madras curry. The fish was firm and moist, the quality of a ripe savory fruit. The raisins went surprisingly well, punctuating the unfocused run-on flavor that often characterize fish, no matter how well it's cooked. The spinach played its role dutifully and without surprise. The cauliflower added body. The curry was superfluous.

7. The service was, for the most part, excellent. Because I sat at the bar near the entrance, I was entertained not only by my bartender/waiter, but by the hostess also. As I put my fork down on the plate that once carried the sturgeon, the waiter asked if I would be okay with the foie gras course. I said no, I wouldn't like to eat the organs of tortured geese. He proudly brought me a bowl of agnolotti served with carrots and sweet English peas. With most vegetarian dishes, I like to sample the individual vegetables first to appreciate the full effect of each flavor. The sweet peas sang with the green flavors of Spring; the carrots were mute, utterly flavorless. The dish turned out to disappoint, especially since the sauce was simple beurre monte with an offensive amount of minced parsley, and the chef would've done better by serving me a bowl of those peas.

8. The squab was pleasant, as all 11 week old pigeons tend to be. It was served with spinach (didn't I just have that with the sturgeon? Were they having a special at Costco?), applewood bacon, shallot jus, and again, lots of parsley.

9. The Colorado lamb had a nice strong flavor - a bit stronger than I like, but still pleasant. The loin was served on spinach (definitely a sale at Costco) and root vegetables, finished with a little simple lamb jus. Perhaps I've dined out too many times, but the squab and the lamb were so expected. I was craving more revelations like the croutons in the crab salad. Croutons with crab! So clever.

10. Pineapple sorbet on coconut "noodles." A palette cleanser before the dessert course. I had a bite or two of the sorbet, but the "noodles" were left untouched. I didn't want more.

11. After the first bite of the dessert, I wanted more of the pineapple sorbet. Hell, I would've eaten the coconut "noodles" as well. I was served "lime wontons" over mangoes with a mint dressing and lemon churros. What a disaster of flavors. It tasted like Trix cereal except not as palatable. I ate a few bites and left it alone, not caring whether they'd be offended or not. No, actually, I wished that they would notice, and I imagined a heated argument among the chefs and the owner, one of them tasting one of the "wontons" for himself and spitting it out and another throwing his chefs hat down in protest. I imagined someone leaving, everyone not quite sure if he had quit just before he was fired. But instead a waiter strolled by and quietly carried the plate away without a peep.

12. The check arrived. I was anxious, but not at the price. I knew how much the dinner cost. This was an issue far more grave. It was that the check arrived without the petit-four cart, that dreaded cart. So I asked the waiter if there would be petit-fours (tacky, I know, but I really wanted petit-fours, but you know that by now). He grew a large smile, and the hostess hearing our conversation as she walked by grew one as well. With eyebrows raised, the waiter said that of course the petit-fours were arriving, and that in fact, Alex would be serving it. The hostess, as if playing the second voice in a fugue, raised her brows in similar fashion, nodded and said, yes, Alex WAS the best at it and would be serving me petit-fours. Was she really as good as they all said she was? Could this be the new and improved Masa's where they were actually generous with petit-fours? Alex finally arrived with the cart, this beautiful cart with tiny little cakes and chocolates and truffles and fancy lollipops. I wasn't sure, so I asked. Can I have this one and this one and this one AND this one? She didn't flinch. And then... this one and this one and this one and this one AND this one? She placed them all on the fancy little tray and smiled. I couldn't believe it. I ate them all quickly, afraid that surely someone would see that I'd been given too many petit-fours, would apologize for Alex as she's new and doesn't know the limit of four petit-fours per customer, would take them away from me, my little preciouses. Then something remarkable happened. The hostess came by and said that if there were any others I would like, she could prepare me a to-go box with whatever I wished. My jaw nearly unhinged. I leaned over and whispered if I could have five more of those delicious canalis. She leaned in herself as if still in the fugue and whispered that those were her favorites too. Then I told her about my last visit to Masa's and that I was grateful for her generosity. She laughed with genuine excitement at having done her job well. You could tell she felt good, but not as good as that guy in the black suit and untucked shirt, the one walking to his car with four canalis in a box and one in his mouth.

A Good French Bistro: Bouchon

With the disappointment of Plouf still lingering on my tongue, I drove to Yountville with a friend, determined to get my mussels done right. I secured a table for two at Bouchon, Thomas Keller's "casual" french bistro just a block down from The French Laundry, where I knew I wouldn't be disappointed by the food.

And I wasn't (for the most part). The menu is printed on thin wax paper and wrapped crisply around your napkin. A long list of daily specials is written on several chalkboards, and everything sounded so appetizing that finally pinning down what to order was labor, but one of love... or at least of lust. We'll call it lovst. Lovst for food.

We finally opted to split a chilled Maine crab salad and their house special soup, French Onion, as starters. The crab salad was crisp and clean, the flavors - the crab, the citrus, the mache green - standing on their own before resolving to a major chord in your mouth. The soup was special, full and robust. The onion was well caramelized and created, along with a vibrant beef stock, a deep smoky yet sweet flavor. The cheese, however, was a bit heavy on top and I found it difficult to finish in pace with the broth.

My friend picked the wild mushroom crepe as an appropriate Sunday brunch selection at a French bistro on a sunny day in Napa Valley. The crepe was pleasant, although a bit salty in certain areas - undoubtedly the work of an intern whose unpracticed fingers haven't quite learned the very important craft of salting. I chose the mussels. I have to confess that I hesitated - gasped even - when I read the recipe prior to coming to the restaurant. It calls for mustard, a flavor I don't associate with Mussels, and one I don't like in general. But I'm glad I ordered it. The Maine mussels were small, perfectly cooked, and tasted like the sweet ocean where they happily grew plump on protein-rich fish poop. The broth was the best I had ever tasted. The mustard was barely perceptible, used more to color and thicken the broth and bind the other ingredients together, forming a rich dipping jus for the bread and frittes. Roasted garlic is used, and shallots, and white wine. Parsley and a generous measure of saffron too. It was the perfect bowl of mussels. I miss it a lot.

We ended with an order of profiteroles and a mint pot-de-creme. The profiteroles were magnificent, the dough crisp on the edges, the flavor creamy, with vanilla bean ice cream and Valrohna chocolate sauce ("you can leave the chocolate sauce gravy boat on the table") to complete the dish. I have to admit though, my friend Ann Kim makes them from the Bouchon cookbook and she's been able to successfully improve on it by creating larger profiteroles which results in a slightly spongier pastry and a more prominent egg flavor and reducing the ice cream to pastry ratio which results in a better balance of flavors, textures, and temperatures. I didn't care too much for the pot-de-creme - it tasted like toothpaste, although a high-quality all-natural one like Tom's of Maine. But my friend, who loves the herbal flavor of fresh natural mint leaves, enjoyed it completely.

It was all a very pleasant experience. The food, of course, was excellent. I never expected it to be revelatory the way it is at The French Laundry where one discovers what celery can really taste like with a little help, a little coaxing. Sitting there in a sun-drenched dining room with marble floors and brass rails and eating profiteroles, I forgot that I was in California, merely an hour away from the city, so close yet so far from Plouf. For a moment a flicker of rage flared up at the thought of Plouf, but was put out immediately and simply with a sip of good, strong French coffee.

A Bad French Bistro: Plouf

I was just twenty one years old, fresh out of college, and eating frozen pizzas and taquitos from Costco when a friend invited a group of us to dine at Plouf. It would be my first "nice restaurant" experience and I felt like a grown-up. I was mesmerized by the menu - each item read like a recipe in haiku. Sauteed Pacific Halibut, braised endives, in a saffron sauce. This wasn't Sizzlers, and it certainly wasn't the dormitory dining hall. No, it was something entirely new and satisfying. Dining al fresco in downtown on a brisk San Francisco Summer night while a waiter with a french accent poured water into my glass made me feel sophisticated, cosmopolitan. Even now, the memory elicits a sigh.

So what the hell happened? On my most recent visit, the place was bankrupt in every department. I love energetic spaces. Crowded airports, malls, downtowns - even crowded restaurants (read my entry on Town Hall). But pair it with painfully slow service and the once boisterous murmurs of the crowd begin to press in on you and choke out the fun. Have to ask repeatedly for water, the check, anything, and you begin to suspect that the restaurant is more concerned about generating more revenue regardless of the limited number of pans on the burners than choreographing energy. Belden Lane has the potential to be charming and European - in fact, it once was - but as its popularity has grown the restaurants have seized on the opportunity as if to take revenge for the bleeding during the dot-com bust years by packing tables so tightly outside that you can't tell where one restaurant ends and where another begins. So you find yourself not in Europe, but in Las Vegas.

Unfortunately, the quality of the food didn't help the situation. As an appetizer my guest and I split their house specialty: mussels, marniere in this case. The broth was warm vinegar (never cook with a wine you wouldn't drink) and the mussels were overcooked (always remove from heat just after the shells open). My friend's scallops over corn risotto was standard, perhaps even fine except for the coarsness of the risotto, the grains crumbling between my teeth. I ordered baked lobster with tomato salad and wild mushroom flan. The uneasy look of the waiter when I read it from the menu should have warned me. The lobster was undercooked and came off the shell in shreds (my guess is that they used frozen lobsters), and the flan was lacking any hint of mushroom. It had the flavor of pure cream and the texture of raw fat - and under normal circumstances the words "cream" and "fat" in a single sentence would cause me to swoon with delight, but this time the swooning arose from nausea.

Still... a restaurant that made Michael Bauer's Bay Area 100 as recently as this past year couldn't be entirely bad. The molten chocolate cake with vanilla bean ice cream - a sure fire crowd pleaser any where - would certainly salvage the meal! While we spent 20 minutes waiting for our mussels and about 30 for our entrees, two suspicious minutes passed before the "molten" cake appeared. The cake was pasty and only barely warm, the flavor substandard as if the quality of the chocolate - the chief matter of importance - never registered on the pastry chef's mind. The ice cream was more like icy whipped cream, the kind you buy in a plastic container in the freezer aisle of your local Safeway, except less palatable. More on what I think of Michael Bauer in a later entry.

I'm disappointed by the restaurateurs who also own a handful of incredible french bistros in the city, including Le Suite and Chez Papa. This will be the last time I return to Plouf, I regret to say. I recommend you also avoid it, unless you like the Stinking Rose and Bucca di Beppo and other restaurants that the crowds patronize because they confuse popularity for excellence.

"You're a snob."

You know you need to do some serious soul-searching when an employee at Neiman Marcus calls you a snob. It was Saturday afternoon, I had a few hours to kill before my dinner plans and I had a hankerin' for some chocolate. I rarely step inside Neiman Marcus - frankly, I can't afford most of the things in there, and even if I could, I'm not sure I'd buy them - but it happens to be the only place I know of that carries a certain type of chocolate. An older lady with a big red smile drawn across a powdery white face and hair colored and coiffed to look like a large dollop of chocolate mousse was offering samples of chocolate confections on a fancy copper tray. I asked what they were, she replied Joseph Schmidt, and instinctively (it really was) I raised an eyebrow and declined. "I don't like Joseph Schmidt. I have trouble with the texture." Then it happened. She gave me a sidelong glance and said it.

"You're a snob."

But I don't mean to be. I just like good chocolate, and I don't like bad chocolate. There are very few brands that actually make chocolates themselves. Scharffenberger and Valrhona make their own chocolates from cacoa beans, and they're called chocolatiers. Others make confections out of the chocolates from these chocolate makers, or make chocolate blends from the chocolates of original chocolatiers and sell it under their own label. They're called confectioners. I like Valrhona chocolates because they're dark, velvety, and smooth. I dislike Scharffenberger because they have a sour note that tastes like bad acidic coffee. I like Michael Recchiuti and La Maison du Chocolat confections because the shells are delicate but crunchy, their ganaches fine yet firm, and their flavors poetic and robust. I don't like Joseph Schmidt because their shells seem artificially glossy, their fillings too creamy, and their infusions either strained or prosaic.

Oh sh-t. The Neiman Marcus sample lady was right. I'm a snob.

Town Hall: The Life of the City

I went to Town Hall with a mixed bag of expectations. A few people raved about it, a few said it was over rated. So many critics, so many opinions. I had to try it for myself. And although I'm not sitting here with the elated grin (think Homer Simpson after a chicken-fried steak and molasses buffet) that, for a few days, follows one of the very best meals of your life, I am glad I finally tried it.

My two friends and I split two appetizers: the veal meatballs (those poor tortured delicious calves), and the dungeness crab stuffed artichoke hearts. The meatballs were incredible, the highlight of the evening. Slightly sweet and tart, with spices and herbs that penetrated into the deep flavors of the fragrant meat, the meatballs came atop mashed potatoes. The gravy was brighter than most, but it had to be to match the intensity of the meatballs. Delicious. The dungeness crab and artichoke hearts was also fine but didn't leave me overly impressed. It tasted like... well... like dungeness crab and artichoke hearts. Simple and straightforward. But paired with those magical meatballs, it couldn't have had much hope for standing out.

For the main course, I ordered the lamb chops with mashed English peas and olive gnocchi. But of course, as soon as the plates came out, I sat up and leaned over to begin shoveling bites of my friends' dishes. One friend ordered the duck with wild rice while the other was a bit braver by ordering the scallops with andouille sausage. I say brave because, just as expected, the scallop dish tasted like jambalaya: lacking any degree of subtlety, it's likely to rough you up a bit if you're not ready. I thought I was prepared tonight, but as it turned out I really wasn't. The duck plate consisted of duck meat picked off the bone and piled on top of wild rice and various fruits and vegetables including dates and perhaps a type of zucchini. A large stretch of crisp duck skin covered the plate, and a surprising measure of a very intense and sweet sauce bound the ingredients together. The first bite was delicious - it sang in your mouth. One friend said it tasted like Christmas. That would explain the sweetness (and the singing in the mouth). But the intensity shortened the flavor-life (the food version of half-life), as your tongue became tired and eventually got beaten up. Now I really feel like a sissy - roughed up by scallops and beaten down by duck. Thank god no one ordered the venison. Fortunately, the duck paired superbly with the Syrah which tempered the sweetness.

I have mixed feelings about my lamb chops. I loved the peas - I always love fresh peas, especially ones with English accents. Cooked and mashed with some fava beans, they had great texture, similar to well cooked edamame. The gnocchi, pan fried, were light and had a hint of olive. The lamb chops were well crusted on one side (I'd be surprised if it didn't fry in butter for about seven minutes), but as thin as they were, the chops cooked through to medium-well. I prefer to hear mine still baa-ing when I lean in close, or at least pink throughout. My biggest beef with the lamb dish was that it was a bit too bland, not in terms of salt, but in flavor. It was more of an etude of texture rather than taste, which might be fine if their intent was to be avant-garde, but I strongly doubt that in a restaurant serving butterscotch pot-de-creme. Speaking of butterscotch pot-de-creme, it was quite delicious - fun, creamy, dense. The apple huckleberry crisp was also executed well - as well as one could execute something that refuses to be extraordinary.

The service was a bit dull. I would've expected a bit more snap-crackle-pop. The life of the place came from its clientele, not its waitstaff. Which brings me to my most important observation. So this isn't the finest restaurant you'll go to - at $50 per person (pre-tip), there are a dozen that could easily match the place - but being in the heart of former dot-com central in a large modern brick building that is the archetype of SOMA architecture, it reclaims the electricity that once surged through the city during the boom years. The place is packed with smartly dressed yuppies, with silver haired socialites, professional gays, and 20 somethings gathering for some special occasion. My friends and coworkers are tired of my rants about how denial and delusion run and ruin my generation. But in a moment of weakness, I just may come back, order a glass of wine I'm not supposed to drink (i'm allergic), traipse through a thousand calories in three courses, laugh til I choke, scream to my friends over the buzz, and pretend like the boom years are back.

http://www.townhallsf.com

A Zen Moment Of Clarity

You would be forgiven, of course, if you thought it was a small surgery room. The walls are white, the lights above brilliant, and everything has a sterile sparkle about it. The stern faced man in the crisp white gown is holding a very very sharp knife. But the light blue aromas of fresh seafood, the steam from various percolating stews, and the restrained staccato dialogue among Japanese businessmen indicate an authentic Japanese culinary experience - and you’re glad you won’t be anesthetized.

The place seats eleven – five at the sushi bar and three pairs at three small tables. There is only the chef behind the counter, and a woman who mans the “front room.” The service is sometimes slow, but I never mind as I’m so entranced by the precise movements of our Japanese hosts. Take a look, for example, at the chef. Watch how his respiration is timed to the movement of his knife – he has the intensity of a classically trained pianist. Watch how he puckers his lips, focuses his steady eyes on the scallion slices balanced on the tips of his metal chopsticks as he rests them on top of a dish. He is a slight man whose delicate frame is matched only by the elegance of his creations.

Although the menu is written in both English and Japanese, you will always find a yellow post-it note of daily specials all written in Japanese. Before you fret, give yourself a break by ordering one of their beers or sake and just say “omakase” – roughly translated as “trust me” or “leave it up to me,” it is the equivalent of the chef’s tasting menu at a French restaurant. You’re likely to receive five to seven small courses.

On my last visit, the cost of the “omakase” meal was $42 – undoubtedly a bargain. It began with an amuse-bouche of pickled daikon radishes. A bit too bitter for my palate – I much prefer the earthy and salty hijiki, a type of seaweed with mushroom-like flavor and body, that he used to serve. Then came tofu with wilted spinach and dried shrimp. This too had been modified from the dish I used to be served, which replaced the uni with dried shrimp to a similar but slightly less interesting effect. Regardless, this is my favorite dish there. The course is served tepid, and the tofu has a nutty sweetness to it and a creamy texture that is complemented by the saltiness of the dried shrimp and the brightness of the spinach which binds the whole dish together. If a bowl of this simple and nutritious dish is what satisfies a monk in his monastery in the peaceful hills of Japan, sign me up.

Next came the steamed halibut, a small 3inch block sitting in the lightest broth, made with hondashi, I’m guessing, and sweetened slightly with sugar. A single stick of carrot, a cube of daikon, and a single snow pea leaned against the halibut – Richard Serra would have been impressed. Although the broth was perfectly light and superbly tasty, the halibut was a bit on the dry side. The sashimi and sushi courses followed. I won’t say much more about these except that you won’t find better sushi anywhere. The sweet soy sauce marinated tuna is a gem. After the fish, we had an egg custard filled with delicate surprises: small morsels of chicken, Japanese mushrooms, even a gingko bean. Surprise! To help wash it all down, the savory courses ended with a deeply colored mushroom miso soup. So deep and satisfying that I refer to it as Liquor of the Earth.

To end the evening, we were given a melon wedge. I looked at it: it was small, elegantly presented, and sat on a fine delicate bowl. Like all the other courses, it was almost too beautiful to eat. But that didn’t stop me. I was still hungry at the end, and that’s the one downside to this secret place. Afterwards, I almost always have to go grab a large crepe stuffed with ice cream and topped with whip cream to feel satisfied. And so I did again this time. As the ice cream melted down my hands (it takes two to hold that damn crepe cone) and I licked the whip cream off the sides of my still-full mouth, I had my very own zen moment of clarity: the more I tell people about this place, the less I'm likely to get a reservation.

Fleur de Lys

I had a rough day last week and needed some gastronomic therapy. Sitting at the counter at Gary Danko would have been the most obvious treatment, but I was craving something new yet equally effective. Fleur de Lys came to mind. It's impossible to be a foodie in San Francisco and not know Fleur de Lys. Along with La Folie, Gary Danko, and Masa's, it's perched at the highest sphere of the San Francisco culinary firmament. (Aqua and Boulevard are deliberately left off. Masa's would have joined them in their shameful place had they not recently hired a new chef - I'll give them the benefit of the doubt for now). I had heard great things about it, and that it had grown even more impressive after extensive remodeling following a bad kitchen fire that ruined the restaurant a few years back. I called, secured a last minute reservation for two, and grabbed a friend. I needed some healing fast.

The dining room is impressive. Whereas diners at The French Laundry speak in hushed tones out of reverence for the legendary restaurant and chef, diners here seemed to be forced into submission by a most opulent setting. It's famous tent-like canopy drapes the entire ceiling and colors the room with deep luxurious reds and golds, the colors of papal majesty. A golden glow permeates the entire room, punctuated in the center - the tallest point of the canopy - by a large autumn arrangement of fruit branches and flowers. Even now, I can't escape using the most florid language to describe the place. "Papal Majesty"??? What is this crap that's pouring from my finger tips? Let me try again: the place was nice but a bit stuffy. Better.

I would be more generous in praising the decor but, unfortunately, the grand setting succeeded more in highlighting the shortcomings of the food and service rather than buttressing them. Let's start with the service. At the risk of sounding "difficult": it was the little things. It's hard to relax (this is therapy, remember?) when the waiters are perspiring and dropping off a plate of bread without eye contact or even a pause, when you hear them murmuring among themselves that the food is for THAT table and not for THIS one, when your water glass is empty and a crouton is in your mouth. I don't think the Pope has to ask for more water when he's dining under his opulent canopy, does he? There was a wonderful article recently in the SF Chronicle that addressed Laura Cunningham, who runs The French Laundry front room, and her method to creating a great dining experience. She brings in professional dancers to train her staff to move, they measure how far away the waiter should stand from the diner and from which side their plates should be set down on the table, they study where every ingredient is grown or harvested and where every plate is glazed and fired. It seems like a lot of work, but a hundred little things translates to a dining experience so refined and so complete that it's hard to pin down a single element that's responsible. The service at Fleur de Lys was fine, so ignore me. My point is, it just lacked that special polish which could have had a magical effect in such an opulent setting.

After we had ordered from the menu - choices within 3, 4, or 5 course options, much like the menus of Gary Danko and La Folie - we were brought an amuse bouche which was forgettable, since I can't remember it, followed by a canapé, which was also forgettable, since I can't remember it either. What I CAN recall is how impressed I was by two palette teasers, exactly the kind of extravagant effort that sets a restaurant apart. Following our first course, there was yet another teaser, or rather a cleanser. It was a cantaloupe sorbet, an appropriately light flavor that doesn't linger, and is therefore a good cleanser.

My friend ordered the Symphony appetizer, a plate with so many ingredients and flavors and even temperatures that if this was a symphony, then surely the chef was Schoenberg. The only thing to match the labor in assembling this dish is the labor required to eat it. The flavors didn't seem to complement each other; instead they were all vying for your attention. Fortunately, his entrée was more like a Sibelius tone poem. The foie gras stuffed squab breasts with a ravioli of squab leg confit in a Sauternes-ginger sauce, was delicious and flavorful, elegant yet comforting. It was like the dishes you find at La Folie - it had self-confidence.

I have to confess, I cannot much remember my appetizer or entrée. They were neither as interesting (bad or good) as the Symphony, nor as delightful as the squab. They were, to use a technical term that we wannabe food critics like to throw out in careful measure, ‘blah’. To round out the meal: the soufflés were large, billowy, light – standard (but I’ve never been a big fan of classic sweet soufflés); the sparkling water was Pellegrino (my body would have broken down from the shock had I not been vaccinated previously at Michael Mina); and the champagne (Perrier Jouet) was a delicious start to the meal.

My final analysis is this: Fleur de Lys boasts one of the most beautiful and romantic dining rooms in the city. Its reputation for its décor is well deserved. But as for food and service it falls short of La Folie which has more polish. I will, however, consider Fleur de Lys again when I’m in the mood for Gary Danko.

http://www.fleurdelyssf.com