"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.