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.