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.