A small bit of research reveals that Pres a Vi, one of the new restaurants in the reinvigorated Presidio, has its roots in the suburbs. (Va de Vi, its older sibling, is located in Walnut Creek.) Unfortunately, a small bit of dinner will tell you the same thing.

I made my way to Pres a Vi on a rainy night about 4 months after it opened. Perhaps because of the weather, I noticed how hard it was to find. It's hidden amongst a handful of cookie cutter office buildings, and if you're approaching by car -- as I assume most dinner-only visitors to the Presidio are -- signs are few and far between.

When I finally arrived, it was to a room full of warm, red-hued woods and fabrics that evoked a sophisticated, cozy cabin. The place was bustling with birthday parties, a young bar crowd, and several tables of baby boomers having dinner, but it wasn't loud. Though the room is quite pretty, it's also fairly common by San Francisco standards. Long bar populated with pretty-somethings? Check. Open kitchen? Check. Ubiquitous communal table? Check.

My friend was late to meet me, and the host treated us with some pretty fierce attitude when we checked in nearly 15 minutes late. I can empathize with the frustration of late arrivals, but to be fair, I had checked in earlier to let him know I was waiting for my friend to park. He was rude then, too.

When we sat down, we didn't have a wine list -- a pet peeve of mine -- so I caught the eye of the nearest waiter. His reply when I asked for one was gruff and annoyed. Okaaaaay.

When he returned, he explained, "There's a certain way we have to present the wine list." He then proceeded to run through the list of flights, which come in tastes of three and can also be ordered by the glass or by the bottle. "And if those aren't enough, there are 400 more in here," he finished, handing over the wine book.

The owners of Pres a Vi are clearly proud of their wine program. The name of the restaurant, in fact, loosely translates to "captivated by wine" in Catalan. It's encouraging to see so many offerings by the glass (48 plus 2 for dessert) and the bottle list hits on most of the world's major wine regions, so it's understandable that they'd want to brag a bit. But come on: the first thing most people want to do after a hard day's work is order a drink and relax. Forcing your customers to beg for the wine list is shortsighted and inconsiderate. If it needs presenting, so be it, but have the hostess do it.

Service was amateur throughout the meal. There were long waits for drinks when the food was already served, a food runner who handled our request for more wine by fumbling over how he wasn't authorized to take our order (well, go get someone who is!), and a plate of pork belly that was inexplicably served before both seafood courses.

On to the food. There were some lovely tastes from Chef Kelly Degala's small plates menu, which hop scotches all over the world. Like the restaurant, the plating was gorgeous, and the long rectangular dishes showed off our first two courses beautifully. We started with hamachi teradito ($14), slices of sashimi topped with micro arugula, anju pepper aioli, and blood orange oil. Citrus and spice were about all I could taste. Together, they were a flavor bomb that brazenly overpowered the hamachi (which may not have been a bad thing, since I detected a bit of fishiness from it here and there). The wild mushroom-ricotta ravioli ($10) were better. The sauce was wonderful -- a silky, subtle sherry brown butter with a hint of lemon -- but the fried shallots were soggy from the sauce, and the fried sage leaf was greasy.

The best thing about the Singaporean BBQ style kurobuta pork belly ($10) was the interplay between the tart and crunchy green papaya salad and the sweet honey-soy glaze of the pork. But the meat itself was chewy in a way that unctuous belly shouldn't be.

The pork was followed by grilled prawns satay ($10) with a Thai red curry sauce and soy-maple glazed black cod ($15). Both were fine, but not good enough to erase the disappointment of the preceding dishes. Throughout the meal, I kept wishing we had spoons to take better advantage of the sauces that accompanied nearly every plate, since they're one thing the kitchen does exceedingly well.

For dessert, we opted to share the cookie plate ($15) from the tasting part of the menu. I love the concept of dessert tastings, smaller portions of several things meant to be shared. It gives you the opportunity to indulge your sweet tooth without ending up like Kirstie Alley, and to sample more things from the menu. Unfortunately, the cookies were lackluster. The chocolate chip lacked enough chocolate oomph as did the chocolate meringues, and the coconut macaroons were greasy.

Both of us walked out of the restaurant deflated. I have heard good things about Va de Vi over the years, and it's made the Chronicle's Top 100 Restaurants list the last three, but it's clear from my visit that Pres a Vi is not living up to the family name.

Pres a Vi
1 Letterman Drive
San Francisco
(415) 409-3000
Open 7 days a week

As Shuna announced at the beginning of April, this is poetry month. Initially, that thought made me whince, but I enjoyed her poem and thought... hmm... perhaps I should contribute something. Ten days later, Amy mentioned a tofu haiku contest, which I entered (and will most likely receive an angry letter from the Soy Board). Now it's my turn.

I admit to having written poetry in college. Precious little, which is most likely a good thing. Somewhere in the universe, there are notebooks dotted with odd and pained verses brought on by reading too much Plath and listening to too much Bauhaus. I cringe at the thought of their discovery.

Last year, my friend Doralice handed me a copy of a poem I wrote in culinary school. I thought it was all but lost. You may wish it was, too, after reading it.

It was performed in front of our Safety and Sanitation class at the California Culinary Academy in early 1996. I was asked to give a presentation on, and here's what the 3 x 5 card said, "Interesting facts about fungi". It was read in a Dr. Seuss-like manner because, well, it has a Seuss-like rhyme scheme. I was surprised at the poem's reception-- no one threw anything at me or threatened to beat me up after class. Enjoy it or, at least, give me a fake smile and a polite golf clap. Letting the world read your poetry is no easy thing.

Fungus

With fungus, there's mushrooms,
There's molds and there's yeasts.
We've so much to learn
From these wee tiny beasts.

They aid in our whiskies
And hot steaming toddies.
They hide in our bathrooms
And inside our bodies.

There's fungus on puppies
And bunnies and cheeses.
There's fungus involved
In sexually transmitted diseases.

It lives where it wishes.
It grows where it pleases.
On the best petrie dishes
We find many diseases.

There's Cryptococcosis
And Histoplasmosis
There's ringworm and thrush
And Blastomycosis.

There's rusts and there's smuts
That grow in our grains.
There's even a fungus
That alters our brains.

Which fungus, you ask?
Please let me elucidate.
It's called Psilocybin.
It makes you hallucinate.

It's taken orally
Or it is injected.
(The legality of said fungus, however
The U.S. has rejected.)

I learned from the most
Reliable of references
That fungi abound
In all sexual preferences.

There's heterothallics
And homothallics.
(The latter you'll note
That I wrote in italics.)

When treading with naked feet
In gym showers,
Beware, for it's there
Tinea pedis flowers.

To cure it, make haste.
Use something fast actin'.
Most sufferers choose
To use Tinactin.

Mycotoxin (a fungus-tainted food derivative)
Perennailly bad-ish
Was considered by villians
A weapon quite faddish.

Biological warfare
Was used by Hussien
Who upon Kurds and Persians
Poured toxins like rain.

In the 1970's
Mycotoxins were got
By a genocidal despot
By name of Pol Pot.

In his part of Asia
He caused great commotions
B y using them on
Cambodians and Laotians.

Rhizopus nigricans,
Or bread mold, will thank
Any fool who puts bread
In a place dark and dank.

The truffle, one teaches,
Prefers it much damper--
Round oaks and some beeches
Where the truffle pigs scamper.

To many a man
There is no sight more dear
Than a woman in hot pants
Bringing him beer.

If said woman ne'er washes
Nor changes, at least,
Could be more than the beer's
Been affected by yeast.

In France and elsewhere
Sweet wines are got
By a wond'rous mold
That is called noble rot.

Botrytis cinerea--
Its true appelation
Dehydrates grape juice
Into high concentration.

Without such a beast
How then could we try
a glass of d'Yquem
or my favorite, Tokaj?

The gods are with you, fungus,
And so I am told
That when they made you,
They broke the mold.

Check, Please! Bay Area is KQED's local series featuring regular people reviewing Bay Area restaurants.

Check, Please Bay Area was nominated for two 2007 James Beard Awards (pdf) in the Television Food Show Category!

Visit the Check, Please! Bay Area blog to experience the restaurants from Season 2 Episode 14:

1) Buckeye Roadhouse: | restaurant information | reviews

2) Canto do Brasil: | restaurant information | reviews | recipe

3) Udupi Palace: | restaurant information | reviews

Please feel free to join the discussion by posting comments about the show and your reviews of the featured restaurants!

You can watch all episodes online as well as subscribe to the Check, Please! video podcast in iTunes.

This season, Stephanie V.W. Lucianovic will be blogging about what happens behind-the-scenes during the making of Check, Please! Bay Area.

You can also view the Check, Please! Bay Area photo gallery to view behind-the-scenes shots at many of the featured restaurants.

Let's play a little word association. I say "recipe". You say "card"? Recipe cards are so retro they might just be poised for a return to fashion. They actually take up a lot less room than cookbooks and are amazingly easy to sort and browse through. I really hadn't thought very much about them until a few boxes passed my way recently. Not all of them were worthwhile but here are three I do recommend.

1. Sumptuous Small Plates
This delectable deck of cards is written by local entrepreneur Bibby Gignilliat the founder and executive chef of Parties That Cook. Because she has a background as a cooking teacher and organizer of cooking parties, the recipe instructions are clear and easy to follow. The photographs on these cards are gorgeous and the recipes are very enticing. Rather than pull out a dozen cookbooks you could easily throw a party using a handful of cards.

Some typical recipes? Lamb Skewers with Basil Mint Pesto, Crostini of Goat Cheese with Tomato Marmalade, Sweet Potato Galettes with Bacon and Sour Cream. There are even a handful of desserts. I am looking forward to trying Kofte with Melted Feta Center and Garlicky Tahini and the Coconut Butter Cupcakes with Coconut Cream Frosting. Except for one recipe, they all fit neatly on one card. The deck also includes entertaining tips and menu suggestions. There are 30 recipes in all.

2. 86 San Francisco
Local food maven GraceAnn Walden edited this impressive set of restaurant recipes, and the focus here is on restaurants. All the photographs are of the restaurants, not the recipes themselves. Sometimes restaurant recipes don't translate well to the home kitchen but for the most part these recipes seem workable and a nice taste of what you'd get at the restaurant.

The restaurants featured in the pack are all topnotch. Actually it would be interesting to compare them to the infamous Chronicle 100! The restaurants include Acme Chophouse, A16, Bocadillos, Cyrus, Manresa, Incanto, Slanted Door, Yank Sing, etc. Recipes run the gamut from an Apple Galette from Chez Panisse, Duck Gumbo from Town Hall to Butter-Poached Lobster with Vanilla Crepe from Michael Mina.

My only quibbles are the number of recipes that take up two cards and a recipe for macaroni and cheese that calls for "a box elbow macaroni". Come again? Is there one standard size box of macaroni I should know about? There are 86 recipe cards, but about 80 86 recipes. All in all it's still a very good pick. This deck not only serves as a great source of recipes but also as a great source of restaurant info. It's a good way to get a sampling of what's cooking in and around San Francisco without adding yet another coffee table sized restaurant cookbook to your collection.

3. My A-Z Recipe Box
Developed by a former chef, mother and cooking teacher, this box is a good cooking starter kit for kids. There are 26 recipes which each serve as alphabetized tabs in the recipe box which has ample room for more cards. There is a stack of blank cards in the back for adding recipes and two pages of stickers to decorate the cards.

Some recipes require adult supervision but many can easily be made by kids with no help from mom or dad. The recipes are very kid-friendly both in cooking techniques and in style, and include colorful illustrations throughout. Choose from Cheesiest Cheese and Macaroni, Perfect Popovers, Krazy for Kebabs, Gimme More Granola or even more whimsically named dishes like Ants in My Applesauce or Quick-As-A-Wink Quesadillas.

I'm having a really hard time writing about food this week. Frankly, I've lost my appetite. All my favorite foods turn to ashes in my mouth, and anything that does pass my gullet curdles with each additional reporting on the Virginia Tech massacre. With over thirty dead, it's the deadliest shooting rampage in America, and I can't, I won't, ignore it.

Maybe I'm too emotional for my own good, but you know what? I'm a writer, I'm emotional, and while I can fake a lot of things -- a smile, a falsetto, a fava bean puree -- it's a losing battle this week.

Therefore, I'm going to use this space not to revel in San Francisco's bounty, which I can do every day of my life here, but to celebrate the great variety of victuals that come out of Virginia.

First, I want to quote Food History blogger, Gillian Polack:

Foodways and food history are about communities and individuals. They're the story of people and the food people eat.

We all know that, in theory. In pratice what changes the life of a community and rips out its soul is not something that often gets discussed in food histories. Sometimes it does. The extreme stuff. One day I'll talk about that, when I find courage.

One of our regular 451 bloggers lives in Blacksburg, VA. Today I think it's important to stop and remember the people of that particular community.

Instead of reading about food today, I'd be grateful if you took a moment to stop and think about him and his friends, about the son of SF writer Michael Bishop, about everyone who was killed in the shooting at Virginia Tech. Remember that history is about people, and when we lose those people we lose a part of ourselves.

Click over to the Virginia Is for Lovers tourism site and sneak a taste of Virginia.

Initially, I was surprised to learn of wines flowing out of Virginia -- specifically the Shenandoah Valley -- but then I was lucky enough to suck down a wonderful Meritage from Valhalla Vineyards in Roanoke, Virginia. Maverick, on 17th street between Mission and Valencia, has this wine as well as another offering from the Shenandoah Valley.

With that wine, you could enjoy thick slices of Virginia's famous Smithfield Ham and maybe even a handful of peanuts or some local cheeses. Both Meadow Creek Dairy and Everona Dairy are cranking out sumptuous artisanal cheeses that would do any cheese plate proud.

While the states of the Chesapeake Bay watershed are home to many sumptuous seafoods -- shad, oysters, and flounder (there's even a Flounder Capital of the World, claimed by the town of Wachapreague, Virginia) -- the seafood I most associate with the area is blue crab.

My husband, who grew up in Virginia, has fond memories of crab feasts where he worked hard with mallet and blunt knife to scrape out every last scrap of pure white meat from Old Bay-drenched shells. As he tells it, your hands and fingers sustain tiny cuts from hungrily slaving over the sharp shells, and the sting you get from the spicy seasoning working its way into your tender skin is a sweet and necessary pain, as much a part of the blue crab experience as the crab itself.

I've never been able to whack my own pile of blue crabs in either Maryland or Virginia, but I was able to enjoy these Beautiful Swimmers in another luxurious way.

Just after we got engaged, my soon-to-be mother and father-in-law sent Mark and me off to a celebratory dinner at L'Auberge Chez François, an adorable and lovely Alsatian restaurant (or, more correctly, auberge), nestled in the rolling green countryside of Great Falls, Virginia. It was there that I crunched through an appetizer of soft shell crab, whose fresh season is all too short.

I apologize if I haven't been able to cover all the foods and drinks that come out of Virginia, but I'm a novice where eating this state is concerned. I invite any transplanted or current Virginians to share any food memories, facts, anecdotes, or favorites they may have stored away in their heart cupboards.

In the meantime, take care of yourselves, each other and give the closest student, professor, teacher, or school administrator near you a hug.

I've always thought reincarnation is an interesting concept. You live, you die, and you return smarter and thinner and full of snappy comebacks that are always ready right when you need them. (Or something like that; check with the Hindus for a more complete explanation.)

These days, restaurants are as eager for a second chance as anyone. In mid-January, David Gingrass and Bridget Batson, the owner-and-chef duo behind Hawthorne Lane, reopened their staid SOMA restaurant as TWO. The décor and the New American menu have both been revamped, and they're a lot more casual and more fun than they used to be. If Hawthorne Lane was a graying matron who insisted upon using china and crystal at lunch, TWO is a swinging single with a penchant for slamming tequila body shots.

The décor is part Tiki lounge, part Brady Bunch. Coconut lights hang above a massive copper and concrete bar, walls are paneled in wood, and banquettes are covered in a groovy olive and tan fabric. Mustard yellow tables come with psychedelic orange peppershakers, and the ladies' bathroom is papered in giant retro red and silver blossoms.

The first time I went for dinner, my boyfriend and I sat at a table. The second time we took friends and perched at the bar, where service was better. Per Restaurantland's New World Order, the cocktail list features housemade infusions like lemon blueberry tequila. I chose the Royal Hound ($12), a drink Anna Nicole Smith would have liked. It was pink from muddled ruby grapefruit awash in vodka, Cointreau and a splash of bubbly, and a candied grapefruit rim sparkled like diamonds.

Eighteen wines are offered by the glass, including two reds served "en vrac" (in bulk). These wines are stored in barrels that have been lined so the wine doesn't pick up unwanted flavors or aromas. Prices are a few bucks cheaper than the other options, and the Syrah/Petite Syrah/Cabernet blend was a very drinkable mixture of fruit and spice.

Servers insist the food is made for sharing, and some of it is, but there's too much cutting and reapportioning needed to split most plates. Chilled asparagus on sourdough crostini with ricotta and prosciutto ($9.50) is a case in point. A veritable jungle of greens sprouted from the gigantic toast, and cutting it in half was annoyingly messy. Though I liked the touch of lemon and the al dente asparagus spears, eating it made me feel like a cow with wild clover hanging out of my mouth.

Two that are easy to split are the crispy-fried Hama Hama oysters ($11), which arrived nestled in a bed of rock salt. The oysters were plump and hot, the dough was light (if a touch thick), and the celery root remoulade was a delightfully bright take on tartar sauce. Pizzas ($13/$14) were a runaway favorite on both visits. The crust was thin but pleasantly chewy, and both versions we tried (black olive, goat cheese, and prosciutto; duck confit, caramelized onions, and Crescenza cheese) offered an appetizing blend of toppings.

The best dish bar none was the bacon and egg raviolo with sage brown butter ($9). One oversized ravioli was filled with bacon, spinach, and an egg yolk, which was softly poached during cooking, resulting in a rich, gooey slick that spilled out when cut open. Truth be told, I wouldn't have minded more bacon for my buck, but it was still glorious.

The pork schnitzel ($18), however, was an unmitigated flop. It was greasy and so large that it looked oafish and clumsy on the plate, and the braised escarole underneath was too salty to eat.

Both veggie sides we tried were a hit. Caramelized broccoli with garlic, chili and lemon ($5) was admirably charred with well-balanced flavors. Despite suffering from a dreadfully unappetizing name, the stewed broccoli rabe ($5) tasted deliciously bitter.

Desserts were playful. Chocolate peanut butter and double chocolate mousse cupcakes ($7.50), the latter styled to resemble a Hostess creation, outperformed the mini ice cream sandwiches ($7.50) like Gwen Stefani and this year's crop of American idols. The crumb was moist and rich, and the icing hovered on the restrained side of sweet. We actually licked the wrappers clean, I am mortified to report.

Before we left we asked the bartender what the old crowd thought of the new place. "They came in once or twice when we reopened," he said, "but most of them haven't been back." You can't please all the people all the time, I guess, so you might as well suit yourself. Maybe that's a lesson Gingrass and Batson learned the first time around.

TWO
22 Hawthorne Street
San Francisco
(415) 777-9779
Open for lunch & dinner 7 days a week

Almost 15 years ago, at the beginning of my career, I worked at Lulu (SF). Unbeknownst to my very naive self at the time, I would never work at another restaurant that would make all its own table bread. At Verbena (NYC), under the tutelage of Diane Forley, the pastry department was responsible for a number of breads, especially on the weekends when we would produce gorgeous ficelle, brioche and any number of elegant quick breads for the toast cart.

But no other kitchen would be like Lulu. With two stacks of bread ovens, a full time bread baker (who came in at 10 pm and left near 8 am) and custom designed wooden shelves to display and sell the massive pain de campagne (looking much like Poilane's signature loaf) Lulu's bread program was serious.

So serious, an entire walk-in was devoted to the bread's starter, loaf proofing, and our overstock of dairy. A separate refrigerated room for ingredients lacking in strong scents. Except the time when I backed into whole lambs hanging, waiting for butchering. But that's another story.

Because the restaurant made so much bread, our starter was kept in a plastic rolling garbage can sized container. Massively huge. Lets call it 50 gallons for the sake of a good guess. Whoever arrived first thing in the morning was required to roll it out of the walk-in, pull a few gallons for that nights bake and feed the monster. The last duty meant we had to lean over the lip, reach into the sticky abyss, and stir the gloopy gurgling mixture with a large wooden spoon.

No matter how much we rolled up the sleeves of our chef's jackets, some of the starter would creep into our uniform. But this wasn't the worst of it. Natural starter is stickier than glue. When we were done with our duties, we held out our arms like surgeons and entered the dish room, tackling skin with hot water and the high-pressure sprayer.

Even after countless showers, little teardrops of dried starter stuck to my arm hairs, eventually rendering me as soft and hairless as a Tour De France cyclist.

One day I arrived in the kitchen earlier than anyone. I turned on ovens, flipped light switches and then noticed something very weird. The 2nd walk-in door was slightly ajar. Walk-ins come equipped with self-closing doors and, for safety, door handles on the inside as well as the outside. Doors do not stay open, as they are pressure sealed and close with the fwooop! to prove it.

I was alone in the kitchen.

I stood in front of the door. I held my breath. Listened very closely. Nothing but the whir of the fan.

Then I tried the door. Although it was ajar I had a hard time getting it more open. I tried to peer inside. Nothing. Pulling as hard as I could, the door flew open, throwing me on the ground. Recovering just in time to catch the door before it closed again, I stepped inside.

Someone had not sealed the starter's lid. Usually we closed the lid and weighted it with a few half gallons of dairy. To keep the bears out.

Starter grew out of the 50-gallon bucket. Crept down the sides. Grew across the floor like lava. Scaled the cold box walls. Spread its wings, traversing 90-degree angles, and defied gravity by covering the ceiling. Starter dripped on my head, plop. Starter was everywhere. Alive, happy, wet, sticky, growing. I looked down. Like the first man on the moon I saw my shoes disappearing into foreign goo. Starter naughtily walked out the door.

The starter was having a party.

And I would spend the next many many hours cleaning up after it.

Lesson number 1:
Never leave a starter unattended. Never assume it sleeps a deep dormant sleep in a cold box. Never question the power of wild yeast you've wrangled in, microscopically, from the air. Never forget that day. Never say pshaw to a Californian sourdough.

Part 2: Monday April 23.

A recent breakfast at T-28 Cafe in the Outer Sunset reminded me just how good a cup of hot, strong milk tea tastes on lazy weekend mornings. Although the richness of a well-aged pu-erh or the emerald sweetness of a spring shin-cha give me great pleasure as a tea drinker, neither have a place in my heart like down-home milk tea.

Milk tea is its own religion in Hong Kong, intertwined in the colony's history and culinary culture. It's a topic not taken lightly, and I know I enter dangerous territory writing about it as an outsider. I've hosted visitors insisted on traveling with their own packets of instant "3-in-1" milk tea to ensure that their morning cup wouldn't be compromised. Although the boba generation may not remember, milk tea helped defined the intersection of east and west. Enjoyed from morning to midnight, it was served on nearly every street corner. Establishments guarded their secret recipes, and even McDonald's began offering its own version of milk tea.

One of the 28 remaining dai pai dong in Hong Kong. Ubiquitous in the 50s and 60s, these street stalls specialized in both hot and cold milk tea as well as fast fare at all times of the day and night. I love those little, built-in, square stools -- perfect for hunching over a bowl of noodles.

As with any ritual that combines comfort with caffeine, there's much debate over the specifics, from the type of tea leaves to the brand of milk to the precise mechanics of combining the two. Generally, though, most can agree on some basic tenets for milk tea: a blend of Ceylon and Assam leaves brewed for an extended period, a generous stir of evaporated milk, and a hint of sweetness from a spoonful of condensed milk or sugar. Purists will insist on Black & White brand milk (the one with the cow on the label) and a cloth brewing bag to mimic the fine-textured, oblong filters that lend milk tea its nickname in Cantonese: "silk stocking tea." I'm perfectly okay with English and Irish Breakfast teabags, but even the pragmatist in me admits that milk tea with anything else but evaporated milk falls far from its creator's intent.

The key is brewing the tea over low heat for a very long time. The extra tannin gives enough body and bitterness to balance the milk, so the result is a strong yet silky smooth, creamy, and full-bodied drink that's as easy to identify by sight as a properly made espresso. In fact, even before the cup arrives, you'll know: walk into any cafe that makes its own milk tea and you'll pick up instantly milk tea's distinctive scent.

Marrying into the Wu family means learning new habits. The morning after my wedding, Ba Wu brews a big pot of milk tea for all our guests.

Yes, I know, Anglophiles and expats all shudder in horror at the thought of milk tea. But just like a tall glass of Southern sweet tea or a mug of cowboy coffee, the moment you sip one made with integrity and generosity, you'll understand.

For your first cup of milk tea, don't order from a place that makes it from an instant mix. Instead, look for Hong Kong eateries or bakeries where it appears on a separate drink menu. The popularity of bubble tea means a true milk tea has become extremely difficult to find. Try it at Sweetheart Cafe on Grant, D&A on Broadway, or ABC Bakery on Jackson in SF Chinatown. Slanted Door has an excellent version, lifted out of its Chinese diner ambience but honest, strong and good. My favorite source, T-28 Cafe out on Taraval at 28th Avenue, has an extensive menu that also highlights lemon tea, ginger coke, and other lovely libations.

Making Hong Kong Milk Tea

Experiment with various combinations of Ceylon ("English Breakfast") and Assam ("Irish Breakfast") teas. I personally like the redder, warmer flavors of more Assam leaves, but many prefer the darker, more robust Ceylon. If you use a large mesh ball or one of those muslin tea brewing bags, it'll be easier to strain loose tea leaves. Of course, teabags sidestep this entirely.

Bring a small pot of water just to the boiling point, but do not let it actually bubble up. Lower the heat to as low as possible. Add three times as many tea bags or twice as much loose tea as you would normally. Cover and leave the tea to brew for at least 10 minutes and up to 30 minutes. Strain out the tea leaves or remove the teabags; for this, it's okay to squeeze teabags to get the extra boost. Stir in evaporated milk until the tea is the color of caramel, then bring the tea back to very hot serving temperature.

Divide the tea among several cups and invite your guests to stir in a spoonful of sweetened condensed milk or sugar.

Yes, I know. It's not April 1st. I'm not that stupid. I have a calendar in front of me. It tells me today is Friday, April 13th. I just choose to pretend it is otherwise.

April Fool's Day. I'd always wondered what was especially foolish about that particular day. I thought it might have to do with the first whiffs of spring in the air-- causing hormones to surge, making people do idiotic things. As it turns out, it has more to do with the calendar and boring papal policy change than anything else.

You can blame the French, if you like. They were the first country to switch from the Julian to Gregorian calendar in 1582. The new New Year's Day moved to January 1st from the previously celebrated April 1st. News did not travel fast in the 16th century and those who missed the email still celebrated the first day of the year in April. They were called fools.

Personally, I rather like celebrating the new year in Spring. It makes much more sense to me; the sun begins to warm us again and flowers begin to bloom-- all that fluffy, happy stuff that happens about now. I'm generally exhausted come January 1st, what with Christmas and all. I consider it a rather lame idea to celebrate the New Year when everything about us is cold and dead with worse to come. Call me a fool if you like. You certainly wouldn't' be the first person to do that.

In honor of this old New Year, I'll give you three guesses as to what I'm making.

Yes, a fool. No lame plays on words please. Although, since I am working from my own kitchen and not wearing gloves, there will most likely be traces of my own DNA in the dessert. Therefore, and quite truthfully, I could be able to say that I am indeed making a fool of myself. That's as far as I am willing to go.

The fool is closely related to the trifle and the syllabub. So closely related, in fact, that they are practically sisters. With parents who had an interesting talent for naming their children, of course.

The fool is possibly the oldest and certainly the simplest of the trio, dating back to at least 16th century England. It is whipped cream and fresh or cooked, pureed fruit. What could be more English than that? Okay, a couple of things, I'm sure, but it's still pretty English.

Here's my recipe.

Strawberry Rhubarb Fool

Ingredients:

For the puree:

1 pint strawberries, slices or chopped
2 stalks rhubarb, sliced in 1/4 pieces
2 tablespoons sugar, 1 for the strawberries, the other for the rhubarb, or to taste, depending
upon the sweetness of the berries.
2 tablespoons Grand Marnier, because I said so.

For the Cream:

1 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup buttermilk
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Preparation:

1. Place rhubarb, 1 tablespoon of sugar and perhaps (these things are never precise) 1/2 cup of water in a sauce pan. Cook over medium heat until rhubarb is soft, releases its pink and is generally rather unattractive looking.
2. Put into shallow dish and cool.
3. Toss strawberries with 1 tablespoon of sugar and Grand Marnier. Let sit while the rhubarb cools.
4. Toss, or place gently, rhubarb and berries into a food processor and blend until smooth. The mixture doesn't have to be too terribly smooth, some lumpiness may be desired in certain dessert circles. Set aside.
5. In a bowl, combine cream, and buttermilk. Whip. About half way through the process, add sugar and vanilla. Whip until fairly stiff peaks form.
6. Combine half the fruit puree with the same amount of whipped cream and fold together. A real fool will have some streakiness to it, as though perhaps pressing matters of Empire might have gotten in the way of a thorough folding.
7. Into your selected glasses (parfait glasses are preferred, but I don't have any), place a tablespoon or two of the fruit at the bottom. Next, layer the cream and fruit mixture on top of that. I like a final layer of whipped cream on top, like the final flourish of non-dairy topping that finished off the Jell-o parfaits of my youth.
8. Cover and refrigerate for as long as over night. Garnish with fruit or mint or bullets or whatever you want.

Serves 4 to 6, depending upon the glasses you use.

For a slightly healthier alternative, do away with the cream entirely and substitute yogurt. It will be like fruit-on-the-bottom Dannon or Yoplait, except you know exactly what you put into that fruit and, therefore, exactly what you're putting into your body.

To learn more about the Fool and her sisters, please visit In Mama's Kitchen because mother knows best.

Check, Please! Bay Area is KQED's local series featuring regular people reviewing Bay Area restaurants.

Check, Please Bay Area was nominated for two 2007 James Beard Awards (pdf) in the Television Food Show Category!

Visit the Check, Please! Bay Area blog to experience the restaurants from Season 2 Episode 13:

1) Sonoma-Meritâge Martini Oyster Bar & Grill: | restaurant information | reviews | recipe

2) Cajun Pacific Restaurant & Catering: | restaurant information | reviews

3) House of Prime Rib: | restaurant information | reviews

Please feel free to join the discussion by posting comments about the show and your reviews of the featured restaurants!

You can watch all episodes online as well as subscribe to the Check, Please! video podcast in iTunes.

This season, Stephanie V.W. Lucianovic will be blogging about what happens behind-the-scenes during the making of Check, Please! Bay Area.

You can also view the Check, Please! Bay Area photo gallery to view behind-the-scenes shots at many of the featured restaurants.