Restaurants and bars with themes have always rubbed me the wrong way. I think of the first and only time I walked into Butter. It must have been 2003. While I was as well-versed in irony as any literary theory buff with a fresh diploma, the brown-bagged forties, snack stand carved out of the side of a trailer, and steaming tater tots seemed a bit much. I'm not a stickler for good taste, but I was instantly annoyed by a bar dedicated to aping the coarsest trappings of poor white culture for the amusement of privileged San Franciscans carousing through SoMa. I've seen it before around these parts: even politically radical non-profit workers who would rather poke out an eye than offend a person of color think nothing of throwing "white trash"-themed birthday parties for themselves. Plus, tater tots are actually really good -- without irony, just ketchup.

Still, I've splashed around the Tonga Room, stomped into the Bigfoot Lounge, and knocked back a whiskey at Bourbon and Branch, that classy throw-back to San Francisco's speakeasy-riddled past -- appealing themed joints, all of them. The other day, I was talking themed bars with some buddies, one of whom manages a newish decidedly un-themed establishment in Russian Hill, on Polk, just above the Tenderloin. The topic was Manhattan bars, where drink costs soar to airport prices -- $6 for a bottle of beer, $10 for a well drink. We joked that someone should start a really, really expensive bar in San Francisco called $$$. There would be a $50 cover charge, and no music, karaoke, free food, pool, or pub quiz to account for the steep entrance fee. The drinks would not be made with fancy infused potentially illegal spirits or feature small artisanal producers. They would be perfectly plain and perhaps a little weak. Still, if you could afford to buy your way in, you could hang out with others who could as well, which might be reward enough. It'd be pure elitism, distilled -- as appropriate a theme as any.

My trip to Japan late last March gave me a new perspective on themed drinking establishments. I wasn't there long enough to deliver an exhaustive report -- I'm sure some late-night Travel Channel special has already tried. There was so much I did not see, particularly in Tokyo, where I only spent a few jet-lagged days. My home-base for most of the visit was Kyoto, Japan's old Imperial capitol. Still, after a week of bouncing around that city's bars and informal late-night eateries, my head was throbbing -- and not from too much single malt. Along Kiyamachi St., very close to the Kamo River, tiny izakayas and watering holes burrow into unassuming commercial storefronts and stubby office buildings. You walk up a few flights of stairs -- as if going to see a disreputable dentist -- and knock on doors that open on to strange, insular, fastidiously detailed worlds. They reminded me of levels in Super Mario Brothers: through one portal, a swanky, pocket-sized cool jazz club draped in blue curtains appeared, through another, fittingly, a red-and-white toadstool-themed "mushroom" bar no bigger than an apartment kitchen -- both in the same building, occupying suites on the same floor.

One night, I visited two establishments thoroughly preoccupied with Jamaica's most prominent (and cliched) cultural and artistic exports -- Bob Marley, an easy way with marijuana, Rastafarianism, ripe for the watering down, and the flag's black, yellow, and green color scheme. Despite being a huge reggae fan, in the United States, I wouldn't have had the slightest interest. Nonetheless, Rasta and Rub-A-Dub were a lot of fun. The first is a dark cave on the 4th or 5th floor of an office building. Muzak renditions of Rockers classics seep from hidden speakers. A weed leaf mosaic rises up out of the tiled floor. A shrine to Mr. Marley occupies the middle of the back wall, bathed in chartreuse light, overlooking the scene. When I was there, the crowd was typically diverse: bartenders with desperate attempts at dreadlocks, a few business guys enjoying an extended happy hour, a party of ladies on the heels of a shopping trip, and a couple hanging out along the side wall, with the lanky American gentleman trying not to look as absurd as the retina-burning blue "island" cocktails in his glass. Significantly older, Rub-A-Dub is located in a frond-filled basement. According to legend, the owner, a Japanese man, married a Jamaican woman, and opened the bar to continuously remind her of her homeland. In truth, theme aside, Rasta would be considered a pretty good restaurant in San Francisco, offering roast fish heads and Japanese riffs on jerked chicken and seafood. I didn't eat at Rub-A-Dub (too many fish heads at Rasta), but I did have a few drinks under bunches of bananas hanging from the ceiling.

I returned from Japan in April -- just ten days after I'd arrived -- but I started thinking about themes all over again last week, when I read an S.F. Weekly blog post about Hogs & Rocks. Set to open in May or June, this joint endeavor of Maverick chef Scott Youkilis and Eric Rubin of Tres Agaves will serve 45 different kinds of ham, along with pickles, salads, and oysters (the rocks, of course). Unlike, say Rasta, Hogs & Rocks will do food and drink first, letting aesthetics follow suit. If the bar sprang up in Japan, the floor cushions would be swine-pink and sewn up to look like plump hind legs. There'd be small chairs shaped like oyster shells. Albums by Badfinger (lead singer, the late Peter Ham) would boom on the stereo. Images of piggy pop culture's most prominent representatives -- Wilbur, Porky, Pooh's nervous little friend, and a rogue's gallery of notorious male chauvinists -- would line the walls. The atmosphere would be unsubtly rendered, but genuine, irony-free -- seriously silly, with excellent food. That's one distinction I can draw between themed bars and restaurants here and there: seemingly goofy joints in Japan actually tend to have good food, whereas in the United States, even in San Francisco, corny trappings (from tiki bars to Chuck E. Cheese) all but guarantee an indifferent kitchen.

In Kyoto, the most unassuming bar I visited was in many ways the most revealing. To launch a long night of drinking, my girlfriend and I wandered into Color, an elegant, stylish lounge decked out in handsome modern furniture and classy vintage appliances. This was a nice place to drink. It reminded us of countless bars we'd patronized in the States. We discerned no theme, which, obviously, didn't surprise us. We'd seen plenty of regular bars around. This one just felt cozier than most. Then, we grabbed a card on the way out and read the finer print. The bar did in fact have a theme. It identified as "New York-style," which explained why it struck us as so familiar -- right down to the $10 cocktails.

Trying everything at Weezy’s Grass Fed Shed

I'm a little late to the game, but I'm finally getting into the Best Food Writing 2009 anthology. It's only been sitting on my nightstand for a few months. If you haven't checked it out yet, there are some great, short pieces on everything from translating modern Indian cooking to an exploration of illegal, raw-milk cheese. Our of all of the work I've read so far (Disclaimer: I'm still not all that far into it), Tim Hayward's short piece, "Too Much of a Mouthful" caught my attention. In it, he explores the current popularity of oversized portions--particularly in the U.K.

Interesting enough, I was finishing Hayward's piece as I sat waiting for a friend on the patio of Weezy's Grass Fed Shed in San Rafael. I'd heard about this place right when they opened from a friend who worked in the area. She boasted that they served Prather Ranch beef burgers for a mere $3.00. I argued with her about the impossibility of that statement, and she assured me that it was true but that they make it all work because the burgers are small.

Great. Perfect. I hate how sluggish I feel after a big burger, so I quickly find a fellow burger lover and we agree to meet for lunch and check it out.

The shed’s small outdoor patio

Now when my friend mentioned that the burgers are small, she wasn't messing around. Think somewhere in between slider and very small burger. Tim Hayward, the writer I just spoke of, would be proud. In his piece, he closes by commenting on the irony of careful food preparation in the U.K. combined with the obscene, difficult-to eat portions:

Any cook worth his Maldon salt, be he three-star chef, sandwich slinger or pie-maker, will have thought long and hard about every aspect of a dish he's created. By the time he's given it a final wipe with the rag and sent it out to delight me he will have used all of his knowledge, skill, experience and training to ensure that it is properly sourced and prepped; perfectly cooked, seasoned, rested, and sauced. Is it really too much to ask then, that it should also fit in my mouth?

Clearly, Louise Clow-Birkenseer ("Weezy') would answer with a resounding "No." Not only are her burgers made with the finest ingredients, they’re also a very civilized and appropriate size. You can swing by and grab one as a late afternoon snack or, as my friend Creg and I decided to do, order a whole bunch (or, let's be honest: pretty much everything on the menu). At that size and that price, why not?

The Contiki burger: a little bit sweet, a little bit savory.

Before I report back on our favorites, a little background: Weezy's started as many great things do: when someone notices a lack of something in their neighborhood or town and decides to fill it. Weezy lives in the sleepy part of San Rafael known as Terra Linda--quite residential with very few good dining options. Weezy missed a good burger. She wanted to walk and pick one up. She'd always wanted to add to the community in some way and felt that really good quality food should be available to everyone at a fair price. Enough said. The shed was born.

Creg and I visited on a quiet and unusually sunny weekday and found Weezy whistling on a stool in the back of the shed forming small meat patties. High school kids were working through the line with smiles and enthusiasm. It all felt very organized but completely laid-back at the same time. For example, as we were hemming and hawing over what kind of fries to order (sweet potato or regular), the kids at the register encouraged us to go with both: We'll mix them up for you! OK, sold. I overhear another customer debating between the limeade or the raspberry lemonade. The cashier's solution? It's so good if you mix them both! We do it all the time. Trust us, you'll love it! I like this carefree, go-for-it attitude. Why take lunch too seriously, after all?

Then as if the kids at the counter aren't excited enough, we go outside to enjoy our burgers and Weezy herself isn't far behind with her own lunch tray. She sits down next to us, soaking in the sun, chatting with customers and introducing herself, and literally oohing and ahhing over her burger. From the sound of things, she's behind these little burgers 110%.

Creg and I tried the White Trash Burger (with American cheese, iceberg lettuce, and Thousand Island dressing), Burger in a Lettuce Cup, the B-rad (with bacon and Tillamook cheddar), the Contiki (with pineapple and Teriyaki sauce), and the Moo-Less Burger (homemade vegan patty with 20 different ingredients served on a bun with cream cheese and special sweet potato sauce).

The Moo-Less Burger

Each burger is right around $3.00 and weighs in at 1/8 of a pound unless you opt to do the "Double Wide" upgrade with is ¼ pound for an additional $.75. I have to say, I'll probably upgrade next time. It seems like a great deal. I expected to really love the White Trash burger, but there was something about the crispy bacon, juicy and perfectly cooked meat, and slightly sharp cheddar that made me grasp onto the B-rad and not let go. Sorry, Creg. I'll give you a bite next time.

I'll be back for this one: the b-rad burger

So as the weather turns warmer, as you look to new spots to try, I'm all for taking Tim Hayward's implied thesis to heart--size matters. Something is lost in quality and in experience when you're presented with an entire pound of it. According her website, for Weezy "it’s not just a job, it’s a lifestyle." I have to say--if I lived just a bit closer, I'd start to integrate Weezy's more into my own.

Weezy's Grass Fed Shed
621 A Del Ganado (in the Scotty's Market Shopping Center)
San Rafael, CA, 94903
(415) 479-7433
Hours: Everyday 11am-8pm; for coffee and pastries (NEW) only 7am-11am
Also, find them on Facebook

View Larger Map

Many of you probably saw 7x7’s recent issue with 100 Things to Eat Before You Die. While I think some of their choices were a bit repetitive this year, it's a fun issue and always gives me a nudge towards spots I've been meaning to try and dishes I need to get my hands on. While studying their inclusions, I noticed a serious omission. For those of you who have had the pleasure of eating the homemade English muffin breakfast sandwich at Mission Beach Café, you know what I'm talking about. This may be up there with my top three favorite things to eat for breakfast in the city--with or without a glossy endorsement.

Warming up to the morning at Mission Beach Café

This place rocks on weekday mornings. It's relatively quiet, there are folks reading the paper, and neighborhood locals wander in to grab a cup of coffee and a pastry. They're pulling off quaint neighborhood eatery remarkably well. It's spacious. It's comfortable. The service is laid-back but attentive. And dear god, that sandwich. Essentially, it's a fried egg with melted cheddar, caramelized onions, and mushrooms wedged in between a satisfying homemade English muffin. The nooks and crannies catch the slightly runny egg perfectly, but there's also more of a delightful heft to the English muffins here than your typical store-bought variety.

The Breakfast Sandwich on a homemade English muffin at Mission Beach Café.

A few weeks ago, I brought two friends to Mission Beach Café. We were all catching up with each other until the waitress brought out our breakfast. I kept getting distracted and interrupting: you guys have got to try this; I wonder if you can make these English muffins at home?; do you think you have to use yeast to make English muffins? My friends loved their food, but could've used a little less talk of yeast and a little more talk of weekend plans. But the second I got home, I started researching recipes online and found one from a blog called Tracey's Culinary Adventures (a lot of food bloggers have played with this recipe by famed bread master Peter Reinhart so it must be the real deal). It seemed to be a relatively easy foray into the big, bad world of yeast (I'm a quick bread kinda' gal myself), so I set out to buy the ingredients and managed to have a whole lot of luck. I ended up adapting the recipe slightly myself, adding a little more sugar because I'd heard the sugar helps the yeast rise (and I didn’t have much luck with that the first go-around).

In under a minute you'll have a warm, fragrant ball of dough.

My mom claims this is the best thing I've ever made. I'm not so sure about that, but they were easy (albeit a little time consuming: my yeast took a bit longer than the recipe dictated, so allow a good few hours just in case) and have proven to be quite addicting. I quickly learned that there's a difference between instant yeast and active dry yeast. I'm not going to lie. I still don't completely know the territory I just entered, and I definitely had to toss my first ball of dough. But there's something thrilling about kneading buttermilk, flour, and yeast and watching it rise and form into magic breakfast (or lunch, or late night) treats.

Letting the dough rise, forming balls, quickly cooking each side, and popping them in the oven: done!

I didn't try to emulate the breakfast sandwich at Mission Beach Café (not yet, anyway), but I have been slicing halves, toasting them, and eating them with just about every jam in my kitchen. And a quick note: the only time-consuming part of this recipe is letting the dough rise. You won’t be slaving away in the kitchen. Pick up a good book or get caught up with old friends on the phone and they’ll be done before you know it.

I'll never buy Thomas' again!

English Muffins

Adapted from Tracey's Culinary Adventures -- original recipe from The Bread Baker's Apprentice by Peter Reinhart

Ingredients:
2 1/4 cups bread flour
2 tsp. sugar
3/4 tsp. salt
1 1/4 tsp. instant yeast
1 tbsp. shortening or unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4-1 cup milk or buttermilk, at room temperature
Cornmeal, for sprinkling

Makes: 6 English Muffins

Preparation:

1. In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the flour, sugar, salt and yeast. Mix in the butter (or shortening) and 3/4 cup of milk (or buttermilk). If the dry ingredients are not yet fully incorporated, add enough of the remaining milk so a dough forms. Stop mixing right when this occurs: don't over mix!

2. Sprinkle flour on a dry surface and turn the dough out of the mixer, and knead by hand for about 9-10 minutes. The dough should be tacky (but not sticky), and register 77 to 81 F. Transfer to a lightly oiled bowl and roll the ball of dough around the bowl to coat. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise for at least an hour, or until the dough doubles in size. It helps to keep the dough (in terms of rising) in a relatively warm place--away from cold, drafty windows or open doors.

3. Divide the dough into 6 equal pieces and shape into small balls. Lay parchment paper on a baking sheet and spray lightly with oil. Sprinkle with cornmeal.

4. Move the dough balls to the baking sheet, spacing them evenly with enough room to rise and double in size. Mist them lightly with oil and sprinkle with cornmeal then cover the pan loosely with plastic wrap and allow to rise another hour, or until the rolls are nearly double in size.

5. Preheat the oven to 350 F. Heat a flat griddle to medium (350 F) (you can also use a skillet on the stove top if you don't have a griddle). Brush the griddle lightly with oil and gently transfer the dough balls to the griddle. Allow them to cook for 5-8 minutes or until the bottoms are a rich golden brown color. Be careful not to burn. Carefully flip and cook the other side for the same amount of time. They should flatten as they cook.

6. Remove the muffins from the skillet and transfer them to a parchment- or silpat-lined baking sheet. Bake in the preheated oven for 6-8 minutes.

7. Transfer the baked muffins to a cooling rack and let cool at least 30 minutes before slicing or serving.

Who guards the culinary heritage of a culture? Where does authenticity reside, and who decides what it is? Can traditional foods change with the times, and if they do, are they still traditional? Can handmade salami made from grass-fed beef still call up memories of Grandma's Saturday-morning scrambled eggs and salami? In this age of massive multinational conglomerates, does brand loyalty mean anything anymore?

What's better-- the Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray tonic in the bottle you remember Grandpa drinking, now with high-fructose corn syrup included, or homemade celery soda infused with real celery seed, with less sugar and no packaging? How much do we pay-- in food miles, in feedlots, in calories-- for nostalgia?

All these questions, and more, were in the air at the Jewish Community Center of the East Bay in early February, as an overflow crowd squeezed into the main auditorium for a panel discussion on "Referendum on The Deli Menu" (Can the Jewish Deli be sustainable?) sponsored by Saul's. Saul's, for those of you born without cravings for matzoh ball soup, is Berkeley's big, busy, much-loved Jewish deli. But ever since Karen Adelman and her husband Peter Levitt bought the deli in 1995, they've had what they call "a stealthy, secret mission" operating alongside their dedication to borscht and blintzes, corned beef and chicken in a pot. Their secret? A desire to pull the deli in line with contemporary attitudes about food and consumption, rather than letting it ossify like gefilte fish left too long in the fridge.

To this end, towering sandwiches were slimmed down, no longer stacked with jaw-defying stacks of meat. Meats became sustainably ranched, grass-fed when possible. Vegetables started to come from local farms. Corn-syruped drinks were out; housemade sodas were in. Most recently, salami was dropped from the menu; Hebrew National, the only widely available brand of all-beef salami, is now owned by giant Con Agra.

This being Berkeley, you'd think pasture-raised chicken soup would earn nothing but mazel tovs. But not everyone, it seemed, wanted consciousness-raising alongside their blintzes and brisket. There was pushback from some customers, and an overall question: How much could a deli change and still be a deli?

Hence the referendum, featuring Karen and Paul in conversation with Saul's regular and local superstar Michael Pollan; green-business maven Gil Friend, City Slickers Farms founder (and self-described "pastrami addict" Willow Rosenthal, the whole moderated by Evan Kleinman, host of KRCW's Good Food.

Having heard the phrase "2 Jews, 3 opinions" tossed around by my opinionated, argue-for-the-sake-of-it relatives all my life, I was ready for some Talmudic-level conflict, some heated words exchanged in the interest of radical change vs. How Bubbe Did It.

Alas, though, everyone on the panel agreed on nearly everything. Nostalgia is no excuse for a lack of conscience; if you care about eating locally, organically, sustainably and/or humanely at home, why should a Jewish deli give you a free pass to wallow in feedlot beef or syrupy soda?

Said Peter, "We started with not wanting to sell meat we wouldn't eat. We want to drag the deli out of the museum, let it breathe with the seasons for a change." Right now, his challenge is corned beef: the grass-fed beef from local Marin Sun Farms, delicious as it is, isn't holding up to the 2- to 3-week brining process. It's been coming out dry and crumbly, probably due to being more muscled and less fatty that typical feedlot beef.

And then there's the menu problem: Saul's, like most delis, has a huge menu. There's the everyday menu, an equally long, but more international, seasonally-inspired specials menu, and then the "secret" menu of the more hard-core, Old World items--flanken, kishkes, things made with schmaltz and braised in gravy. Peter would like to see the menu shortened and made more manageable (and cost-effective); if that means no cold beet borscht in winter, so be it.

Says Karen, "I think we should be leading, not just reacting. We're hungry for meaning and community, along with comfort food. We need to connect with our future as well as our past. I promise, no one will leave hungry!"

Of course, even in Berkeley, there's room to toe more than one party line. If this were New York City, or Los Angeles, where deli culture, while battered, is still alive, one deli's decision to nix the salami would hardly generate SRO crowds at the 92nd St Y. But delis are few in the Bay Area, and so Saul's clientele takes any changes personally . But if there are Hebrew National fans and lox diehards out there, they're keeping quiet; the crowd claps and nods along with just about everything Pollan, Rosenthal, and Friend present, even recoiling a little in genteel horror at brightly colored slides of jaw-defying pastrami sandwiches teetering higher than Lady Gaga's heels. Those massive sandwiches, long the symbol of post-war abundance, a meaty slap in the face to immigrant privation, are no longer sustainable; as Peter points out, there's no way to provide that much meat, particularly if it's good, humanely raised meat, at a price regular customers can bear. "Those huge sandwiches are killing the deli. You can't make money selling 12 oz of meat for $10 or $15. At a steakhouse, you'd pay $30 or $40 for that much meat, and you'd buy a bottle of wine." Instead, Karen and Peter want to offer their customers alternatives that taste good, with a little patient explanation to help it along. Already, the menu emphasizes smoked trout (farmed) over overfished salmon, and more and more Mediterranean inspired salads and vegetable dishes to go along with the potato pancakes and cheesecake.

Pollan, for one, sees the democratization of the food movement as a very good thing. "Getting sustainable food into delis, taquerias, cheaper places, that's great because it makes it more accessible to everyone." Agrees Friend, "We vote with our dollars every day."

If the deli is our secular synagogue, as Pollan muses, clearly this one is reform, maybe even reconstructionist. So fizz up an egg cream or raise a glass of borscht, and toast the new deli.

VIDEO CLIP OF EVENT:

Photos provided by Saul's

Related Posts:
Saul's got SOLE: The Jewish deli in Berkeley evolves
by Marc R. aka Mental Masala at The Ethicurean

Referendum on the Deli Menu at Saul's Restaurant and Delicatessen: What is Tradition?
by Vanessa Barrington at Civil Eats

As I get older, I identify less and less with my adolescent self. In fact, not infrequently, I imagine going back in time and smacking myself on the head. I'm only in my very late twenties, but the period of my life has already become a vague unpleasant fog punctuated on rare occasion by vivid waves of memory. I suspect strongly that I was whiny, overly self-conscious, woefully insecure, and generally a twerp. I do clearly remember that, when I was in my mid-teens, I (like most teenagers) didn't get along particularly well with my parents. I also recall that my impatience with their habits and eccentricities tended to erupt at meal-times.

A classic scenario: I was 13, on my first trip to Europe with the family. We were at a good French place in the 14th Arrondissement. My mom ordered in English, but she spoke with what my brother and I felt was a contrived French accent -- rolling R's, stretching out E's, her voice rising up higher than usual at the ends of sentences. She might have been nervous. She might have been drunk. In any event, whatever it was she was doing was unintentional. At first, we giggled into our water glasses, amused. After it happened at every restaurant we visited, we were mortified, irritated and finally nasty -- all because she insisted again and again that she was speaking no differently than usual.

Family vacations were known for bad meals -- but usually only on the nights we'd arrive in a new city. At the mercy of indifferent hotel clerks, governed by hasty impulses spurred on by empty stomachs and jet-lag, we'd fall prey to half-cooked, insipid pizza in Rome, succumb to over-priced, grease-laden bistro fare in Paris, and settle for fusion-y Mission-style burrito wraps in San Francisco. It became a chronic thing, a syndrome that permeated all interactions. The bad food and exhaustion would inevitably lead to an argument, and we’d end up trying to put it all back together the next day.

These days, I don't feel like a teenager too often -- except maybe when I'm home for the holidays. Now, when my mom comes to San Francisco for a vacation, good feelings swell to the surface. Our meals together are the highlights of her visits and I try hard to make them meaningful and pleasant.

In 2003, less than a year after I moved to the Bay Area, my mom visited for the first time. On the evening of her arrival, we were wandering around downtown, looking at buildings. Even though I hadn't yet had one myself, I figured she'd like to eat a fish taco -- because I'd heard it was one of those important California food things. I just didn't know where to get one. Since we were in the area already, we moseyed into the now-defunct Chevy's at Embarcadero Two and supped on grilled fish tacos with pico de gallo, lettuce, and fresh cheese. If she found the meal revolting, she didn't let on.

Since then, I have found better places to take her, destinations informed by what I've read and experienced as a focused seeker of tasty things -- a portion of my identity I had not quite realized in 2003. My mom digs unusual food, but nothing too strange. She will eat fish sauce, but not fish heads. She likes a clean restaurant with a pleasant atmosphere, but she's also cost-conscious and unswayed by pretentious flourishes. She eats seafood, but eschews meat -- which eliminates Korean barbecue joints, pork-heavy Shanghai-style dumpling houses, and Incanto from contention. My mom prefers to eat reasonably healthy food. As a result, sushi, ceviche, or pizza with vegetables appeal more than battered fish, cream-laden sauces, or anything destined to be dabbed with aioli. When I'm picking out a restaurant, I filter these criteria through other sets of necessary circumstance. When she visits, she usually stays somewhere in the Union Square, so I like to take her somewhere within swift striking distance via BART or Muni. Being lazy, I usually stick to my neighborhood, the Mission District, where I've lived for the vast majority of my time in San Francisco. On a few occasions, I have lightly pushed the envelope. In 2004, we went to Utopia Cafe, a sneaky spot down an alley in Chinatown. I wouldn't call it a "dive" exactly. That word is over-used; it shouldn't apply to every restaurant disinterested in putting a premium on inedible trappings like decor and service. Fruit flies circled like helicopters over a battlefield as we attacked clay pot rice with shrimp, mustard green soup, and salt-and-pepper fried bean curd, but the food tasted fresh, and that eclipsed any sanitation concerns. A year or so later, we went to Minako, the organic mother-and-daughter-owned Japanese eatery. I thought she'd enjoy the food -- tataki, gobo kinpira, salmon misozuke -- but I also suspected the restaurant's cool quirks would appeal, that she'd get a kick out of the snappy, funny daughter and the odd location -- Mission Street, boasting a sign the size of a playing card you can't see unless, as I recall, you're approaching from a very specific angle along the sidewalk. Another time we visited Kiji, an ordinary but inoffensive sushi place on Guerrero just because it was conveniently close to a Valencia shoe store she'd been perusing.

She really liked Delfina, but her reaction to the food nonetheless confirmed my suspicions that she would inevitably rather go out to eat what she doesn't cook at home, where pasta, pizza, and risotto frequently grace the dinner table. Even though Delfina is a better restaurant -- albeit a very different one -- she was truly blown away by Destino. We went there in 2006 or 2007 -- well after its heyday -- but she still talks about it -- because, at the time, it was so unusual to her.

She's coming to town for a few days later this week, and this time around, the first visit in nearly two years, I'm brimming with ideas. There's a Mayan restaurant in Louisville my mom adores. While it's not at all awful, it is something there that it would not be here, which is fine. After all, when it comes to barbecue and beef jerky, San Francisco could learn a few things too. Still, I'd like to take her to Poc Chuc -- even if platters of juicy, thin-sliced pork (the restaurant's namesake) don't jive with her diet. She'd be happy enough with feathery, toasty corn tortillas, a bowl of the smooth black beans, and a few bites of fish -- though I don't imagine she would dive into the head for the best pieces. I thought about Universal Cafe, but I think she'd prefer something less familiar. La Ciccia is another option, the current front-runner, I'm afraid. Sardinian flavors -- rich, heady fregula pasta with ricotta and cured tuna heart, smoky, spicy octopus stew -- diverge enough from the Italian fare she knows well. If I were really daring, we would go to Yellow Pa Taut on Bryant and 7th for the best Burmese in the city: Tea leaf salad, fried squash, and catfish noodle soup, perhaps -- all within spitting distance of the courthouse's grim facade.

I'm lucky to share life (and a kitchen) with my girlfriend, who has an equally serious relationship with food. Our weeks revolve around dinners together. When we eat somewhere particularly nice, whether an old stand-by or a newcomer, we often imagine how our parents would like it. Hers enjoy eating at least as much as mine, if not much more. That process is natural; it makes the meal better. I feel the same way about music. I have a few big stacks of vinyl, but I don't play records too often around the house. When friends are over, musician friends particularly, I'm galvanized into action. I slip on a record. I tell stories I know about the band. I react to what I'm hearing and the feelings I have about it in their presence, and their reactions combine with mine to enrich the experience. Food is not much different. A steak is better shared; so is Mavis Staples. The restaurants I pick for dinners with my mom have evolved along with me, but regardless of where we end up eating, every meal speaks to the power of shared experience. To adapt and respond to a well-travelled adage: If a meal falls on your table and there's no one there with whom to share it, its deliciousness cannot help but be diminished -- even if you write about it.

The rain was pouring down in sheets, the streets smeared and shiny as licorice along Larkspur's main drag. You'd think that, on this chilly, wet Monday night, everyone would be at home pulling a pizza from the freezer and flipping through the Netflix stack, but up and down Magnolia Street, there's not a parking place to be found. By eight o'clock, nearly every table at Picco is full and happy.

Welcome to Marin Mondays, chef-owner Bruce Hill's popular eat-local brainstorm. The concept is simple: each Monday, the restaurant offers a homey, five-course prix fixe menu showcasing local producers, for $30-$33 a person. (The restaurant's extensive regular menu is also available, and the Marin menu items can be sampled à la carte.) Think Ad Hoc with a locavore twist, and so far, it's brought out big crowds every week, on a night that's typically a slow one in the restaurant biz.

This might be a tricky proposition in, say, Fargo, or Cleveland, but with the Pacific Ocean on one side, San Francisco Bay on the other, and the rich, rolling green fields, woods, and pastures of rural West Marin (plus oyster-friendly Tomales Bay) in between, Marin County is pretty much a year-round bounty of bliss for local-conscious eaters and producers alike. Fishermen, dairy ranchers, farmers, vintners, and foragers all work the land (and water) here, raising sheep, cows, goats, and chickens on grass, farming oysters in the bays, making cheese, distilling liqueurs, catching squid, growing greens, picking mushrooms, baking bread in wood-fired ovens, and more.

So, sourcing: not a problem. And the menu's once-a-week status gives Picco's cooks the chance to be micro-seasonal in their creativity as they come up with new recipes based on whatever cool stuff is available each week. As long as there's enough of it to feed one night's worth of customers, they can use it-- a great boon to the foragers and farmers with just a few acres of continually cycling crops. And the menu isn't strictly local-limited; there's coconut milk in the curry, candied ginger on the ice cream, sriracha hot sauce on the fish cakes. But flavorings aside, the bulk of the ingredients come from nearby, because even in the depths of winter, abundance reigns.

And the menu is open to interpretation each week, instead of being locked down in the pristine, unadorned Cal-Med style, all sea salt and olive oil, that has become the de facto way of cooking local here. On the night we went, the inspiration was Thailand, with a side of Jersey & Buffalo. Or at least that's how we interpreted the appearance of sliders, chicken wings, and soft-serve ice cream between the squid salad and beef curry. To sip, there are two local libations, a Stubbs Estate organic chardonnay and a Shaken, Not Stirred cocktail made with house-infused elderflower liqueur and Square One cucumber vodka, made in Novato.

Last Monday, in honor of Beer Week, there was beer from Marin Brew Company in every dish, from Hog Island manila clams steamed in Albion ale to a fritto misto battered with IPA, cheddar soup with pilsner and rye croutons, and a stout cake with Straus Dairy caramel ice cream.

But back to Thailand in Marin. We started with a light and lovely squid salad, tender and tangy and tangled with cubes of crunchy Asian pear and fresh herbs, alongside a puff of succulent miners' lettuce, that wonderful winter weed named for adding much-needed vitamins to many a Forty-Niner's salt pork-and-sourdough diet.

Next up, a gloriously (but not excessively) greasy fish "slider," White Castle meets Thai fish cake. Unlike the fish cakes in Thai restaurants, which are often bounceably rubbery, these were more like crab cakes, made with rock cod from Bolinas, gentle and just a little springy, lavished with crunchy County Line cabbage and Star Route Farm carrot slaw, dripping with sriracha-spiked mayo and paired with super-crunchy, extra-salty chiplets made from sunchoke curls.

Superbowl-sublime chicken wings from Coastal Hill Farms followed, lacquered sticky-meaty mouthfuls, messy and wonderful. A thick puddle of seasoned Straus yogurt sauce and a mound of shredded celery root with baby watercress replaced the ranch dressing and celery sticks of sports-bar tradition. Dressing up lowbrow favorites doesn't always work (I'm still shaking my head over the dainty arugula-and-mandarin-orange salad served with the lobster roll at nearby Yankee Pier when they first opened—when, as every New Englander knows, a true lobster roll needs nothing but a bag of chips) but in this case, it's great.

By this time, we're pretty happily fed. The main dish, a Mussaman beef and potato curry, looks a little skimpy lurking at the bottom of its big white bowls, but it's deceptive. Rich and coconut-sauced, dotted with translucent, almost fetal baby radishes, the Marin Sun braised short ribs fork tender and lush, it turns out to be all we need.

All we're expecting for dessert is a bitty swirl of Picco's famous Straus Dairy soft-serve, what might fill a Chinese-restaurant teacup. Instead, we get a massive swirl towering above a cereal bowl, heavily crunched with candied ginger and pecan praline. Lovely, palate-cleansing, and crazily big.

Then again, being graced with too much ice cream made from the milk of happy local cows? Way, way down on my list of Bad Things.

Picco
320 Magnolia Ave.
Larkspur, California 94939
Map
415.924.0300
Picco on Facebook

Photos by Debra St. John

Lattes at Matching Half Cafe

So I moved to the city a few weeks ago. After enduring many sweaty hours of I can't imagine anything I'd rather be doing less, I've vowed never to move out of my apartment for as long as I shall live. Yes, the size of the kitchen will take a little getting used to, and I may never have a grown-up dinner party. But moving is just no fun. Getting the couch up the four flights of stairs was an unspeakable feat. That being said, I've put it all behind me and am settling in just fine: finding my favorite grocery store, getting the bus route figured out, exploring yoga studios to find one I like and--of course--drinking lots of coffee.

Now the Internet's a pretty big part of my life since I do a lot of writing from home. And since Comcast rarely works with anyone's ideal schedule, they couldn't come out for five days after I moved in, so I set out researching some free Wi-Fi which brought me to the following neighborhood gems in the NOPA/Western Addition neighborhood. While the free Wi-Fi is what initially attracted me to these coffee shops, I love each for different reasons and still go frequently despite the fact that the wireless is up and kickin' at home.

The Matching Half

Airy and industrial interior of Matching Half Cafe

The Matching Half is one of those places I'm excited to bring people to. Yes, come and check out the new digs, and I'll take you to my new favorite coffee place. Those are words I've uttered numerous times in the last few weeks. And before telling you all about how rad it is, a quick disclaimer for the laptop crowd: there are very few outlets, so if you've got a laptop battery that's hanging on for dear life, this may not be the best choice. However, it's great for so many other reasons, and I'm almost hesitant to talk about it because I like its tucked-away, not-too-crowded, neighborhood appeal. I appreciate places that pay close attention to each detail, from the lovely ceramic cups to the metal bar, to the stark but warm industrial space. I love the menu penned on craft paper. I love the vivid, industrial painting by Mike Shankman.

When not working, settling into one of the window-side tables is prime people watching territory. There are dog walkers, young families buying treats and hanging at the outdoor tables, and runners cruising towards the Panhandle. And the coffee: this is not quick in-out-and-on-with-your-life coffee. It really is slowly and carefully prepared and it shows. The lattes are beautiful and strong, and they have numerous single-origin drip coffees brewed to order. They also have a small but nice selection of breakfast pastries (the croissants are buttery, flaky goodness), sandwiches and salads.

And while I haven't had the pleasure of having a glass of beer or wine--it's sure to happen in the coming week. They do happy hour specials from 4pm-6pm daily, and have some interesting bottles of beer available. Like Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout and PBR in a bottle. Right now they actually have a breakfast panino and PBR special. I can't say that I've ever had PBR in a bottle and I definitely haven't had PBR for breakfast...but here's to a new home and new beginnings, perhaps PBR and all.

The Matching Half
1799 McAllister (@Baker), San Francisco, CA 94117
(415) 674-8699
Hours: Mon.-Thurs.: 7am-7pm; Fri. 7am-10pm; Sat. 8am-10pm; Sun. 8am-6pm.
Cash only.

Café Abir

Storefront of local favorite, Café Abir

Café Abir prides itself on roasting their own coffee daily in their micro-roasting machine. They make a rock-solid Americano and a nice, strong latte. But so do many places in the city. So what sets Café Abir apart? What I like is their varied workspace: they have a giant, communal table along with raised round tables with red velour booths that feel like little work nooks. They play good 80's music: I've been sitting here writing for the past hour and there's been some classic Heart, Bruce Springsteen and Men at Work. Good stuff. And they also have tons of individually wrapped treats, from slices of cake, to apricot bars and chocolate-dipped Rice Krispie bars. I'll admit, before I'd stocked the kitchen and actually gotten a feel for the 'hood, I had my fair share of their giant Rice Krispie treats.

Café Abir serves Numi tea, and a few different selections of beer and wine. In the evening, I've seen couples having a bottle of beer, presumably before heading out to one of the bars nearby. The red velour couches are that good--and when it's warm enough, the outdoor tables are prime for Divisadero people watching. So while there are dozens of incredible coffee joints around town, I'm thankful Abir's close by, and that they're open a bit later than most.

Café Abir
300 Fulton Street (@ Divisidero)
San Francisco, CA 94117
(415) 567-6503
Hours: Daily, 6am-10pm
Cash only.

Apollo Coffee

A quiet Sunday afternoon at Apollo Coffee

When I first moved in, Apollo had a sign on the front door that they'd be closed for the next week. I wasn’t sure if this was because of the construction on Divisadero or because post-holiday business is just darn slow, and it's a smart business move to shutter for a few days. Regardless, I'm happy they're up and running now. This is quite literally the perfect place to get work done--oftentimes I actually feel guilty talking on the phone because the atmosphere is so conducive to quiet work and reading that it tends to have more of a library vibe than a happening coffee house vibe. So while you won’t hear the hippest live music here, there's tons of comfortable individual seating, lots of outlets, and great natural light. It's uber-clean, and the owner is incredibly friendly.

The lattes are great. Their espresso has smooth, sweet notes. And the drip coffee is strong--even though I have a coffeemaker at home, the houseguests I've had prefer to cruise over to Apollo for a cup. They have a small selection of breakfast pastries and scones, panini for lunch, and a great selection of snacks like Lara Bars, Dagoba chocolate, mini brownies, and mini truffles. In fact, I noticed a lot of options for the chocolate aficionado here, from chocolate bars to dark chocolate cupcakes. They sell beer and wine as well, although I think the hours at Apollo aren’t so conducive to this. When asked about the early hours, the owner commented that it's a much quieter part of Divisadero, and maybe in the summer they'll stay open a bit later. Until then, I'm sticking to the coffee, the quiet, and the chocolate.

Apollo Coffee
1064 Divisidero St. (between Turk and Golden Gate Blvd)
San Francisco, CA 94115
Hours: Mon.-Thurs. 8am-7pm; Fri.-Sat. 8am-6pm; Sun. 9am-6pm

Someone must close down the bar, but I am through volunteering for the position. This is not to say bourbon has lost its bloom, or that work days do not begin with brief foamy fantasies about the first cold beers to be cracked eight hours later. I can say (with a straight face) that serious carousing is an occupation for swollen wallets and spare time, and claim that, as of late, I have neither. I can rationalize moderation because I wake up very early and tire before last call the following morning. I can insist that going out is harder than staying in, especially when it's raining and there's work to do and Netflix in the mailbox. I can affect a jaded outlook, yawning that the sport of drinking doesn't hold the appeal it had ten years ago. I can label it a secondary activity, something I associate with games to watch, gigs to play, food to eat, and good conversations with friends. Big nights happen, yes, but usually on accident, I can say -- candidly, with no regrets.

Those are all parts of the problem (if embracing moderation can ever be considered one) but the real reason, the one that really has me avoiding bars and heading home early when I can't, is that these days, when I drink too much, my hangovers hit like Mike Tyson circa 1986. After a few too many, I wake up stuffy, morose, disoriented, ugly, and sore. I don't ever get sick, but I forget details about where I went and who I saw. I don't have the energy to do the things that the day ahead demands, and my mood plummets correspondingly. When I was 20, I could shake off boozy sweats, dehydration, and body aches, and spring out of bed after five hours of sleep to bound around the house, read, study, and socialize -- all miraculously on an empty stomach. Now, on those increasingly infrequent occasions where I over-indulge, I am discovering that I desperately require food -- breakfast maybe, or at least a snack of heroic proportions -- to piece myself together again.

Restorative noshing is welcome immediately after the party, or hours later, upon waking. The fact that I've only really realized this in the latter half of my twenties probably says something about my learning curve in general. If hunger pangs strike on the way home from the bar, possibilities are limited. Most restaurants aren't open. Chorizo tacos from El Farolito and Taqueria Vallarta hit the spot. I haven't been, but Nombe, the new-ish izakaya on Mission St., has a late-night take-out window selling ramen to revelers staggering home. Sometimes, an attack on the refrigerator is the best and cheapest recourse. I went out on Saturday night and stayed out -- gasp -- until 1 a.m. When I came home I realized nearly everything in the house that I felt like eating was being saved for a dinner with my dad the following night -- sausage for pizza, bread for croutons, and olives. Instead, I microwaved some leftover white rice and added salt and a few squirts of srirachi sauce. Something with srirachi sauce usually does the trick. Lately, I've also been especially enjoying plain corn tortillas roasted on a cast-iron skillet and then topped with srirachi and a few creamy squiggles of Kewpie mayonnaise. I do two at a time, folded over like miniature fusion-y quesadillas, and eat them fast, usually burning my mouth in the process.

For those disinclined to wallow in gastronomic gutters, there is also, of course, street food -- bacon dogs, tamales, and the ever-growing assortment of heavily Twittered carts that tend to pop up on corners outside the doors of drinking establishments. As good as some of this stuff is (I'm thinking about you, gumbo guy), such trendy offerings come with long lines, and waiting fifteen minutes for a grilled flatbread behind a bunch of ravenous drunk people is rarely an attractive option when you're ravenous and drunk yourself. Fifteen minutes? I could be home by then, putting the final drizzle of srirachi on a corn tortilla, wearing the sweats, watching a little Larry David before passing out with a smile on my face.

Tortilla with srirachi and Kewpie mayonnaise. You won't see this in Saveur.

Alcohol stirs the strangest cravings the morning after. Some people wake up and go for eggs, pancakes, waffles, sausage, and other conventional breakfast-y things. There is scientific logic to this. Eggs contain cysteine, a substance that breaks down the hangover-causing toxin acetaldehyde in the liver. Fruit juice actually hastens the rate at which a body gets ride of toxins like those generated by alcohol metabolism. Bananas, also common at breakfast, replace potassium lost to alcohol's diuretic tendencies. Fried or stupendously unhealthy foods appeal because sufferers suspect that grease will soothe their irritated stomach linings -- nevermind the fact that it's more likely to have the opposite effect. Psychology is powerful, however, especially the morning after losing brain cells, and I think that sometimes people condition themselves to crave the very things that will hurt them more. It's, in the long run, a fairly harmless sort of self-loathing -- sitting down to a plate of battered chicken, savoring the punishment disguised as a cure, letting your over-taxed body pay the tab your inconsiderate brain racked up. Some treat their morning afflictions like illness and self-medicate with more austere feasts -- steamed vegetables, spicy broths, and so on.

Every year, usually when New Year's Eve approaches, publications feel it necessary to run stories about hangovers and how to avoid them. Typically, these pieces involve interviews with bartenders, operating under the assumption that these callous dispensers of liquid poison know something about recovery too. On Christmas Eve, Grub Street consulted some mixologists on the subject, and the responses were fairly telegraphed, with most suggesting hair of the dog remedies. Likewise, a Dec. 31 Examiner article expanded the sample group and saw similar results, with respondents largely sticking to the guns articulated by their respective professions. The bartender recommended more booze. The personal trainer advocated drinking plenty of water and working out. The doctor condemned drinking too much in the first place. The acupuncturist suggested acupuncture. I'm not sure if I have a profession to stick to, but I have done both drinking and thinking in my day, and for that reason, I hesitate to press any so-called "cures" on others. Hangovers are, after all, very personal things. I will however share a few meals that I have managed to enjoy under the bleariest of circumstances:

Indian buffet. This goes back to a summer home from college. The morning after a long night, some friends and I went to an Indian restaurant attached to a worn motel. After three plates of chicken korma, saag paneer, and samosas, I felt well enough to spend the rest of the day at the zoo. I'm not sure if there's a San Francisco equivalent, but once I woke up in San Jose, went to New Indian Cuisine, and came away again convinced that naan is merely Advil slicked with ghee.

A breaded chicken torta with chipotles from La Torta Gorda. I'm always momentarily tempted to get a junior, but the full is the way to go. Go home, eat half, and put the remainder in the fridge. Get some covers and stretch out on the couch. Watch basketball or half a season of a television show you've already seen. Look up at the clock. It's nearly dinner-time. Good thing you have a brick-sized piece of torta to eat.

A pickle, dill.

Soup. I'm a soup person -- that could be a post in and of itself -- but it doesn't help my hangovers unless it's French onion from Ti Couz, with some seafood salad and maybe a mushroom crepe on the side.

Chicken fingers and waffle fries with ranch dressing from Phat Philly. This is actually my girlfriend's thing. She's yelling at me from the other room to include it.

John Campbell's Irish Bakery. Once, a few years ago, I was staying out at my dad's in the Richmond District -- dog-sitting, house sitting, and cable-watching -- and I woke up after a night out with a painkiller-resistant headache, a sour hollow stomach, and my dad's whippet dashing around the bed in frantic circles. I had hopped off the 38 at 1:30 a.m. and decided to grab one more at the Blarney Stone. Pulling on a coat, leashing the dog, and stepping out into the stabbing mist, I walked back to the scene of the crime and had a piece of pizza (it might have been called "focaccia") from John Campbell's, the fantastic bakery next door to the 'Stone. This was like nothing you'd see at A16, Flour + Water, or even Pizza Hut. There was turkey or ham in cubes, peppers and onions, maybe. A white sauce and cheese, I want to say. The dog was whimpering, begging for a taste. I can't recall the details, but the slice (a slab, really) was like a combination of stew and scone, or an upside-down pot pie even -- bread-y, bland, and bad, at least as far as pizza goes. Yet held to a different standard -- alcohol absorption -- it delivered -- nearly as well as a corn tortilla with hot sauce and mayo.

When you move to the Mission District from somewhere far away, you learn about taquerias and what they offer. You realize that tacos are special snacks, plebian tapas, almost, and a topic worthy of a conversation all their own. Platters of grilled meat with fluffy rice, puddles of beans, negligible watery salads, and stacks of tortillas are for dads and adolescent boys. Quesadillas are tempting because their fully suiza'd incarnations incorporate a burrito's most appealing elements -- the meats, the flag-hued trifecta of guacamole, salsa, and sour cream, and so on -- but every time you try to down one, you sweat cheese and suffer cramps. Nachos are a little silly, masochistic, a nutritional mockery; they belong in sports bars, where they should never be ordered. Portable, tasty, and immensely filling, burritos are your thing. Ohio had burritos too. So did Kentucky. But, until California-style wraps invaded the fast food lexicon, those were vile orange cheddar-and-ground beef roll-ups populating the refrigerated cases of gas stations and college dining hall steam tables. You never ate them before, but now, having thrown down new roots in America's burrito basket you try many variations on this startling new discovery, too many, in fact, your stomach wearily tells you again and again, as you retire to bed at least two or three nights a week with a baby-sized slug of meat, beans, rice, and tortilla burrowed into your gut. After a few months of playing the field, following recommendations and wandering blindly into the taquerias with the catchiest names, you home in on the burritos you like best. For a time, with each salsa-flecked triumph, you have a new favorite destination. With like-minded connoisseurs, you debate the merits of various establishments' interpretations of the form. Out-of-town visitors always want to know where to find a good burrito. By the time they get around to asking you, you're wiser, over the course of weeks and months, a true aficionado. You come to understand that, while there are many very good burritos in your neighborhood, seeking out the perfect specimen is a impossible undertaking.

The best taquerias are frequently inconsistent. Even at the top of the heap, most earn their stripes for doing a specific few things really well -- a sublime meat or two, expertly seasoned and stewed or grilled, a special salsa, perhaps, or a unique portioning and folding method permitting an ideal and harmonious mix of wet, dry, spicy, rich, and acidic substances within. You never find a burrito that synthesizes all the traits you hold dear, but you do learn, for example, that El Metate's burritos are smaller than most you see in the Mission, a dependable, yet mildly sporty sedan navigating streets dominated by cumbersome trucks. Devotees tear up like Paula Abdul over the taqueria's sensational pork in chile verde. El Metate's burrito-crafters refrain from toasting the outsides of burritos prior to wrapping them in foil, but their innards more than compensate. If you ask at the right time, you might get your mitts on a bag of confetti-colored flour tortilla chips and a cup of extra-spicy salsa. A late-night hotspot for hungry drunks, El Farolito toasts admirably. Its strongest filling is boiled chicken, sublime moist shreds that could have been birthed in a cauldron of noodle soup. The salsa bar at Farolito is puny, but the green, as it's invariably called, puts it on par with the grand spreads you see at frillier taquerias – a creamy, avocado-slicked puree you want to slip into an i.v. after dipping a chip or two. El Castillito really toasts, more thoroughly than Farolito, until the shell of a burrito is flaky and singed, almost like a shawarma. Re-fried beans, often eschewed, excel here; they act as edible glue, fusing with melted cheese to unite the more flavorful components. Papalote has a rust-colored salsa so smooth and unctuous you can easily convince yourself it contains cream and butter. Irrigate the interior of your fresh shrimp burrito, and take home a few jars to eat ice cream.

Don't get me wrong though. I'm not telling you where to go for a burrito. Anyone you meet out here can tell you where to find one -- if you don't already know by now. As local media has noted over the last few years, there are numerous websites dedicated to the enjoyment and evaluation of burritos around town. I'm thinking primarily of the diligent and judicious Burrito Eater. Similar operations drop knowledge in other California cities. For instance, my friend Crawford runs Dr. Burrito in San Diego, and regularly schools ignorant folks on his terrain's regional particulars. These are experts. Lay-people obsessed with finding the perfect burrito -- again, a preposterous endeavor -- usually possess too much free time, and probably log an unhealthy amount of time crafting witty Yelp reviews. The taquerias I patronize most are the ones closest to my house or the bar. The idea of going out of your way for a six-dollar meal you'll eat in ten minutes contradicts the essence of a burrito. Nonetheless, if you engage the debate, you come to the conclusion that most taquerias you end up liking a lot are better at something than most others. When you go out for a burrito, you head to a destination with areas of strength that suit your predisposition at that moment. In this sense, you're re-visiting an experience, like putting on a beloved record or watching re-runs. I would like to listen to the White Album again. I would like to see Season Three of The Wire once more. I would like a fish burrito with no sour cream from El Metate. Dialing in a go-to combination from a reliable purveyor is the only recourse a dedicated burrito-hound has, though daydreams about the impossible persist -- the fantasy of a mutant hybrid burrito boasting the best traits of a dozen of the neighborhood's best. A garrulous housemate once eloquently outlined the concept:

"In a perfect world I would buzz around the Mission with a rocket pack on my back, collecting my favorite meats from each taqueria. And I would fold all the juicy delights into a giant burrito, probably the size of a heavy bag for boxing. I would eat some of the burrito, and then sit it up on the couch next to me, like a friend."

What if you could take El Metate's chile verde pork, squeeze it into an El Farolito-sized shell, take it to Castelito for toasting, and then crown it with dollops of Papalote's salsa? Shortly after the exchange, I visited Taqueria San Francisco on 24th St., near York –- incidentally a Burrito Eater favorite -- and couldn't, for the life of me, decide between ordering mine with chile relleno or chicken. In a moment of loopy clarity, I ordered them both in one burrito. The guy at the counter kind of smiled faintly. Ten minutes later, I was back at the house, hauling something silver and as heavy as a brick out of a thin plastic bag. It proved to be one of the most exciting burritos I have ever attacked. The doughy batter surrounding the hacked-up pepper had melted into the foundation of beans and rice. The juicy stewed chicken found a ready foil in the acidic salsa and the pepper's mild heat. Chunks of buttery avocado studded the interior. I had skipped the sour cream, but not the cheese, so this burrito was queso-heavy, a twisted, solid mass from the chile relleno running down the middle like a spine, and another layer melted against the inside of the tortilla.

I have not revisited this particular adventure, though other mildly outside-the-box burrito variations followed suit. Two years ago, upon recovering from a two-day bout with a stomach virus, slogging through a final cautionary day of bread and jam, and, on the fourth day, enjoying 2.5 hours of taxing pick-up basketball, I limped into El Farolito and ordered a super chicken burrito with extra meat, rationalizing that the extra calories would do me good. When I sliced the massive cylinder down the middle and turned the halves to expose the cross-section, it looked as if a turducken had exploded inside the glittering foil sheath. I ate 2/3 of it, and immediately collapsed for an hour, with the lights dimmed in my room, listening to Sibylle Baier and cursing myself. Incidentally, a frugal friend with a serious appetite has a good technique for extending the sustaining power of a burrito. He pulls off the foil, cuts a surgically precise slit lengthwise across the side without folds, and scoops out the "guts" with chips. Then he fills the hollowed middle with pico de gallo, packs the tortilla back together into a semblance of its original shape, and sucks it down.

Taqueria Guadalajara's steak and shrimp burrito, regular

Just last week, I was standing, cold and somewhat frazzled in the dining room of Taqueria Guadalajara, another 24th Street establishment. I hadn't had a burrito in a month, and was trying to decide what to order. I thought about the relleno-chicken mash-up I'd downed three years earlier, how it had awakened burrito 'buds I never knew existed. I knew most taquerias didn't mind letting patrons double up on fillings, but Guadalajara actually has a "mixto" option clearly listed on the bright, broad menu positioned above the counter. I ordered a burrito with steak and grilled shrimp. The result –- salty and chewy with a hint of the shellfish's brine peeking through the mix –- was good but not as balanced and magical as the relleno-chicken combination. I wondered if two flavors over-crowded in most arrangements, if a burrito was best served by a subtle backing section supporting a dominant soloist –- say, soothing boiled chicken, or bold, zesty carnitas -- not a duet. Still, I wondered which combinations would work best. Tripe and carnitas? Steak and chicken?

As I dived again and again into my selection, I wondered: What might up the ante, and take the burrito further out into the void while remaining respectful? Stupid wrap franchises have ruined fusion burritos with their jasmine rice-and-curry concoctions to be sure, but what if fried chicken replaced boiled chicken in an otherwise straightforward preparation? Or if thin-shaved lamb from Old Jerusalem's shawarma spits cozied up to green salsa and re-fried beans? A shrimp rolled out of the burrito and onto my lap. I ate it. The possibilities were as endless as the half-eaten tube before me.

San Rafael's Sol Food: Puerto Rican food done right

By the time this post is published, I will have packed up a 14-food U-haul, probably strained my lower back, and sweated up and down five flights of stairs (no mom, there's no elevator) as I schlep my life's belongings into a little apartment in Alamo Square Park. I'm unspeakably excited about moving from San Rafael to the city; truthfully, this was all supposed to happen a year ago. But you know how things don't always go as planned. So as folks were busy making New Years resolutions and goals for the coming year ahead, I've been taking a moment to reflect on living in Marin and what I'll miss.

Now there's a big part of me that feels like this list is quite small. I'll be honest: I haven't been the most vocal member of Marin's fan club. In fact, I never even joined. Socially, I'm generally the youngest one at any given location by a good twenty years. I'm not raising kids, and I'm in a pretty darn low tax bracket so that makes me the exception. And heck, I often like to eat dinner after 9 p.m. Suffice it to say, I've learned to eat earlier. Not only can you not get a decent burger after the sun sets, you can barely get a gallon of milk or sack of flour. The place shuts down. However, San Rafael has a lot going for it, too. I loved getting to know all of the hiking trails with my mom's two dogs. West Marin is a quick, awesome getaway where life feels slower and somehow more conscious and deliberate. It's generally easy to park in Marin, I love my consignment store, and can't get enough of the Fairfax Scoop in the summers. And of course, you can get the best Puerto Rican food in the Bay Area. I'll miss all of those things, especially the latter.

If you haven't been to Sol Food, it's owned by Sol Hernandez, an enterprising San Rafael native who decided to bring Puerto Rican food to Marin. She lived on the island for quite awhile with her boyfriend and his mother and spent her free time learning how to cook the local dishes. The original Sol Food is a tiny little outpost on the corner of 4th and Lincoln in San Rafael. There aren't any formal indoor tables although there are stools by the window and up by the counter. When I first started hitting up the authentic eatery, I could just stroll in, order, and be on my way. Now I rarely go to this location because it's always obscenely crowded, and I can usually find seating at the other location right away. Locals differentiate between the two in size, calling the original location on 4th Street "the small one" and the newer location on Lincoln Avenue "the big one."

Regardless of which one you choose, Sol has successfully created two restaurant spaces that look and feel like Puerto Rico: colorful shutters and chairs, green plantains holding down stacks of napkins, and big leafy plants gracing every inch of usable counter space. Loud, lively music streams throughout the bustling cafe, and one of the things I love the most are the communal tables (at the larger location). Here, you may be seated next to a teacher grading papers, an older man reading the paper, gossipy college students, and tattoo artists from down the street. There aren't a lot of places around Marin where young and old, conservative and raucous, come together and chat over pink beans and rice.

Two of Sol Food's signatures: their infamous housemade hot sauce and decorative shuttered interior

Now, the food: Everything on the menu is delicious, from the Maduros (sweet fried yellow plantains) to the Bistec or Cubano sandwiches. I was a vegetarian for the first few years that I lived in San Rafael and I'd come to Sol Food often to get a side of beans. It's the best deal in town, and still my go-to meal when I'm in a hurry or want a light lunch. For a mere $3.95, you get a generous portion of pink beans, half an avocado, and a plantain of your choosing. It's delicious, it's cheap, and it's made with local and organic ingredients. Can't beat that.

My favorite Sol Food dish, Pollo Al Horno

Today though, I generally rely on the Pollo Al Horno: boneless, skinless organic chicken thighs marinated with oregano and lots of garlic. It's served with an organic salad, plantains, and rice and beans. If someone could teach me how to make chicken this juicy and flavorful, I'm not sure I'd eat anything else. Ever again. Their daily specials are something to organize your week around (check online for information). Mondays are my day of choice with the Arroz Con Picadillo, seasoned ground beef over rice served with beans, fresh avocado, fried plantain, and greens. Picadillo is a traditional dish in many Latin American countries and is often served with rice or used as a filling in tacos or empanadas. It sounds basic--kind of like you could whip it up at home. But you can't. I assure you. The beef is spicy and has a kick of vinegar, garlic and onion. Head over on a Monday and you can see what I mean. Order a Fizzie Lizzie, their Cafe Helado (sweetened iced espresso with milk served in a mason jar), or a coconut water to wash it all down.

So while I can't wait to live in a neighborhood where I can get a slice of pizza into the wee hours and where there will be more than two other people my age walking down the street (I'm kidding...sort of), I'm grateful that San Rafael's just a skip away. My mom lives here, so I'll come back to hike with her dogs, throw in load of laundry every now and then, catch up on Dexter, and get my fill of pink beans and rice.

Sol Food Restaurant (Small One/Original)
732 4th Street
San Rafael, CA 94901
(415) 451-4765
Hours: Sun.-Thurs. 7am-12am; Fri. 7am-2am; Sat. 8am-2am

Sol Food Restaurant (Big One)
901 Lincoln Avenue
San Rafael, CA 94901
(415) 451-4765 (same number as above)
Hours: Daily from 11am-10pm