Green Papaya Deli's namesake. Photo by Rudy R.

In July, I was working on a feature article about Lao food in East Oakland for the food section of a major Bay Area daily newspaper. In very early August, a few weeks after I'd finished the first round of interviews, I found out that newspaper's food section was merging entirely with that of another large newspaper operated by the same company, gutting staff (and its already flimsy freelance budget) in a frantic cost-shearing maneuver. Since my piece addressed a unique ethnic community largely confined to a single neighborhood in one distinct part of Oakland--San Antonio--it wouldn't jive with the company's broad new regional focus. At least, that's what my freshly-canned editor told me when she delivered the bad news.

I was deeply bummed--not just because I'd already logged a bunch of hours researching the article, but because the food--as well as the people I'd met, their stories, and the traditions they associated with what they enjoyed eating--seemed so deserving of attention.

I first became really curious about Lao food nearly two years ago, after a tasty meal at Champa Garden, the somewhat venerable Lao restaurant on 8th Avenue east of Lake Merritt in San Antonio--one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the Bay Area, home to close-knit populations of African-Americans, Latinos, and Asians in almost equal proportions. I tried to draw distinctions between its dominant flavors and those most prevalent in the more familiar cuisines of its Southeast Asian neighbors. Like Thai, Lao thrives on interplay between sour and spicy, crunchy and soft, and both cooked and raw ingredients. The effect however is different. Extreme tastes and textures--intense, bold, lush--somehow find lovely balance in the most homespun preparations, and the combinations feel wilder, more jarring. Truly bitter greens are tossed in barely sweet lightly-dressed salads with herbs and raw marinated fish. Crispy fried rice comes wrapped in sheets of iceberg lettuce with preserved pork bits, lime, and scallions peppered throughout.

With Champa Garden as my starting point, I began a gradual tour of Lao flavors in East Oakland. First, I visited Vientian Cafe, a rough-hewn eatery situated a few blocks outside the San Antonio neighborhood, on a barren block of Allendale. The food was uniformly spectacular and stunningly inexpensive. Baked sausage with lemongrass, onion, and chiles--a thin, churro-like cylinder, dark-brown, crusty, and cracked on a bed of raw shredded cabbage--and kao piak, a noodle soup with chicken, nutty fried garlic, and pork blood, particularly stood out.

On several occasions, I lunched at Green Papaya Deli, a tiny storefront on International Boulevard at 2nd Ave. Cynthia Senephansiri is the owner; her mother Lily cooks. For 15 years, the family owned a video store renting and selling tapes and, later, dvds of Lao and Thai films. Its market was niche to begin with, and as people bought and rented movies less and less anyway, the store's business dwindled to a dangerously frail level. About a year-and-a-half ago, Cynthia had the idea to open a restaurant. In the dearth of Lao restaurants around town she saw an opportunity to bring authentic versions of the traditional Lao dishes her family loved to people who had never before encountered them. In the beginning she had no formal restaurant experience, but now Lily spends 7 days and nights a week behind the stove in the kitchen barely visible through the window behind the counter. From time to time, she pads into the tiny dining room to make sure customers are eating the food she sends out with satisfyingly palpable enthusiasm. Lily is small, and her voice is quiet, but her smile sparkles like few I have ever seen, dwarfing everything else in the room, engulfing diners in a luminous maternal aura as she murmurs fretfully about the cleanliness of their plates. I have already written about Green Papaya's otherworldy Lao-style chicken soup, but Lily's papaya salad--vivid, shockingly hot, and pungent with a tamarind-laced dressing made-from-scratch--deserves a very special mention.

The first time I visited, I ate the salad with seven chiles and gently steamed at my corner table. The second time I came through, I tried it with twelve and felt, as I desperately seized fistfuls of heat-dampening sticky rice, as if my chest might explode if I dared to down another slippery forkful. According to Lily's nephew Ken, the restaurant's waiter, his aunt will add up to twenty for the most masochistic (and showy) of chile-fiends. Of course, he had to immediately assure me that I, being white and American, could always expect to receive considerably fewer chiles than I'd request. He meant that kindly, I think, but I did feel a twinge of disappointment. I had been proud to hang, at least for half a plate, with twelve, but my "twelve," as it turned out, was actually more like "six," my "seven" just a few. Ken showed me a massive bag of the mean-looking chiles, and I felt better. They were gnarled blue spikes, each only a third the size of my pinkie--sort of like wicked appendages to a knight's armor. I was even happier to learn my personal expectations for success exceeded Ken's. He chided me for trying to eat an entire order by myself, explaining that papaya salad, especially such a molten rendering, is meant to be shared amongst three or four hungry people, as one sweet, searing passage in a harmonious array of tastes, not a meal in and of itself, or even a snack through which a solitary and stubborn ignoramus should struggle.

After my second meal at Green Papaya, I met the family. Lily came to Oakland in 1981. She told me the exact date of her arrival without a moment's pause to recollect. She likes Oakland, especially the weather. The restaurant is practically in her backyard; its kitchen, she says, is hers. Assertive and business-oriented, Cynthia drew firm distinctions between Lao and Thai, the cuisine to which it's frequently compared, suggesting that Thai food in the United States tends to be marketed to American tastes, whereas Lao restaurants, far fewer in number, are usually direct extensions of home-cooking traditions. According to Cynthia, restaurants identifying as Lao tend to rep their homeland's cuisine more faithfully precisely because the cuisine has no successful Americanized tradition. Thai restaurants are immensely popular, with instantly recognizable dishes -- like tom yum and pad thai. For this reason, many Lao elect to operate Thai restaurants -- to attract customers.

I also met with April Kim, the program director of the Oakland Asian Cultural Center, and Sokham Senthavilay, a Lao woman who has taught cooking classes at the OACC on a few occasions. Sokham showed up with an adorable child in her arms -- perhaps a niece or a grandaughter. As the little girl sat perched on the table, staring me down calmly, her frilly dress cascading over the edge like a curtain, Sokham told her story. She left Laos in 1978. After a few months in jail and a stint at a camp in Thailand, she headed to the United States in 1980, first to Seattle, then to Texas, and finally to Oakland, along with many of her 15 siblings. She used to cook at a Thai restaurant in Oakland but couldn't stand the hours. I told her about the papaya salad mishap, and she laughed, saying that she understood. Even when you're sweating and crying, she said, you always want to eat more than you should -- because the heat makes you feel so good.

Sokham believes home kitchens produce the best Lao food, and with obvious glee, described her weekend ritual in detail. Most Saturday mornings, she wakes up early and heads to the market. With her twelve brothers, sisters, and cousins helping, their own ever-expanding families milling around the house, she starts cooking at 10 a.m. and finishes by mid-afternoon: a full-blown banquet of larb, bamboo soup, papaya salad, grilled fish, and sticky rice accompanied by beer, Johnny Walker Black, and a kind of rice-derived moonshine called Lao Lao. Sokham lives around the corner from Green Papaya, but she's never been there. She rarely socializes or eats outside of her house. She agreed with Cynthia Senephansiri's claim about the scarcity of Lao restaurants. Though it's rarely advertised on menu, she added that some Thai restaurants staffed by Lao cooks can cook some dishes Lao-style if you order them that way -- like papaya salad, which she noted often tastes too sweet for her liking at Thai restaurants. She speculated Thai food might be more familiar to Americans because more Americans have been to Thailand and many more Thai immigrants have comfortably settled in this country.

Laos, Sokham explained, sits in the shadow of Thailand. With the end of the Second Indochina War in 1975, many Lao fled their country for fear of communist reprisals and, like Sokham, ended up in Thailand before finding their way here. Ken's grandfather was one of them too. In Laos, he had owned farms and houses, but after the war, the communist government redistributed all of his properties. Ken described his disappointment as vast and crushing. He went to Thailand and then to Cleveland, where he died after a year. From 1975 to 1996, the U.S. government resettled more than 250,000 Lao refugees in communities around the country, including an estimated 30,000 living in the Bay Area, many in East Oakland--where three modest restaurants stand as clear local evidence of Laos's gastronomic legacy.

A month or so ago, I covered the Center for Lao Studies' First Annual Banquet for the S.F. Weekly's online presence. In an email exchange following the event, the Center's executive director Dr. Vinya Sysamouth mentioned community members had petitioned Yelp to add a category for Lao food, and that Yelp had adamantly refused. Maybe, I wondered, because none of the three Lao-identified restaurants in the Bay Area limit themselves to serving Lao food alone. Vientian Cafe and Champa Garden offer some Vietnamese and Thai dishes. On Yelp, they're respectively identified as "Thai" and "Vietnamese," and "Thai" and, curiously, "Asian Fusion." Green Papaya Deli has a small Thai menu because, as Lily told me, she's concerned many Americans might not eat there unless they see at least a few dishes with which they're already familiar.

You can find the restaurant listed under "Thai" and "Deli" on Yelp.

San Francisco is a brunch town through and through. And I'm always down for a nice eggs benedict or a stack of blueberry pancakes. But everyday can't be Sunday. Most of us have day jobs and can't lounge around cafes late into the afternoon hours. So here are a few of my favorite spots for quick, creative, inspiring breakfasts around the city. One is a bit gluttonous, the other earnestly healthy, and the last sloppy but satisfying. So while dining trends will always come and go, breakfast is staying put. Sometimes mom knew what she was talking about: it is the most important meal of the day.

The Good: Fraîche
I first stumbled across Fraîche while wandering around downtown Palo Alto. This was around the same time when frozen yogurt shops were opening on (seemingly) every street corner in San Francisco, and I’ll admit, I was one of the people in those long lines. But if you're like me, you're a little burned out on the tart treat and the neon décor. Fraîche is different. Trust me. The frozen yogurt has more of a creamy, subtly tart flavor than other competitors, they use organic Clover milk, and owner Patama Gur spent a long time perfecting her special blend of probiotic cultures--and it shows.

In addition to frozen yogurt, Fraîche also does a thick, housemade unfrozen 2% yogurt. When I first visited the shop on Fillmore recently, I ordered the frozen yogurt with pureed apricots and my friend opted for the unfrozen version with raspberries and peaches. I have to say, I had entrée envy. While mine was delicious, the unfrozen yogurt is unlike anything I've ever had. Think Greek yogurt on steroids. As we were leaving, I noticed the breakfast menu and their early morning hours, and vowed to come back for a quick and healthy breakfast before work.

You can get breakfast to eat-in or take-out. The menu is simple and centered around the unfrozen yogurt, fresh fruits, housemade granola, and steel-cut oats. I tried the Toasted Nut and Berry Sundae: yogurt with fresh berries, housemade granola, toasted almonds, and local wildflower honey ($5.50). The nice guy constructing my lovely "sundae" mentioned that the SF Chronicle Special has been the most popular, with steel-cut oatmeal and a choice of fresh yogurt and fruit and nut toppings ($5.95). And these aren't your average toppings. From bright pureed fruits and local honeys to shaved Callebaut chocolate to-order, the toppings are as conscious as the yogurt itself.

So after finishing the Nike Marathon recently and being told by many friends that I’d have to try and taper my ravenous appetite to account for the decrease in physical activity, I've tried to opt for breakfasts that don't include numerous pieces of toast or stacks of pancakes. And for that, Fraîche is here for me. With a cup of Blue Bottle coffee (they start serving the premium coffee next week) and a seat at one of the sleek wooden tables, experience morning the way it should be experienced: simple and thoughtful.

Fraîche
1910 Fillmore Street
San Francisco, CA 94115
(415) 674-6876
Hours: Mon.-Thurs. 7am-11 pm; Fri. 7am-12am;
Sat. 8:30am-12am; Sun. 8:30am-11pm

The "Bad": Dynamo Donuts
Nestled amongst the Mexican grocery stores and panaderia's on 24th St., sits Sara Spearin’s sweet little donut shop. It’s "bad" in the best possible way. There are a few critics who scoff at charging $3 for one donut. But the truth is, I'd pay $3 over and over for what Spearin and crew are doing in the Dynamo kitchen. It’s something that San Francisco has yet to see--an artisan, organic, awesome donut.

Before getting to the donuts, a quick aside: I was a vegetarian for almost fifteen years. About a year ago now, I started eating meat again. Once I decided to go for the gusto, something strange happened: I couldn't get enough bacon. And this was certainly fine timing, as bacon has become rather trendy in the last year or so. From bacon potato chips to bacon chocolate confections, it seems like the much-loved pork product is everywhere these days. So while I understand many folks are over the bacon-in-everything trend, I'm still on a bacon high.

I had my first bacon maple donut at Voodoo Doughnut in Portland, Or. I thought they were pretty good: the donut was light and airy (albeit quite large), the maple glaze rocked, and they put strips of real bacon on top. The bacon itself was a little weird and greasy, but I figured all bacon donuts were that way. Then, a few weeks ago, I went to Dynamo for the first time. Now I know: all bacon maple donuts are not created equal.

While it looks like a simple donut window from the street, there is an entrance leading to a huge open kitchen and a quaint seating area where couples sit with steaming cups of Four Barrel coffee and a donut or two. The buzz from the open kitchen is infectious: five women with cute vintage aprons are busily pumping out donuts while laughing and telling stories. They seem genuinely psyched to be there--and it shows in the product. The donuts themselves are special. For the most part, they’re cakey and have a bit of heft (think old-fashioned donuts of your childhood). I tried the chocolate saffron, which has a very light hint of citrus and a subtle warmth from the saffron. Next I moved on to the caramel del sel, flavored with nutmeg and topped with a caramel glaze and fleur de sel. Then I picked up a few of the apple bacon maple donuts to bring in to work. Unlike the one at Voodoo, the bacon was in small bits sprinkled on top of the donut and wasn’t at all greasy. And the little bits of apple are actually sautéed in bacon fat, resulting in a fabulous salty and sweet flavor. It really is the perfect donut. So with a motto of "EVERYDAY is bacon donut day!" there's not a place I'd rather frequent more at the moment. And even if you’re not a recovering vegetarian with a constant hankering for salty meats, there are many other well-crafted donuts to choose from.

Dynamo Donut
Twitter: @dynamodonut
2760 24th Street
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 920-1978
Hours: Tues.-Sat. 7am-5pm; Sun. 9am-4pm; closed Mon.

The Ugly: Hazel's Kitchen
Hazel's Kitchen is very Potrero Hill. For those of you familiar with the neighborhood, I know you feel me. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, they do a lot of things right, but one of them isn’t necessarily speedy or efficient customer service. It's laid back, it’s independent, and they scoff a little if you try to pay with a credit card. Much like Farley's Coffee next door, I often get blank stares or confused looks when I ask a simple question.

But Hazel's is much loved as a little neighborhood lunch counter with great sandwiches and soups. And that they are. While they’re generally booming at lunch, not as many folks know that they do a really great breakfast burrito. Now I know some of you may be ready to stop reading right about now. I know--I get it. I have a strained relationship with the breakfast burrito as well. Sometimes they're not hot all the way through; sometimes they're soggy. There's nothing like cold, watery eggs to get you going in the morning. But Hazel's burritos are none of those things.

What Hazel's burritos are--the thing that places them in the ugly category--is deliciously messy. It's not a good choice for eating while walking to work or chowing down in the car. You must sit down with a stack of napkins (and a fork would be preferable) to enjoy a Hazels' breakfast burrito. Messiness aside, the nice thing about Hazel’s is the simplicity. The breakfast burrito has eggs, cheese, avocado, salsa and a choice of chorizo, ham, bacon or tofu ($6.95). The ratio of ingredients is perfect: not too much cheese or salsa--where many breakfast burritos fail. And I'm not sure how they get the burrito so delightfully hot without losing the integrity of the avocado, but after seventeen years in business, they obviously know what they’re doing.

Can you find a cheaper breakfast burrito over in the Mission? Sure. Can you find a more authentic, Mexican breakfast burrito? Absolutely. But I can't guarantee that it won’t be soggy, hot all the way through, or busting with fresh ingredients. You just can't help but fall a little bit in love with Hazel's pastel, vintage kitsch and the messy morning madness of the breakfast burrito. Dig in.

Hazel's Kitchen
1319 18th Street
San Francisco, CA 94107
(415) 647-7941
Hours: Mon.-Sat. 8 am-4 pm; Sun. 8:30 am-4 pm

Featured Recipe: Fraîche's Spiced Yogurt Muffin
Owner Patama Gur says they bake these muffins each morning as they really typify what Fraîche does: provide customers healthy, delicious that don't sacrifice on taste. These muffins were developed for Fraîche by Batter Bakery, and use Fraîche's low-fat unfrozen yogurt and applesauce instead of a lot of butter and oils to create an amazing treat that is less than 100 calories.

Ingredients:
2 cups flour
1 cup brown sugar
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. allspice
1 tsp. nutmeg
1 tsp. cloves
2 large eggs, at room temperature
1 ½ cups. yogurt, room temperature
4 Tbsp. melted butter
1/4 cups unsweetened applesauce
1 tsp. vanilla
(For the topping: 2 Tbsp. sugar + ¼ tsp. nutmeg)

Preparation:
1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
2. Line 8 large or 14 to 16 standard muffin pans with paper muffin cups.
3. Whisk together dry ingredients in a large bowl until well combined.
4. In another small bowl, whisk eggs, yogurt, butter, applesauce, and vanilla. Add to flour mixture and mix together until just combined.
5. Scoop evenly into muffin cups and sprinkle with sugar nutmeg mixture.
6. Bake 18-20 minutes or until tester comes out clean.
Serve warm.

Makes: 8 large or 14 standard-sized muffins

Men's Journal recently dubbed it one of America's best neighborhoods. The San Francisco Chapter of the Hells Angels is still there, and it may not be in your tourist guidebook. Nonetheless, the Dogpatch neighborhood is getting a lot of buzz lately. Where the heavy industry used to be, a burgeoning arts district and dining scene has popped up--particularly around the intersection of 22nd and 3rd. In 2003, the neighborhood was voted an official historic district of San Francisco--helped by the fact that it was relatively untouched by the 1906 earthquake and fire.

The Dogpatch is a nine square-block area below and to the East of Potrero Hill. More specifically, it's bounded by Mariposa Street to the North, Tubbs Street (23rd) to the South, Highway 280 to the West, and Illinois Street to the East. Part of its growth and popularity can certainly be attributed to its proximity to Potrero Hill, SOMA and downtown--and to the lightrail constructed a few years ago. Currently there is a lively debate regarding land-use issues, and worker's cottages and historic homes are being overshadowed by loft-style condos and the looming biotech industry. But never fear: its gritty, urban veneer is alive and well. So before you try to predict what will become of one of the last authentic neighborhoods in San Francisco, cruise around the Dogpatch for a handcrafted latte, a quaint Sunday brunch, or a sandwich at a pop-up lunch venue.

Piccino Coffee Bar: My favorite city is Paris. And on the rare San Francisco afternoon, strolling along a quiet side street, discovering a sweet little bakery or street-side flower shop, I’ll have a "Paris" moment. I had such a moment recently while aimlessly walking around the Dogpatch listening to the new "Where the Wild Things Are" soundtrack (amazing) and marveling at the unusually hot temperature (like close neighbor Potrero Hill, the Dogpatch is often the sunniest, warmest spot in the city). The first thing to notice about Piccino Coffee Bar is its minimalism: it's essentially a coffee counter with a small but lovely selection of crumbly scones, biscotti, muffins, housemade yogurt, hardboiled farm-fresh eggs, and grab-and-go sandwiches. And of course, coffee--and Blue Bottle coffee, at that. There isn't any seating and they have a big front window that opens in the afternoons, releasing wafts of richly roasted coffee.

It's always really nice when you fall in love with a spot only to learn later that they're committed to using sustainable products and sourcing from local artisans whenever possible--and that they deeply care about their impact on the community. Such is the case with Piccino Coffee Bar. A few of the local vendors they use include Fatted Calf, Andante Diary, Prather Ranch, and Star Route Farms. The standout beverage? The mocha. And let me just say I'm really not a mocha kind of girl. As I enter my (gasp) 30's, I need the strong punch of black coffee in the morning--or sometimes I'll opt for the occasional Americano or latte. But a mocha always seems more like dessert, more frivolous than utilitarian. However, Piccino's isn't cloyingly sweet and still tastes of strong, bold espresso. So many other coffeehouses rely on chocolate made with added sugars and thickeners, but Piccino Coffee Bar uses a special Recchiuti chocolate blend specially designed for them. They actually hand melt it in your cup. Last time I checked, Starbucks wasn't providing that service. And I love that they're not messing around with the caffeine: a small 8 oz. latte automatically comes with two shots. That's what I’m talking about first thing Monday morning.

To remember what a neighborhood coffee shop is really like, stroll into Piccino Coffee Bar. It's not fast, the whole ordering process is a little disorganized, you may wonder why they don’t have more than one person making drinks. But quaint, legitimate neighborhood coffee shops that focus on the quality and the craft of the drink are a dying breed. Do yourself a favor: remind yourself what they're like.

Piccino Coffee Bar
801 22nd St., SF
(415) 824-4224
Hours: Mon.-Fri. 7am-5pm; Sat.-Sun. 8am-5pm

Kitchenette SF
Lunch is having its day in the sun right now. Whether you prefer the carts, counters, bike delivery salumi dudes--it's all out there. But you also get the sense that, while unique and undeniably cool, many of these trends are fleeting. However, Douglas Monsalud and crew at Kitchenette SF serve beautifully constructed sandwiches, a few side salads, a "cookie of the moment," and a housemade beverage from a menu that changes daily--and I can guarantee you, they're here to stay. While the location is unassuming (a loading dock in an industrial strip in the Dogpatch), the food is anything but.

I invited my dad to come along and get a bite to eat recently. He appreciates new neighborhoods, thoughtful food, and innovative design--and I'd heard that Kitchenette SF had all three. Now, first things first: it's tucked away and not easy to find. But sometimes the things you have to really search for taste all the sweeter. We ended up parking before we spotted it, opting to find it on foot rather than driving around the block...again. You'll know you're getting warmer when you see a chalkboard sign out on the sidewalk. Cruise into the loading dock where smells of warm cookies commingle with the noises of businesses unloading goods and trucks backing in to make a delivery. There are some stairs leading into Kitchenette SF's loading dock and a little counter displaying the daily specials. After you order, linger and wait for your name to be called or head down the steps to snag a coveted bench, scattered haphazardly amongst the concrete below. It's all very urban. It's a little hipster. If the food weren’t good, I might think it was a little too cool for school.

I ordered the Marin Sun Farms' pork schnitzel sandwich with braised cabbage and pink lady apples, a peanut butter/butterscotch cookie, and organic strawberry soda with local seltzer. We shared a bag of 4505 chicharrones (ah, after being a vegetarian for twelve years, nothing makes up for lost time like a bag of salty pig skin). The sandwich had a perfect balance of flavors: a crunch and sweetness from the apple, a little kick from the braised cabbage, a light and chewy Acme roll. Although I write about food often, I can't say that sandwiches often bowl me over. That being said, I talked about this sandwich for days afterwards.

More recently, I snuck away from work and ordered the "Warehouse Picnic," consisting of fried Rocky Jr. chicken, a deviled egg, potato salad, corn-jalapeno salad, pasta salad with tomato vinaigrette, farmstead cheese, and Acme bread. Summer perfectly encapsulated in a box. Kitchenette SF has seriously redefined fast food. It's all organic, and most of the ingredients are sourced from local farms--Monsalud says he actually hits up the farms on his days off and, in addition to knowing where the food comes from, he often even knows which row! There's a very deep connection to the origin and meaning of the food they serve--and it shows. Check their website or twitter feed to get information on the daily menu.

Kitchenette SF
958 Illinois, SF.
Twitter: @kitchenettesf
Hours: Mon.-Fri., 11:30am-1:30pm

Serpentine
My friend Anthony was visiting from New York about a month ago, and I was trying to show him a very authentic San Francisco beyond the obvious tourist attractions. Anthony's a little hipster. You know the type: tight jeans, spectacles, deliberately messy hair, and a faux-leather satchel bag. So I was trying to introduce him to spots that were a little edgy, a little grungy, a little off the radar. Enter: the Dogpatch and Serpentine.

Owned by Erin Rooney (of Slow Club fame), Serpentine is located in the former warehouse of a tin-can factory boiler's room. Because of its high ceilings, large windows, and sea glass fixtures, it almost feels more like a large artist's loft rather than a bustling place of business. Adding to that whimsical feeling: much of the normal din of a restaurant is missing. Mid-day on a sunny Sunday and it was crowded but strangely quiet. It's got to have something to do with the acoustics of the building--regardless, I have to say, with constant refills of coffee and good conversation, we could've sat there all day enjoying the peaceful morning.

Now, for the food. I am often prone to hyperbole. I'm not sure where I got this trait, but for those that know me, it's a very real fact. But believe me when I tell you that the dish I had at Serpentine was the most perfect brunch dish I've ever had. Although their menu is seasonal, the "Red Flannel Hash" seems to be a staple. It consists of chunks of beautifully roasted beets, potatoes, Prather Ranch beef brisket, two poached eggs, and spinach. It's filling but not in a 'stack of pancakes' kind of way. More in a fresh, balanced, satiated kind of way.

We also tried the Alaskan sockeye salmon benedict with fried green tomatoes, pickled red onion, and lemon cucumber. We were definitely bummed that the fried green tomatoes were noticeably absent, but the salmon was cooked perfectly and the hollandaise sauce was surprisingly light and creamy. We also tried the buckwheat strawberry pancakes. Now I'm one of those people that doesn't like to order something at a restaurants that I can make well at home. Pancakes fall into that category. But something is different about Serpentine's flapjacks: they actually have large pieces of strawberry cooked into them, and are served with lots of butter and incredibly rich syrup.

All in all, the food was seasonal, conscious, and well executed. This may be my new favorite brunch spot as it seems the usual see-and-be-seen weekend crowd hasn't yet descended, so there isn't an obscenely long wait and you don't feel guilty lingering over numerous cups of coffee. Which is exactly what we did. Anthony went back to Brooklyn satiated--and hungry to return.

Serpentine
2495 3rd St., SF.
(415) 252-2000
Hours:
Brunch: Sat and Sun: 10:00am-2:30pm
Lunch: Mon - Fri: 11:30am-2:30pm
Dinner: Tues - Sat: 6:00pm-10:00pm

Just For You Cafe
I've been on a bit of a beignet binge lately. Blame it on the cooler mornings and evenings, the fact I'm training for a marathon and feel entitled to eat whatever (and whenever I'd like), or the depressing economy--whatever the reason, I've been turning to little fried pillows of dough for comfort.

And Just For You Cafe is coming through for me. This neighborhood spot used to be located on 18th St. in Potrero Hill, but in 2002 they moved to their current location in the Dogpatch. Their tagline: "We served slow food before it was popular." And they're not kidding: they use local charcuterie and Zoe's all natural meats, eggs from Petaluma farms, the bread they don't make on-site they buy from Acme, and the seafood and produce is mostly all local. Their emphasis is on Southern and American style cooking, with specialties like Hatch green chili huevos rancheros, creamy grits, and Creole crab cakes.

A few weeks ago, I was over that way visiting a friend and we decided to pop in after seeing the prominent "Beignets" sign in the window. It was pretty darn crowded--people bring their dogs, toddlers, the Sunday paper, out-of-town parents...and all gather waiting for a table indoors. Thankfully they provide a free coffee cart outside so you can fill up a cup and hang out on the curb. Life could be much worse.

We waited about a half hour, and were eventually seated at this little booth table all the way to the back of the restaurant. Right by the kitchen--on an unusually hot day. Nothing like a little sweat on the brow to inspire heavy beignet consumption. But we managed. Just For You Cafe serves a plate of three beignets, self-proclaimed "fresh, fluffy pillows of perfection." I would have to agree. While their beignets definitely have a little more heft than others served throughout the city, they are worth the trip. After years and years in business, they've perfected the perfect dusting of powdered sugar and the light brown, buttery exterior. Eat them right when they arrive warm: our table noticed once they cooled down, they became a bit chewy (not really what you want in your "fluffy pillow of perfection").

In addition to our little pockets of fried dough, we tried the "Crabby Bennie," Louisiana sausage, and biscuits. The Creole crabcake atop the traditional eggs benedict rocked. I love a good crabcake--and they're surprisingly tough to find. But here it's all about the crab (versus all about the breadcrumbs, leaving you wondering if there's even any crab present). And the biscuits, while we both felt they could've been lighter and flakier, had a nice crumb and traditional baking soda flavor. So while it looks like a typical greasy spoon from the outside (and inside, really), this little diner's got class. Owner Arienne Landry's proving that, with quality ingredients and local products, Southern comfort food can be mastered right here in the Bay Area.

Just For You Cafe
732 22nd, SF.
(415) 647-3033
Hours: Mon.-Tue. 7:30 a.m.-3:00 p.m.
Wed.-Fri. 7:30 a.m.-9:00 p.m. (now serving dinner)
Sat.-Sun. 8:00 a.m.-3:00 p.m.
Cash only

Featured Recipe:

Peanut Butter Oatmeal Cookies w/Butterscotch Chips
From Kitchenette SF
Ingredients:
7.5 oz butter
6 7/8 oz organic sugar
6 7/8 oz brown sugar
6 2/3 oz. peanut butter
2/3 oz. vanilla extract
2 large eggs
4 2/3 oz. oats
10 oz. organic flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp salt
10 oz butterscotch chips

Directions
Cream together the butter, sugars, peanut butter, and vanilla extract. Beat in eggs one at a time. Stir in the remaining ingredients, mixing completely. Use an ice cream scoop to make portion cookies onto a lined cookie sheet.

Small Cookies: Bake in a still oven (375 degrees) for 6-8 minutes, rotating the pan for even cooking.
Larger Cookies: bake at 350 degrees for 9-12 minutes.

Other Spots to Pop Into:
Hard Knox Cafe: 2526 3rd St., SF. (415) 648-3770
Sundance Coffee: 2293 3rd St., SF. (415) 503-1446
The New Spot: 632 20th St., SF. (415) 558-0556
Yield Wine Bar: 2490 3rd St., SF. (415) 401-8984

View SF: Dogpatch Restaurants & Bars in a larger map

Oliveto Chef Paul Canales directs the nightly "testing" of dishes prior to service at the restaurant. Photo by Carl Costas, Sacramento Bee

Like Hollywood actors, some chefs will claim that they don't pay attention to the critics. The reality, of course, is that they do.

A good review, in a prominent publication or media outlet, can help launch an upstart restaurant or attract new customers to an old one. A bad one can sink the newcomer or spell trouble for a venerated establishment.

Oliveto, the Italian restaurant in Oakland where I've been interning since April, has enjoyed its share of published praise. In her latest edition of the "Food Lover's Pocket Guide" to San Francisco and the Bay Area, food critic Patricia Unterman writes that Oliveto "sets the standard for Italian cooking in America."

Last month, the restaurant staff was buoyed by a glowing endorsement by Marcella Hazan, an author of several award winning Italian cookbooks. Writing in The Daily Beast, Hazan said she "would eat at Oliveto in Oakland every day" if she lived in the Bay Area.

Yet those appraisals were quickly overshadowed last week when Michael Bauer, the food critic for the San Francisco Chronicle, published his first major review of the restaurant since 1996.

In a nine-paragraph column, Bauer said that his last two visits to the restaurant were disappointing. He criticized the service, the atmosphere and the food, and knocked the restaurant down from 3 1/2 stars to two.

"It could be that others have caught up and that Oliveto has slipped," wrote Bauer, noting the restaurant's legacy in inspiring other chefs and restaurants across the region.

When I arrived at Oliveto on Friday, the day after the review appeared, I expected the kitchen to be buzzing about the review. Instead, it seemed just like a normal day -- busy.

The restaurant's annual tomato dinners were less than a week away, and so chefs and cooks were scurrying about, making preparations for those elaborate suppers.

Yet as the morning wore on, it became clear that the review was the 800-pound gorilla in the room. Nobody wanted to touch it, but it was pretty hard to ignore.

Server Eric Schwier puts a shine on one of the "workmanlike" wine glasses at Oliveto. Photo by Carl Costas, Sacramento Bee

One server volunteered that customers were asking about it in the cafe on the morning it appeared. Another made a joke about the "workmanlike glasses" he was handling, a reference to one of the swipes in Bauer's review.

When Chef Paul Canales arrived in the kitchen, he seemed to be as chipper as normal. But then he spent some time with a business manager looking over past reservation lists. Both were trying to determine which night Bauer might have dined (based on the menu items he ordered) and who was cooking on various stations.

"I think I might have been cooking pasta that night," said Canales. "It might have been me!"

To be sure, it wasn't a complete surprise that the Chronicle was preparing a negative review. Bauer was a huge fan of former Oliveto Chef Paul Bertolli, who trained Canales and helped establish the restaurant's reputation. In 1996, Bauer gave Oliveto four stars for food and 3 1/2 stars overall, claiming that Bertolli was "producing the best Italian food in the Bay Area."

In 2005, however, Bertolli left Oliveto in a fallout with the owners and Canales was promoted to executive chef. As the Chronicle reported that year, Canales had actually been acting chef for some time, as Bertolli grew more interested in starting his own salumi business.

The trouble signs started in January. After eating cheap food in Texas and Oklahoma, Bauer filed a blog post questioning if Oliveto was overpriced.

A few months later, he dropped Oliveto from his Top 100 Bay Area Restaurants list, a choice that baffled at least one other food writer.

In his current review, Bauer clearly was disappointed with the restaurant's appearance and service.

"If you look around the room, you see the workmanlike glasses on the tables, worn and scarred chairs, and a service staff that on my visits seemed too small for the number of seats. The waiters are good but couldn't cover the room; we waited 15 minutes for wine and practically that long before anyone had enough time to check to see if we wanted dessert."

He also had little good to say about the food.

The treviso radicchio salad with lonza (cured pork tenderloin) was "sodden." The meatballs on one of the pastas were "mushy," as were the sand dabs on another plate, he wrote.

A "lukewarm" plate of pancetta-wrapped rabbit cost Oliveto some stars from food critic Michael Bauer. Photo by Carl Costas, Sacramento Bee

"The pancetta-wrapped rabbit was lukewarm, and the braised butter lettuce underneath was cool in some spots and warm in others, arranged on the plate with a loose, red, juicy sauce. The spit-roasted pork loin ($28) is redolent of the farm and the fire, but the sour cherry and black currant compote stripped it of its natural flavor and the firm, freshly milled polenta and salty greens were a disserve to the succulent meat."

I can't argue with Bauer about the service and atmospherics. Oliveto's servers are terrifically knowledgeable about food, but sometimes they are so undermanned they must scramble to get plates out to the dining room. That's one reason the restaurant's carpets are frayed, one detail that escaped Bauer's eye.

I also don't doubt that Bauer was served some disappointing dishes on his last visit. I just question if those miscues were representative of what other customers experience.

Over the last five months, I've heard from dozens of readers, friends and acquaintances who've eaten at Oliveto. All have raved about the food and the service.

Any review of Oliveto needs to at least acknowledge the restaurant's innovations, such as its special dinners and use of old-world techniques. After years of eating in the Bay Area, I have yet to find a restaurant that offers Oliveto's variety of handmade pastas. If anything, Canales has improved the restaurant's pasta by working to procure the finest flours and eggs with the richest yolks.

It's also curious the bulk of Bauer's critique was based on a single visit to Oliveto, and that only one other guest accompanied him. At most big-city newspapers, restaurant reviewers invite at least two or three other people to join them, so they can sample the widest array of dishes. By not doing so, Bauer didn't give his readers a full sense of the Oliveto menu.

Among some at the restaurant, there's a suspicion that Bauer has a personal bias against Oliveto, and thus didn't invest much energy in reviewing it. "Ever since Bertolli left, he's had it in for us," said one of the cooks. "There is no way we can win."

Yet that sentiment is hardly universal. When I brought it up, one long-time server, Molly Surbridge, said it would be a mistake for the chefs and staff to get defensive.

"Some of his criticisms are valid," she said. "Instead of focusing on him, we should use his critique to figure out how to make this a better restaurant, not for him, but for us."

I found Molly's comment to be wise beyond her years. It's a reflection of why Oliveto is a special place to work.

The owners, chefs and servers take a lot of pride in what they do, but not to the point of avoiding introspection. Bauer's review, while off the mark in many ways, will undoubtedly spur Oliveto to engage in some healthy reflection.

After all, if you run a restaurant, you constantly have to ask yourself: How can I make it better?

Avec poultry

For every exuberantly stylish and special "Tampopo," a few dozen "No Reservations" sail into theaters to sully the food flick sub-genre: bland, safe, commercial fare smothering run-of-the-mill romance in warmed-over foodie platitudes. The tradition is troublesome, by nature, a challenge. Food engages many senses; apart from the best singularly dedicated cooking shows, the characteristics of a great meal aren't easily palpable to a viewer deprived of taste -- especially when the meal unfolds within the context of a scene in a larger narrative. Food might look okay on-screen, but it rarely comes off as particularly delicious, even in decent movies. Actors can munch on some food stylist's pretty concoction, roll their eyes, and moan embarrassingly with hammy delight, but, so frequently, even the most sumptuous footage -- hyper-real and luscious -- falls flat beneath the weight of woefully unnatural theatrics.

For the newish "Julie & Julia," Nora Ephron supposedly insisted that the food both look and taste right. In this movie, the food being cooked and eaten was clearly conceived as a character, something alive and provocative, ripe for interaction: the actors must enjoy what they're spooning up, so their enthusiastic oohs and ahhs ring truer with audiences. The whole thing theoretically hinges on faith in the food's ability to convincingly express itself, which is interesting, considering the film, at its core, isn't so much about food at all. Or at least that's how I saw it at the Kabuki on Saturday afternoon.

In "Julie & Julia," two stories, separated by continents and over half a century, congeal in parallel narratives: In 1949, Julia Child discovers fine food in Paris and ventures towards the brink of a soon-to-be mighty culinary career; in 2002, Julie Powell, a younger woman, exiled to Queens, directionless and dissatisfied, parlays a therapeutic tear through Child's ultra-famous "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" into a popular blog, and ventures towards the brink of writerly success in the form of a book deal.

In the beginning, Meryl Streep's guffawing party-gal of a gastronomic icon just wants something to do. She likes many things, including hats, but food is the latest fancy, her greatest since arriving in Paris with her husband Paul. Encountering a sprinkling of sexism and a healthy dose of anti-American resistance, Julia studies at Le Cordon Bleu, begins teaching classes, and starts work on what will become her seminal tome.

Julie is about to turn 30. She's not a selfless person, but she works a selfless job, answering phones in a cubicle for the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation post-9/11. Like bleak shades of Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha, her crummy friends from college torment her over tedious Cobb salad lunches, bragging about the money they make and the professional coups they score, pausing only to scream into cell phones at beleaguered assistants. A failed novelist, Julie also wants something to do, something more, something bigger for herself to give her purpose, an important project to complete -- because, in her mind, she's never been much good at that, the finishing of things.

The film doesn't sufficiently sell Julie's decision to blog about cooking her way through Child's celebrated book. That on-screen moment is weak, her impetus glossed over like ripples in a cake's frosting. Once Julie gets going, her resolve blossoms into a slightly creepy, worshipful obsession. Julia becomes her imaginary friend, a beacon guiding her through recipe after recipe, challenge after challenge, building and shaping her confidence. I start to become concerned when she dresses up like Child for her 30th birthday party, standing smartly before the gathered company, practically saluting, looking a little like a girl scout pretending to be a totalitarian dictator. She's mean to her husband, a sweet, easy-going guy with little cinematic heft. In a nod to gender roles, he kills lobsters when her hand falters, and willingly suffers through indigestion and his wife's marked disinterest in sex. Again and again, he tries to understand as she flies off the handle, frenzied and emotional, whenever a recipe goes wrong, when she's too whacked on gimlets to hear the timer, or, most memorably, when a stuffed chicken slides awkwardly off the kitchen counter and plummets to the floor in a heap of translucent muck, bone, and splattered forcemeat.

Slightly creepy, right?

This movie is about women's lives in transition, journeys unfolding across unfamiliar terrain. Even though food is not overly sensualized here, tastes only rarely poured over and described rapturously and richly, it's a movie dependent on the power of food, not just to galvanize our appetites and inspire the actors, but to spur on the characters they inhabit, to drive the narrative. In Julie's case, her love of food merely flickers in comparison with her pressing compulsion to broil, stew, and steam her way through the book, for the sake of the blog. When Julia cooks, she's on a journey in a purer sense, without a fixed deadline, only fretting over the fruits of her labor once they've slid into view. Cooking is passion for her, as wild and satisfying as sex, to which she doesn't hesitate to draw parallels. "These damn things are as hot as a stiff cock," she bursts out giddily in Streep's best Child-ese, as she juggles a piping hot cannelloni. At both discoveries, her joy bubbles over in ribald exaltation, whereas Julie, while acknowledging Child's chronicled passion, both in the kitchen and with Paul, the "butter to [her] bread", is too busy counting down the chapters to approach her journey with a similarly holistic vigor.

I didn't love the movie, but it was wonderful to see Child rendered so Child-like by a great actress, especially pre-fame, many decades away from becoming the quirky, charming old lady I grew up watching spar with Jacques Pepin every Saturday morning. By comparison, the Julie sequences sink like leaden quenelles. They simply prove a point: in this story, or gathering of stories, recipes are vessels. Over the course of the film, three different characters -- Julie, Julia, and Judith Jones, Child's first publisher -- make boeuf bourguignon. The same recipe comes to life in different kitchens, under different circumstances. Everyone who cooks it owns a memory of it; each individual effort passing through the recipe as if it were a conduit of experience. As many millions of cookbook owners can attest, Julia Child, or more accurately, what she represents, is a moveable feast. "I have conversations with her when I cook," says Julie, and she's right. Following a recipe is like having a conversation with convention across time and, maybe, depending on how crazy you are, the person who devised it. Like aspics, recipes can be shaky propositions; they're not infallible. For a variety of reasons, they don't always work the way they're supposed to; they require the flexibility, improvisation, and intuition only continued evolution through personal experience can provide.

Julie despairs when, on the precipice of major media triumph, she finds out the real Julia, not the clucking, whisk-brandishing fairy toque-mother of her fantasies, thinks less than highly of her blog. I'm not surprised; the idea of blogging alone probably couldn't bridge that multi-generational gap, though Child's purported sentiment has been echoed, unjustly or not, by many of Julie's blogger contemporaries. In the movie, Julie describes blogging as "yelling into the void." She goes from wondering if anyone is reading at all to worrying about what to write because so many people are reading. "Julie & Julia" is the first movie I've seen with a built-in blogging debate: are people who share their personal lives online inherently narcissistic and self-indulgent? Are they disingenuous? Are they presumptuous, like some stuffy twit way back in the pre-Internet era, dutifully keeping a diary with the idea it'll later be pored over by fascinated contributors to the New York Review of Books?

What if Julia Child had fallen for Chinese food when she lived there just a few years before moving to Paris? Would American housewives have had to come to terms with "Mastering the Art of Mandarin Cooking," "Handling Hunan," or "Szechuan From Scratch"? Might Julie be a directionless, dissatisfied San Franciscan, sequestered in the far reaches of the Richmond District, dashing down Clement Street in search of exotic ingredients, pondering Child's secrets to a sublime Shanghai soup dumpling?

That's another blog for another day.

Outside of Schmidt's looking into restaurant. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

One day last week, the lady and I had plans to visit Schmidt's for dinner. When we're deciding what to eat, we tend to favor collaboration and compromise, at least I do. Sometimes, rarely, our tastes don't intersect, and I always want to find dishes we both want, even if it means passing on something I'd really, really like to try. In the case of Schmidt's, a sleek, two month-old German eatery in the Mission District, I knew what I wanted, and would accept no proxies: hasenpfeffer, a red wine-soaked saddle and leg of rabbit with braised lingonberry-sweetened cabbage. In the hours leading up to our meals together, we typically examine menus online and discuss what appeals via texts and emails. Frequently, we have a pretty good idea of what we'll order before we walk through the restaurant's doors. On this occasion, I'd done my research, and knew, without question, that I had to hit that hop. The problem was, I wasn't so sure my lady would dance with me.

I positioned myself accordingly. At around 1:00 p.m., I sent off a quick text:

Was thinking about bunny. Now not so sure.

Her swift response, even more succinct, confirmed my fears:

I will not eat the bun.

Disappointed yet far from resigned, I honed a strategy. It was too early for negotiations. I ate lunch and crafted a diversionary text, giving the impression I was feeling flexible and perhaps willing to eat something else altogether:

Salad good. Still hungry. Tonight maybe fish if on special.

Rabbit is a polarizing meat. The world is full of people like my lady: hyper-carnivorous, adventurous gourmets who gleefully inhale piles of Korean barbecue, fried chicken dinners, and entire flocks in the form of steaming shawarmas, yet turn meek and wane at the prospect of the Easter Bunny, sauteed, on a plate. Rabbits are cute but surely no cuter than fuzzy sheep, baby chickens, and pink piglets -- cuddly creatures we're generally more comfortable cooing over and then, respectfully, consuming. Rabbits are also pets, but even those of us who have never fed and groomed one feel as if we know them. From folklore-steeped tricksters Bugs and Bre'er, to Thumper, Alice's elusive White, and the whole floppy-eared cast of Watership Down, the rabbit has an enduring and frequently anthropomorphized presence in popular culture, one that surpasses those of other commonly eaten animals. In whatever form, such familiar images, voices, stories, and carried connotations grip folks, and that, more than a real rabbit's bobbing tail, vacuous little eye-specks, and pink twitching nose, contributes to the skittishness diners display when there's hare to be had.

In many cultures, rabbits are a symbol of fertility and rebirth. They're associated with the season Spring and, of course, Easter. In real-life, they're viewed as gentle, vegetarian, harmless, and, despite their breeding proclivities, somehow suggestive of innocence. However, to gardeners like my mother in Louisville, Kentucky, they are far from innocent or harmless; they are a nuisance, a virulent menace fond of hopping, rustling and sniffing, through the backyard shrubbery every April to terrorize lettuce, cucumbers, squash, beans, herbs, and flowers. My mom doesn't hunt or even eat meat, but I doubt she'd mind if Elmer Fudd and Yosemite Sam showed up one year, shotguns at the ready, to declare war on her tormentors, and keep the neighborhood bistro stocked with lapin all summer long.

Back in San Francisco, it was 6:30 p.m. My lady and I rolled into Schmidt's, ravenous. As I'd suspected, there was no fish on special. My lady wanted a sausage, which was fine by me. We had to find another entree. I knew exactly what that had to be but I had to bide my time. If she sensed my profound resolve, she did not let on.

"I just don't think I can do it," she said, her eyes peering out, just barely visible above the menu held in front of her face.
"Do what?" I asked, feigning cluelessness.
"The bunny," she said, sighing. "I'm sure it's amazing, but I don't want to eat it."
"It's cool," I answered, sort of shrugging lightly and waving my hands as if I didn't care. "No bunny, no problem. I'll get a sausage too, maybe the duck one."
"Two sausages? They don't make the sausages here. If you're writing about this, we should get something they make here too," she said, ignoring my allusion.
"Well, I don't want blood sausage or the veal," I countered, gesturing towards the listing for an egg-topped schnitzel festooned with white anchovies, capers, and cauliflower. It was time to play hardball, to throw down cards, and make a final, decisive play. "I'm getting the rabbit," I said, folding my menu and reaching for the beer list. "Will you eat it?" I didn't look up as I spoke, trying to appear focused on selecting an appropriate brew.
There was a pause. "Hell yes."

And so, maneuvering ceased; we were eating rabbit.

In the classic 1949 cartoon Bowery Bugs, Bugs Bunny, pacing in circles around his den, carrot in mid-gnaw, makes, in that distinctive, chattering, Flatbush bark, his case for survival to a downtrodden New York City bookie in search of a good luck charm. "These rabbit's feet never brought me any luck," Bugs points out, pleading. "Look at the lives rabbits lead: Dogs, hunters, and hasenpfeffer."

Hasenpfeffer, a red wine-soaked saddle and leg of rabbit with braised lingonberry-sweetened cabbage. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

Bugs could use some perspective. If the version at Schmidt's serves as any indication, hassenpfeffer is an unpretentious yet noble and exceedingly delicious way for a rabbit to end up. For a goofy, unintelligent, nervous wreck of a mammal, this beast sure tastes serious, deep, and soulful after a trip through chef Matt Shapiro's kitchen. Sweet shards of pale meat tumble off delicate bones rising up from a creamy, golden moat of rich sauce, a purple mountain of cabbage looming behind. The picture currently floating around the Internet (to be fair, in the company of a positive, well-crafted mention) unfortunately makes Shapiro's hassenpfeffer look like a symptom of an obscure, unsavory medical condition, or something from one of the Alien movies, a mound of extraterrestrial dung, perhaps. I sympathize. My first crack at pictures in the restaurant's dark dining room turned out so badly I had to outsource art to a real photographer.

Bean Salad. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

The rabbit was the defining triumph but not so magnificent as to obscure the rest of the meal: an excellent Thuringer brat, snappy and juicy, best with a touch of an amazing sweet mustard (Schmidt's sells it, along with other German products such as mini-wieners, bottled, floating in water), a subtle, nutty, toothsome salad of green and waxed bean strips with hazelnuts, fried sage, and a citrus vinaigrette, and spaetzle, sans cheese, in fluffy, mild strands, like scrambled eggs colliding with a bowl of cereal -- in a good way. Far from the sort of heavily branded hot-spot designed to lure diners from around the city, Schmidt's is a new neighborhood gem the neighborhood can actually afford -- truly, simply, a very fine place to eat, much like Walzwerk, the owners' first restaurant, though more austere in appearance, with better food. We ordered some bread too, with the idea we'd use it to sop up every last bit of rabbit essence. This was unnecessary. The rabbit came with plenty of bread, the dense, heavy German sort. Unlike less refined purveyors of wurst, Schmidt's doesn't bludgeon you with excessive portions. Bread abuse in the line of duty -- respect for the rabbit's last luscious remnants -- caused me to walk at a 45 degree angle all the way home, stuffed, my body unable to conjure energy for any task beyond digestion. Yet even as I limped, 'kraut-addled, harebrained, breaded, and in need of a comfortable chair, part of me wanted to head back, to find a way to eat some more rabbit. To rock it, to roll it, slop it, and stroll it, once again -- at the hop.

Schmidt's
2400 Folsom St
(between 20th St & 21st St)
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 401-0200
*Cash only

It was the season of sauce, it was the season of toppings. It was the spring of onions, it was the sausage of despair. We had pies before us, we had crusts before us.

No lesser authority than The New York Times says artisanal pizza is on the rise. Just last week, the Gray Lady blew the trend up, making a case for the elegantly appointed pizzeria as a cost-conscious diner's best bet amid rotten economic circumstances. In San Francisco, this sub-genre of the pizza form is currently encroaching on the Mission District's once-fior di latte-less expanse with great success. Pizzeria Delfina and Beretta are delicious examples of what's sizzling in Burritoland, though only the former would probably describe itself as a pizzeria first and foremost. Flour + Water just opened on Harrison in the last few months, serving pasta, salumi, and a familiar stripe of 'za: smallish, thin-crusted rounds decked out in classic and occasionally inventive combinations of toppings with a traditional bent and heavy, local-centric nods to seasonality. As if that weren't enough upscale crust and cheese to blanket a few square miles of coveted real estate, Pi Bar will soon start slinging (whole pies and cheese slices for, ha ha, $3.14) on Valencia near 25th, at a renovated space once home to Suriya Thai.

You might not have heard, but in Fall of 2008, Pizzeria opened its doors on a humming stretch of Valencia Street, not far from its intersection with 18th. As of press time, the establishment has garnered 45 reviews on Yelp, most of them quite positive. Yet, for all the times I've wandered past its wide windows, I've never seen a customer populating one of the dining room's handsome circular wooden tables. I've stared at the menu. I've contemplated the helpful photographs of Pizzeria's offerings pasted to the front window. I've watched cooks bustle, a waiter mop, and a manager meticulously refill and reposition jars of red pepper flakes on the long counter, but, never, not once, have I witnessed a person, sitting down, napkin on lap, actually tucking into a plate of anything.

And I've always wondered why. Location could not be the problem. Valencia is a major thoroughfare for night-time revelers and day-time shoppers. The product itself is not immediately suspect either. It's pizza, after all; everyone likes it. Unlike Beretta and Flour + Water, and to a lesser extent, Pizzeria Delfina, purveyors of an ostensibly fancier kind of pizza, the vibe is not glamorous. Apart from the wood oven used to bake them, the wares are not authentic but fairly pan-pizza in approach, though, in this age of hyper-fusion frenzy, that shouldn't deter the masses. You won't find habaneros, chicken tikka masala, or barbecue on pizza in Naples, but, these days, in the United States, thanks perhaps to the influence of California Pizza Kitchen, they're not exactly unusual toppings, and perfectly appropriate in the right context.

Pizzeria is also Halal. The pig is on a big muddy pedastal these days, and there's a chance the absence of house-cured prosciutto, guanciale, and an occasional trotter special throws potential customers off the scent. In addition, Pizzeria sells no alcohol. One Yelper reports brown-bagging some brew, but the restaurant doesn't specifically recommend doing so. Unless you're willing to ask and perhaps plead, the closest thing to a dinner buzz or a perfect pairing you'll get here will have to come in the form of a $2.50 soda. For many, this will prove a bigger sticking point than the pancetta non grata situation.

Could cost be the issue? Probably not, though, as far as pizza goes, Pizzeria's is not particularly inexpensive. In fact, its pizza margherita costs a dollar more than a similarly sized version made by Flour + Water, when the ingredients are obviously the same: tomatoes, fresh basil, mozzarella, and olive oil.

Generally speaking, when a restaurant's always empty, no passer-by wants to play guinea pig. Delivery customers write the majority of Pizzeria's Yelp reviews, and they tend to gush about speedy delivery and the endearing customer service, signs a few people have been curious enough to phone in orders, and the business owners are working hard to amass devotees, one at a time if necessary. Pizzeria is not open for lunch, which seems like a curious choice to make, especially if the owners want bodies in the dining room. Walk-in customers are more likely at lunch-time, especially on the weekends, when weary shoppers from other parts of town, quivering beneath the weight of new purchases, and stoned folks staggering in from Dolores Park make impulsive dining decisions based on whatever is in front of them.

Unlike Pizzeria, Flour + Water, the sort of sleek, self-styled "neighborhood" restaurant that employs a publicist, has been hot. A dozen local press mentions and reviews popped up within days of its opening, many before, and over 118 reviewers have since weighed in, many charmed by the food, a number irritated by the crowds and clientele, and more than a few disparaging of the hosts' demeanor. No one likes a line, and Flour + Water's perpetually snakes out the door like links of runaway sausages. In shaping their doughy vision, the heads behind Flour + Water actually followed a pizza principle not unlike what was outlined in the Times piece, figuring rustic fare in a lovely dark wood-enhanced setting might rake in diners trying to scale back on spending without sacrificing the level of ambience regular restaurant-goers tend to favor. According to Flour + Water's website, the restaurant's design and construction "are all about the mantra of the triple r: refurbished, repurposed and reclaimed," a triptych of buzzwords pretty much designed to make people feel as if they're sitting down to something real, hip, and happening, yet non-indulgent, and even -- gasp -- responsible.

Pizzeria and Flour + Water don't serve the same kind of pizza, so reviewing them in tandem wouldn't make sense. I'm interested in why one restaurant is full, and the other is empty. Does the press machine get behind whatever they're told to get behind by whomever gets to decide what should be gotten behind? Is herd mentality a lot of what's keeping Flour + Water packed tighter than a jar of oil-cured anchovies and Pizzeria as forlorn and lonely as a marinara-deprived breadstick? Does a Halal pizzeria without a pizzaiolo or a publicist stand a chance in this city?

On Saturday, I decided to seize the pizza by the box and give Pizzeria a real shot. At 5:15 p.m., I slowly and deliberately walked up to the door. I looked in through the smudged glass. I couldn't do it. The prospect of being the only person in the place stressed me out. A lopsided ratio of cooks to customers makes for awkward dining, a rigid, uncomfortable experience, like at a show, when a band dwarfs the crowd. I turned tail and scurried back to my apartment where, furious with my lack of courage, yet quite relieved, I immediately dialed in an order for delivery: a $12 small "Popeye" pizza (baby spinach, slow-roasted garlic, and red onion) to which I, for an extra buck, boldly added beef pepperoni. Minutes later, Pizzeria's pizza and I were face-to-face.

The mystery was over. The crust's bottom was black and blistery; the gnarled sides and top were beautiful, rutted in all the right places, tunnels of taste within, perfect pockets of air crunching, wafer-like, between teeth. The toppings were fine. I liked the cheese. The sauce was unmemorable. The thick slices of raw red onion didn't do much for me. I prefer them cooked, semi-pickled, or, if raw, very, very, very thinly slivered. The beef pepperoni didn't taste weird until I tried it cold on Sunday morning. Overall, Pizzeria makes a really good pizza in keeping with its intent: flavorful, timely, unpretentious, and very pizza-like. Everyone should go there ... or at least get something delivered.

Sandwich Cubano

Rich, roasted, shredded Niman pork, boiled ham, melty Swiss, an even layer of sweet and tangy pickles, whole grain mustard, creamy mayo, and a buttery, crusty, fresh roll, hot pressed, melding it all together.

Ah.MA.zing.

No, seriously. If I could marry a sandwich, this would be it.

Each bite of the Cubano gives you everything one could ever wish for in a sandwich. Meatiness. Meltiness. Crunch. Chew. An explosion of flavors in perfect harmony. Mee-ow.

It's no wonder that this bright little Cuban café is always packed at lunchtime.

Paladar Café Cubano, San Francisco FiDi

Lunchtime at Paladar

The Latin music keeps things lively -- as does the addictive Café con Leche, and the Mexican Coca-Cola made with real cane sugar, all 39 grams/serving of it.

Mexican Coca-Cola

The regulars are stoked to be back -- on my first visit, I actually overheard a dapper gentleman in a panama hat and seersucker exclaim to no one in particular, "Man! This place rocks!" as he salsa'd out the door.

And then there is the food -- warm, inviting, and satisfying.

Picadillo, Paladar Café Cubano

Other than wanting to marry the Cuban Sandwich, you may also find yourself wanting to have babies with the Picadillo Cubano estilo Elena.

Niman ground beef, browned and seasoned with sautéed onions, garlic, tomatoes, peppers, green olives, raisins, and herbs, the result is an intensely aromatic Cuban version of an Italian ragu. The Picadillo is served with fluffy white rice and fried sweet plantains.

The sandwiches and mains are also served with a side of mixed greens. Nice touch. Sometimes it is drizzled with a heavenly coconut milk dressing, other times with a garlic aioli.

In Cuba, paladares are small family-run restaurants that serve home-cooking. While the space at Paladar Café Cubano may be small, the flavors are big. Big, bold, and comforting. This is food that makes you smile.

Paladar Café Cubano
329 Kearny St
(between Bush St & Pine St)
San Francisco, CA 94108
(415) 398-4899

Thank god for crappy hospital food.

Seriously, as much as I respect and liked my caretakers at Lucile Packard Children's Hospital at Stanford, their food was not all they advertised.

Big surprise, right? Thankfully, my husband was ready and willing to bring back food from any place I wanted. He even would have driven up to San Francisco to bring me Piccino or Nopalito. Lucky for us and for our future stomachs that he didn't have to go nearly so far.

Just down the street from the hospital is Tootsie's. Tucked in the historic Stanford Barn, which served as the Stanford winery until 1893, Tootsie's is a little Italian jewel of an eatery that offers high-end coffees and espresso, sandwiches, fresh salads, and breakfasts. Jen Maiser alerted me to Tootsie's existence soon after we moved down here, and we'd been intending to go ever since.

In a bow to the location's history, Shannon and Rocco Scordella named their place for university namesake Leland Stanford Junior's dog (did you follow that?) and opened the red bricked restaurant six months ago. Both Scordellas have worked in fine dining in New York, and Chef Rocco, who originally hails from Puglia and Bologna, Italy, was brought to New York by Mario Batali to work at Del Posto.

Unfortunately, we kept wanting to go for dinner, which they don't serve -- though Shannon did tell us on a recent visit that they might move to small plates and an enoteca-type setting -- so most of our half-hearted efforts were thwarted until I was in the hospital with a days-old baby. Mathra called me from Tootsie's to read off their menu -- I had my laptop in the hospital (of course!) but their website doesn't seem to be operational -- and he didn't get past, "fried chicken sandwich."

Man. That sandwich. That SANDWICH! That sandwich isn't just a sandwich. It's a crispy-succulent soul reviver, topped with endive-caper slaw and snugged between two halves of a crusty bun. After getting only two hours of sleep in the 48 hours that followed Henry's birth, that sandwich saved my sanity and kept me from going all Yellow Wallpaper in the maternity ward.

I've been home from the hospital for two weeks, and I've had that sandwich -- along with the accompanying homemade oregano potato chips -- five times. If that sandwich was the only thing they served, I still would think Tootsie's was worth it. However, good thing for everyone else (who have enough sense to take me at my word and run, don't walk, to Tootsie's), they also have a brilliant agrumi salad with butter lettuce, radish, celery, grapefruit segments, and shaved fennel; and a white bean, fennel, and flaked tuna salad with the springiest, most pristine arugula outside of Chez Panisse's crisper.

A very recent trip had us trying a brand new menu item: octopus and farro salad with celery and carrots, a divine dish that Rocco told us was his mother's recipe from Puglia. On the same trip, we sampled an Italian sausage and roasted pepper sandwich on a thick bun that was slabbed over with broccoli pesto and light touches of mustard; both were delicious dishes I hope I see often on the menu.

For breakfast, I will clog my arteries as frequently as I can with their poached egg on thick toast. Sound prosaic? What if I tell you that the poached egg is topped with celery, olives, and a drizzle of olive oil?

Some day I plan to try their crêpe-esque ricotta pancakes with strawberries, but I'm having a hard time tearing myself away from that poached egg. I also had a bite of their veal-pork burger with olives and oregano ground right into the meat and slathered with caramelized onions and mozzarella cheese. I wonder if anyone will believe me when I say that the shoestring potatoes Tootsie's serves with that burger are better than those found at Zuni Cafe?

Tootsie's at the Stanford Barn
700 Quarry Road
Palo Alto, CA 94304
(650) 566-8445

One of my favorite culinary mash-ups of recent years is the Vietnamese-Chinese-Cajun crawfish boil served with rice or garlic noodles. Following the arc of families moving from Vietnam to New Orleans to Southern California to, finally, San Jose and San Francisco, mud bugs have taken a garlicky turn and shown up, of all places, in Little Saigon's across the country.

Red Crawfish in San Francisco's Tenderloin is the one closest and dearest to me, as I head over that way anytime I'm craving familiar, comforting flavors. Boiled crawfish is a new tradition among my peeps, but it's one that I'm very happy to adopt, too.

Eating here is a dress-down, messy affair that requires friends with absolutely no pretensions about food. The red, steaming, spicy crawfish come out from the kitchen in pails and are plopped down on the paper-topped table inside plastic bags, rather than piled right on the table, to hold in all that the thick, rich broth.

I love very spicy food and found that the medium was just fine for me. If you're hungry and a bit of a glutton, you could eat two pounds of crawfish with nothing else, but it's definitely hard to resist popular side orders like batter-fried sweet potatoes, buttery garlic noodles, buttery garlic toast, or just plain rice. You can also order potatoes and corn on the cob, and they'll throw them right in with the crawfish. If you don't suck the heads (and the purists among us would insist that you do), you should at least order some garlic noodles or a bowl of rice for soaking up all the juicy goodness that spurts out of each one.

There are other entrees on the Red Crawfish's menu -- the usual suspects of Vietnamese fare dominates over the Cajun influence -- but I haven't yet strayed far from the namesake of the restaurant. The huge bowl of spicy seafood soup is definitely worth sharing, while next on my list is one of my favorite dishes, bun rieu, seafood and tomato-tinged broth served over rice noodles.

For the DIY folks, there's also plenty of local crawfish harvested from the Sacramento Delta and from California's rice fields. Although the Isleton Crawdad Festival was canceled last month, another victim of the recession, you can still pick up live mud bugs (more for the rest of us!) from Bob's Bait Shop a.k.a. The Master Baiter. Located near the Sacramento Delta and the premier sources of live bait in the area, the shop also provides local crawfish for cooks picky about freshness. Be sure to call in advance, especially if you need more than 15 pounds. Check also with large Asian supermarkets near you, especially 99 Ranch Market, where crawfish can often be found crawling around live in the tanks.

Those of us who have no shame will even ask the server at Red Crawfish to leave all the shells on the table so that, at the end of the meal, we can bag them up, spices and all, to make a very tasty stock back at home. Add some Cajun trinity, some dark roux, stir in a little heavy cream and lots of dry sherry, pull out a blender and a mesh strainer -- and you have a pot of mighty tasty soup.

RED CRAWFISH
611 Larkin Street
San Francisco, CA 94109
(415) 771-1388
Map

BOB'S BAIT SHOP
302 2nd Street
Isleton, CA 95641
(916) 777-6666 or (916) 777-6806
Map