You know when you take a bite of something and you realize that this is a taste you are going to crave? Like salted caramel ice cream at Bi-Rite Creamery. It’s usually something you can’t get just anywhere. For me it often happens when I’m traveling somewhere and I won’t easily find that taste again back home. Like the Middlewhite bacon sandwich at St. John’s in London (on homemade bread with homemade ketchup, don’t knock it til you try it), which my husband and I often wistfully talk about. Or, more recently, the most perfect shrimp po-boy from New Orleans.

A few weeks ago I went to New Orleans, a city I adore and which I’ve visited many times while growing up in Texas, but where I had not returned for at least 8 years. This was my first visit post-Katrina, and it ended up being one of the most meaningful, eye-opening, and intense experiences I’ve had while traveling (more on that in another post when I’ve had a chance to digest it all). For me, most of what makes New Orleans so special are the people who live there and their generous and kind spirit. With all that they’ve been through, they still carry on with the most positive attitude, full of Southern hospitality. It’s obvious every time you go to a restaurant or a bar and they serve up some authentic New Orleans cuisine, welcoming, gracious, and always happy to have you there.

On the advice of a few locals, we headed over to Domilise’s Po-Boy & Bar for one of the best po-boys in town. Tucked away in a residential area, we almost drove by the nondescript corner restaurant. It’s all that you might expect from a divey po-boy shop, the deep fryer and sandwich station on one wall, the bar on the other, and a handful of tables scattered in between. The line moves swiftly, and then you have to jostle for a table before your name is called and your sandwich comes out. In keeping with the old-time Southern feel, the drinks on offer include bottled Barq’s root beer and crème soda.

We were told that their specialty was the “1/2 and 1/2 dressed.” Huh? 1/2 fried shrimp, 1/2 fried oysters. “Dressed” means slathered with mayo, creole mustard, ketchup, and topped with shredded lettuce and pickles. There is nothing light or healthy here, so if you are looking for that, you should go elsewhere.

Not being a huge fan of fried oysters (I like mine raw), I went for the shrimp po-boy dressed (although my friend did order the 1/2 and 1/2, which only comes in a large size, and amazed us all by eating the whole thing). It was incredible, and we were not disappointed. I knew one bite in that I was done for. Fresh, crisp-fried shrimp that burst in your mouth with flavor, real Gulf shrimp that you just can’t get out here on the west coast. Light, airy crisp-on-the-outside French bread–oozing with the perfect amount of condiments–held it all together. I knew that I would return to the Bay Area and think about that sandwich, and wish I could just pop on over to Domilise’s and get another. I’m thinking about it right now actually. My friend Amy emailed me a week to the day that we went and reminded me of the sandwich, and how she wished she had one RIGHT NOW. It’s going to be a problem, I can tell.

So I decided to try to reconstruct one from memory. It won’t be the same. I don’t have the sweet old guy behind the bar asking, “What can I get you sweetie?” Or the friendly folks around us smiling and chatting with us, or the smell of the fresh seafood being deep fried, or that perfect taste that I crave when it all came together one day in New Orleans.

A Dressed Shrimp Po-boy

Serves 4

Ingredients
For the shrimp:
Peanut oil for frying
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup cornflour
1 egg
1 1/2 lbs medium shrimp, peeled and deveined

For the sandwiches:
4 soft white French rolls (New Orleans style), split in half and warmed in the oven
Mayo
Creole mustard
Ketchup
About 2 cups shredded iceberg lettuce
Dill pickle slices

Preparation
1. In a medium saucepan, add enough oil so that it is 1/2-inch deep. Heat to 375 F.

2. Have ready three shallow bowls. In bowl #1, put about 1/2 cup flour. In bowl #2, crack the egg and whisk it until frothy. In bowl #3, stir together about 1/2 cup cornflour with about 1/4 cup flour. Rinse and dry the shrimp. Dredge them first in the flour, then in egg, then in the cornflour mixture.

3. Add the shrimp, in batches to avoid overcrowding, and fry just until golden brown. Set aside to drain on a paper-towel lined plate.

4. Spread each side of the bread with mayo, then creole mustard. Layer the fried shrimp, a squirt of ketchup, the lettuce, and then the pickle slices on the sandwich. Eat it up!

Domilise’s Po-Boy & Bar
5240 Annunciation St.
New Orleans, LA
504-899-9126
map

A small way that you can help:
The Southern Food and Beverage Museum, located in New Orleans, lost over half its collection of cookbooks in Katrina. They are trying to rebuild their collection through donations across the country. If you have cookbooks on the American South or cuisines and cultures that have influenced the cuisine of that region; community-based cookbooks or pamphlets; culinary histories; or any cuisine-based books that you think they might be interested in, please send them to:

Southern Food & Beverage Museum
Attn: Liz Williams
1 Poydras Street, #169
New Orleans, Louisiana 70130

Okay, Green Chile Kitchen? We’re going to have a little chat, and I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen, ‘kay?

We’ve been going to and loving you for quite some time now. We are, quite possibly, your best customers. Hell, one of your checkout chicks commented to my husband, “You haven’t been here in awhile!” (Quite true, we hadn’t, but she noticed which was awesome!) Also, even if you don’t have caller ID, there’s no way you don’t identify us as, “those weird people who order the same salad every time — you know, the ones who always, always want their fifth ingredient to just be more [redacted]?”

You are a feast for us as much as you are a comfort. We revel in your fresh greens, we approve of your new and spicier guacamole, and we laud your Niman Ranchiness. (Sidetrack: Is it just me or is Niman Ranch sort of over? I mean, yes, it’s undeniably good stuff, but I think the most sought-after meat names these days are not the ones that are known across the country. We’re such spoiled Californians.)

So I say this with love: GET ANOTHER FREAKING REGISTER! Seriously? Waiting in line to pick up a take-out order behind all those baked witlings, who have wrapped themselves in blankets after spending the entire day in Alamo Square Park in order to smoke away every single synapse and then come to GCK, not knowing what the hell they want to order because they got distracted by a shiny object while standing in line and then try to inveigle your eminently patient checkout chicks in deep discussions about her back tattooes, all while my crispy tacos get so decidedly UNcrispy that they sog their bottoms out when I pick them up, well, there is a limit.

You always do apologize, probably both for the long wait and idiot customers, but still, can we talk about solutions here? Please?

TWO REGISTERS! One for orders made there and for those intending to eat-in, and the other to ring up and dispense take-out orders. Plus, even if there aren’t enough take-out orders at any given time to merit the other register, at least the line can be filtered over to a second reg, rendering the wait shorter and ALL of our lives easier.

Seriously. I really just want this to work out.

This was supposed to be an easy-does-it post…

Go to Coffee Bar. Go to Coffee Bar to get a beautiful, just-for-you cup of Clover-made coffee. Go to Coffee Bar because it is not Starbucks, which, not surprisingly, is just around the corner.

And then, upon my second trip into the place, I bugged the barista into letting me take pictures of my coffee being made:

202 Degree F. water goes in, barista stirs with care…

Machine works like a big French Press in reverse and makes what looks like a giant, overbaked sugar cookie…

Out comes one of the best cups of coffee I’ve ever had…

Blah, blah, blah…

Well, I thought, spending more than $10,000 on a coffee machine is so absolutely worth it! And so is the $3.00 charged per cup. Really.

I still think so. If you are a coffee lover and have not had Clover coffee, I suggest you do so. Now.

I was feeling so self-satisfied. I’d had a long, pleasant walk, I was in a sleek, beautiful space with a good book clutched under my arm, and I was being very well caffeinated by a cup of coffee so strong and well balanced, that I felt no need to add sugar or cream, which is atypical of my style. I normally drink kindercafe in the morning. I had everything I needed for a good half hour’s rest-and-refuel.

And then the barista told me that Starbucks had recently bought the company that makes the Clover machine. I felt as though the Publisher’s Clearing House van had just pulled up to my house and, as Ed McMahon was about to hand me my bouquet of balloons and over-sized check, my doctor telephones me to tell me I have only two weeks to live. A certain bitterness crept into my otherwise perfect cup of coffee. I think it was my tears. Or perhaps some of the bile that rose from my esophagus as I tried to digest the news.

Perhaps Starbucks saved enough money from the tips they stole from their baristas to buy Clover’s soul.

I suppose a small consolation is that Coffee Bar was able to purchase its Clover before Starbucks wrapped its caffeinated tentacles around it. And that it’s very much worth experiencing.

I also love the fact that the folks at Coffee Bar are pleasant, helpful, and relatively no-nonsense about their coffee. Their coffee menu is simple:

Sorry, Yelp woman, no cinnamon. Bring your own if it’s that much of an issue for you.

Remind me later to tell you about my mixed feelings about Yelp.

Go to Coffee Bar for a nice, big cup of this:

Nuff said.

Coffee Bar
Open Daily from 7 am
1890 Bryant Street
(Mariposa and Florida)
San Francisco, CA
94110
415-551-8100

View Larger Map

I stupidly made our reservation for 7:15pm, not even considering the fact that we might have wanted to see the magnificent Big Sur sunset from our perch at Nepenthe. (Sunset is currently at 7:27pm). I know, I know, kind of a cliché Big Sur “thing to do” but it was my husband’s very first trip to the magical little coastal town of Big Sur and we were celebrating his 1-year anniversary of moving to the United States.

Upon recommendation from one of his basketball buddies, I had booked a table at the Big Sur Bakery and Restaurant, a little gem that apparently has been around for awhile, but which I’d never noticed or even heard of (even though I’ve been to Big Sur countless times.

It was an unseasonably warm evening and when we arrived the light was dusky and purple across the mountains behind us. The restaurant, even though it has quite a few windows, is cozy and dark and would make an excellent refuge from the typically foggy chilly weather I associate with that part of the coast.

It wasn’t terribly busy, but it did take quite some time for the waitstaff/owner/host to work out where we’d be seated. Don’t get me wrong, everyone was exceedingly friendly the entire evening, but it was a bit of foreshadowing to a night of slightly confused service. (Just to explain before I go on, there were a few instances of forgetfulness, and a general lack of confidence by the waitstaff; the restaurant could benefit from clarifying everyone’s roles and responsibilities.)

Big Sur Bakery and Restaurant has a wood-fire oven which takes center stage on the menu. They base much of their seasonal, organic menu on dishes that can be baked, roasted, or braised in the oven. They also have a wood-fired grill.

The menu–which seems to change monthly–offers a handful of interesting salads and starters, five different pizzas (which looked amazing and which we vowed to try upon our return, and yes we will certainly be returning), a whole smattering of vegetable dishes (vegetarians take note: this place is an excellent choice for anyone who doesn’t eat meat), and a well-thought-out selection of mains. In addition, there were two additional starters and mains on offer.

We started with one of the salad specials, a mound of microgreens grown and harvested just behind the restaurant, tender spring fava beans, baby asparagus, and fresh peas all lightly dressed with carrot-ginger vinaigrette. It was incredibly fresh, springtime on a plate. We also had a gorgeous salad of butter lettuce, microgreens, shaved fennel, pecorino, tarragon and lemon vinaigrette, which was perfectly balanced with fresh, tangy, sweet, and salty flavors.

The star of the evening had to be our main-dish special though: rabbit in the wood-fire oven, cooked two ways: roasted saddle of rabbit wrapped in Serrano ham and braised whole leg in au jus; served with French white beans, pancetta, carrots, and braised greens. It was so good in fact that we couldn’t help but tell the tables next to us that they must order it. We also shared a grilled flatiron steak with red wine gravy and smashed Yukon gold potatoes, carrots, and braised fennel. The steak was tender and deeply flavored, but was a bit on the rare side (we had ordered medium-rare). The potatoes were a good choice, but neither of us loved the fennel and thought that could have been left out of the mix.

The wine list leans toward offerings from the central coast, with additional French and Italian wines. There are a decent number of wines available for under $40, but the prices go up rather quickly from there. We chose a gorgeous medium-bodied earthy Sicilian nero d’avola. Granted it was a abnormally warm evening, but the wine was served slightly on the warm side, a big peeve of mine. But the staff gladly chilled the wine for a minute and then it was perfect.

We finished with a brown butter rhubarb tart with brown butter ice cream and a tangy lemon pudding cake with lemon sorbet and huckleberries, both of which were perfect marriages of winter flavors (brown butter and citrus) meet early springtime fruits (rhubarb and huckleberries). We ordered a light moscato to pair alongside the dessert, but even though we reminded the waiter when the dishes arrived, the wine never did. Well, it did but only after we were long finished.

If you can get past the service not being spot on, which in my opinion you should, and accept some less polished occasional missteps (but always with a smile and an apology!), then Big Sur Bakery and Restaurant has a lot to offer. Romantic, tucked away, local and seasonal, and most of all superbly delicious.

Big Sur Bakery and Restaurant
Highway One
Big Sur, CA 93920
831.667.0520
map

“The chestnut soup was good, but not Bar Jules good,” a friend told me the other day. She was referring to a delicious chestnut and farro soup that we’d eaten at Bar Jules a couple of months back.

In the time since Bar Jules opened in December, it has quickly become a place that I recommend to friends — especially for its lovely weekend brunches. Chef Jessica Bonecutter is known around San Francisco, having chefed at Hog Island Oyster Bar and Zuni Cafe.

Bar Jules has a stated commitment to sustainable practices and is buying most of their ingredients from local farmers and sustainable sources.

Entering Bar Jules, you will find several large chalkboards with the day’s menu instead of paper menus. The small menu changes on a daily basis and is dependent on seasonal availability. As Sam of Becks and Posh stated, “because of the limited options, this is not the place to take a fussy eater.”

If you’re not fussy, however, delights will abound. I seriously mourned the day that Desiree, my favorite breakfast location in the Presidio, closed a couple of years ago — mostly because of their perfectly cooked eggs. The brunch that I had at Bar Jules came close to Desiree’s taste — scrambled eggs with sorrel and parmesan were on the menu the morning I went. While those were delicious, the hit of the table was poached eggs with lamb.

Last week, I returned to Bar Jules for lunch. I loved the “mussels on the grill with paprika, garlic & lemon” ($12). The mussels had a deep roasted flavor. I requested bread to dip into my mussel juices, and was given a perfectly grilled toast which went perfectly with the dish.

Even the drinks at Bar Jules are special. Beer and wine are available, along with a lovely rosebud tea, Blue Bottle Coffee and seasonal juices — last week I had a delicious pomegranate spritzer.

The Bar Jules menu changes daily, but the staff meticulously updates their web page with the most current menu and prices. Bar Jules does not take reservations.

Common Ground on Bar Jules’ sustainability practices

Bar Jules
609 Hayes Street (at Laguna)
San Francisco
415-621-5482

Dinner, Tuesday - Saturday
Lunch, Wednesday - Saturday
Brunch, Sundays
Closed Mondays

The Ahwahnee is a special place for me. My husband proposed to me while cross-country skiing in the Yosemite Valley meadow and we ate at the Ahwahnee that night. A year or so later we then got married at the Ahwahnee and had our reception in the Solarium behind the Great Lounge. I love the architecture, Native American art and tapestries, and, of course, those amazing views of Yosemite Valley from every window. I also love eating in their dining room.

The Ahwahnee was built in 1927, and since that time has offered visitors a fine dining (and hotel) experience in this treasure of a National park. The hotel and dining room itself are architecturally magnificent, with high wood-beamed ceilings, stone pillars, enormous windows looking out onto the valley and the enormous granite cliffs above it, and candles hung from immense candelabras. A large Steinway piano sits along one side and the restaurant offers music during dinner and special events. On our last visit, the piano player was kind enough to include renditions of Puff the Magic Dragon and the theme to Harry Potter, which delighted my daughters, along with some nice Cole Porter and Duke Ellington pieces.

In addition to the views, architecture and ambiance, one of the things I appreciate about the Ahwahnee dining room is that they make an effort to offer organic and locally-grown ingredients. When I was there last week, the dinner menu had a paragraph at the bottom that said “We are proud to present our seasonal dinner menu featuring both organic and sustainably harvested products. We source our meats and produce as local as possible and serve seafood listed on the Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch List as ‘Best Choices’ or ‘Good Alternatives.’ Delaware North Companies Parks and Resorts is strongly committed to working in harmony with our environment to better service our guests.” Last week, the menu included local chicken, trout from nearby streams, rabbit from the neighboring community of Turlock, and grass-fed beef. They also include some sample menus online.

I have eaten at the Ahwahnee probably just under 10 times. I’ve had breakfast, lunch and dinner there and have always enjoyed my meal. My family and I were in Yosemite last week and spent an evening dining at the Ahwahnee followed by board games in the Great Lounge before we shuffled back to our accommodations at the Yosemite Lodge. We got to the dining room right when it opened for dinner. They sat us at a beautiful table near the back and next to a large window. Technically, long pants and jackets are required for men, but we saw plenty of people being ushered in wearing jeans and t-shirts. In some online reviews I read, a few people were irritated that the dining staff sat people who weren’t dressed according to the rules, but this has never bothered me. The hotel is in a National park and I like that they don’t get too caught up in the ceremony of how one is supposed to dress for dinner. Also, I’ve seen men seated at many other nice restaurants without jackets, so I can’t get irritated about this happening in Yosemite.

During our dining experience last week, my husband and I decided that after a day of skiing at Badger Pass, we were too tired to split a bottle of wine, so we each ordered a glass from the wine menu. I then chose to start my dinner with a baby iceberg lettuce wedge that had Chiogga beets, shaved onion, and Point Reyes blue cheese dressing. The salad was crisp, the dressing creamy and sharp without being overt, and the beets were sweet and perfectly cooked. My husband ordered the Caesar salad, which looked equally delicious, although I was so focused on my own salad that I forgot to take a bite. Our daughters, who ordered from the children’s menu, each received a very pretty fruit cup.

For dinner, I ordered the Braised Snake River Farms Kobe beef cheeks. I was surprised and excited when I found that they served the cheeks two ways on the plate. One piece was cooked to the point of falling apart, in some sort of reddish sauce and served on top of an heirloom squash puree. I asked our waiter what was in the sauce, but he wasn’t sure. The other beef cheek was also braised, although it held its shape and was firmer than the other one. It was served with a garlic and tomato jam, which was sweet and a perfect accompaniment to the beef, and sat atop a mound of creamed spinach. Unlike most creamed spinach, which is often gloppy, this version seemed just barely cooked within the sauce, with each leaf retaining its shape and texture. It was delicious. In between the two beef cheeks were some shaved and fried parsnips, adding a crunchy and slightly salty accent to the other flavors on the plate. Overall, this was a great entrée and I really loved it.

My husband ordered the braised Niman pork osso bucco served with a soft polenta and cauliflower, which was also delicious (although I must say I think the beef cheeks were better). For our daughters, we went with the kids breaded chicken tenders. I normally hate kids’ menu chicken tenders, because they are often processed bits of chicken with a tasteless coating. The Ahwahnee’s chicken tenders, however, were in a kids-menu class all their own. They were real chicken breast tenders coated in a flavorful crust similar to the kind you’d find on a nice piece of fried chicken.

For dessert, I had a chocolate flourless cake embedded in a chilled chocolate ganache and served with ice cream. Although it was delicious (and very pretty on the plate) it was incredibly rich and I could only eat a few bites.

My husband ordered the boysenberry pie, which had a nicely crisp crust and great berry flavor. All the entrées were between $25 - $46. Our total bill, which included our salads, meals and desserts, along with two glasses of wine and three glasses of juice for the kids, was $140.

On each of our visits, I’ve found the service to be friendly and professional. The waiters sometimes are not fully informed about the food and, on a busy night, the attention you get can be a little spotty, but this doesn’t bother me as the service has never been bad and I’m there for the experience of eating in a beautiful historic hotel under half dome. The staff has also always been very friendly to my children, which I appreciate.

The Ahwahnee Dining Room offers daily breakfast, lunch and dinner, along with an elaborate Sunday Brunch. They also have a few yearly dining extravaganzas, such as the Bracebridge Dinner each December, which is a four-hour Renaissance pageant in the dining room that includes an elaborate seven-course banquet. I’ve always thought this would be sort of fun to attend, but the cost is a bit much. A package deal that includes a two-night stay at the Ahwahnee along with the Bracebridge Dinner is $1,634 for two people. If you stay at the Yosemite Lodge, it’s $1,126. With four people in my family, we won’t be going any time soon.

So if you find yourself in Yosemite, and have a little spare cash for your next meal, try the Ahwahnee dining room. It is truly an experience worth having.

For more information about the Ahwahnee, or to make reservations, just go to their web site, or call (209) 372-1489.

Bodega: The Bronx

Laughs are few and far between for anyone who works in that tough corner of the food world where food security, public health, and urban development issues intersect. Fortunately, the dynamic duo of Dallas Penn and Rafi Kam have been making short, sharp, and extremely funny documentaries about shopping and eating in urban neighborhoods, including this short on bodegas, those infamous corner stores.

Dallas Penn blogs about music, sports, politics and whatever else strikes his fancy (tags include “Black Bullshit” and “Wig Owners” and “Social Upheaval”). His partner in comedy, Rafi Kam, reviews albums and writes features about topics like Baduizm, a contagious disease that strikes the nerve endings of rap artists.

Together, they tackle the finer points of the Bodega Food Pyramid. This short film is a refreshing break from the boring, depressing, and thoroughly condescending material that comes out of many public health agencies. It somehow manages to be affectionately searing.

For anyone out there who has wondered why “certain communities” don’t buy organic fruit or eat more salads, this will be an educational feature. For those who grew up in the Bronx or East St. Louis or South Central L.A., this documentary will hit close–perhaps too close–to home and heart.

Here in Bayview Hunters Point, nonprofit organizations and city agencies have been trying to spread good food with the Good Neighbor project. UK-based Tesco is eyeing a space for one of their newly polished Fresh&Easy markets, grocery stores with smaller footprints that are positioned to enter under-served neighborhoods. There’s been some back and forth, though, as the company has been hesitating to agree to community standards that might cut into their profits. Neighbors are asking them to not sell hard liquor, but Tesco is loathe to give up the very high margins of the alcohol aisle.

At a policy symposium last year, I listened as their frontman pointed out how grateful we should all be that they’re even considering opening a full-service grocery store and creating jobs in a poverty-ridden food dessert. Ask some of the locals, though, how happy they are to have their requests ignored.

And watch Penn and Kam’s “Bodega” to understand, with a smile, what is at stake.

Bodega: The Tenderloin

On a complete tangent, the title of the film reminds me of a Vietnamese restaurant on Larkin Street in San Francisco (another neighborhood that also happens to be facing the community upheavals accompanying many urban redevelopment projects). Yes, service is spotty. And yes, the food is not good across the board. But it’s one of those neighborhood places that has lingered through change and remained popular through several face-lifts and menu tweaks.

Bodega Bistro used to actually serve all three: bo (beef), de (goat) and ga (chicken). Hand-penned signs taped to the wall once advertised their special goat stew, but those are long gone. The name of the restaurant stuck, though, and its menu offers the usual suspects. One dish worth highlighting, though, is bun cha, a specialty of Hanoi.

For first-timers, it might be a bit confusing when the order arrives. A plate of greens and herbs piled high. Some plain rice noodles. Some meat submerged in clear broth. And an empty bowl. None of it looks particular appetizing on its own, but it’s culinary magic when the layers of flavors and textures meld together.

Like many Vietnamese meals, it’s all up to the diner. Combine small amounts of each ingredient in your own bowl, then drizzle a spoonful of sauce over all. If you’ve ordered any type of bun, the refreshing cold noodle salads that’s a popular lunch item in Vietnam, then you’ll have an idea of what bun cha can be. It’s more formal, however, and when done well, truly memorable. The cut and quality of the meat and the freshness of the herbs are what determine the best versions. I wish the food were more consistent here, but two out of three times, it hits the spot.

Now, if only Bodega would bring back its second-syllable goat dishes.

Bodega Bistro
607 Larkin Street
San Francisco, CA 94199
(415) 921-1218
Google Map

My friend Mark, who knows about everything before I do, has been wanting to go to Brenda’s French Soul Food for months. He planned to take some people to brunch there a few Sundays ago. It was, however, closed. They don’t do Sunday brunch. Who can blame them? Unless drag queens are somehow involved, the thought of Sunday brunch makes me cringe. The two of us hoped to have dinner at Brenda’s last week. The only glitch in that little plan was this: Brenda’s doesn’t serve dinner. Rather than being miffed, I found that news heartwarming.

When I was a young and foolish California Culinary Academy student, one of my courses called for creating a restaurant business plan. My teammates and I decided that a breakfast and lunch-only venue would suit our tastes just fine, since you can really mark up egg dishes. We’d be doing what we loved– serving up great food, but we’d have our evenings free– enabling us to have a relatively normal social life. We could have our pancake, as it were, and eat it, too.

Brenda’s, then, is a place after my own heart. It’s exactly what I’d want to do if I were crazy enough to run a restaurant.

Located at 652 Polk Street between Eddy and Turk, Brenda’s shares a stretch of road with two other food venues. On its right is Kentucky Fried Chicken– a place of no culinary pretensions whatsoever. To its left and across the street is the California Culinary Academy– a sad, musty diploma mill that churns out nothing but culinary pretension every few weeks. Hovering somewhere pleasantly in the middle, Brenda’s has not disturbed that delicate balance of the block in the least. What it has done, thankfully, is bring great food to the neighborhood.

When I arrived at Brenda’s on Wednesday morning, I was told I might sit wherever I liked by a tall, thin gentleman with a scruffy beard who was, it would seem, the sole server on the floor. I took a small table near the door, where I could have a clear view of the customers around me.

The restaurant is small. Two white-clothed tables for four in the center of the room, one small table in the window, and five small tables along the left wall.Counter stools populate the right wall, just below a bank of mirrors which runs the entire length of the place.

I ordered a coffee and dug into my portable Sherlock Holmes, which I placed on top of my little notebook. To my left was a man about my age with a scruffy beard, also reading, but near the end of his meal. Looking at my notebook and camera, he asked me if I was going to do a write up on the place. I cringed at my obviousness. That and the fact that every man in the place, including myself, was wearing a scruffy beard. I lied to him and took another sip of coffee.

There were two men sitting in the window. One was a handsome fifty-something Frenchman . His non-French breakfast companion was rattling on loudly about Napa wineries, San Francisco restaurants and who he knew just about everywhere else. Fortunately, he made his great show of saying goodbye to Brenda before I started eating.

I asked my server which beignets he thought were best. He suggested I try the beignet flight ($8.00) and decide for myself. I did.

From fore-to-background in the photo above: plain, Granny Smith apple with cinnamon honey butter, molten Ghiradelli chocolate, and crawfish with cayenne, scallions, and cheddar. It is the order in which I ate them. My server stated that people normally consumed the crawfish first. I am delighted that I didn’t, because it was by far my favorite– the chewy sweetness of the crawfish popping every so often through the ooze of the cheese, the heat of the cayenne, and the sharpness of the scallion. I am already planning my return to have a full meal of them.

They were all quite good, really. The apple beignets weren’t overly sweet. They had a subtle saltiness to them I found appealing. I’m not an expert on these pastries, per se, and I’ve heard some people (Yelpers) whine that beignets in New Orleans are normally much bigger and cheaper. I would hardly call the portions here small. Or over priced. In fact, nothing at Brenda’s is more than $10.00.

Wondering what to order next, I asked my server’s opinion on the matter. Mentioning that I was intrigued by the Pineapple Upside Down Pancakes with Vanilla Bean Cream and Ginger Butter, he said that, while they were great, I might not want them after so much beignet. He was right, of course. When I asked about the Hangtown Fry special I noticed written in white grease pen on the mirror across the way, he smiled. That’s all I needed. It doesn’t take much arm-twisting to get me to order a Hangtown Fry. “Grits or potatoes?” he asked. “I’m kind of a potato guy,” I said. I saw his smile fade a little. “But, I suppose I’d better have the grits, right?” His face brightened. I was grateful for my ability to read social cues. I told him I’d keep the menu, in case I wanted to order anything more.

It is obvious from the above photo where I placed the most of my gustatory enthusiasm. The grits. Buttery, lightly peppery, and just salty enough. The pat of butter I was given may have been intended for the biscuit, but mine ended up on the grits. I did not ask for instructions.

I never knew I liked grits. In fact, my two or three previous experiences with the dish had left me rather bored. In my thoughts, grits were an unseen province of salty, beehived situation comedy diner waitresses and they were meant to be kissed in some kind of submissive fashion. Well, I kissed Brenda’s grits, and I’ll kiss them again, happily.

While I was tucking into the fry, a man and woman dressed in chef whites wandered into Brenda’s from the Culinary Academy. I thought how sad it was that they couldn’t find anything worth eating over there. The man, I noticed, had one bright blue eye and one of milky hazel. I got caught looking, so I initiated a brief conversation with them about the school. I admitted my status as an alumnus and warned them to keep a wary eye out for people who do not understand the etiquette involved in walking around a busy kitchen with 10″ chef knives. Their reaction to the pitying look on my face when I was told that tuition at the school had nearly tripled since my graduation eleven years ago indicated to me that our little interview should end as quickly as possible. I went back to reading The Adventure of the Copper Beeches and stuffing my face.

As I sat eating and reading, another man of my approximate age and scruffiness sat at the table beside mine. I really must shave. Unlike his predecessor, he seemed uneasy in his status as a single diner. He tapped is fingers and wagged his foot as though it had fallen asleep within the first ninety seconds of his being in a seated position. When his eyes weren’t darting about the place, they were fixed upon his iPhone. I didn’t know whether to laugh (on the inside) or cry. Few people seem really at ease with dining alone. It made me mildly depressed, but it did give me an idea for another blog post, which made me mildly cheerful.

The Hangtown fry itself was good, loaded as it was with salty, smoked bacon and fresh, fried oysters. But my delicate, hummingbird frame was challenged by the enormous portions of both dishes tried. Delicate, too, was the biscuit– the flavor of fresh butter melted in my mouth as is the way with the good ones and it had a flakiness that, had the biscuit taken a human form, might be diagnosed as Brittle Bone Disease by medical students. I mean that in a good way.

I was unable to finish my meal, being as well-stuffed as one of those beignets from earlier in the meal. I took my remaining victuals home and had them for lunch. The grits were good even then, served cold.

My server returned, looked at the menu still placed on the table, and said, smiling, “Are you still planning on ordering more?” My brain said yes, but my stomach disagreed. I looked out the window at the Eastern Park Apartments, a retirement home that is neither in the East nor anywhere near a park. I thought to myself that, if I kept eating like this, I might not live to an age which might necessitate my inhabiting such a place. I sided with my stomach and asked, instead, for the check.

Now, I do not know Brenda Buenviaje, namesake of the restaurant. I chose not to introduce myself nor ask questions during my first visit. My photo-taking and journal entries made me look idiotic enough. When I took a closer look at Brenda’s website, I read her profile and had a better clue as to why the food made me happy– she is a former head chef of Sumi (the only good restaurant in the Castro, as far as I’m concerned) and of Cafe Claude (my I’m- hungry-and-tired-of-watching-other-people-shop/ I-need-a-drink place of choice). She looks like someone I might like to sit down with over a glass of wine. I only hope, should that occur, that I can stifle my desire to blurt out grits-kissing remarks.

I’ll be back to Brenda’s, and soon. There’s a lot there that I still need to try, like the Grillades and Grits, the Egg and Bacon Tartine, and those Pineapple Upside Down Pancakes. But really, it’s that crawdaddy beignet. Second only to relieving my bladder, it was the first thing I thought about this morning. Really, I swear.

Brenda’s French Soul Food is located at:

652 Polk Street (at Eddy)
San Francisco, CA 94102

Telephone: (415) 345-8100

Hours of Operation:

Breakfast is served Monday through Friday from 8 am to 3 pm.
Lunch is served Monday through Friday from 11(ish) to 3 pm.
Brunch is served on Saturdays from 8 am to 3 pm.
Closed, for now, on Sundays.

Typically, when I heard the phrase “Cordon Bleu”, I used to think in purely French terms. Mustachioed men in perfect white chef coats tasting expensive-looking dishes with silver spoons pulled from little pockets in their sleeves. Or I’d think of the literal translation, which is, of course, “blue ribbon”, which I might mentally attach to one of the chef’s coats. Since I moved near Polk Gulch four years ago, the little Frenchmen in my head have been replaced by thoughts of five spice chicken. And I couldn’t be happier about that.

The restaurant isn’t much to look at. In fact, there are those who are downright turned off by its distinct lack of physical charm, décor and, well, apparent hygiene. As far as I’m concerned, the unadventurous can keep their distance. It’s not as though Cordon Bleu needs their business– there’s a line out the door every evening.

Why the line? Well, Cordon Bleu is tiny– nine stools bolted around a formica counter, three small tables in the back, and next to no room in between. The real reason for the crowds, however, is the chicken, which they tout as… just read the sign:

I’ve never been to Vietnam, so I wouldn’t know. Considering the fact that the jungle fowl– the ancient proto-chicken from which all others derive– originated in Southeast Asia, the Vietnamese have been able to take their time perfecting chicken recipes. The one at Cordon Bleu is pretty damned good, but the best? I’ll take their boast with a grain of salt. And a pinch of five spice.

Chinese Five Spice, if you didn’t know, is a combination of ground cinnamon (cassia), star anise, cloves, Sichuan pepper, and fennel. When rubbed on chicken, it gives Cordon Bleu the means to pay its rent.

When I visit the place, it’s usually before or after seeing a film at the Lumière Theatre, depending upon the subject matter. I’d much rather fill myself here than with movie theatre fare. And possibly for less money than a coke, some popcorn and a candy bar.

The food is– I hesitate to use the word cheap– inexpensive. I can stuff myself silly for $8.25 with the “Number Five”, which I think is the most expensive thing on the menu.

The Number 5 consists of one piece of “five spiced roast chicken” which, apart from roasting, spent a good deal of time on the grill, one pork and glass noodle fried Imperial roll, one “shish kebab” (which is neither shish nor kebab. It’s very thin slices of marinated steak. The only common ground it shares with kebab is that it is meat that spents a good amount of time over a hot grill), country salad (shredded cabbage), and “meat sauce on rice”.

Meat sauce on rice. Ground pork, peppers, onions, tomato. It’s piled high on nearly every plate. I’m fond of its no nonsense name. And its flavor. It’s no surprise to me why SF Weekly dubbed Cordon Bleu the Best Dive Restaurant of 2006. It’s good food. And damned cheap.

The next time you’re in the neighborhood, whether it be to see an art film, catch a drag show, or pick up a hustler, stop by Cordon Bleu. That is, if you can get in.

Cordon Bleu Vietnamses Restaurant

1574 California Street (at Polk Street)
San Francisco, CA 94109-4708

Phone: (415) 673-5637

Hours: Tuesday- Saturday 11:30 am- 2:30 pm, 5-10 pm.
Sunday 4-10 pm

Cash Only. No alcohol is served, so bring your own beer. Hell, bring some for the women behind the counter. The last time I was there they said they could sure use one.

For years, I’ve driven by Russia House– it’s large, red letters and neon-framed windows staring me down every time I head south on highway 101. I’ve wanted to go there for a long time, but just never got around to it. This week, I finally stared back.

Very little information could be gleaned from a Google search of the place and no one I know had ever been there. The most information I could find was a list of seven comments on Yelp.com. The reviews were decidedly mixed. Rumors of all-you-can-eat (and drink) Russian food, dancing, and either a hostile welcome or no welcome at all were all I had to go on. To me, that sounded almost like a dare. I discussed the restaurant with a friend of mine who felt equally up to the challenge. In fact, she said she already had her Russian name picked out for the evening– Katinka. While I googled her stage name (which I learned means “pure”), she made the reservation. We gathered a group of eight people together, figuring there was a certain safety in numbers.

While I busied myself snapping photos of the Russia House sign upon arrival, the three dining companions I showed up with were confronted by a man of about sixty dressed in blue jeans and leather jacket standing near a sign that read “Dress code strictly enforced.” A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was anything but welcoming. After explaining that we had a reservation, we were allowed entry.

Once past the Russian Cerberus, we stepped inside the zodiac-themed blue doors and walked upstairs to the dining room. The first thing I noticed were the enormous crystal chandeliers that seemed to be in some sort of battle with the neon of the bar for who could throw off the most light. It was extremely bright.

The second thing I noticed was a little girl, maybe seven years old, in some sort of ice dancing outfit. My friend Gary asked if that was the Russian Jonbenet. Several other children of varying ages were all dressed up and running about.

The third thing to capture my attention was the group of about thirty people standing about two banks of long, platter-filled tables. Some of them stared at us blankly. Others stared out the window, waiting for someone or perhaps something to happen.

The fourth thing I noticed was that no one came to greet us. After about a minute of standing around trying not to look helpless or uncomfortable, my friend Lyle stopped a waiter who was rushing past us. We mentioned the name of our reservation. He pointed to a table for four and said we could sit there. When we explained that more were joining us, he pointed to a larger table next to the large party with all that shrimp cocktail. We sat. And then we sat some more.

What was I hoping to accomplish by being here? Was this a big mistake? Was the big, Russian dinner I’ve been promoting among my friends going to be a big, Russian failure? I wondered.

After a thorough examination of a wall mural we decided could only have been inspired by Russian fairy tales filtered through the mind of a Chernobyl survivor,we tired of sitting without benefit of food or drink. No one had approached us for minutes. Lyle pulled some money out of his wallet and beckoned a blond woman who was standing under the neon sign of the bar to come over. He asked for her name and how we might procure some service. While he did this, he handed her the money. She handed the money back, telling us that she was Elya, the owner. When I asked her if she wanted the name of our party for reservation purposes, she said, “No, it’s okay. I don’t need that.” At that point, I knew we needed some vodka. Fast.

We made our vodka selection– not expensive, considering we had to buy it by the bottle, but decent. 750 ml of Absolut for $60. When it was brought to the table, we asked if there was any real Russian vodka to be had. Elya replied, “No, not yet. Soon.” Lyle asked how long Russia House had been open. 20 years. Russian vodka must be harder to obtain than I had previously thought.

We also asked about the menu. We had heard of an all you can eat and drink feast, but what we had in front of us was an a la carte menu. She told us, yes, she did that sometimes on Fridays. Fridays? I told her we understood the restaurant was only open to the public on Saturdays. She shrugged her shoulders and said that sometimes she felt like opening on Friday, too.

When she noted the empty seats around our table, I explained that we were still waiting for the rest of our party.

“Your girlfriends?” she asked.

“Sort of,” I replied.

“Are they Russian?”

“No. Not Russian.” I thought of the fake Russian names they’d be using tonight.

“That’s surprising,” she said. “Ninety-five percent of the American men who come here have Russian girlfriends or wives. So why have you come?”

I thought about how to answer that one, but settled on, “To have fun!”

She smiled and got our waiter. I think at some point in that brief exchange, it was decided that we liked each other and the mood of the room shifted. The girls arrived, we settled into our first drink, and Lyle took charge of ordering appetizers.

What came to the table were baskets of soft rye bread and butter, platters of beef tongue, smoked salmon, smoked sturgeon beef piroshke, and shrimp cocktail. Lots of shrimp cocktail.

The beef tongue was good with a little mustard sauce and soft rye bread…

The beef piroshke was excellent. We were certain there was more that just meat in them. We briefly discussed which organs might have been included.

The best dish, to the unanimous decision of the table, was the smoked sturgeon. Salty, faintly smoky and butter on the tongue, it needed nothing but perhaps a little vodka to keep it company on its way down my throat. We had two platters. They even threw in more shrimp cocktail.

Our table livened up after some food, cold vodka, and soda water served in iced pitchers. I looked over at the birthday party next to us. I still didn’t see anyone smiling. Just people milling about in fur stoles (women, naturally) and not touching their food. I thought they might be having a wake instead. Commenting on the brightness of the lights, my friend Gary looked to the birthday crowd and commented that he now understood why Russian women wore so much make up– it was to hold up under those damned bright lights. He wondered where he could get a make up mirror with a Russian setting. I drank a little more vodka.

Then, suddenly, everything changed. Everyone’s attention turned to the bandstand. A woman who looked remarkably like Jan Wahl started singing. The lights, mercifully, were dimmed. Everyone started smiling and moved to the dance floor. Apparently, the party had begun.

People danced, moved back to the tables to drink a little, and then danced some more. We watched from our table, since our main courses had arrived. Chicken Kiev, which seemed like a must-have since I frequently ate the Stouffer’s version as a child, was a bit of a dry disappointment, and shashlik — kebabs of fish and chicken, we found tastier. Lots of potatoes made their way to our table, as did some excellent pickled vegetables. The hands-down favorite was the watermelon. The eight of us were stuffed and ready now to give our full attention to what was about to happen on the dance floor.

The little girl in what we thought was an ice dancing dress was partnered with a dancing boy. Everyone in the restaurant crowded around the dance floor. We were shown the proper way to swing dance, fox trot, and just about every other kind of trot. The dancers were cute and we laughed and clapped for them, but the Russians looked on humorless, as if this were something to be taken very seriously, which doesn’t seem so surprising when one considers that Russia has produced some of the greatest dancers the world has ever seen. Think Nijinsky, Pavlova, and Baryshnikov. I felt as though I might be missing something important. I had another sip of my vodka.

A much older couple then took over, showing us hot Latin-inspired moves that loosened up the crowd a little. Decency (or simply poor photography skills) prevents me from showing you the 13 year-old girls costume, but I can show you an example of her excellent hand movement…

Having been shown how it’s all done, we took to the dance floor ourselves, working off the shrimp cocktail and vodka. Everyone else in the room seemed to have the same idea.

Back at our table for a little resting and watering, I saw that the birthday club had finally sat down to their meal. For a minute or two at a time. Some ran off to dance, some came over to flirt with a couple of my friends.

I thought perhaps we’d gone about our dinner all wrong. We ate then danced. The Russians danced, then ate. Perhaps there was sense in that. Do we see dancing as a digestive activity while they see it as an appetite stimulant? I wondered.

I also wondered what all the fuss regarding hostile service was about on Yelp. In my opinion, the people that walked away from the place weren’t trying hard enough (Yes, I know– they have a good point). I regarded the experience as a bit of travel adventure.

I’m certainly no sociologist, but given centuries of strong-armed governments, pogroms, and war, I don’t think it strange that Russians might be a bit tight-knit, insular, and suspicious as a group. Once we got past the doorman and actually started talking to people, we found them warm and lively. It just takes a little while. To make more pat generalizations about the Russians, I think that any civilization that has made such incredible contributions to literature, music, and dance is worth the effort to get to know a little better. And those little matrioshka stacking dolls. Sigh.

What started out as a rather uncertain evening ended up being a hell of a lot of fun. If you can see yourself making it past the doorman, I say put on your (fake) fur hat and your dancing boots and just go.

Here’s a sped-up video of the place. Stop at any frame to get a good look at the joint:

The Russia House is open to the public on Saturday nights. Please don’t ask the hours, because I have no idea.

Russia House is located at 2011 Bayshore Boulevard in San Francisco, 94134
View Map
Call 415-330-9991 for reservations. Be strong.