I'm a sucker for a great Caesar salad. Call me old school, but there are few things that can beat it in my book. Garlicky, lemony, cheesy, and anchovy-y, if there is such a word. If there isn't, there should be.

Sadly, a great restaurant Caesar salad has eluded me in San Francisco.

With the possible exceptions of Zuni Café and Tadich Grill (both old school and old guard), I have been bitterly disappointed every time I order a Caesar salad in a restaurant. And the above venues merely create good salads, not, in my opinion, great ones. Yet I keep on ordering them everywhere I go. It's like forgetting the pain of childbirth or the tragedy of falling in love with a crazy sadist-- I fall blindly and hopefully back into bed with the salad section of the menu and think, "This time, it's going to be good. This time I am going to find the one I've been waiting for all my life." Invariably, I am served a Romaine salad with either a flaccid, mayonnaise-like dressing, or an underdressed, uninspired one with croutons like ship biscuits that leaves me asking my server for a little extra lemon and another napkin with which I might dry my tears.

Perhaps I just live to be disappointed.

And then, when discussing the demise of this salad with a friend over a lunch that included a particularly sorry looking one, I understood what all of these salads were missing, good and bad:

Drama.

The Caesar salad is a dish that cries out for table-side service. It is, in my opinion if not in fact, the ham actor of the salad world-- a fact none too surprising when one considers that it was first created in a pique of impromptu by Cesare Cardini, an Italian man living in the once-glamorous town Tijuana, Mexico. Fortunately for us, Cardini had the good sense (or delicious folly, depending on your point of view) to seek out his fame and fortune in Hollywood, dressing recipe in hand, where the salad soon became a favorite among the local movie stars and luncheon élite. Cesare's salad soon evolved into Caesar's salad and, somewhere along the way, the apostrophe "s" was lost, and Caesar salads were being dramatically created in front of and for delighted diners in leather banquetted dining rooms and Danish Modern living rooms across the country.

Sadly, Cesare's salad is going the way of Banana's Foster, Cherries Jubilee, and the dodo, thanks to the demise of table side service. There is little room in most restaurants today to manoeuver the necessary salad carts, and diners (with the possible exception of brief fads like the Benihana's craze of the 70's, and eating at chef's tables in the 90's) seem less interested in having a server who entertains. Lastly, and perhaps most sadly of all, those venues who do still provide table side cooking are often so old-fashioned and unchanging that they have become a sort of dwindling, petrified forest. And those diners who habituate them are either equally as fossilized or, at best, there solely for kitsch.

So what can one do?

I, for one, have started making my own damned Caesar salads. Or Cesare salads, as I prefer now to call them. I can make them as obscenely garlicky as I like and can toss them as high and dramatically as my ceiling and physical abilities allow. I'm a professional waiter, after all, and one with a strong dramatic bent. Just ask anyone. Just don't ask me to make one for you at my restaurant-- there is no way in hell I could ever get that rolling cart past the drunken cougars hovering at the bar.

Lyle's Muy Fuerte Cesare's Salad:

Serves 2 to 4

At my birthday party last summer, I had decided that my own contribution to the buffet would be my favorite old-school salad, since I was now, officially (according to some people) old. It was then that I realized that I had never actually made one before. The one's I had known and loved were always made for me by people who understand gusto like my friend Shan or my ex-boyfriend Paul, who was about as theatrically dramatic as they come.

When I confessed this salad-tossing inexperience to my friend Lyle, he told me he would walk me through the entire process. Being my birthday, I let him take over, while I poured myself another glass of wine and watched him do all the work.

This is a recipe muy fuerte-- extra garlic, extra anchovy, extra everything. Brash and unsubtle. In other words, just the way I like it.

I would suggest preparing this dish with at least one other person in the room when you first try it. Talk the entire time you are mashing, whisking, and tossing. Remember: you are the entertainment. If you don't have anyone on hand to chat with, I suggest, chatting up your pet. If you have no pet, bring a houseplant into your kitchen and talk to that. If you are lacking a house plant, you are more than likely not the type of person who would ever make a Caesar salad and are therefore not reading this.

Ingredients:

Two heads of Romaine lettuce, well washed, outer leaves removed, and torn into bite-sized pieces.

About 1/3 cup Parmesan cheese. Please use the good stuff. Nothing that comes out of a shaker will do no matter how good a deal you got with that double coupon.

Whole anchovies for garnish are entirely optional.

For the Dressing:

1 coddled egg. Yolk only.

3 anchovy filets (spanish, preferably)

2 cloves garlic, crushed

A pinch of coarse salt (kosher is excellent)

The juice of one half lemon

4 to 5 drops Worcestershire sauce

4 to 5 drops Tabasco sauce

1/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard

6 tablespoons (approximate) of extra virgin olive oil

Coarsely ground black pepper to taste.

For Croutons:

For two cups of croutons (it is always a good idea to make extra):

2 cups of day-old bread (french, sour, white-- take your pick), dried out a touch and cut into 3/4" cubes.

2 tablespoons butter, melted

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

a heavy pinch of salt

Preparation:

To Coddle an Egg:

Coddling the egg yolk lends a richer texture to the dressing by thickening it slightly, in case you were wondering. If you want a better scientific understanding of this process, ask a scientist. I prefer to live in ignorance and call it a miracle.

1. Bring your egg (which should be very fresh) to room temperature by placing it in a heat-proof glass of warm water for a few minutes. When this temperature has been achieved, drain water and cover egg with boiling water. Let stand for exactly one minute. Drain. Run cold water over egg. Egg has now been thoroughly traumatized and is now ready for use in your dressing.

Making the Croutons:

1. Preheat oven to 375F. Drizzle butter/oil mixture over bread cubes while tossing cubes with your free hand (if you have no extra hand available, use someone else's.) Coat evenly but do try to avoid an absolute drenching.

Place a single layer of bread cubes on a baking sheet and pop into the oven on the upper rack. Peek into oven at around 7 to 8 minutes into the process, shake and turn cubes. Remove from oven when cubes have become golden brown and therefore have officially attained crouton status*.

*To my mind, croutons should be very much like Lou Grant from The Mary Tyler Moore Show-- hard, crusty exterior, but soft and warm on the inside. They should, however, not smell strongly of bourbon in the middle of the afternoon.

To Make the Dressing:

1. Place kosher salt, anchovy, and garlic in the bottom of a wooden bowl. Mash these ingredients together with the aid of two forks until a rough paste is formed.

2. Next, add mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, and lemon juice. Trade in the two forks for a wire whisk. Whisk until well-blended.

3. Add coddled egg yolk to the mix and whisk with gusto for about one minute to allow the citric acid from the lemon to "cook" the yolk a little.

4. Slowly drizzle in olive oil from as great a height as you dare, for theatrical purposes. Pause occasionally to taste with a clean finger. Make dramatic noises as you do so.

5. Let the lettuce leaves rain down into your dressing-drenched wooden bowl. Do not add any sound effects at this point. With the two forks you had earlier cast aside or with larger, more festive, salad utensils, begin to toss the salad. Sprinkle in a little cheese here, a little there. Hum as you sprinkle. Something lilting and hopeful.

6. Add your croutons, tossing and humming all the more.

7. Now add cracked black pepper to finish both the tossing of your salad and the incessant humming.

8. If serving directly from the salad bowl, sprinkle with a bit more cheese to garnish, if serving individually, divide equally among chilled plates, then add more cheese. Whatever you do, serve and eat immediately.

Enjoy.

At Los Jarritos, the Reyes Padilla family's sit-down eatery on the corner of South Van Ness and 20th, components of the restaurant's fantastic chilaquiles remo are reminiscent of canonized comfort foods from other cultures.

Like noodles in a day-old lasagne, the quarters of fried corn tortilla are pasta-like, smothered in tomato sauce, congealed, pinioned under an oozing crown of cheese.  Nestled amongst the bits of tortilla, the long-simmered strands of chicken taste as if they have been lifted from a huffing stockpot of soup.  Scrambled eggs are there too, slippery and elusive, binding everything into a velvety mass further enriched and enlivened by a pour of crema.  As the crema melts and disappears, the effect is smooth:  none of the comforting elements stand out unless they're deliberately eaten apart from the others; taken together, the flavors are big and familiar, yet invigorating and, to the uninitiated, new.

Sometimes, the homiest dishes -- foods without pretense or artifice -- are most revealing about the cultures from which they spring, and inspire the most debate amongst their devotees.  However, from countless regional Mexican renditions -- like white sauces in Sinaloa and Guadalajara's polenta-like cazuela cook-downs -- to American adaptations that echo Tex-Mex migas, all chilaquiles aim to soothe -- regardless of a particular variation's provenance and claims to authenticity.

The other weekend, hungover and exhausted from a morning of pick-up basketball, I was looking for comfort in sustenance.  I found it easily, several thousand calories' worth:  two distinct and excellent versions of chilaquiles served up at two very different Mission District establishments.

The chilaquiles at Los Jarritos aren't particularly spicy, merely salty and luxurious.  Cranberry-colored and riddled with ice, a pitcher-sized glass column of agua fresca de jamaica -- a refreshing tea-like infusion of dried hibiscus flowers -- compliments the richness with tart notes as well as sweetness.

Furthermore, you need not make a breakfast of chilaquiles alone.  The "Mexicano" side of the divided desayunos menu -- the one from which you should be ordering -- is rife with other enticing offerings, like machaca, a melange of flank steak, scrambled eggs, onions, tomatoes, and peppers, and huevos divorciados.  The latter boasts tender pork cubes in two sauces -- a red, oily chile colorado and a spicy, slightly sour chile verde -- kept separate and served atop two runny fried egg rounds.  The basket of pillowy, sweating tortillas comes in handy here. Strips of the thick discs are good for sopping sauce and scooping up errant morsels, but, nibbled unadorned, they also offer a welcome respite from the heavy assault of pig and eggs.

Interestingly, there are huevos con amor as well, but they are not as delicious and, surprisingly, no less expensive.

Inside, Los Jarritos looks as bold as its food tastes, like a typically kitschy roadside diner wonderfully lost in translation.  A chalkboard announces specials like birria and menudo.  The tabletops are a lively turquoise; sombreros swing from hooks high up on the walls alongside toy guitars in pastel hues and large black-and-white photographs.  A miniature plastic marlin peers down blankly from a lower perch.  Tiny painted drinking mugs -- the restaurant's namesake -- hang in bunches between the windows.
 
By comparison, the interior of the four-year-old Los Pastores is demure:  a floor tiled in matte brown squares, a beige back counter, and peach walls dotted with a few faded reviews in simple frames.  If the inside of the restaurant is austere, the outside is barely visible at all, even from just across the street -- a narrow storefront at the foot of Bernal Hill, right where Cortland runs into Mission.

Chilaquiles con huevos from Los Pastores. Photo by Bucko W.

Here, the chilaquiles con huevos barely resemble their chicken-laden counterparts at Los Jarritos. Tortilla triangles are fried until they are brittle and brown around the edges, and arranged over a shallow pool of thin green sauce shot through with citrus and chile heat.  Cojita-studded crema tops the chips, darting out in little rivulets from under a trio of overlapping fried eggs that leak yolk at the slightest twist of a fork.  When the big plate arrives, the individual parts are distinct, uncombined, but their sum emerges gradually over the course of eating.  The first few bites contain crisp tortilla, a little sauce, and a sliver or two of egg.  Pour the bowlful of extra sauce over the eggs, and let it soak in.  Once the sauce has done its work, and the broken yolks from the eggs have been swirled in, the tortilla chips will be soft, with just a pleasurable hint of the old crunch remaining.  You can order chilaquiles with steak in lieu of eggs but either way, skip coffee, and instead slurp a pineapple agua fresca -- ultra-sweet, extremely cold, and topped with pale froth like a soda jerk's quaffable confection.

Because chef, owner, and server Irma Calderon does all the work herself, service at Los Pastores is fastest when the room is empty -- early on a weekend morning.  Bustling Los Jarritos is a more polished operation, but a server still sidles up and cracks, "time's up!" five minutes after the menus have been opened -- not that you really care.

Visit either restaurant on a Saturday at any time, order up some chilaquiles, and indulge in a self-satisfied smirk as you contemplate the mornings many neighborhood brunchers are putting themselves through:  forty-five minute waits on crammed sidewalks for mediocore food they'll end up scarfing in a 20-minute frenzy.  

Oh, you might be waiting too, but at least you'll be at a table, comforted by the chilaquiles in your near future, sipping an agua fresca, and enjoying good fellowship -- ingredients of which great morning meals are made.

Thanksgiving is plated comfort, dinner to honor a lore-steeped narrative of the harvest, funneled through a few hundred years of regional cultural variations. The foods are invariably soft, uncomplicated: balls of mush in warm hues -- orange, brown, beige, and dull, vegetal green -- a crust here, a relish there -- nothing to stun or overwhelm. An ambitious menu might boast edgy updates of accepted classics, but themes are very rarely abused or flaunted, merely tweaked: one might endeavor to make sweet potato casserole, for example, re-imagined as a single perfect fritter on each plate, sidling up to tidy blobs of marshmallow-esque creme fraiche, shaded by fronds of fried sage.

So long as the chile-garlic sauce stays in the fridge and no pretentious foams materialize, side dishes may be mussed in a respectful fashion. Turkey, whole, however, is a most traditional yet often maligned centerpiece -- flightless, frequently bone-dry, and hard to budge. Every year, food writers fall over themselves trying to convince desperate cooks they've found an antidote -- brining, larding, frantic temperature adjustments -- when they'd better serve suppers by pushing far superior animal proteins -- say, glorious hams, sides of wild salmon, or haunches of venison.

Enter the turducken. Despite its cultish presence in the cozy Thanksgiving lexicon, the turducken is aggressively weird, an unnatural, misshapen, stitched-up Frankenstein-like thing -- something that perhaps resembled a "sneetch" in life -- prior to being butchered and baked. Still, as the steaming mass -- chicken, within duck, within turkey -- all boned and stuffed -- descends on an overloaded banquet table, accompanied by grand quasi-medieval pomp, hearty eaters think nothing of its artificial genus, gathering around to slice through and spill forth the intertwined meaty chunks in varied hues -- reveling in the surreal delicious guts of a very strange beast indeed.

For three years, I lived with a few turducken aficionados in a big house at the edge of the Mission District, close to Potrero Hill. They would stay up the entire night before Thanksgiving, boning and trussing. There were no good chef's knives in that house then, so strings of meat bounced dangerously around the room with every nip and tuck, and the kitchen floor eventually took on a fatty sheen from all the spills. We'd host big Thanksgivings too, with a long table to accommodate a mob of friends. There was always a lot to drink; the living room was always too dark; you usually couldn't even make out the color of what sat quivering on your fork -- that is, if you were sober enough to care by the time all the food was ready. I recall, on one boozy occasion, trying to separate out the excavated components of my turducken slice -- to appraise them each, and assess how their individual qualities affected the flavor of the opulent whole. At this, I failed.

Like most people who have studied up on the subject, I hold corpulent football personality John Madden responsible for the turducken's first wave of popularity. Until he had a change of heart in 2008, he used to gleefully dole out massive specimens to Thanksgiving Bowl victors. Bestowing credit for the preparation's actual invention, however, is a tougher proposition. Paul Prudhomme got a nod for a while, but his role -- attributed loosely to a 1983 appearance at a festival in Duvall, Washington -- has not been verified. In a November 2005 article in National Geographic, Calvin Trillin presented Herbert's Specialty Meats in Maurice, Louisiana as a long-running, immensely popular purveyor of pre-assembled 'duckens, but avoided making any claims about its involvement in the dish's origins.

The concept of matryoshka-style holiday roasts can stretch further out of the mainstream into relative gastronomic wilds, where history and legend hold a few smoldering lessons. The key to the success of a turducken is the duck. Its essence diffuses through the surrounding layers of stuffing to saturate its inherently less delicious comrades -- the chicken within, the turkey without -- with spurts of fat and heady flavor. Replacing the turkey with its opposite -- a silken, grease-spitting goose -- yields a gooducken, a much richer endeavor naturally quite beloved in England. I like the idea of losing the unctuous goose, retaining the turkey, and adding a fourth bird, perhaps even a fifth -- maybe a wee quail, petite and boneless, buried down in the depths, folded up around a hard-boiled egg, a single chestnut, or a minature wad of stuffing, and then, for the outermost layer, the fifth, an entire emu. Imagine that, an emurckenail. I'm not sure how emu -- fine-grained and somewhat beefy -- would jive with all that paler stuff but someone -- probably not me -- should find out.

After a brief bit of research, my fantasy was steam-rolled by a rough and very real bird-iathon slouching out of the past. The largest recorded "nested" bird roast, or Rôti Sans Pareil took place at a royal feast in France in the early 19th century, and involved a breath-taking 17 feathery creatures, all boned and stuffed into one another, in order, from smallest -- a six-inch-long Garden Warbler with a solitary olive squeezed into its tiny empty cavity -- to largest, a huge, currently semi-endangered terrestial bird with a wingspan of seven feet called a bustard. Fifteen other birds -- a turkey, a goose, a pheasant, a chicken, a duck, a guinea fowl, a teal, a woodcock, a partridge, a plover, a lapwing, a quail, a thrush, a lark, and an Ortolan Bunting -- were pressed, skin to gut, between those two extremes.

What's more, Richard Sterling gave a pretty famous and utterly silly account of a chef friend's even heftier undertaking in his book The Fearless Diner:

"I knew in my gut, in my gastronomic soul, that what I had long hoped was true. That it wasn't just some wild traveler's tale designed to stir the imagination and not the pot. The ultimate cookout was a reality. The only thing that could possibly be greater would be to spit-roast a giant squid. My wildest culinary dream could come true. Sven, Allah bless him and may his tribe increase, had done it. 'I tell you no lie,' he went on, sipping a cold one. 'They wanted camel. I roasted a whole camel on a spit.' 'Yes!' I cried. 'Tell me everything.' And he did. He told me how he stuffed the camel with six sheep, stuffed the sheep with chickens, and the chickens with fish. He told me how it took 24 hours to cook, and that he served it on a silver platter in the shape of a recumbent camel. He related how the tribesmen who were the sheik's guests then attacked it with their knives en masse, feasted with their bare hands, and ate the meat down to the ivory."

If, for you, after all that, mere turducken will still do come November 26th, you can savor it without shelling out for shipping or expending any effort beyond tending the oven. While supplies last, Ryan Farr of the esteemed 4505 Meats is working the local turducken angle, selling 20 pound behemoths -- free range, organic, and stuffed to the hilt with cornbread-sausage dressing -- for $250 apiece, available for order and subsequent pick-up in Potrero Hill. The stuffing between the layers will be made of chicken-and-duck sausage and cornbread. Yours will arrive in a roasting pan, on a bed of root vegetables and herbs, with an electric thermometer and alarm probe already inserted.

Slip him an extra twenty and maybe he'll put a quail in there too.

Photos by Ryan Farr

Pumpkin pie ice cream, from beginning to end, at Three Twins Ice Cream

No one eats more ice cream than I do. I know, it's a bold statement--one that some may want to challenge. But I'm pretty confident that it's true. I generally hide the fact from friends until they really get to know me. My family all expects that pints disappear quickly--they hide them amongst the bags of frozen broccoli and peas in the freezer. And one of my favorite parts about going to school in Boston was that it could be 20 degrees and snowing and there'd be a big line for J.P. Licks wrapping around the corner on Newbury St. Those were my kinda' folks.

Thankfully, San Francisco doesn't disappoint either. When I first moved to the Bay Area, I really tried to fight my passion/addiction with a variety of sugar-busting cleanses and tonics. But I've given in. And lately in a few of my favorite scoop shops, I've noticed some seasonal flavors that I can't stop talking about. Fall has definitely arrived and there's no time like the present to get yourself a cone before the season--and these flavors--pass us all by.

Three Twins: How can you not love a local organic ice cream shop that was opened by young native, Neil Gottlieb after deciding to ditch business school and just get moving? Named after their living situation at the time (he lived with his twin brother and his wife), Neil set about to open a sustainable, green business. And it's sustaining me, that's for sure. While pumpkin is not an unusual flavor this time of year, their pumpkin pie ice cream is truly extraordinary. They use real pumpkin that they roast, skin, puree, and infuse directly into the ice cream along with a healthy dose of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice. I've had many a pumpkin ice cream cone, but never one with ribbons of real, vibrant pumpkin throughout.

Check out the real pieces of pumpkin!

Three Twins Ice Cream
254 Fillmore Street
San Francisco, CA 94117
(415) 487-8946
Hours: Mon.-Thurs. 12pm-10pm
Fri.-Sat. 11am-11pm; Sun. 11am-10pm

Bi-Rite Creamery: Salted caramel fans, rejoice! You will fall in love with the brown sugar ice cream with ginger crumble swirl. It has that super soft, creamy consistency you're used to, but with flecks of ginger bits and rich, perfect caramel--it's quite something. I've been known to get a cone with a scoop of that and a scoop of their seasonal apple pie, a denser ice cream with streams of cinnamony crust and spiced chunks of apple.

Bi-Rite's brown sugar ice cream with ginger crumble swirl

Bi-Rite Creamery
3692 18th Street
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 626-5600
Hours: Sun.-Thurs. 11am-10pm
Fri.-Sat. 11am-11pm

Ciao Bella Gelato: While I usually prefer hitting up some of the local shops, Ciao Bella has a luscious cinnamon gelato that you really should try. It is literally bursting with warm, autumnal flavors. The gals at the Marin shop told me that people either love or hate this ice cream largely because there is so much cinnamon in it. I fall into the love category--although a little goes a long way. I've heard rumors that they're doing a lovely fig balsamic gelato although the past few times I've gone to do some first-hand research, they've been sold out.

Ciao Bella's Cinnamon Gelato

Ciao Bella
One Ferry Building
San Francisco, CA 94111
(415) 834-9330
Hours: Mon.-Fri. 11am-6pm
Sat. 11am-6pm; Sun. 11am-5pm

Humphry Slocombe: Masters of innovative and seasonal flavors, these guys have created something magical in their Guinness Gingerbread ice cream. This one does sell out quickly--folks call, email, and tweet about its whereabouts--so you may want to check that they've got a bit before heading over. What I appreciate about this ice cream is its subtlety. Owner and ice cream magician, Jake Godby, doesn't hit you over the head with a strong ginger flavor nor does it have that occasional yeasty aftertaste that other Guinness ice creams have. Instead, it has that super creamy texture that folks have come to love at Humphry Slocombe and a quick hint of stout flavor along with bits of warmly spiced gingerbread. After a few licks, you'll remember that Jake used to be a pastry chef and a baker before he got into the ice cream world. It's obvious here.

Humphry Slocombe's Guinness Gingerbread

Humphry Slocombe
2790 Harrison Street
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 550-6971
Hours: Everyday 12pm-9pm

Valencia is a humming thoroughfare teeming with restaurants, bars, vintage stores, galleries, furniture vendors, shops hawking expensive curiosities, construction projects, pigeons, and one small, loud street performer with a bright blue guitar. I don't know what the street was like in the 90s, but it's changed remarkably since I arrived just seven years ago. The blocks have built up, becoming denser. Spaces have changed hands, but fewer proprietors without public relations teams still hold court over the bike lanes, shimmering cars, and busy pedestrian paths. Notably, many restaurants have closed, and many new ones have taken their place. The climate brims with potential, yet it's simultaneously harsh: with so many eating options tangling in such close proximity, survivors must stake out unique corners of the market -- or place a premium on a convenience they provide. Ironically, every Indian restaurant on Valencia -- unless I'm forgetting one down by the 16th Street corridor I tend to avoid -- sits clustered around the street's intersection with 21st. When I first came to town and lived up on Mission, near 26th, a New Orleans-esque restaurant called Le Krewe was installed in the space Dosa currently inhabits. Once I walked by on a toasty September afternoon. The sweaty host was planted on the sidewalk, handing out piping-hot gumbo samples, visibly happy to be removed from the maelstrom of silly fake trees and dangling beads inside his restaurant. While I knew nothing of the space's history -- the fact that many significantly better restaurants had failed there in spite of the desirable location -- I nibbled a particularly tasteless morsel, paused to peer briefly at the menu pasted on the door, and realized immediately the place had no chance of success.

After Le Krewe, a wretched Italian joint called Spiazzino moved in, followed closely by Dosa, which seems to have handily broken whatever dark spell had caused the carousel of doomed ventures to spin for so long. I'm not merely invoking Halloween's sallow after-glow. The notion of a real curse was half-jokingly bandied about a Chowhound board seven years ago. If some great chef's ghost, vengeful in the wake of his ancient restaurant's untimely demise, meddled with the revolving residents of 995 Valencia, the curse was piddling compared to the dastardly pox enveloping the 1100 block of Valencia, further up, on the Noe Valley side, between 22nd and 23rd.

That strip has been gutted like a fish. More crowbars swing behind the block's entrances than whisks and knives. Until 2006, Saigon Saigon occupied the large space adjacent to Lucca's parking lot. The food -- decent Vietnamese -- perked up a part of town lacking in lemongrass, but until very recently, through haphazard strips of lumber across the front facade, a squatter's paradise was visible within. Currently, its "For Rent" sign matches the one on the door of the old Watergate space. In 2003, when I moved into a building on the block, my apartment -- a massive converted one bedroom with a slanted floor and dirty beige carpets -- was positioned directly above the kitchen of that good French-Asian fusion restaurant. Almost immediately, Watergate moved to Nob Hill, where it later expired. The very solid Watercress took over the space yet closed three years later. I'm not sure what came next -- the much-maligned Senses or the endearingly clueless Janitzi with its convoluted "cuisine of the Americas" -- but currently the space is for rent. With walls that felt no further apart than my outstretched arms, Caffe Ponte Vecchio was a doll-sized trattoria. The food, especially the S.F. Weekly-approved lasagne, was tasty enough, but the charming atmosphere (lots of candles, silent soccer on the television) kept the tables tight with customers -- until the Tuscan proprietor closed up shop and moved to Florida, purportedly to spend more time with his mother. Bistro Annex came next and collapsed after a few years.

Aside from Lucca, the esteemed Italian grocery on the corner, the Columbian restaurant El Majahual has been the block's only survivor -- though I've never seen more than a few people in there at a time.

I left my apartment on the 1100 block in 2004, due in some small part to an increasingly fragile neighborly relationship with the social worker who lived upstairs. He'd blast James Taylor at high volume yet charge down the stairs screaming and purple-faced if my roommate and I had a few friends over for dinner. Even watching television was risky. The landlord was a character but not any slimier than most I've met. Something would break -- the sink disposal, a faucet -- and he'd figure out a temporarily satisfactory method of repairing it swiftly and inexpensively. It would break again and the process would start over. I see parallels in the state of the block's restaurants. If restaurants unworthy of the prime location routinely open and sputter, diners expect less. Each weak new attempt feels like a band-aid on a deep wound.

Maybe that's why the owners of Zaytoon have taken two years to renovate the Cafe Ponte Vecchio space; they're waiting to open once people have had time to clear their heads of negative associations with the block's run of failures. According to its website, Zaytoon will sell falafel sandwiches and shawerma wraps. For now, the interior -- an expanse of shiny pea-green tile -- is visible, nearly ready for action. As much as I like falafel and shawerma, and feel that, with Ali Baba's teetering towards major mediocrity for the past five years, and Old Jerusalem being more conducive to dining in, room exists for a newcomer to the genre to make a mark on the neighborhood, I fear Zaytoon won't succeed -- if only because of its strange and sickly color scheme. I hope I'm proven wrong.

My knowledge of the 1100 block is, of course, quite limited. I've only lived in San Francisco for seven years. My brief history is but one possible narrative of a discrete period of time situated around a small stretch of sidewalk many others know better. My difficult upstairs neighbor had rented his apartment for eleven years by the time I showed up. He's probably still there, and has seen many more restaurants come and go.

The cycle of trumpeted launches, seasonal specials, and eventual shutters spur your memory. The people I saw a lot of back when the Ponte Vecchio space belonged to Pont Vecchio aren't, in large part, the same people I see now. I recall the only truly good dinner I had there, before I practically lived next door. My first San Francisco roommate, a college friend, and I were celebrating his birthday. He'd been through a break-up; we were new arrivals, without a lot of friends, eating ravioli and swilling Chianti. There was something funny and a little lonely about a platonic, dude-ly supper for two at Ponte Vecchio, a place with a serious romantic pretense. The moment crystallized the start of a new era. College was over; there were fewer people around to help us celebrate the landmarks in our lives; going out for dinner was a good time, and while we were earning enough money to do so comfortably, there was still a whiff of irony about it, like we were play-acting. While I went there once or twice during the year I lived next door, by the time it closed just three years after that inaugural meal, I'd almost forgotten it ever existed. I was comfortable in the City. My first roommate had moved to New York. I was a few years into a serious relationship. I was leaving my second post-college job and searching aimlessly for the third, and I'd lived at other apartments and houses scattered across various parts of the neighborhood -- on short blocks with their own long stories.

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

Mediterranean Crepe (Feta Cheese, Olives, Avocado, Spinach, Green Onions)

For all its charms, San Francisco falls sadly short when it comes to late-night dining. Ten o'clock may be normal in New York City and a little on the early side in Barcelona, but here, you'll be lucky to find a burrito, much less a plate of pasta and an arugula salad.

OK, maybe we're exaggerating a little, but it's definitely true that noshing options drop dramatically after midnight, unless you're looking for a Mission Street bacon dog or fried eggs and French fries at Sparky's or the Bagdad Cafe. And if you're out clubbing, bar-hopping or catching a show South of Market, the chowing opportunities on those wide windswept streets are few and far between.

Nutella, Strawberries, Bananas with Whipped Cream Crepe

Enter Creperie Saint Germain. From this cute, custom-built wagon parked at the sidewalk edge of a private parking lot on Howard Street come sweet and savory crepes made to order. The daytime business is good, filling up the bellies of nearby office workers and loft dwellers with chicken-feta crepes at lunchtime or chocolate-banana ones later in the afternoon. But the real scene at Saint Germain comes late at night, when the brightly lit little stand beckons hungry clubbers from blocks away. Open from 7am-7pm Monday to Wednesday, the cart often serves until 3am on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.

A little nightlife buzz is already building up around the place, since there's nothing like topping off a happy buzz with a warm crepe dripping with Nutella--or laying down some beer ballast with smoked salmon and cream cheese, ratatouille and spinach, or ham and pineapple all stuffed into a buckwheat wrapper. Along with the printed menu, there are usually a couple of daily specials, like a recent sweet crepe layering fig jam, almond butter, and sliced banana into deluxe spin on the PB&J.

Fresh Apple, Cinnamon, Brown Sugar with Vanilla Ice Cream Crepe

Why crepes? Although crepe stands are ubiquitous in Paris, San Francisco's burgeoning street-food scene was surprisingly bereft, given how many local chalkboard cafes treat them as a staple. Owners Ahmet Cagin and Zeynep Aynaci, friends from Istabul who jettisoned careers in finance to become micro-restauranteurs, felt that crepes would be easy to make on the spot, reasonably healthy and endlessly flexible.

Meet Lover's Maya Crepe

Unlike other Tweeting food carts, Creperie Saint Germain doesn't roam around. By parking in a parking lot, rather than on a street corner, the owners avoided the high sidewalk-permit fees charged by the city for legal food carts. Instead, they negotiate a monthly rent with the owners of the parking lot, pretty much as if their tidy blue-and-white wagon was a stretch Hummer in need of a double-wide space with a view. The only drawback right now is a complete lack of seating, making eating a crepe here strictly a stand-up affair. But isn't clutching a crepe in one hand and a napkin in the other a small price to pay for curbside Nutella at 3am?

Creperie Saint Germain
546 Howard St at 2nd Street
San Francisco, CA 94105
Map
(415) 706-9733
Twitter: @creperieSG

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

I started working with preschoolers a few years ago, not long after I quit my office job. These days, I help out in a pre-k classroom at a school downtown, close to Rincon Center. The boys are obsessed with Star Wars, even the original movies, and the girls sport headbands like Lynda Carter-era Wonder Women. Some of their families call San Francisco home; many live in Marin, south of San Francisco, or in the suburbs of Oakland. A lot of them eat catered school lunches; others lug boxes and bags inevitably embellished with culturally significant images -- Yoda, Tinkerbell, Dora -- and stocked with kid-friendly things: string cheese sticks, raisins, fruit, lunch meat, hummus, and miniature yogurt cups and juice boxes from Trader Joe's and Costco.

Our relationships with food begin when we're very young. We're shaped by what our parents give us. We like what we learn to like. Foods in fun packages -- like pigs-in-a-blanket and eggs-in-a-basket -- are universally appealing. Foods we associate with good times -- like Popsicles -- are as well. Childhood memories are powerful things, our therapists tell us. Chefs know this too. That's why Grant Achatz of the esteemed Alinea in Chicago served, on his restaurant's opening night, a whimsical riff on an American lunch-box staple: one peeled grape, warmed, still on its stem, dipped in a peanut puree and wrapped in brioche -- the mad scientist's peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.

Every Tuesday morning, the class visits the Ferry Building. We teachers gently prod our shifty little charges into the loose winding semblance of a line and lead them, meandering along the sidewalks, dashing through crosswalks. "Smells gross," a boy once sniffed as we passed Yank Sing, the damp, slightly acrid scent of vapor hissing from steamers inside. "That's only the best dim sum in San Francisco," I almost blurted out incredulously. I remembered, of course, that I was walking with under-sized humans who still cried for their mommies and wet their pants on occasion. They'd never pecked a tiny hole in the soft translucent skin of a perfect Shanghai dumpling and slurped -- with greedy, Dracula-like precision -- the sweet, concentrated broth within. Divorced from that experience, the smell was, in fact, a little icky. An iron grate covers a patch of pavement directly outside of Boulevard, on the Mission St. side. The kids like to jump on it as they pass because it clangs noisily. A waiter inside polishing glasses -- readying for the lunch hour rush -- inevitably chuckles. Their small heads bob just barely into view with every leap.

I wonder if marching into the Ferry Building farmer's market flanked by a posse of adorable 4-year-olds isn't a bit like rolling into a club with a bunch of professional basketball players. You receive a lot of attention but it's all purely by association. Beaming retirees and fanny-pack-toting tourists -- this scene's coterie of doting fans and relentless paparazzi -- hover, stare, cluck, and coo. When cameras come out, teachers act swiftly, more like security personnel than hangers-on. "No photos, please," we say firmly. "They're minors." Once, a very old woman wheeling her husband -- a man in much less robust health -- sidled up to me winking, her face as round, wrinkled, and fuzzy as an over-ripe apricot: "Do any of them need a Jewish grandma?" she practically pleaded. "Yes," I responded. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Potato," by Reese, age 4. She drew a potato and started to scrawl the word, but decided to write "green bean" instead.

For the kids, a Tuesday trip to the Ferry Building is an overwhelming assault of sensory delights. They grab at anything within reach. They swivel their heads as they walk, twirling constantly to see what's happening behind them, mindful that they're always missing something. Things fall apart; the line cannot hold. The other day, we were leaving the farmer's market, heading for the lobster tanks inside, when a girl prone to dawdling dawdled. I asked her to catch up. She stared up at me and offered a retort for which I had no rote teacher-ly rejoinder "I'm just looking at the world." At that moment, Incanto chef, Boccalone owner, and Food Network presence Chris Cosentino glided by, pushing a produce-stacked cart. A small blond boy sat on top of the cart, giggling. "Weeeee," said the kid. I thought of Old Mcdonald's Farm -- the mooing cows, quacking ducks, and oinking pigs, and what Chris Cosentino would do with them if he had the chance.

This week, we checked out the mushroom mini-farms at Far West Fungi. "Eeek, blech," said a girl, scrunching her eyes and nose, tilting her head to properly appraise the craggy shitake caps poking out from what looked like a wizened loaf of pumpernickel. "You don't like mushrooms?" I asked. "I like mushrooms, but not ones with yucky shells," she explained, cackling, waving her hands at me as if I were a dunce and she was making perfect sense. She noticed a poster of wild mushrooms hanging outside the store. "I like this one," she said, pointing to a particular 'shroom. "That is a shitake," I said. "It's just like the ones on the log you said were yucky." Three hours later, she woke up from a nap and grabbed my leg as I walked past her mat. "Actually, I only like two kinds of mushrooms," she said, as if to clear up a misunderstanding. "I like the big ones and the little round ones." "Okay," I responded. 'The rest are yucky," she added, sighing conclusively as she rolled over to fall back asleep.

As part of the weekly ritual, we pick out vegetables and fruits for the kids to enjoy for a pre-playground snack after nap. The kids make choices, which is good for them to do. We try to present attractive options: produce to provoke curiosity and wonder -- like lemon cucumbers, sweet gnarled bell peppers sporting psychedelic hues, little damson plums, and baby carrots in leafy bunches etc. At snack-time, they're excited but picky -- especially when it comes to vegetables which, unlike most fruits, aren't usually sweet and, on some level, candy-like.

"Green Bean," by Stella, age 4. She drew a green bean and then turned it into an airplane.

I am reminded of a story my mother once told me. She had a nasty 3rd grade teacher with a favorite adage -- "you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink" -- and she took pleasure in invoking it whenever students dozed, doodled, or clowned through her class. The saying has drifted through my mind at snack-time, though in this case, it expresses patience, not exasperation. To rope in another livestock platitude, the vegetables kids adamantly refuse -- no matter how sustainable, delicious, and healthy they may be -- are not pearls cast before proverbial swine. You can't force much with kids and food. You can lead them to water, and while you can't make them drink, you can drink yourself, in front of them, and tell them how good it is. If you're funny and sincere enough, sooner or later, they'll get thirsty. Breathlessly extolling their virtues between bites, I practically wore out my molars chomping purple peppers before a boy took pity on me, kind of shaking his head as he reached out a small pudgy paw for his own sliver.

4-year-olds don't know that much yet. They also have a pretty limited vocabulary. Yet they're -- like George -- endlessly curious, and constantly -- unlike George -- growing and honing new tools for comprehension and conversation. As a result, they're very good at asking obvious, simple questions that actually require difficult, complex answers. On Tuesday, halfway through the afternoon, two children, a boy and a girl, argued. The boy yelped imperiously, "Did you know that if dinosaurs were alive now, they would eat us?" The girl guffawed in disbelief. "Eat us?" she snorted, probably, for once, not on purpose. "No way! Why would they eat us? We're not food." The boy nodded solemnly, closing his eyes as his head swung up and down. "They would. Do you know why? Because we have meat in our bodies." The girl started to say something, then paused, her eyes wandering down to the arms hanging at her sides. She lifted her left arm with her right hand and let it flop down, limp. She picked it up again and squeezed it slowly and deliberately, feeling bone and muscle, her fingers crawling all the way up to her tiny shoulder. You could tell her brain was working hard. She was thinking about meat -- what she knew of it, where she thought it came from, what it looked like, what it tasted like. Grilled chicken. Pepperoni on pizza. Ham sandwiches. Shrimp. She yelled at me from halfway across the room: "Do we have meat in our bodies for real?"

I tried to pretend I hadn't heard. She yelled again. I took a deep breath. I walked over and knelt down on the carpet. I didn't mind talking about it; I just wasn't sure where to begin.

A few years ago, I worked at a law firm in the Financial District. Sometimes, I'd bring my lunch from home -- typically a sandwich or some leftover pasta, invariably an uninviting shade of its dinner-time self. More often than not though, I'd pick up food from the one of the delis, steam table salad bars, or assorted take-out spots studding the blocks winding around the 30-story office building where I worked. Save for the occasional hike up the hill to Chinatown or Ferry Building sojourn, by and large, this micro-community of eats was it for me. There was a San Francisco Soup Company outpost next to the lobby. I frequently enjoyed the chicken tortilla soup, usually in a bread bowl. There was a sandwich shop clinging to the other side of the building. I liked how the owner sliced avocados for my turkey sandwich: he popped out the pit, made six swift incisions, and fanned the contents out like waves along the expanse of a split dutch crunch roll caked in mayo. Then, both above and below layers of tomato, red onion, lettuce, and halved banana peppers, he carefully folded sheets of watery turkey so no errant bits flapped over the sides. The cross-section was beautiful, like stained glass, quite Scanwich-worthy. The sandwich, of course, tasted like most you get downtown for $5.25. I tried many others, and while a few slightly farther-flung establishments stood out for their fresh-carved leg meat, decent tomatoes, free cups of coleslaw, and the like, I went there again and again -- because I appreciated how the man sliced avocados, because the price was right, and, most importantly, because I could leave my desk, zip down the elevator, get a football-sized sub, and slip back into the confines of my closet-like office before a YouTube clip finished buffering.

There were also the self-service salad bars: piles of faux-fancy greens and their common accoutrements -- bacon bits, squishy cherry tomatoes, pre-packaged croutons, and drippy canned beans -- alongside lamp-warmed tubs of sorry-looked ravioli bathed in thin sauce, dried-out roasts, and other lackluster entrees, bacteria-friendly, all conveniently sold by the ounce. Despite my reoccurring health concerns, these places terrorized my wallet more often than my digestive tract. I'd go, stack a few deceptively heavy items in a plastic container, add a tuft or two of lettuce, grab a roll, and head over to the weigh station, where the listless cashier would declare, to my shock and horror, that I now owed upwards of $10 to the awful enterprise's greedy proprietor, money I could have put towards three days' worth of decent bread and cheese -- plus a few cold cans of beer after work.

Office workers are captive diners. Since people will pay more for convenient bad food in the middle of the day, lunch spots charged with feeding the downtown drones know their registers will ring regardless of how good their wares are. For every self-described foodie frantically mining for diamonds in the roughest of roughs, there are a dozen people who, at least for an hour or so, don't care.

A Lee's Deli. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

I once found bugs of indeterminable type floating in a huge styrofoam cylinder of wonton soup from Lee's, that ubiquitous chain of dirty delis with the heinous red signs and peanut butter sandwiches for $2.75. After pouring the half-gallon of buggy broth down the drain and rinsing out my mouth with diet Dr. Pepper, I telephoned the more seasoned co-worker who'd recommended I try the joint in the first place. She screeched over the phone: "Dude, you're not supposed to get the soup!" She emailed a few minutes later to say the salad bar was off-limits too -- I could go only for sandwiches, and just specific ones at that: Nothing involving meat, fish, or eggs rendered into salad form; nothing served hot. Another time, I ordered two slices of mushroom pizza from a weird cafe around the corner offering nearly every sort of lunch-like dish an unimaginative person might ponder gobbling. The guy behind the counter -- definitely not a pizzaiolo -- slipped the skinny, grease-mottled triangles into a to-go box of flat-screen proportions adorned with the visage of a portly, mustachioed man in a floppy chef's hat. One of the partners stood next to me on the elevator back up, and I, a little embarrassed, sweating profusely from the heat emanating off the gigantic pizza box, could have sworn he was smirking. The head partner at this firm was a older man on the brink of retirement. On my second day of work, his secretary pulled me aside in the hallway and whispered that he hated the smell of other people's food -- if I wanted to eat anything with a remotely pervasive odor at my desk, I'd need to be careful and keep the door closed so as not to incite his wrath. The head partner and I never actually spoke, but once I turned the corner of our shared hallway too quickly and almost ran into him -- holding in two hands a plastic bag sticky with fish sauce oozing from a carton of Thai noodles wrapped inside. He must have been in a hurry because he merely grunted and shook his head briskly before clomping off.

The morning I planned to write this blog, I woke up with a sore throat and the sniffles. I took the day off work. While I no longer toil in the upper reaches of a downtown office building, it felt disingenuous to write about eating at work when I was actually in bed, re-watching "Miller's Crossing," scooping peach sorbet right out of the container. I started thinking about foods we eat when we're fighting a cold. Some people don't eat at all; others eat more than usual, seeking out remedies via sustenance in the form of garlic, citrus, dark mineral-rich greens, and bright red berries.

Like many, I crave soup when I'm ill, particularly those of a brutally spicy ilk. Until the restaurant churlishly (and curiously) tried to cut costs by halving the size of its soup containers, I was a big fan of Spicy Bite's Indo-Chinese hot-and-sour, a fusion-y concoction L. E. Leone once deemed "the spiciest, zaniest, most medicinal, and most maddeningly delicious bowl of soup ever." Most recently, I've sought out the Lao-style chicken soup from East Oakland's Green Papaya Deli. The stock for this magnificent soup may have been leeched from the house-sized chicken in "George's Marvelous Medicine" -- rich and wholly enveloping, as if a free-range fowl's most sparkling, soulful essence could be poured forth, pumped up through J. Mascis' wall of amps, and compressed down again to pool impatiently within the confines of an 8 oz. bowl. It arrives speckled with thin-sliced green onions and bony bits of bird floating throughout, shot through with enough lime to bring a sour yet warm catch to the back of the throat -- a wrecking ball for the curtains of mucus in your chest and the helmet of ache encircling your head. Of course, if you're well enough to take BART to Oakland in search of soup, you're probably well enough to go to work and get paid to sip a lesser tonic and nap under the desk.

The Sentinel. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

When we're home sick, we're comforted by routine -- making smoothies, taking baths, chugging whiskey, and getting soup delivered. When we make it to work, we're governed by habit too. Apart from the way we like our avocados sliced, how we spend our lunch hour says a lot about our priorities. I've gone out of my way for The Sentinel's delicious chickpea sandwich, but I'm too lazy and otherwise preoccupied to make a habit of it. Some people like to get together for lunch, to sit outside, eat something nice, and momentarily forget all about fuzzy computer screens and conference calls. Addicted to Facebook, others grab whatever's most convenient and haul it back to the office to spill over the computer keyboard. Some people run errands on their breaks because they know they won't have time after work. I used to religiously play basketball at the Y.M.C.A. during lunch. I'd leave at 11:45 a.m. and rush back by 1:20 p.m., still damp from the shower, wondering, almost on a daily basis, whether or not anyone important might have noticed my lengthy absence. Most days, I'd enter the lobby slowly, glancing around furtively, ready to fake a hobble should a supervising attorney approach and ask where I'd been for so long. Thankfully, I never had to stoop so low. I lived in a state of heightened anxiety, but at least the food was free. Yes, that's right -- the food was free. About halfway through my tour of duty at this office, I learned why no one ever seemed to actually eat lunch until after two. Every day, in at least two or three conference rooms spread out across three floors, groups of lawyers gathered for midday meetings. Lunch was inevitably served -- usually Chinese or catered deli sandwiches. When the meetings let out, the leftovers were supposed to be ferried to one of three main kitchens where they'd be divvied up by employees who happened to be passing through. In reality, however, receptionists with favored perspectives would send out curt email bulletins to a select group of staffers once the conference room doors had been flung open and the parade of suits had disappeared. In that short window of time -- after the lawyers had left, before an administrative assistant could arrive with a cart -- scavengers would descend. Once I learned this, I wheedled my way on to the list and made the next evolutionary leap -- from scrounging leftovers, to lazily buying takeout, to finally, gloriously, sustaining myself on food I did not pay for.

And then I quit.