Making amazing snails in District 1, Oc Huong Pho Mai

I've been eating myself silly the past 15 days -- I know, what's new. But no, this has been a really special kind of silly. The eating-my-way-through Vietnam kind of silly!

Well, to be more specific, not quite all of Vietnam, since an unexpected detour to Hong Kong for a roundtrip price of $150 proved too tempting to pass up, but for sure, through a majority of Ho Chi Minh City (a.k.a. Saigon).

There is a good reason why even hardened eaters like Anthony Bourdain have fallen so in love with the cuisine of Vietnam. It's fresh, vibrant, varied, and satisfying without feeling gluttonously heavy.

And, most often, it is cooked on the spot, right before your eyes, on the street, by someone who has been making that one particular dish over and over, for years, decades, quite possibly, generations.

Since Hua's father and uncles are locals, we had the benefit of zipping about on the back of their motorbikes (amongst the unimaginable number of other motorbikes on the road), being led by the nose to some of the most delicious food I have ever tasted.

That's a big statement, I know, but I stand by it. These local favorites are something special. Purveyors of food so good, so exciting, so complex in flavor yet simple in execution, I ate like I was starved (which is absurd because I don’t think I once felt the sensation of "hunger" the entire trip). I now pass this joy to you. Go seek these places/dishes out:

Cha Gue, Nen Nha Dat

Place: Nen Nha Dat
While I don't think this is the real "name" of this vendor, this is what the sign says above the storefront where this little set-up is situated.
Dish: Cha Gue (pronounced "chow gway")
Translation: Pan-fried Rice Flour Cake with Egg
Address: 91 Ha Ton Quyen (cross street: Tan Thanh) - P.15, Q.5

Awaiting Cha Gue

Located in District 5, sort of like the Chinatown of HCMC, Hua's dad took us here for a snack on Day 1. The bar was set high early.

The dish consisted of thick, rectangular pieces of pan-fried rice flour cake. The perfect golden crisp on the outside is beautifully offset by the smooth, supple texture on the inside.

When the rice cakes are nearing the end of their browning, an egg is cracked over them and the rich orange-hued yolk is broken. Throw a handful of minced green onion on the pan to warm through, and add bits of fried onion, fried pork skin (like little precious bits of chicharrones), and garlic. The dish is then served with a side of homemade pickled daikon and carrot slaw, and a savory dipping sauce of sweet soy sauce and a dollop of chili sauce.

Cha Gue, Nen Nha Dat

The Cha Gue, hot off the pan, had this corner bumpin', and even in the rain people were pulling up on their motorbikes and shouting their orders to-go from the street.

Apparently, business is so good that the owner doesn't want to grow his operations because he's afraid he wouldn't be able to handle the volume. Interesting how this kind of success would inspire a very different response back home, as I envisioned a fleet of Kogi taco trucks multiplying like rabbits in the streets of LA.

Wok-fried Snails, Oc Huong Pho Mai

Place: Oc Huong Pho Mai
Dish: Wok-fried Snails in a heavenly sauce
Translation: Bliss
Address: 37/3 Nguyen Cauh Chan - Q.1

After day of shopping in Saigon Square we were carted off to rejuvenate ourselves with a little pre-dinner feast of the most amazing snails I've ever had.
I was skeptical as we turned onto a tiny, dimly-lit, nondescript, side-street. It would have been a little sketchy if it wasn't for the insanely cute kindergarten class that was being held a few doors down.

Cute kids near snails

The set up of the shop was typical -- a kitchen (comprised of a few burners and a grill) that spilled out from the ground floor of someone's home onto the street, a few small tables and chairs along the street, and an extra bonus here, a lady squeezing fresh sugarcane juice right across the street! It couldn't have been better.

Making fresh sugarcane juice

We over-ordered of course, and out came dishes of small snails, large snails, clams, crab, even balut!

For those unfamiliar, balut is a fertilized duck egg with a nearly-developed embryo inside that is boiled and then eaten out of the shell with a spoon. You heard right, a partial chick (please don't hate me). Since it was my first time trying this delicacy, I was advised not to look directly at it (kind of like that adage of not staring into the sun). The texture can be challenging if you're squeamish, and you can't help but look too closely, but the flavor was good. As expected, a combo of an egg and chicken, but all in one bite. A little dish of salt and pepper mixed with lemon juice added a nice kick of flavor, and of course, some herbage, coriander leaves.

That was probably the most exotic thing I tried on this trip, but the snails! Those may have been the best. Boiled first to cook through, then finished off in a wok, seared until some magical sauce evaporated and coated the shells.

Bliss

The snails themselves were meaty and succulent, but the sauce, now that was truly extraordinary: a little creamy and cheesy, with a touch of sweetness, and a tinge of heat that played on our lips. It was caramelized into almost a crust on the shells. We unabashedly licked our fingers clean while still reaching for more. The flavor teased us as we chased after it, wanting to savor it, have more of it, freakin' bathe in it.

Hu Tiu Nam Vang, Tin Phuc

Place: Tin Phuc
Dish: Hu Tiu Nam Vang (pronounced "hoo tee-yoo nam vang")
Translation: Pork and Crab Noodle Soup
Address: 16 Duong Dinh Nghe (cross street: Cu Xa Binh Thoi) - P.8, Q.11

Tin Phuc

Tin Phuc is more of restaurant than actual street food, although, with its breezy architecture, you could technically drive right in if you really wanted to.

Regardless, it is delicious. Only one dish is served so you can't mess up the order: Hu Tiu Nam Vang. (In Cantonese we call it "gum been fun.") You can order it "dry" but the soup is so good that you probably won't want to.

Basically, hu tiu is a noodle soup similar to pho, but more seafood-based and with a light broth. Prior to this meal, I had never tasted it before, so I did some research on its origins. Vietnamese culinary expert Andrea Nguyen had much light to shed regarding this addictive dish. According to Andrea, "At its core, hu tieu signals a Chinese-Southeast Asian style noodle soup made with a pork bone broth and no fish sauce." But, there are many riffs on it, one of which is the Nam Vang style, "Nam Vang" being the Vietnamese word for Phnom Penh (the capital of Cambodia). Thus, Vietnam's proximity to Cambodia resulted in this Cambodian-Chinese concoction.

Herbage

Tin Phuc's rendition of Hu Tiu Nam Vang is divine. The soup is phenomenal, sweet and rich, made from the stock of pork bones and crab shells. The angel-hair-thin opaque rice noodles have just the right amount of springy chew to them. And the toppings are generous portions of pork meat, tendon and heart, crab meat, and shrimp. Tear up handfuls of leafy Romaine, Chinese celery and flat Chinese chives, add some crunchy bean sprouts, a touch of chili pepper, and you good to go.

The result is soul-satisfying. Warm, comforting, full of umami, fresh and healthy feeling. I bet a bowl of this could cure a cold like nobody's business.

The best part? Lunch for 5 people here rolled up to a mere $9.75 USD.

Street Scene

Back in September, Thy Tran wrote a great article on Street Food Beyond Festivals in which she compares the young street food culture in the U.S. to other places where it has been "long embedded into their daily rhythms." Witnessing the street food culture of Saigon brought that alive for me. Daily rhythm is right, it seemed like everyone eats out all the time whether it’s having your morning coffee delivered to your front door from the coffee lady down the street, getting some fruit to-go from the number of fruit vendors rolling around, or popping a squat on a little plastic chair at a tea-party-sized table for dinner. Sure, the convenience, affordability, and quality of product are all great. But it is the daily human interaction, the chit chat, the sense of community that comes with it, that makes this daily rhythm so soothing.

Nen Nha Dat (for Cha Gue)
91 Ha Ton Quyen (cross street: Tan Thanh) - P.15, Q.5
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
Phone: 0903380574

Oc Huong Pho Mai (for Snails)
37/3 Nguyen Cauh Chan - Q.1
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Tin Phuc (for Hu Tiu Nam Vang)
16 Duong Dinh Nghe (cross street: Cu Xa Binh Thoi) - P.8, Q.11
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
Phone: 3.9627977

Commonwealth Club's The Street Food Movement: SF Hearts the Cart panel

At the Commonwealth Club's Thursday night event, "The Street Food Movement: SF Hearts the Cart," a visibly upset Steven Gbdula (Gobba Gobba Hey) explained that Murat Celebi-Ariner of popular cart Amuse Bouche is being deported even though he's married to a U.S. citizen. ICE's holding him and he's not getting an appeal. At the post-event food tasting at 111 Minna St., Steven and Natalie (Bike Basket Pies) sported t-shirts that read "Free Murat" and other vendors had small signs expressing frustration with the situation.

Natalie of @bikebasketpies

The reaction to Murat's looming deportation highlights one of the major themes of the panel discussion: the importance of community and supporting one another. Murat actually encouraged Steven to start, tweeted about his delicious gobs (an East Coast treat reminiscent of the whoopie pie), and supported other vendors whole-heartedly. The affable Frenchman was a big presence at the 24th St. BART station and will be missed greatly by his customers, but also by the other vendors who have come to see him not just as a fellow business or even a competitor, but as a friend.

The panel discussion was moderated by Tamara Palmer, editor of Pavement Cuisine for SF Weekly and included Anthony Myint of Mission Street Food, Brian (aka the Magic Curry Cart), Steven Gbdula of Gobba Gobba Hey and Charles Phan from The Slanted Door (and Out The Door, Heaven's Dog, Academy Cafe). Questions were largely split into three categories: inspiration for starting the cart, challenges the vendors have faced, and what the future looks like for them.

Regarding getting started, Anthony Myint responded first (Tamara calling him the godfather of the street scene as he started in a taco truck and has since "graduated" to cooking meals twice a week in an actual kitchen). Anthony mentioned he was simply looking for something to do in his free time, and eventually he grew out of the taco truck. It was more about logistics than anything. Brian, the Magic Curry Man, originally opened to make a little extra cash and do something besides his day job as a psychotherapist. He'd traveled a great deal in Asia and noticed San Francisco was really missing street food, so he modeled his cart after one he'd seen in Bangkok. He practiced cooking for friends and scored an old cart from Burning Man. Once people started tweeting about it, the business grew exponentially.

Brian of @Magiccurrycart and Steven Gbdula of @GobbaGobbaHey

Steven moved to San Francisco exactly one year ago Friday and like Brian, noticed a lack of street food in the city, but more specifically, a lack of the beloved gob. He figured, "I can make these, but it's the Bay Area so I'm going to have to raise my game a little." And that he did, with gobs selling out frequently and admirers obsessively following his tweets. On the flip side, Charles Phan discussed how he originally wanted to open a street cart, but was so overwhelmed by the permit requirements and code restrictions that he was driven to open a "brick and mortar."

Charles Phan

Most vendors seemed to have a good sense of humor about the permit requirements and legal restrictions. Steven mentioned that he started with more of a tray than a cart and just walked around the Mission selling his gobs. When he'd see a police presence, he'd duck into doorways whistling inconspicuously. Since then, he's gone "more legitimate," baking in a commercial kitchen and wrapping and sealing his products before they hit the street. Brian mentioned that generally the cops are more concerned with noise or folks lined up blocking the streets.

Neither noise nor street obstructions were a factor at the post-panel street food gathering. The vendors set up in the modern art gallery with people packed in, trying to get their favorite street morsel before the next guy in line.

Post-event food tasting at 111 Minna

The vendors were borrowing kitchen tools and towels from one another and cracking jokes across the room. They all know one another and genuinely seem to care about their mutual success. One of Smitten Ice Cream's recent tweets reads: @@BikeBasketPies and @SmittenIceCream are teaming up today -- treat yourself to "a-la-mode" at Secret Alley (Capp btw 17th & 18th) 2 - 5 PM.. Robyn Sue, of newly formed Smitten Ice Cream explains how important collaboration is and how supportive and helpful the community has been in showing her the ropes.

Robyn Sue and "Kelvin" of @SmittenIceCream

My favorite sample was Robyn's ice cream. The salted caramel was churned out by her trusty (self-designed) machine, "Kelvin." Robyn spent a year constructing Kelvin, who debuted on the streets of San Francisco about a month ago. The bacon potato chips always make me happy, and the pumpkin pie with chocolate chips at Bike Basket Pies made me ponder switching up our family's Thanksgiving pie this year. The ginger cookies from Sweet Constructions were crispy and delightful--and of course, that crème brulee.

@BaconPotatoChip

@cremebruleecart

@sfcookies

So while the presence of carts may wane a bit in the coming rainy months, and while some vendors may eventually tweak their business model to become more "legit," one thing will remain the same: these folks are taking something they genuinely love doing and trying to make a go of it--together. But everything good must evolve, and when asked about their future plans, it was clear this would certainly be the case.

Brian mentioned that Friday is the last day at his "real job" as he's getting laid off. He said he'll definitely be focusing on the cart more and has some ideas for expansion. While making the curry to order in front of folks is undeniably part of the charm, he is thinking about how to be more legitimate (with permits and the like). He's also interested in focusing on nutrition for lower income families. Anthony wants to open a charitable business or a chain based on the Mission Street Food model. Steven has some plans regarding new products, selling gobs on the popular website Foodzie and possibly moving into a retail space. And Charles Phan smiled, stating "I still want to build a cart. I salvaged a 60 foot trailer home and it's sitting in my yard...waiting."

Find contributing Food Vendors via Twitter:
@Magiccurrycart
@GobbaGobbaHey
@SmittenIceCream
@bikebasketpies
@BaconPotatoChip
@soulcocina
@sfcookies
@cremebruleecart
@Missionstfood

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

Last year, the night after Christmas, or more specifically, the very early morning of the day after the night after Christmas, I left the house where still nothing was stirring -- save for ripped ribbons and scraps of tissue paper skittering across the wood floors from gusts of central heat. I found myself drinking beers and small glasses of Jim Beam on ice with a friend on the damp, cold patio of my favorite bar in my hometown of Louisville, Kentucky. The Back Door hugs the side-alley edge of a depressing strip mall in an otherwise lovely neighborhood. Despite a few relatively recent attempts at renovation, Mid-City Mall remains a wan collection of establishments: a husk of a supermarket, a huge basement thrift store, a small gym, a wizened bakery, and a movie theater -- all save the latter permeated through and through by the distinct, inescapable odor of old cigarettes mingling with doughnut glaze. I sat in my uncomfortable plastic chair, letting crushed ice suffused with liquor melt in the back of my throat, compulsively checking the time on my cell phone again and again. I was listening to a friend of my friend I'd just met -- an aging, chain-smoking rocker lady who claimed to have once managed The Jesus Lizard. Curly-haired, shifty, and fast-talking, like a nervous auctioneer, she chattered on through the chill -- upbraiding her absent housemates, flirting, guffawing weirdly, talking about drugs, touching repeatedly on a failed attempt to bed Chris Cornell in the early 90s. The party is over, I thought. My flight was in seven hours. I hopped up to order another whiskey, my last.

When I returned, a man wearing blue overalls was hunched over our table. His hair was gray, but he could have been any age. It was hard to tell. An amazing Witness-style beard jutted out from his chin like a grass-tipped rock formation. He may have been wearing a hat. I'm not sure. I was intoxicated, and staring at what he was holding in his gnarled hands: a broad wicker basket filled with plastic baggies marked with indecipherable paper stickers containing what looked, in the dark, like shards of dried seaweed or the worst weed in the world. My friend had already bought a bag. He was stuffing bits of the stuff into his mouth and chewing deliberately, somehow grinning at the same time. "Jerky," he said. "Get some." I don't actually remember if that's what he said -- I was in my cups, after all -- but he informed me in some verbal form of expression what he was so intent on devouring. I got some -- two bags worth -- and started tearing away, balancing the sharp jolts of bourbon with salty strips. This jerky was the first beef I'd eaten since elementary school. I'd get a full-blown inauguration in Kyoto several months later, but this was an ideal re-introduction: consorting drunkenly with a rich, ancient-seeming flavor, as if my vaguest recollection of steak had been realized, condensed, and boiled down, and then -- in some dazzling Wonka-esque process -- rendered slim, portable, and hard as sheet-rock.

I don't actually remember that the vendor's hands were gnarled, but the adjective suits the smoke-cured paws of a bearded Kentucky jerky-man. He didn't give a name; he just left -- trudging down the steps, disappearing into the shadowy reaches of the bar's tree-covered parking lot with what I'd like to imagine was an affected hill-country whoop. My friend's friend seemed to know him, but unlike us, she didn't want to talk about jerky, much less the man who made it. "It's low in calories!" she'd bellowed, sort of throwing up her hands in exasperation at our lack of interest in her preferred topics of conversation. "It's a great source of protein!"

I brought most of one bag back to San Francisco. I ate it all the following morning, while sitting at the kitchen table in my Mission District apartment, surfing the Internet. When it was empty, I stared at the bag, a little forlorn. "I've got to get some more of this shit," I said to myself. The jerky salesman was the real deal, I thought, a Kentucky classic, an intrepid street food hustler in a lean and largely cart-less land. I wanted to meet him again, to interview him perhaps, to most importantly get my hands on some more of his delicious wares.

I told my friend back in Louisville that I wanted to re-up. He had his own agenda. In exchange for sniffing out the traveling jerky-man, he wanted me to send him a large quantity of marijuana -- some good medicinal stuff with a fantastic name. From my perspective, no amount of jerky joy was worth the potential consequences of stinking up Fed-Ex with a sativa-spiked Folgers can. Imagining how hard a judge would laugh at me, I declined, putting down the phone and casting aside my longing -- temporarily.

Today is Friday, October 2nd. I arrived in Louisville yesterday afternoon. I came here to see my mother and my brother, to get some work done, to read a little, and to watch football on a big television. I also came to look for jerky.

While San Francisco, my city of residence for the past seven years, remains in the grips of a giddy street food obsession, Louisville, an over-achieving restaurant town boasting the likes of 610 Magnolia and Proof on Main, has little in the way of pavement cuisine -- although my Saturday morning trip to the neighborhood farmer's market revealed a lively scene. In a June 2009 article published in Velocity, one of Louisville's local weeklies, Marty Rosen assailed the perceived deficiency as one of several standing in the city's path to gastronomic greatness:

"We live in a temperate zone...We have sidewalks. We have sidewalk dining. We have folks who walk on sidewalks. What we don't have -- except for a few downtown exceptions and a few taco trucks -- is an entrepreneurial crew of sidewalk vendors hawking falafel, chaat, shawarama and sausages..."

I haven't really lived in Louisville since I was in high school. My sense of the changes time has wrought on its physical and cultural landscape arrives in swells and swoops, when I'm back for pockets of time, around holidays mostly. On every ride from the airport to the house where I grew up, my mom rattles off a reel of news -- which shops have closed, major construction projects of note, the revitalized waterfront, the new basketball arena, the growing art scene -- as if I'd been gone for a decade. Then I realize, when you're used to looking closely at a smaller place, such shifts are more palpable, and they can seem so major. Me, I don't even remember how to get around town anymore. Most of my friends have left. Hunting for jerky, I had no leads beyond knowing where I'd first had it.

I started my search on the computer. Googling is an unromanticizable form of sleuthing -- no stake-outs, no disguises -- but it often works. First, I uncovered a 2006 night-on-the-town chronicled in LEO, Louisville's other, more venerable alt-weekly. A drinking party wound up at The Back Door, where a bag of beef jerky made the rounds as closing time approached. Next, I came across a 2004 piece in The Courier-Journal running down the 50 coolest things about Louisville with, at #39, a likely reference to the man I had encountered: "Rusty Sturgeon's homemade varieties [of beef jerky]...are a well-kept secret among meat-o-philes."

After that, a Courier-Journal article from two weeks ago popped up, a short list of favorite local foodstuffs offering more details to corroborate my fleeting experience with what I'd already read:

"Rusty Sturgeon is a Louisville food artist. The overall-wearing gentleman wanders the Highlands selling homemade beef jerky to Louisvillians after a night at the city's myriad clubs and drinking holes. Sturgeon is a friendly guy, but some folks might be (understandably) concerned about buying food off a guy on the street. Don't be. Sturgeon's jerky is way better than anything you'll get at the convenience store. May we suggest the flaming ass, a particularly spicy jerky strong enough to shake you out of a bourbon stupor."

I knew the trail was flaming ass-hot when I tracked down Sturgeon on Facebook, or at least a page someone had created in his honor. A benevolent face sprouting tendrils from the chin grinned out at me, frozen in a streetlight's unflattering glow. I immediately became his "fan."

Of course, I still wanted to find the dude in the flesh. His Facebook page didn't link to Twitter -- or otherwise suggest he ever announced his intended schedule prior to hitting the streets, basket in hand. Later in the afternoon, I called The Back Door to ask when he usually came through. "Speak slower, please," a deflated female voice yawned on the other end. I repeated the question. "Oh yes," she said, perking up just the slightest bit. "Sometimes he's here during the day, sometimes at night, sometimes during the day and at night as well. He's everywhere."

That didn't help. At 10:00 p.m., I walked out the front door of my mom's house and hoofed it over to the bar. I had a drink. I waited for an hour. I saw a guy who'd taught me history in middle school, but no one selling jerky. When you're hunting for something, I wondered, as I drained my whiskey -- are you more likely to find it if you keep moving, or stay in one place? The problem with Sturgeon being everywhere, of course, is that, while he may cover a lot of ground, he's nowhere until you actually see him. Street food vendors tend to show up when you don't expect them, or when you need them most -- when you're, say, one tamale away from fainting. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten that pizza for dinner, I thought -- then I'd have needed him more. I got up, and left. I'd be back in December for another try.

These last two weekends in the Bay Area have been a celebration of the best and the biggest of food on the go. La Cocina and Eat Real both showed that there are indeed thousands of people willing to stand in long lines in the full heat of summer to try any tasty treat served from a bicycle or cart, tent or renovated taco truck.

But it was a bit like eating Thanksgiving dinner, my cousin's 12-course wedding banquet and my mom's new year's brunch all in the same week. The specialness of each blurred together, and the meaning of each was lost in the flurry of food.

If we would like to see the creativity of those festivals extended to the other 362 days of the year, we now need to divert some of our gustatory energy to ensuring systemic support of microenterprise. Yes, I know, public policy and economic reform is not nearly as sexy as a coconut-basil popsicle. And, yes, talking about immigration and community development is such a downer. Tweeting is way more fun than writing letters to our city supervisors.

In the U.S., our concept of business has always been closely bound to owning or renting property. With the words legitimate and legal defining benchmarks for entrepreneurs, street food rarely receives the kind of public awareness and support that other countries have long embedded into their daily rhythms. In some countries, nearly half of the food consumed comes from street vendors, and in Africa, Asia and Latin America, the street food sector employs from 6 to 25 percent of the urban work force, often involving entire families across generations. (See Street Foods: World Review of Nutrition and Dietetics, ed. A.D. Simonpaulos, 2000.) Consumers International, an independent organization working in 116 countries, has been researching and working closely with governments to support street food for over 30 years.

India and Singapore may serve as useful examples for us. Their burgeoning street food scenes are both relatively young. Singapore was established in 1959, and within ten years, the government realized the need to regulate street food vendors without diluting the island's distinctive culinary culture. Any eater who has made the pilgrimage to Singapore knows well that hawker centres a.k.a. food centres, with their endless stretches of food stalls, are the very effective and delicious compromise. While a few taxi drivers and old-timers may still grumble about how chicken rice just doesn't taste the same in air-conditioning, no one would think of giving up their neighborhood food centre. Located in the first floors of apartment complexes as well as concentrated in specially zoned, multi-level, sprawling malls, food hawkers are truly a day-to-day part of life in Singapore.

In India, where maintaining the purity of food was inherent in cooking and eating and where strict adherence to caste distinctions limited eating food prepared by strangers, street food has only become popular in the past few decades. Since then, it has grown into such a huge, sprawling aspect of the urban landscape that its Supreme Court recently moved to ban the preparation of food in public areas in New Delhi. Vendors will have to prepare their food at home and then sell them pre-packaged. (Caffeine, however, was specifically not criminalized: coffee and tea vendors enjoy a special dispensation.)

As expected, there was an outcry from vendors all across India. More interestingly, Indians who depend on street food for inexpensive meals complained that they wouldn't be able to watch the food being cooked, thus would not be able to witness its freshness and cleanliness. In countries where immediate quality is much more important than gimmick or branding, enforcing safety with off-site facilities may well give way to the transparency of a sidewalk stove.

Thailand's "Clean Food Good Taste" campaign, launched in 1989, is a program that values the needs of small street vendors as well as restaurants. Especially critical to its success, the plan includes a public education program and cooperation across several government agencies at municipal, regional and federal levels.

Here in California, Sacramento has tried to rein in taco trucks, while San Francisco this summer attempted to both welcome and regulate food carts in its city parks. Similar to New Delhi, the city adopted an ordinance requiring street food to be prepared in certified, off-site kitchens. With higher fees and the need for larger, more expensive carts, street food will more likely become an extension of well-established restaurants and more deeply capitalized entrepreneurs. While protecting our public health is certainly important, new laws need to be considered and discussed within the larger context of our city's culture and economic development.

If we as eaters want creative, locally based and locally relevant street vendors integrated into our culinary landscape, then we as citizens need to push our legislators to build a system that supports--not weeds out--very small businesses. It's one thing to push a cart around Dolores Park on the weekends as a hobby during your salad days. It's much another to bring in a living wage and move your family up the ladder while providing food for others day in, day out.

The whole issue of diversity was an obvious part of both street food festivals. We all like to think that San Francisco is one of the culinary capitals of the world. I'm counting down the years until San Jose or Santa Clara, Fremont or Fresno take over the reputation of truly international cuisine that they already deserve. Until then, I'd still like to see our city become more willing to support the full spectrum of culinary businesses. This means not only seeing unusual foods spelled out on the menu board. It means seeing a variety of people pushing the carts and pocketing the money.

Wandering the unfamiliar, blandly mall-like environs of Jack London Square, a kind of mini-Emeryville, only with space, better taste, and a harbor view, you might have wondered where all the food-seeking hipsters were. It was Friday night, after all, the opening of Oakland's Eat Real Festival, yet there was no waft of organic pork carnitas, no compostable spoons littering the ground.

But wait, what's in the hand of that guy strolling by? Was it a Mason jar filled with watermelon wheat beer? And was that the Soviet-red logo for Ritual Roasters coffee, painted on the side of a bike trailer peddling (by pedaling) a load of high-octane iced coffee? Hay bales for seats, toddlers clutching ice-cream cones while Mom and Dad downed a brew: this was definitely the place.

Friday's unseasonally balmy night ("Earthquake weather," nodded numerous passerby sagely, but that didn't seem to stop them from promenading along the waterfront, lemon-shiso sorbet dripping down their chins) made a perfect soft opening for the festival, which began with an open-air beer tasting ($25 for your own festival-logo'd glass drinking jar plus 8 tickets for filling it up, or $7 for a single serve) and ice-cream social.

Some real food to go with the beer would have been nice, but that would have to wait until the real crowds arrived on Saturday and Sunday. In the interim, then, there was the rare chance to sample and buy ice cream and sorbet from a dozen local makers with barely a line to be seen. Scream, Ici, Bi-Rite Creamery, Straus Ice Cream, Fenton's, Ceci, and more were scooping flavors ranging from pomegranate (Fenton's) to beet-lemon (Scream, and surprisingly good--like frozen borscht, in the tastiest possible way).

There was an open-air game of Edible Pursuit (who knew the popsicle was invented in Oakland?), a highly competitive canning contest (dubbed, of course, Yes I Can), live jazz and a whole lot of happy cone-licking kids.

Saturday, of course, was a lot busier, but the vibe stayed mellow. There was all that beer, for starters, and plenty of port-a-potties, and a lot of space to sprawl, wander, and lie out on the grass and watch the sailboats breeze by. You could check out the greywater recycling system set up by the crew at Aquaponics, watch cooking demonstrations, stroll through the expansive indoor marketplace to chat up farmers and artisanal jam-makers, or just go get more beer.

Or, if you wanted to eat, you could stand in line. It's inevitable, at events like this that are all about the food, that the main activity ends up being waiting in line. The lines weren't too bad, actually, but they moved slowly.

Very slowly. Watching four guys put together one plate at Jim and Nick's--one massaging the shredded pork into a ball and put it on the bun, one scooping the pimento cheese, another putting on the pickles and saltines, and a fourth chatting up whichever cute girl was handing over her money, I did a little minutes-per-plate x people-in-line math, and gave up, even though I was longing to try a plate made by a bunch of Southern barbecue guys who had driven their rig all the way from Alabama to crash the event and show the West Coast how to bbq.

The trick, I realized, was to pick one long line--like the one for Seoul Food's Korean tacos-- and then send your friends out on recon missions to the shorter lines, so you'd have something to eat while you waited in line for something to eat.

Where the recent SF Street Food Festival skipped actual street food for slimmed-down restaurant eats, Eat Real did keep it real, with taco trucks, soul food ribs and the Sexy Soup Lady in a pink apron straddling her three-wheeled soup cart. And the prices were right, too, with nothing over $5.

Of course, this meant was nearly everything was some culturally-inspired variation on meat and dough, all squeezed down to the size of a slider, from pulled-chicken barbecue on a bun and Korean spicy-pork tacos to pupusas and bite-sized brisket sandwiches. Finding vegetables (beyond salsa and coleslaw) took a little searching, and it helped it if you liked falafel, didn't mind patronizing the fancy-tapas truck of festival co-sponsor Whole Foods, or got there before the veggie-pie folks had sold through their entire inventory. For dessert, there was more ice cream, of course. And cupcakes!

What it was, overall, was a fun local event, a late-summer festival that did feel very Oaklandish, mixing up $3 pupusas with $20 "Street Food" t-shirts.

I Cart Street Food

Street food fanatics descended upon the Mission on Saturday for the San Francisco Street Food Festival 2009, a day-long block party presented by La Cocina.

SF Street Food Festival: If you grill it, they will come.

With free admission and food/drink costing no more than $8, well over 5,000 eaters of all ages came out to celebrate SF’s vibrant street food community.

The Hungry Masses

The sheer numbers that turned out was a tad overwhelming, but it was also heart-warming to see what good eaters we have here in SF. Lines snaked up and down the block, but surprisingly, the crowd seemed to be generally good-humored and calm (unlike the foaming-at-the-mouth angries at the Great American Food Fest a few months back).

Patience was handsomely rewarded, and street food, glorious street food, was consumed.

Elotes (Grilled Corn) from Los Cilantros

Anticuchos Chilenos (Marinated New York Strip and Beef Heart with Peppers & Onions) and Mushroom/Spinach Empanada from Sabores Del Sur

House-made Hot Dogs with Guinness Mustard and Chili Ketchup from Absinthe

Lavendar Crème Brulee from the Crème Brulee Cart

I braved the Aziza line and although their Squid Salad with maras pepper, preserved lemon, cabbage, mint and cilantro ($3) was sold out by the time I got to order, I was nicely satiated by the huge Moroccan "Taco" ($8) Chef Mourad Lahlou was serving up. The beverage pairing of iced Sweet Mint Tea hit the spot and cooled off the heat from the taco's harissa.

Moroccan "Taco": Flatbread with Summer Squash, Harissa, and Yogurt Sauce from Aziza

For dessert, I followed the scent of sugar and fried dough to Endless Summer Sweets’ Funnel Cake with sweet strawberries and cream. If there was any question on whether the line was worth it, my doubts vanished as I saw satisfied customers milling about with showers of powdered sugar on their arms and traces of whipped cream on their faces.

Funnel Cake with Strawberries and Cream from Endless Summer Sweets

Gnom

Gnom gnom

Curb-side Dining

The beauty of the street food fest was the greater vision of the event. For those who are unfamiliar with La Cocina, it is a phenomenal non-profit organization that acts as a food business incubator for low-income and immigrant entrepreneurs looking to start their own food business. The SF Street Food Festival brought people together, across the spectrum of class and culture, to celebrate in the everyday food that we all eat and love.

SF Street Food Festival 2009

Leading up to the festival was an amazingly fun and well-orchestrated Scavenger Hunt that had 224 teams roaming the city in search of delicious street eats, and generally assaulting San Francisco’s finest street vendors with their wit and creativity.

Really, it was no joke. Teams like Fatty Boomblatty and Trans-Fatso’s rapped to the Crème Brulee Cart Man…

Miso Horny did a funky chicken dance (in public) for the Roli Roti folks…

And I wasn't above setting up an all out photo shoot at Bloodhound in the name of movie poster perfection with team Lick My Spoon.

Oh, San Francisco. You are so special.

Team "Soup Sluts"

Here is a photo slideshow from the San Francisco Street Food Festival 2009 that took place Saturday Aug 22, 2009 in the Mission District. The event was a benefit for the non-profit La Cocina.

photos by Wendy Goodfriend

Recap of the Event: SF Street Food Fanatics Unite
Lick My Spoon recaps the Street Food Scavenger Hunt
Listen to KQED's Forum program on Street Food and find out about pavement cuisine resources and events.

Indian Style Tacos at Fire Arts Festival in Oakland -- Photo by Wendy Goodfriend

Street Eats
Forum takes to the streets to find out what mobile food vendors are dishing up in the Bay Area. From creme brulee carts and escargot on a stick to taco stands and tamales, street food is becoming more and more popular. Forum previews upcoming street food festivals in San Francisco and Oakland, and welcome listeners' "pavement cuisine" picks.

Host: Dave Iverson

Guests:

• Anya Fernald, founder of the Eat Real Festival @eatrealfest
• John Birdsall, online food editor for SF Weekly @SFoodie
• Eric Hill, founder of Shuga Hill Catering, a Bay Area soul food on wheels catering business
• Kristin Hoppe, certified nutrition consultant and natural chef for Food Therapy and the @SexySoupCart
• Laurent Katgely, chef and owner of Chez Spencer and Spencer on the Go, a French 'taco truck' @chezspencergo
• Shelly Garza, general manager of Rising Sun Entrepreneurs which works to help street vendors and caterers set up their businesses

Dosa Ecstacy vendor in Dolores Park at 2009 SF Dyke March -- Photo by Wendy Goodfriend

Street Food Resources:
San Francisco Street Food Aggregator: Centralizes mobile food tweets and vendors in one place for San Francisco. @sfstreetfood

La Cocina: Cultivates food entrepreneurs as they formalize and grow their businesses by providing affordable commercial kitchen space, industry-specific technical assistance and access to market opportunities. The organization focuses primarily on women from culturally diverse and immigrant communities.

SFWeekly's Food blog, SFoodie's posts on Pavement Cuisine

7x7's The No-Fail Guide to San Francisco Street Food

10 Things you may not know about San Francisco street food (scroll up page for info)

VendrTV video podcasts curbside cuisine. Hosted by Daniel Delaney, the show consists of 7-10 minutes episodes each individually highlighting a vendor, their food, and locale.

Bay Area Bites twitter feed keeps you up-to-date on the latest street food scene and vendors in San Francisco as well as tweeting about media coverage of pavement cuisine in the Bay Area and Beyond @bayareabites

Street Food Events:

San Francisco Street Food Festival
Aug 22, 2009 11am-7pm
Folsom Street between 25th & 26th
In front of La Cocina / Free Admission
Buy Passport to event $20-$150 (but you can use cash)
Silent Auction, Scavenger Hunt, Street Food Photo Contest
The event is a benefit for La Cocina.

Keeping It Real Dinners: Restaurants pair with Eat Real non-profits partners for fundraiser dinners. Proceeds from each dinner benefit a specific food accessibility and/ or economic development organization.

Eat Real Festival
Aug 28-30, 2009 Fri 4p-9pm, Sat 10am-9pm, Sun 10am-5pm
Jack London Square, Oakland
Free Admission
Proceeds from the event benefit People's Grocery, La Cocina and Community Alliance with Family Farmers

Unsurprisingly, the best pie scene in 20th century literature belongs to Roald Dahl, who wrote as vividly about food as he wrote about crummy parents, child-eating giants, sadistic schoolmarms, and the bright, plucky kids who best them. In Danny, The Champion of the World, a kindly small-town doctor pays a house call on Danny's dad, leaving Danny, who hasn't eaten in 24 hours, with "something huge and round wrapped up in greaseproof paper":

"Very carefully, I now began to unwrap the greaseproof paper from around the doctor's present, and when I had finished, I saw before me the most enormous and beautiful pie in the world. It was covered all over, top, sides, and bottom, with a rich golden pastry. I took a knife from beside the sink and cut out a wedge. I started to eat it in my fingers, standing up. It was a cold meat pie. The meat was pink and tender with no fat or gristle in it, and there were hard-boiled eggs buried like treasures in several different places. The taste was absolutely fabulous. When I had finished the first slice, I cut another and ate that too. God bless Doctor Spencer, I thought. And God bless Mrs. Spencer as well."

For some reason, this description of the pie Danny eats, alone in the tiny caravan he shares with his wounded and temporarily immobile father, has stayed with me more than any of the book's many memorable passages. Dahl relished trafficking in warped food fantasies imaginative children might gleefully dream up and later, as adults, wiser and, by Dahl's subversive standards, probably much less fun, still enjoy: The BFG's flatulent frobscottle, the grotesque chocolate cake-scarfing sequence in Matilda, and pretty much all of Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. Yet this pie, by Dahl's standards, a straightforward, entirely believable concoction, occupies a special corner of memory. The pie is a simple, hearty dish, prepared by the sympathetic doctor's wife for a hungry boy who has no one to make him pies. Danny's mother is dead, and his father broke his leg trying to steal pheasants from a villainous beer tycoon. The boy deserves a pie, and Dahl makes sure he gets one -- because pies are the sort of thing bright, plucky children shouldn't have to do without.

The scene is moving, sure -- especially when you're in 3rd grade -- but the pie in question also sounds pretty good: grand, nourishing, and fanciful -- the way a pie should.

When I contemplate "pie", my mind races back centuries, through whirlwinds of sweet, stewed fillings and pressed pastry, past a light-speed procession of empty window-sills, chanted nursery rhymes, and county fairs, all the way back to Medieval Europe. I imagine great, honking, burnished-brown mountains of pastry hugging undisclosed fillings in broad, round pans, steam spitting through slits carved into the surface. Outside the crusts, cheery plump pie-people in tunics sit around a long table in a great hall. Someone drags forth an over-sized knife to carve slices, to see what lurks within -- maybe spiced plums, an array of berries, or some assemblage of juicy meat parts trapped between layers of dough, suspended in sauce like succulent specimens in amber, with perhaps a slender bird leg or two poking cautiously from the top crust. Even if you know what kind of pie you're about to inhale, the pleasant prospect of unearthing delicious hidden mysteries -- like the hard-boiled eggs in Danny's pie -- inevitably accompanies the pie form. Only when you actually crack into a pie, can you truly solve the mystery within. Pies are also a little funny, and not only because they're the target of a South Park character's unwavering obsession. I didn't know how funny pie could be until, at the age of twelve, I went to England with my family and watched, from a window seat on a Dover-bound train, a hulking, squinty-eyed English lad flail at his pencil-thin younger brother in the aisle, braying again and again: "Edward, quit hogging all the pie!"

Yes, pie provokes passion, more so than most desserts, but it's not popular just because it's evocative of anything; it's popular because it's good. Aron Kay should have picked a lamer food to start hurling into the faces of famous people with offensive political platforms and/or excessively high opinions of themselves -- like runny porridge or gas station tamales. The formula for pie is deceptively uncomplicated and unassailable in its dazzling simplicity, really as close to perfect as it gets. Every great pie, regardless of provenance, hinges on interplay between its two components, crust and filling: in a classic American fruit pie, the salty, butter-rich crust balances and adds complexity to a sweet filling; in Tunisian brik, a brittle stack of crunchy phyllo-like pastry provides a bland, texturally interesting foil to the heady, moist mixture of tuna, egg, onions, and capers stuffed inside.

I'm not going to pretend I'm a pie expert, a true aficionado. I adore pie primarily in theory; I do not bake it myself, nor do I frequently purchase it from bakeries and diners. I like the much-litigated Derby pie, in no small part because we're pretty much from the same place. The Bay Area is obviously home to some good pie too. Even though I usually head there with other things in mind (namely, artichoke soup and great fish) I've always championed Pescadero's Duarte's Tavern for its sublime pie made with local olallieberries, the tart product of a berry soap opera.

You probably read about Pie Truck on Urban Daddy last week. With the latest local food renaissance happening on wheels, roving carts and underground delivery services get more tweets than Shaquille O' Neal, and blogs put new-comers on blast within days of their first sale. We may be approaching gastronomic Thunderdome, a new quasi-post-apocalyptic condition of eating through recession, where restaurants, having struggled, gradually shutter and practically disappear altogether, surrendering the pitted scene to scrappy, subsistence-level free-agents -- wagon-pushers and van vendors -- with no regard for increasingly irrelevant health code regulations, much less entrepreneurial convention.

Pie Truck is one of the latest freelance foodie endeavors to garner city-wide attention and, as it turns out, it's a lovely, deserving operation. I hollered at Pie Truck proprietor Chris Bauer on Wednesday of last week. Chris is a former architect, brother to Matt Bauer, the fantastic banjo-slinging singer-songwriter who once called San Francisco home. I asked Chris if he'd deliver to the Richmond, where I'd be house-and-dog-sitting for my dad all week. He said he could. To make my regular Saturday morning pick-up basketball game, I'd have to be away from the house during his normal delivery hours. I said I'd slip the money under the mat if he'd leave the pies. That would be fine, he said.

On Saturday, I made it back to the house -- sweaty, exhausted, and famished -- at around 11:15 a.m. No pie, I thought, staring at the steps leading up to the door. My little wad of bills still peeked out from under the mat. I watched the news and drank some juice. Noon approached. Did he forget, I wondered, checking the street through the window. I kept checking every few minutes. I chased the dog around the house to distract myself. He's totally not coming, I thought as another 30 minutes passed. I watched more television. I changed the channel several hundred times. I checked the street again. I looked at the clock and shook my head, despondent. The elusive pie-man was surely a no-show. He was a faker, not a baker. He was so underground, so sneaky, so profoundly and diabolically aligned with the inherent mystery of his chosen product that he did not deliver anything at all. That was, in fact, his whole deal, I thought, becoming a little angry as I contemplated cooking up a new blog topic on shortish notice. My oxygen-deprived brain throbbing from the effort such irrational pondering required, I hit the showers. As I emerged from the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of a man's head bobbing very briefly through the frame of the front window. I climbed into clothes as fast as I could and raced to the door. Two boxes, one small and white, the other large and pink, sat on the doorstep. The money was gone. My pies were here. I dashed down the stairs and scanned the street. There was not a truck or a pie-man in sight. He'd come after all -- and left as swiftly as he'd arrived.

Ten minutes later, I sat down to a lunch of oven-warmed pie. The 5" chicken pot pie was drier on the inside than I'd expected, intense and savory, not creamy, the slightly peppery, golden strings of chicken spun around celery, peas, and carrots beneath the puffy dome of crust.

I ate half and moved on. The 10" apple pie was truly excellent. I ate two wedges, just like Danny, and surrendered. The apple filling tasted like mulled cider, deep and warm, just sweet enough; the crust was thick, slightly doughy yet delicious -- a most happy ending to a short pie story I feared would never come full circle.