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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pagan Restaurant with Melanie

Last night, I took a quick cab ride home from Bourbon and Branch, where I had gone to have a drink from the amazing Martin Cate. Cate was the genius behind Forbidden Island in Alameda until a few months ago. He is fighting the good fight -- keeping the tradition of impeccably executed Tiki drinks alive. The cry that you heard around the Bay Area sometime around January was his fans freaking out when we found out that he was leaving Forbidden Island, and we did not know where he would be going next. He is doing a guest stint at Bourbon and Branch and you can try his drinks tonight (March 31) along with the throngs. It's a rare night that I happily wait in line 45 minutes for a drink, but last night I waited (and waited and waited) to try a delicious Port Light -- a drink with bourbon, passionfruit and honey that was originally made at Trader Vic's. If you choose to go tonight, you don't need a reservation -- Cate is set up in the Library (entrance on O'Farrell).

Anyway, back to the cabbie. We got to chatting -- about food, of course -- and I found out that he is Burmese. "I am Burmese and I like Mexican men, I must be honest about that," he said as we giggled. On Sunday night, I had gone to the Burmese Pagan Restaurant in the Richmond for the second time. He corrected my pronunciation of the restaurant (it's like 'Ba-Gone' with a short 'a' sound) and laughed as I told him that I want to eat ginger salad right before I die. "You must like very strong, spicy flavors," he said.

The cabbie went on to describe Burmese food in general and said that it is very influenced by the countries around Burma -- Thailand, India and China. Burmese cuisine has lots of salads, some curry dishes, and features some fermented and sour flavors. More than anything, my exposure to Burmese cuisine has been highlighted by dishes which have many layers of complexity and are delicious in their balance of flavor.

Pagan Restaurant has been open for a little over a year, and has become popular among food lovers for its comfortable space and delicious food. San Francisco is lucky in having several Burmese restaurants, including Burma Superstar, Larkin Express Deli, and Mandalay Restaurant, and Pagan is now being listed in the same breath when talking about great Burmese food.

If you decide to check out Pagan restaurant, consider trying these dishes:

Ginger Salad (Gin Thut). Most people who have been to Burmese food have tried Tea Leaf Salad (Lap Pat Thut), a delicious salad tossed with a mixture of tea leafs -- almost in a pesto-like form. While I like the tea leaf salad, my heart is with its gingery sister. Gin Thut features nuts, garlic, dried shrimp, some legumes, and a pile of dried, pickled ginger. Everything is carefully tossed and each bite is a delicious mix of heat from the ginger, along with salt from the nuts, and acid from the dressing.

Samusa Soup This soup has falafel and samosas in it, along with cabbage and lentils in a complex, spicy dark broth.

Pan-fried okra with prawns. I was surprised by my reaction to this dish. The prawns were frozen and not very good, however that did not detract from my love of the flavors in the rest of the dish. The okra were crunchy and only lightly cooked. And the spicy sauce was fantastically delicious and balanced.

Shwe Taung Kauswer (#43, Coconut Chicken Curry). The curry here is more savory than sweet, but delivers very little heat. I almost thought of it more as a complex gravy than a curry as I have learned to know. This was served with noodles and a generally comforting dish.

Related Links:
A wonderful primer on Burmese cuisine on Chowhound
Pagan review, Chronicle

Bourbon and Branch
501 Jones Street (at O'Farrell)
San Francisco
415.346.1735

Pagan Restaurant
3199 Clement (at 33rd)
San Francisco
415.751.2598

Last week, a friend from cooking class tipped me off to B Star Bar, the month-old offshoot of Burma Superstar that's located two blocks away on Clement Street. B Star Bar offers a blend of Burmese, Asian, and Western dishes, and though it doesn't outshine the Mother Ship, it's worth a visit if you can't bear BSS's legendary two-hour wait.

Though they don't take reservations for parties smaller than six, when I called they were kind enough to take one anyway for the three of us. A nice touch, I thought, and smart for a new restaurant that's trying to attract customers. There's no sign up yet, but if you look for a swash of yellow paint you'll see the words B Star Bar stenciled on the window. We walked in last Saturday night to find some friends killing time (and taking the edge off their hunger) while they waited for their table at Burma Superstar. "Order the croquettes!" they advised.

I didn't linger in the large, spare front room, but headed straight to the back patio, which is the place to be. Buddha statues and lush green foliage create an exotic, jungle-y feel for the dozen or so tables, and a few glimpses of the night sky peek out from the tent. There are enough heat lamps to keep everybody comfortable in shirtsleeves.

The menu combines traditional Burmese preparations with Asian and Western classics. Sometimes the dishes are a mix of several traditions, but more often than not each one sticks to its own. We started with spicy edamame ($3.95), a bowl of green pods slick with red chilies and chunks of garlic. They were fiery, and after a few bites my battle-damaged tongue begged for a break.

I was dismayed when everything we ordered arrived at once, and though the wait staff were attentive, the coursing made it clear both they and the kitchen are inexperienced. The Kabocha croquettes ($5.95) came three panko-dusted orbs to a plate. They're filled with Kabocha squash and seasoned with tomatoes and curry before being deep-fried. They were sweet, as was the addictive sticky sauce that accompanied them. Though the result wasn't quite one-dimensional, I wouldn't have objected to a bit more crunch.

I was eagerly anticipating the tealeaf salad ($7.95), a BSS classic. I was disappointed that it wasn't tossed tableside, and it was missing some of the complexity I loved due to the omission of dried shrimp and jalapeños. But the uniquely bitter tang of tealeaves was unmistakable, and we polished off every last bite. A desperate plea to the management: please, please, please, bring back the original.

We ordered two kinds of noodles, and my favorite dish of the evening was the kau soi ($8.95)- ramen-like noodles mixed with ground chicken and pickled mustard greens in a coconut curry sauce. The menu calls this bordertown food; I don't know if that refers to Bangladesh, India, China, Laos or Thailand, all of which butt up to Myanmar. It's similar to BSS's nan pia dok, a dish that I once said I would walk through crushed glass to eat, and I would do the same for the kau soi.

The other noodle dish was see jyet ($7.95), thin, long noodles with fried garlic, shredded duck, and cucumbers. It wasn't garlicky enough to wow me, or to surpass its virtuoso cousin, but my dining companions lapped it up.

The Asian Niçoise salad with grilled cod ($10.95) is one of the few creations that blends culinary traditions. Field greens were topped with lightly blanched asparagus, fanned avocado slices, shiitake mushrooms, hard-boiled egg, and grilled cod and tossed with miso dressing. My favorite part was the pile of handmade sweet potato chips on the side, but I'd probably skip the entire thing next time.

Short ribs with Hawaiian-style pineapple fried rice ($9.95) were hit and miss. The rice was built with juicy chunks of grilled pineapple and grains moistened by a slippery fried egg yolk. The kimchee was bracingly hot, but the short ribs were tough and fatty. If they'd upgrade the meat, however, I'd order it again in a heartbeat.

We brought our own wine, but they have some decent options by the glass, carafe, and bottle, as well as soju cocktails and the famous Burma cooler, beer spiked with ginger and fresh lemon. After gorging ourselves on noodles, we passed on dessert.

Though I applaud the Burma Superstar crew for wanting to spread their wings, by far the most successful dishes were the Burmese-leaning ones. If B Star Bar can tighten up the menu, incorporating intoxicating Burmese touches with better-executed pan-Asian and Western ideas, they could have a good thing going. For now, keep them in mind if you simply can't stomach the wait up the street.

Note: This write-up is based on one anonymous visit.

B Star Bar
127 Clement St. b/w 2nd & 3rd
San Francisco
(415) 933-9900
Open every day but Wednesday for lunch and dinner