While on vacation in Hawaii I did not indulge in one of my addictions, watching food programs on TV. In fact, I watched very little TV at all on my trip. Vacation is my big chance to catch up on my reading. This time around I brought two books I had received review copies of--Best Food Writing 2007 and Service Included. I was thrilled to see that my friend and Bay Area Bites colleague Shuna Fish Lydon was included in the book. Past Bay Area Bites writers to make the cut include both Catherine Nash and Stephanie Lucianovic. The book seems to be equal parts angst and humor with some thoughtful and sentimental pieces thrown In for good measure. It's a good vacation read, and provides an interesting snapshot of the food issues and obsessions of the day. Some of my favorite pieces were Cast Iron Skillet by Andrea King Collier, and A Grandchild of Italy Cracks the Spaghetti Code by Kim Severson.

The other book I read Service Included, is really a gem. It gives us the flipside to Bill Buford's Heat. It's the story of being a waiter at Per Se in New York. Phoebe Damrosch is a fantastic writer with humor, wit and a great sense of irony. She is brutally honest about just about everything, herself included. Throughout the saga of the opening of Per Se in New York are little tidbits about service and how to be a good diner. The book reads like a guilty pleasure. I have even less desire to be a waiter than to be a chef, but to be a fly on the wall is just plain yummy.

One of my favorite things to do is go to Ghirardelli Square for ice cream.

I'm sure most of the locals just blanched at that sentence. The food snobs are horrified that I'd be common enough to let such "plebeian" ice cream pass my lips, and the regular snobs can't see hobnobbing with the tourists.

Before I moved down the street, I would have agreed with you. Smelly sea lions, tee shirt shops, and overstuffed tourists whose matching fleeces advertise their ignorance of San Francisco weather? Blech. I've never had much heart for the Wharf, and though I'm a chocoholic, Ghirardelli's middle-of-the-road milk chocolates don't do it for me.

But then we found an apartment that's so close to the Square that the smell of freshly made ice cream cones practically wakes me up in the morning. Add to that my boyfriend's obsession with ice cream, and we were bound to become regulars.

Instead of being dragged kicking and screaming, though, I've found that I adore having an ice cream at Ghirardelli Square. Nevermind that it's Dreyer's (the truck pulls up every morning, regular as rain). Everyone is happy on vacation, and so the place is just brimming with smiles and laughter and good vibrations. People are thrilled to death at the thought of stuffing a gigondo ice cream sundae in their bellies, and no one minds the wait.

As it happens, they also serve some of the best chocolate chip ice cream around. The secret is the size of the chip; if it's too big, the chip stays cold and it's difficult to taste the chocolate. But these chips are teeny-tiny flecks that melt in your mouth, imbuing the ice cream around it (mint, vanilla, or espresso) with chocolatey goodness.

If you live in the city, you owe it to yourself to head to the Square one evening soon. It'll put a smile on your face, guaranteed. Who says Fisherman's Wharf is just for tourists?

Rose, lavender, and vanilla bean macaroons

I didn't like macaroons until I met Danielle Chong. She's the founder of Macarune, a one-woman baking operation, and macaroons are the specialty of the house.

A co-worker introduced me to Macarune's light as air creations, and even through the deadened fog of a headcold, I could taste the freshness of the buttercream and feel the juxtaposition of textures -- crisp, then soft and chewy -- on my tongue. I was intrigued. So I called Danielle up, and we met for coffee to talk about her budding bakery.

"I've always baked," explained the petite Malaysian. "I used to pore over mom's cookbooks. A lot of friends back home know me for my cheesecake with peaches on top."

Strawberry macaroons. Photo by Danielle Chong.

During a trip to Europe, Danielle tasted her first macaron from Parisian legend Pierre Hermé. "We'd buy a box with strawberry and pistachio and we'd eat them like Krispy Kremes."

When her boyfriend bought her a KitchenAid mixer two years ago, she started baking in earnest, gifting the sugary excesses to friends. Macaroons were a particular challenge.

"They're a pain in the butt to make," she says with a rueful smile. "I've thrown trays and trays away. I failed the first time and I failed the second time and it worked the third time. But I've failed many times after."

Danielle bakes her macaroons in a variety of flavors. My favorite is rose, which is made with rose water; each one is distinctly and intoxicatingly floral. There is also pistachio, vanilla bean, coffee, hibiscus, coconut, hazelnut, caramel fleur de sel, lychee, lavender, raspberry, black sesame, green tea -- and many, many more. She's currently playing around with cardamom, orange blossom, and elderflower. "Traveling has opened my eyes to a lot of different flavors," she says.

Lavender macaroons. Photo by Danielle Chong.

Danielle makes her macaroons in the French style, meaning that the buttercream sandwiched in the middle is made by pouring sugar syrup over egg yolks and whipping it to peaks. She prefers this method for most of the flavors because of the velvety texture it imparts. For the honey buttercream in her lavender macaroons, however, she switches to the Italian method, which uses egg whites in place of yolks.

The provenance of her ingredients varies. "I am pro-local," she admits. "I go to the Ferry Plaza farmer's market almost every week." But some things are better abroad, and she prefers Valhrona chocolate and culinary lavender imported from France.

She is equally fastidious about how she presents her dainty cookies. Strawberry macaroons come in a green plastic pint basket, just as they would at the market, and each order is festooned with a polka dotted ribbon.

Black sesame and pistachio macaroons. Photo by Danielle Chong.

Right now, Danielle bakes only to order -- one reason her macaroons are so unbeatably fresh tasting. (In comparison, the macaroons sold at everyone's favorite boulangerie look and taste like limp imitations.) In addition to macaroons, Macarune also offers custom cupcakes -- my favorite is the intensely fudgey chocolate soufflé -- as well as celebration cakes, shortbread and cookies.

Orders: $26 for 16 (1 flavor) or $42 for 32 (2 flavors). 72 hours notice required, not including weekends. Pick-up is in North Beach. For more information or to place an order, contact daniellechong@gmail.com

On Monday, Sens opened to the public. It's located in the old Monte Cristo Cafe space at the tippy-top of a curiously exhilarating spiral staircase at Embarcadero Center 4. It's an odd place for a restaurant, but the cityviews from its windows -- of the Ferry Building, beautifully lit at night, and the Bay Bridge beyond -- are stunning. I hope the location will work for it, rather than against it.

The large interior has the feel of an elegant hunting lodge, with stone walls original to the restaurant, wooden beams, and cocoa brown leather armchairs at every place. Chef Michael Dotson (Evvia Estiatorio, Slow Club, PlumpJack Cafe) has crafted a menu focused on an area of the southern Mediterranean not well represented in San Francisco, traveling from Greece to Turkey to North Africa. According to the press release, Sens will pair "ingredients indigenous to these lands...with locally sourced organic and sustainable produce, meat and fish." The wine list, from General Manager and Sommelier Saeed Amini (Mondavi, Cetrella, Kokkari), includes biodynamic and seasonal selections.

At last week's Friends & Family preview, the menu included things like crispy-fried veal and olive meatballs, braised lamb shank spiced with za'atar, whole roasted sea bass, and cumin pot de creme. Eating there was a full circle moment for me, as I have been following along with Pastry Chef (and Bay Area Bites contributor) Shuna Lydon's (Aziza, Citizen Cake, Bouchon, The French Laundry) pre-opening jitters on eggbeater. Shuna has christened her "fruit and aroma inspired desserts" with intoxicating names like "soft & evocative", and though this is not a review, may I simply say that my heart stopped when I tasted the verbena brown butter on the peaches?

Sens Restaurant
4 Embarcadero Center, Promenade Level
San Francisco
(415) 362-0645
Open for lunch and dinner.

Despite the proliferation of excellent burritos and taco trucks worth chasing down, it's hard to find a decent sit-down Mexican place in San Francisco. While Mexico DF isn't quite perfect, it's good enough to overlook the flaws and welcome its addition to the city's restaurants.

They say you never get a second chance to make a first impression; visually, Mexico DF nails it. From an oversized rustic chandelier made from a lattice iron grill and hanging crystals to vivid back-lit artwork by Oaxacan artist Rufino Tamayo, Mexico DF is a beautiful space with refined nods to the country that inspired it. Tables are laid with brightly colored chargers, and the open kitchen is roofed with a cherry red canopy. On a recent Saturday night, though the bar was calm, the dining room had a pleasant buzz to it. Service, though rumored to be amateur, was anything but. Our server was friendly, full of recommendations, happy to answer questions (where the goat was raised, for example) and he changed out our plates and silver between every single course.

The name of the restaurant, which refers to Mexico's capital city, gives some idea as to the focus of chef David Rosales' cuisine. The dinner menu offers a bit of everything (except burritos), from ceviche to soup, tacos to whole roasted fish.

We started with the house guacamole. If you had asked me to rate the restaurant after only one bite, I would have awarded it an A. Thick, creamy, and judiciously seasoned, the guacamole ($9) arrived with a handful of tortilla chips architecturally arrayed in its greenery, as well as two kinds of salsa (sweet chile de arbol and peppy tomatillo-habanero, which are available for sale by the bottle). Our server brought us a back-up supply of chips so we could lap it all up.

Both the margaritas we ordered -- the sweet, midnight-colored Xochimilco with hibiscus and peach juice ($9) and the classic Polanco ($10.50) with Herradura reposado -- were well-made and easy to drink. Next time I'd like to try a version with muddled grapefruit just for kicks. After our guacamole, we switched to wine. The Tobia tempranillo ($12) was smokier than I liked, but the fruitier MAS malbec ($8) suited me well. Neither were particularly astute matches for the food, however.

It was the corn fungus that convinced us to share the chile relleno rather than one of the ceviches. A gigantic mild green pepper ($14) was stuffed first with corn, summer squash, and the musky sweet Mexican delicacy known as huitlacoche, then coated in breading, deep-fried, and drizzled in crema and Tangerine tomato salsa. The fried coating got soggy under the sauce, but its inner beauty shown through, and we gobbled up the the insides wrapped in their crisp pepper shell.

For our mains, we heeded the mighty call of the taco. The chuleta consisted of small pieces of lean pork loin ($9 for two), a confetti of raw white onions, and chile de arbol salsa on the side. They were only okay. I was craving a juicier meat, I suppose, so it's my own fault for ordering the loin. But it doesn't change the fact that they were no better than average. Next time, I'll get the carnitas.

The cabrito ($12 for two), however, were oustanding. Goat meat is popular in a variety of cultures, from Latin America to the Middle East. It isn't something we gringos eat a lot, and I can tell you we're missing out. The rich, juicy, slightly smoky barbacoa-style goat was the best thing I ate all night.

We're gluttons, so we also ordered a huarache corn masa "sandal" with grilled short ribs ($10). The meat had a great grilled flavor, but it was too fatty for me and I spit it out. My boyfriend devoured it, though, and I found myself compulsively picking at the queso fresco on top.

I'm not sure whether I loved or hated the house pickled jalapenos ($2) that arrived at my request with my tacos. The thin carrot slivers were sweet and tangy, but the peppers packed more punch than a heavyweight boxer in the fight of his life, and my poor palate got quite a scorching. I had to order a side of crema to cut the heat, and sat spooning it into my beleaguered mouth for quite some time. Still, I can't say that I didn't sort of enjoy the rush, and as soon as my tongue had cooled, I picked up another one and took another bite. (A much smaller bite.)

We ended our meal with a burnt caramel flan ($8). I'd hoped it would change my mind about flan, and though it was creamy and the sweet caramel sauce burnt just enough, in the end it was only flan.

Overall, we enjoyed an above average meal, tasty margaritas, superb service and a few standout bites. I really appreciated the more unusual ingredients on the menu, neither of which I can recall seeing on a local menu before. Our server told us that the goat is raised in Colorado for Niman Ranch, and the huitlacoche is grown for the restaurant by a local farmer. Next time I'm craving Mexican and I want to sit down and linger over dinner, I'll be back.

Mexico DF
139 Steuart Street at Mission
San Francisco
(415) 808-1048
Open 7 nights a week for dinner, M-F lunch

I flew to North Carolina last week for my grandmother's funeral. She was 87 and she couldn't do anything for herself by the time she died. A woman named Tonya would come by the house every day, and later the nursing home, and feed her and bathe her and turn on Andy Griffith for her to watch. Tonya was with her when she died, and the day before that when my grandmother had said, "Hold me," it was Tonya who pulled down the bed rails and put her solid bronze arms around my grandmother's soft, fleshy ones.

When I stepped off the plane in Raleigh, the air was hot and thick and I wished I'd changed out of my jeans before I left the airport. My brother picked me up, along with my mother and my sister, and when I got into his truck they started telling me about all the food people had brought over.

"You would not believe how much food we have back at the house," my mom began, shaking her head so that her graying hair bounced against her forehead. "Fried chicken, pecan pie," -- she pronouces it PEE-can -- "chess pie, potato salad, cole slaw. We have enough to feed an army."

My sister took up the litany, counting the dishes off on her fingers. "Barbecued chicken. Deviled eggs. Chocolate cake." Even in the darkened car, I could see her eyes sparkle, but not with tears. Eating feels good, even when everything else feels bad.

We spent much of the ride home talking about what they'd eaten the night before, and which neighbor or church friend or circle member had brought what dish. When we got home, everyone peeled off to bed but me and mom. We cut into a chocolate sheet cake made from Duncan Hines mix and store bought frosting. I ate a square of it standing up in my grandparents' red kitchen, and then cut off another small sliver just to even things out. It was fluffy and fresh and delicious. It reminded me of birthday party cake from when I was a kid.

I read over a piece of paper on the kitchen table that listed all the food that had been dropped off and by whom. The funeral house prints these forms up and brings them to the deceased's house, along with a podium with a light attached to it and a book that sits on top of it for visitors to sign.

The next morning, I woke up and took a shower. I put on a dress I'd bought with money my grandmother sent me for my birthday, and shoes I'd bought the previous summer for my grandfather's funeral. We drove to the cemetary and sat down on chairs covered in scratchy crushed blue velvet. My grandparents' ashes had been comingled -- that is the official term for mixing them together -- and they were held in a wooden box engraved with intertwining hearts and the words "Together Forever." They were both blessed and later buried in that hot, muggy air, and even as I cried, I couldn't help but notice that the preacher used a word I'd never heard before -- undergird. In the car on the way home I asked my brother and sister if anyone had ever heard it before. No one had.

Back home, my cousins immediately set about heating up the food. Most of us crowded into the kitchen; some of us were hungry, some tried to help, but I think most of us just didn't know what else to do. My cousin Sheila hadn't been able to sleep the night after my grandmother died, so she got up at 4:30 in the morning and baked a pound cake.

When we finally sat down to eat, we had three kinds of chicken (roasted, barbecued, and fried), deviled eggs, sandwiches, baked ham, yeast rolls, ham rolls, three kinds of potato salad, cole slaw, corn pudding, rice pilaf, broccoli casserole, asparagus casserole topped with Pringles (I kid you not), lasagna, baked beans, bread-and-butter pickles, and chicken salad. We all sat around in the living room with plates on our knees, sipping sweet tea, catching up with people we hadn't talked to in a year, complaining about the heat and humidity.

There were just as many desserts as anything else. Lemon chess pie, pecan pie, chocolate cake, the most marvelous chocolate fudge pie (it's basically gooey, nearly-cooked brownie batter in a flaky pie shell), pound cake, banana pudding. What we didn't eat, we wrapped back up and put out again for dinner that night, after the memorial service at the church, after I stood in the receiving line and met all the people who had fed us.

Grandma's Fried Chicken
Serves 4

Ingredients:
1 whole chicken, cut into legs, thighs, breasts, and wings
buttermilk (optional)
flour
salt and pepper to taste
Crisco

Method:
In my grandmother's words: "I'm not the fryer in the family," she started out by saying. "That's Margaret [her sister]. But I've fried a lot of chicken. What you want to do is salt and pepper and flour the chicken. Teri [her cousin] says you should soak it in milk before you flour it. He brought us some fried chicken one time and it was mighty good, but I don't know. Then you want to cook it in hot grease. You can use Crisco or you can use the liquid, it doesn't matter. We always used Crisco. But anyway, you want to cook it in enough hot grease to cover the chicken.

"Daddy called himself the Master Fryer, and Mother always said, 'I guess you are. All you do is stand there and fry it and I have to do all the rest of it and all the cleaning up.' We had fried chicken every Sunday morning for breakfast with biscuits.

"But anyway. The smaller the chicken the better. It's done when you can stick a fork in easily and no blood appears. Maybe 20 minutes, but watch it. Then just put it on a paper towel to drain."

Additional instructions:
All measurements are approximate because you really only need enough to suit you. Cover the chicken in buttermilk for a few hours, up to overnight. Pat it good and dry, then salt and pepper it to taste and dredge in flour, shaking off the excess. Or, you can toss the flour in a paper bag, season it to your liking (cayenne adds a nice touch) and then toss the chicken parts in one by one.

Heat the Crisco about halfway up a cast iron skillet until it's melted and a small piece of bread bubbles and fries on contact. Then add the pieces, one or two at a time to prevent the oil from cooling down. Turn them after about 5-8 minutes, depending on size and type of meat; keep in mind dark meat needs longer to cook than white meat. Drain on a plate covered with paper towels and serve hot. Also good cold the next day.

The Candy Store has but one decoration: candy. Despite its white walls, this tiny sugar-laden Russian Hill boutique is a veritable rainbow of color -- giant yellow swirly lollipops, chocolate bars in vintage wrappers, shelves stacked with jar after jar of vivid red and green gummy cherries, hard candy in pastel wrappers, and champagne gumdrops. With more than 300 kinds of candy to choose from, including nostalgia brands, hard-to-find chocolate, and double-salted licorice, there's something for everybody.

Owner Diane Campbell has always been a candy freak. "I was forbidden candy as a kid so it was on the sneak," she confesses. Her addiction got her suspended from school for selling candy out of her locker at age ten, and she was on a covert first name basis with the ice cream man. "When I was seven, I'd go to the ice cream man for candy every day. At 3 p.m. I'd ride my bike to the park, get candy, and sneak eat it at home. One day I'm playing outside with my mom and I hear the ringing of the ice cream truck. My mom says, 'I'll get you an ice cream cone today.' I'm panicked. I tell her I don't want one, but she insists. We walk over and of course the ice cream man says, 'Hi Diane.' And my mom says, 'How do you know my daughter?' And he says, 'Know her? She's my best customer!'"

Diane's passion for candy is contagious. On my second visit, she pushed a piece of licorice on me. (Yes, I hate it too.) But the "chalk licorice" -- a sugar-coated piece of black licorice with a creamy, peppermint-y center -- changed my mind. I walked out with a box full.

Every piece of candy in the store has been taste-tested by Diane and her husband, Brian (and samples of the bulk candy are free for the asking). Though they opened the shop in April of this year, they began their research three years ago with the goal of representing the entire world of candy, from sours and gummies to chocolate and licorice. One shelf is devoted to nostalgia candy, like wax bottles and candy lipstick, Big League Chew gum and Pop Rocks. Diane's childhood favorites get their due as well, with Zagnuts (crunchy peanut butter bar coated in toasted coconut) and maddeningly addictive Mallo Cups (milk chocolate and toasted coconut around a sticky marshmallow center). People also go crazy for Valomilk, Chase's Cherry Mash, Idaho Spud, and Zotz.

The Candy Store's chocolate collection includes edible chocolate boxes from local favorite Charles Chocolates, caramel-chocolate pretzels from Utah, four kinds of malted balls (chocolate mint, peanut butter, chocolate, and ultimate dark/milk/white chocolate combo), and 13 chocolate bars from the United Kingdom, including the ever-popular Cadbury Flake, Nestle's caramel-ly Lion, and the Mars bar (which is more like our Milky Way). Diane's hands-down favorite is an organic, fair trade butter caramelchocolate bar from Austrian chocolate maker Zotter. "It's the best chocolate bar I've ever tasted in my life," Diane swoons.

Perhaps surprisingly, what has a lot of people drooling the most is the black licorice selection. Diane stocks more than 15 varieties, most of which come from Holland, and she says the double-salted licorice inspires its own kind of addict. Diabetics also get their due, with nine sugar-free candies.

Chocolate-covered "river stones"

The most fun offering is the custom-made party favors. Diane will create something for any budget, from small Chinese takeout boxes full of gorgeous chocolate "river stones" (chocolate-covered apricots, marzipan, and almonds) and mini-martini shakers full of chocolate almond nougatine "olives" (the canister can double as a drink maker) to sugar-coma-inducing candy carts you can rent at big events where everyone gets to fill their bags from dozens of sweet treats.

The Candy Store
1507 Vallejo Street at Polk
San Francisco
(415) 921-8000

When I was in college, my roommate introduced me to Kierkegaard's theory of the despair of infinitude. It was complicated in an existential sort of way, but over the years, I've adopted a variation on the term -- the despair of infinity -- to refer to the overwhelming sensation I feel when faced with too many choices. Trying to pickout an outfit for the first day of work after a big shopping spree? Despair of infinity. Time to whip up dinner and the fridge is full of food? Despair of infinity. Back from a year in Russia and sitting at a bar, perusing a beer list of 6 drafts and 20 bottles? Praise capitalism in all its glory -- but that's despair of infinity nonetheless.

The despair of infinity comes upon me almost anytime I have to decide where to take visitors to dinner. When I was new to San Francisco, it was easy. We simply went wherever I had not been and, especially if it was my folks, could not afford. Over the years, I've exhausted most of the San Francisco icons with repeat visitors, and moved on to personal neighborhood favorites.

Since Indian summer is the best time for visitors, I thought I'd share the places on my short list. Where do you like to take visiting family and friends out to eat?

The Icons

Zuni Cafe A perrenial favorite. Who doesn't love the copper bar, the Caesar salad, and the roast chicken? 1658 Market Street, (415) 552-2522.

Slanted Door Some people complain that it's gotten too big for its britches since moving into the Ferry Building, but the shaking beef still rocks, and the Bay views can't be beat. 1 Ferry Building #3 at the Embarcadero, (415) 861-8032.

Boulevard This feel-good brasserie sticks to seasonal California classics, and it has an old-world elegance that's irresistable. 1 Mission Street, (415) 543-6084.

The Regulars

Vivande This was a weekly stop when I lived in Pacific Heights. The pasta is handmade, the sausage comes from a 150-year-old family recipe, and the lemon tart is worth the visit alone. 2125 Fillmore Street, (415) 346-4430.

1550 Hyde The philosophy here is to cook with the Bay Area's best sustainably raised produce and meats, like cult favorite Hoffman Gamebirds' chickens. I've never had a meal that was anything short of extraordinary. 1550 Hyde Street, (415) 775-1550.

Antica Trattoria Though the atmosphere isn't as convivial as it is at Ristorante Milano, another favorite haunt, the food is more rustic and the servers remember their regulars. 2400 Polk Street, (415) 928-5797.

The Current Favorites

Nua This relatively new addition to North Beach is fast becoming a destination. I crave the roasted cauliflower with capers and pine nuts on a regular basis. 550 Green Street, (415) 433-4000.

Terzo If I lived in the Marina, I'd come here all the time for small plates like succulent, spicy chicken spiedini and the addictive crispy fried onion rings. As it is, I'm on a first name basis with the hostess. 3011 Steiner Street, (415) 441-3200.

Bourbon & Branch -- This modern speakeasy may not serve a single bite of food, but it is the coolest bar in town. Okay, so the secret password is a bit hokey, but once you're inside, inventive cocktails and the 1920's-inspired atmosphere cast their spell. Visit bourbonandbranch.com for reservations.

A provocative question, especially for a food-loving town in a beef-righteous nation. It's a question that I can't even answer, really, not having sampled every burger in the Bay Area, or even the smaller list of San Francisco cult favorites.

But one thing I can tell you is that the burger at the newly opened Spruce is absolutely, unequivocally, utterly delicious.

photo by Jen Maiser

I met a friend there on a recent Monday night about two weeks after it opened. (Was this the most highly anticipated restaurant opening in recent memory or what?) We snagged two seats at the bar and settled in for drinks, I with my bourbon stone sour ($8) and Jen with her Clover Club ($8), a sweet-tart blend of gin, lemon juice, and Hangar One Aqua Perfecta framboise eau de vie. (The former: eh; the latter: double-yum.)

Even though we were splitting a burger at the bar, our meal started with an amuse bouche, a small gift of the world's best beet chips, vivid vermilion and perfectly salted, with a side of horseradish cream. They hit the spot.

We were in a nibbly mood so we shared two orders ($7 each) of housemade charcuterie -- which is surely now the most oft-typed phrase in my restaurant write-up vocabulary -- and enjoyed noshing our way through coins of soft smoked chorizo and glossy slivers of spicy coppa. I devoured the onion relish compulsively, and liked the sprinkling of smoked pimenton. We drank, we talked, we admired the view (chocolate mohair walls, soaring steel trusses, a glittering skylight) and took in the crowd, mostly couples and friends hungrily eyeing their food rather than one another.

When the burger ($12) arrived, it was draped, on request, with a melted slice of cheddar but otherwise unadorned, save for a small garden of lettuce, tomatoes, pickled red onions, and thin sheets of dill pickle on the side. Many regulars of the Village Pub, also owned by the trio behind Spruce, liken the "bun" to an English muffin, and that seems as apt a description as any for the thin, textured, somewhat porous bread. My only complaint is that they really overdid it brushing the bun with butter. Other than that, the burger was perfect -- hefty enough to feel good in the hand, satisfying, well-seasoned (an area where the kitchen clearly excels), juicy, and flavorful. Every bite was delightful and I would have eaten every last pickle if my mother hadn't taught me to share.

The fries that came with it were served in a silver cup, and assuming they are the same ones that accompany the bavette steak on the dinner menu, fried in duck fat. Holy Deliciousness, Batman! Crisp, just the right side of greasy, and perfectly salted; odd, however, that we had to ask for ketchup (and mustard). Is it really so rare to want these condiments when ordering a burger and fries? They should just slap them on the side and be done with it.

The service throughout the meal was spot on, though the lamp on the corner of the bar made it hard for our bartender to tell when Jen's drink had run dry. We passed on dessert, even though they were created by Bay Area wunderkind William Werner, formerly of the Ritz-Carlton Half Moon Bay; a girl has to save a little something for the next time.

I perused the dinner menu while I was there and, despite being written by a devoted minimalist, a few things on it popped out at me -- watermelon and arugula with cured sardines, for instance, and crudo with vegetables escabeche (did I call this new trend or did I call this new trend?).

I'm looking forward to my next visit.

Spruce
3640 Sacramento Street
(415) 931-5100
San Francisco
Open 7 days a week for dinner, M-F for lunch

Earlier this year, I read about a jam made by two guys from an apricot tree in their backyard. It was seriously small-batch -- think 100 jars a year -- and the only way to get it was to sign up for the waiting list. "A waiting list, for jam?" I thought to myself. "That's nuts!" But I figured what the hell, and signed up.

Fast forward to the summer, when I got an email from Eric and Phineas at We Love Jam telling me their apricot jam was almost ready, and I could buy up to four 8-ounce jars. I bought the maximum, and sat back to wait.

When it arrived, it took a few days for me to try it. One morning I nonchalantly asked my jam-loving boyfriend if he'd tried it yet. "It's good," came the reply.

So I was in no way prepared for the unsurpassably delicious, unconscionably good, irresistably perfect taste sensation that hit my tongue when I finally tried it. I swear, I nearly fainted. It tasted like apricots, honey, and gold. It was so smooth, it glided over my tongue like a silk cloth over polished wood. I tossed manners to the wind and started eating it straight from the jar.

As I licked pure happiness off my spoon, I wondered about the guys who made this amazing stuff. I'd already been in touch with them a few times and I liked their sense of humor, hiding jars of jam in the San Francisco main library for people to find. So I decided to interview them and learn more about the operation. What I found out is that they are totally devoted -- to their jam, to small farmers, and to saving the Blenheim apricot. They are also a total hoot.

Who is Eric?
The son of crazy art collectors. My dad is Swiss, from the French region, so I grew up on French cuisine and desserts. My mom is an amazing cook and I grew up helping my mom in the kitchen where she spent lots of time experimenting. Our jam, and the food products we will be offering are all the result of relaxing and having fun in the kitchen.

Who is Phineas?
Former educator, barista, part-time writer, amateur baker. Up until the jam-making started, I always lived in places with a non-functional kitchen. It wasn't until being in a full working kitchen that I started to do anything other than microwave popcorn. Go figure, but I'm pretty good with food. One day it would be nice to open up a small bakery/cafe.

When did you first make your apricot jam?
We met in March of 2002 and took a trip throughout Europe shortly thereafter -- a true test of our relationship! Anyhow, [at] a tiny, deserted restaurant in Grasse, a mind-blowing white peach dessert Eric ordered lingered in our minds. When we returned from Europe, Eric ventured into Phineas' Santa Clara backyard and saw a fruit tree. "What is that?" he asked. "An apricot tree," Phineas responded. "What do you do with the fruit?" Eric asked. "Nothing. My mom eats it -- the rest falls on the ground and rots," Phineas said. "Let's make jam!" said Eric.

So we picked the fruit and took it up to San Francisco and cooked up a batch. The white peach dessert served as our inspiration and the rest is history.

Tell me about the apricots.
We didn't know what variety it was right away but did some research and discovered it was Blenheim -- the most flavorful but most delicate apricot variety. Most of the Silicon Valley area was Blenheim and cherry orchards. Only a few remain and Slow Food USA classifies the Blenheim as endangered. One of the orchards we called told us they ripped up all their trees and planted a more profitable crop. It was then we knew our jam-making wasn't just about making delicious jam, but saving a way of life. We feel passionately about keeping the Blenheim a viable crop and giving these farmers a reason to continue growing it and not selling their land for housing.

When did you start selling the jam?
We had been making this jam for almost five years from the backyard tree. Each year we made around 100 jars and just gave them away. For some crazy reason we decided to send out a press release to two food magazines about the jam being for sale -- just 100 jars for 2007. In November of 2006 we had a voicemail from Food & Wine saying they loved the jam and wanted to write about it. All of a sudden the idea that this was now a business hit us and we had no idea what to think. They had us ship a jar to be photographed. Several phone interviews took place with lots of questions like how we were going to sell it. We told them it would be online. We built the website in a weekend. They asked since we had so few jars if we had a waiting list. We said yes. When the blurb came out in Food & Wine we were simply deluged with requests. Thousands of people emailed us. It took us by complete surprise.

How much time did you spend making jam this year?
This year, between our tree and the fruit from the other orchard, we processed about 7000 pounds of jam. Completely by hand. Washing individual fruit, hand pitting the fruit, using water bath canning. This is a very labor- and time-consuming method. Our priority this year was to make people happy no matter the expense on our end. So far, we have succeeded with this and that has made all the disasters that happened (there were countless) worth it.

What was the hardest thing about jam-making this year?
The sheer stress and labor. We went from making about 100 jars in a few days to making around 6000 -- in three weeks. The fruit doesn't last very long in the refrigerator, so we had to work basically day and night to make the jam. There was a huge sense of urgency.

You also sell a BBQ sauce. Might you expand your food enterprise any further with more products?
We have a whole lineup of products planned, all based on what we have made for years for friends and family. These include not just jams, but our pickles, biscotti and cookies, a taste bud-shattering preserved Meyer lemon Mediterranean rub that makes any chicken dish an instant cult hit. We also want to sell products from very small farms or from farms that maybe just have a few trees. We want to establish relationships with farmers and get excellent quality stuff that normally would never be available. We also want to work with tiny vineyards selling wine. We know one farmer who grows his own grapes and makes only about 7 cases a year. That is what we are looking for -- extremely small production and extremely high quality. And to always have something new available that you can't get anywhere else.

I know there are still a few jars of jam left online, but how do you get on the mailing list for next year?
Anyone who purchased jam from us this year is on the waiting list for life. [Whoever] wants to be on the list just has to email us. It is all chronological, who emailed on what day. And we work down the list like that. There will always be a waiting list and our website will be the only place to buy it. We deeply value the personal connection with our customers through emails and phone calls and that could never be preserved if someone else sold our product. For example, if a customer says they like a certain variety of plum jam, we will find that fruit and make a small batch and put it up for sale. This very close contact with customers and working with them to make them happy is the greatest joy of this venture.

To join the mailing list, email contact@welovejam.com