I'm a bit of a skeptic when it comes to whole grains. You know the ones I mean: Amaranth. Millet. Quinoa. Teff. They sound faintly exotic, like semiprecious jewels or new colors from the Pottery Barn paint collection. But they also have a hippie-dippy air about them, and I like my food full of flavor (and my underarms shaved, thank-you-very-much).

With superstar bloggers like Heidi Swanson constantly singing their praises, though, lately I've started to waver. But something held me back. And then I went out and ate nine desserts in one sitting -- a feast so ridiculous even Dionysus himself would have surely chided me for it -- and I began looking about for ways to eat healthier. As luck would have it, The Wheat-Free Cook (William Morrow, $24.95) arrived in my mailbox during this moment of curiosity, and the first recipe to catch my eye was quinoa salad with cucumber, tomato, and mint.

Since that sounded like a dish for a warm, sunny day, I decided to call up the book's author while I waited for such a day to appear on San Francisco's foggy horizon. Jacqueline Mallorca is a local food writer who started her career by writing the first ever Williams-Sonoma catalog and later became an editorial assistant to James Beard and a San Francisco Chronicle food columnist. She now has more than 11 cookbooks to her name.

A little over ten years ago, Jackie was diagnosed with celiac disease. For Jackie and 1.5 million Americans, that means gluten, a protein found in wheat, barley, and rye, makes them sick. Like most newly diagnosed sufferers, she was taken aback by all the foods she could suddenly no longer eat -- bread, pancakes, crackers, cereal.

"Being a cook, a foodie from way back, I laughed heartily at the diet sheet I was handed, and said, 'Oh no, I can do better than that.' I started reinventing the way that I cook," Jackie told me over the phone.

That meant shifting to nut flours for cakes and cookies, rice flour for things like pasta or bread, and the aforementioned hippie-dippy grains I've been suspiciously eyeing for years. After spending a decade cooking gluten-free, she collected some of her favorite recipes in The Wheat-Free Cook.

Even though I can eat gluten, flipping through those recipes made my tummy rumble. They looked simple and sounded delicious: onion-Gruyere tart, Asian stick noodles with pork and asparagus, cornmeal and cheese shortbread.

Jackie says that her restrictions have actually made her cooking better. "A lot of the time, particularly if I'm making cookies and little petit fours and cakes with nut flours, they turn out much more delicious than the original versions because you're using such fine ingredients. Cakes made with ground almonds and the best quality [cocoa] powder and three or four eggs taste wonderful because they taste of the almonds and the good stuff," she reported.

I wanted to know more about all the funky grains that peppered the book, so I asked her what she couldn't do without, even if she could eat gluten again. "I'd never stop using quinoa because it cooks up very fluffy, and it makes the best grain salad because it doesn't go hard like rice does when it's chilled. I wouldn't give up on millet because it makes a really terrific pilaf. I wouldn't give up on teff flour because it makes the best brownies under the sun," she readily answered. "I find it's like cooking in color instead of cooking in black and white."

The sheer poetry of her answer inspired me to dig deeper into the cookbook. I went out and bought white rice flour to use for dredging sautéed foods in based on Jackie's observation that it's less gummy than flour. I dog-eared a recipe for peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies and another one for chocolate-hazelnut truffle cake (healthy eating having been long forgotten at this point). And yes, I bought some red quinoa.

A sunny day finally appeared, and I set to making the salad. I tossed in a bit of roasted chicken to make it a meal, subbed some spicy cayenne pepper for fresh ground black, and let it sit in the fridge so the flavors could introduce themselves. "Hiya," I imagined the cucumber saying. "How fresh!" would be the radish's sharp reply. But the quinoa just sat there, still and gentle, subtly flavorful, and down-to-earth. Yum.

Quinoa Salad with Cucumber, Tomato, and Mint
Serves 4-6

Recipe adapted and reprinted with permission from The Wheat-Free Cook by Jacqueline Mallorca, William Morrow, $24.95.

2 cups gluten-free vegetable broth
1 cup red or yellow quinoa, rinsed and drained
1 cup shredded roasted chicken
1 cucumber (about 8 ounces), peeled, seeded, and chopped
2 large, ripe tomatoes, finely chopped, preferably heirloom
4 green onions, thinly sliced
8 radishes, finely chopped
¼ cup chopped mint
½ cup chopped parsley
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
Fine sea salt and cayenne pepper

1. Bring the broth to a boil over high heat. Add the quinoa, reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer until the grains are tender and the liquid is absorbed, about 15 minutes. The grains will turn transparent, and the white germ ring will show. Transfer to a large bowl and let cool.

2. Add the chicken, cucumber, tomatoes, green onions, radishes, mint, and parsley. Whisk together the olive oil and vinegar, and season to taste with salt and cayenne pepper. Pour over the quinoa and vegetables, and mix gently but thoroughly. Taste for seasoning and adjust as needed. Serve at room temperature.

"Promises and pie-crust are made to be broken." -- Jonathan Swift

One sunny afternoon recently, I found myself in the Mission with a fork poised above a towering slice of double-crust apple pie. Before I could mangle the freshly baked fruit sculpture in front of me, my binging companion spoke up. "First you have to test the crust," she said, flaunting her culinary school education with a flick of the wrist. "A perfect crust is so flaky that it can be easily cut with the side of a fork."

The crust shattered nicely. With the pie cleared for landing, I sank fork-first into the dimpled depths of gently spiced apples, savoring one bite and then another before it was time to move on. Though my taste buds pleaded for just one more nibble, this was my first visit to Mission Pie, and I was staring down one small tart, two oversized pieces of pie, and an entire galette. I had work to do.

Mission Pie opened in January with a simple concept: to make good pie. After the "I'm so thin, you're so thin" 1980s and the anti-carb hysteria of more recent years, dessert is finally back in style. It's so in, in fact, that entire restaurants are devoted to nothing but sweet nothings, cafés dedicated solely to chocolate are popping up all over, and dessert tastings are available on more and more menus. In this environment, the pie café is an idea whose time has come.

Mission Pie is an offshoot of Pie Ranch, a non-profit educational farm in San Mateo County that works with Mission High School students. "The original idea was to create a food business as an urban anchor point for Pie Ranch so the youth we work with would have a place in town to come to," said Karen Heisler, co-founder of both Pie Ranch and Mission Pie. "Pie seemed like the obvious choice."

In addition to their farm duties, teens ring up purchases and whip the cream by hand with wire whisks. Right now, the pies are baked at Destination Baking Company by Joseph Schuver, a principal in both businesses, but plans are already underway to build an on-site bakery that will be operational by next March. Then the students can start turning out flaky crusts layered with banana cream or apple themselves.

Most of the ingredients are organic and many are local. Pie Ranch supplies things like pumpkins and berries when in season, while other items -- Sierra Orchards walnuts, for example -- are grown nearby. Scones, savory Mystipies, and organic fair-trade Taylor Maid coffee are also for sale. The café is small but inviting, with pies displayed on bright pink and orange cake plates and daily selections advertised on a colorful chalkboard outside the entrance.

Pies here are refreshingly old-fashioned. On our visit, I fell in love with the walnut tartlet ($2), a miniature variation on pecan pie that layers caramel-colored walnuts with sweet curd that's a little bit jiggly, a little bit firm. My partner in pie suggested pairing bites of walnut and apple ($3.50) so I greedily piled some of each on my fork. Genius. The open-faced strawberry galette ($5.50) was a bit too tart after the sweeter choices, but I liked how the jammy fruit was sprinkled with crunchy oats and sugar crystals, and the egg white-washed crust was near perfect. A thick slice of sweet potato pie, decorated with a gigantic blob of whipped cream, tasted lighter and brighter than pumpkin.

We managed to eat most of our gargantuan order, and I took home the rest to my boyfriend. He ate the leftovers with eyes closed and when he was finished, he pushed the plate away, patted his belly, and smiled. Proof positive of Kathy's observation: "Pie is a make-people-happy kind of food."

Mission Pie
2901 Mission Street (enter on 25th Street)
San Francisco
(415) 282-1500
Open 7 days a week

Note: A write-up of any restaurant that has been open less than a month is considered a "First Impression." Meaning, we want to bring you the latest and greatest from around SF but acknowledge that new spots may have some kinks to work out. We keep that in mind, and you should, too.

Is Peruvian the new "it" food? Judging by the slew of articles written about it in the last year, the answer is a resounding si. From the New York Times to USA Today, from Gourmet to the Washington Post, it's getting a lot of buzz. Nuevo Latino cooking isn't new to San Francisco; we've been enjoying Fresca and Limon for years. Nevertheless, three weeks after Piqueo's opened, I found myself winding my way up the pockmarked hills of Bernal Heights to see what the city's newest Peruvian place had to offer.

If the swarms of hungry locals are any indication, Piqueo's is already a full-blown success. When my friend and I walked in, it was still light outside and the restaurant was only half-full, but for the better part of dinner, I watched the seemingly never-ending crowd on the sidewalk outside replenish itself every time a lucky group sat down. Undoubtedly, one of the secrets to Piqueo's instantaneous popularity is the mere virtue of its existence: this is a part of town with very few chic restaurants. Chef/owner Carlos Altamirano and his wife Shu (who also own Mochica) put a lot of care into making the space sophisticated and inviting. Arched doorways divide the restaurant into three rooms, and the many windows keep it feeling light and airy. Vivid photographs of modern-day Peru hang on brick red walls, and a lemon tree blooms on the granite bar in front of the petite open kitchen.

Piqueo's bills itself as "contemporary Peruvian cuisine," which seems to mean a mix of California-grown ingredients and items flown in from Altamirano's native Peru -- the giant corn that appears in nearly every dish, for instance -- combined in authentic Peruvian preparations. The menu is divided into piqueos (small plates), ceviches, and entrées. Every meal begins with a small bowl of what they call picadillos, a mixture of fried whole garbanzo beans and dried corn kernels showered with flecks of tomato, red onion, cilantro and queso fresco. It was served with a spoon and nothing else, so we ended up eating it with our fingers. If heroin is anything like these zingy niblets, I can see how you might not notice when Social Services takes your kid. Thank God my friend was dieting -- I got to eat most of the bowl myself.

Since ceviche is a signature Peruvian dish, we started with the ceviche mixto ($14). Like nearly everything we ordered, it was dramatically plated. Two mussels on the half-shell and a tangle of raw red onion sheltered chunks of halibut, squid, and prawns. The lime marinade was brash and spicy thanks to aji limo and rocoto, red Peruvian chilies, and we found ourselves wishing for a spoon to better lap it up. The bright coral prawns were the best part of the dish, and if I went again, I'd simply order the ceviche de camarones.

After one bite, I dismissed the choclo peruano ($9) as too much like the picadillos to be worth ordering separately. But the cold salad of giant Peruvian corn, chunks of queso fresco, tomatoes, red onions, and lemon-oregano dressing eventually won me over. Though its flavors are indeed similar -- it's practically the same dish, except for the fried garbanzos -- it provided a cool and spirited contrast to the warm dishes we ordered. Word to the wise: it's hard to avoid palate fatigue when so many dishes are seasoned with the same spices and flavors, so order carefully.

Our waitress raved about the anticuchon ($10), skewered sirloin brochettes drizzled with sweet and spicy BBQ-style panca sauce, but we found the meat overcooked and the sauce salty beyond reason. I simply couldn't finish what I put on my plate. It was also one-dimensional, save for the delectable puddle of avocado crema, which might have rescued a properly seasoned rendition from monotony.

Other than the picadillos, our favorite dish of the night was a plate of fried plantains in an orange-cinnamon glaze ($7). I'm not much for bananas, but I have adored plantains since I first tried them in an El Salvadoran restaurant with a heap of black beans and tangy sour cream on the side. As our waitress warned us, these are sweet enough to be dessert, so we decided to eat them last. From the caramelized sugars in the sauce to the slightly sour, creamy mash of the platanitos, every bite was bliss.

Unfortunately, we'd forgotten about the garlic shrimp ($10) still coming our way. After dessert, it was hard to go back, and when I woke up with vampire-slaying breath the next morning, I sort of wished I hadn't. Still, the shrimp were nicely cooked and the griddled bread was the perfect sponge for all that garlicky sauce.

Our waitress was knowledgeable and friendly, and any small flubs in service -- the lack of changed plates between courses, the traffic jam of dishes sent out too quickly by the kitchen -- should work themselves out as Piqueo's gets through opening month madness. Even if they don't, I'm already craving those picadillos.

Piqueo's
830 Cortland Avenue
San Francisco
(415) 282-8812
Open for dinner 7 nights a week

When I received an email inviting me to a new restaurant with an unknown chef serving local, seasonal Cal-French cuisine, what did I do? I yawned. Shuffled a few papers. Clicked over to Perez Hilton to read about Britney's rumored lipo. That kind of menu is a dime a dozen in this town. But then I said yes anyway.

After having eaten at Café Majestic, all I can say is yum, yum, yum.

Full disclosure: my meal was comped. These days, there's a lot of debate in (and out of) the blogosphere about the ethics of reviewing restaurants. Big publications can afford for their critics to eat out anonymously multiple times. Small publications can't, and when I go to dinner, even if it's for work, I usually pay my own way. When a new restaurant opens, they often invite media guests to enjoy dinner on them. There is no obligation to write a single word about their restaurant, and I often don't, nor do I sugarcoat my opinions. Two rules of the road when I write about a media dinner: I will always tell you it was free, and I will never comment on the service. It's impossible to judge if my treatment will be a fair representation of the average. Now let's continue.

Café Majestic resides in the Hotel Majestic, a century-old building in Pac Heights with furnishings that evoke a bygone era and a cozy bar downstairs that boasts a collection of rare butterflies (pinned to boards, not fluttering around). The restaurant was closed for four years, and after a million dollar renovation, the new owners reopened it six months ago, and brought on chef Ian Begg in January.

As soon as I entered the dining room, I was happy. Am I the only one who's sick of exposed red brick walls, communal tables, and concrete floors? Café Majestic is elegant but not fussy. Cream walls are hung with pen and ink sketches and subtle gold accents trace the fabric of plush banquettes. Look closely and you'll notice white porcelain dogs everywhere -- flanking the left side of the restaurant or on a decorative table -- and it becomes clear the owners are the kind of people who would tongue kiss their prized Corgis. Dressy attire is appropriate here, and again I say hallelujah! There are only so many more times I can force on my thong-baring, ankle-hugging jeans before I snap and cut them to shreds with nail scissors.

The meal began with a Brobdingnagian amuse bouche: asparagus gazpacho with a "caviar" of day boat scallops, cucumbers, Meyer lemon and Fresno chili. It was too lemony, and I didn't really want to finish it, which led to a debate with my boyfriend about size.

He says: bigger is better.
She says: good things come in small packages.

Our first course was a dozen Marin Miyagis ($36) with lime mignonette. The substitution of lime for the classic champagne or white wine vinegar was magical and refreshing, and it brightened up the sauce without overpowering the oysters' delicate, briny flavors.

Arugula, Fuji apples, blue cheese, and a walnut vinaigrette ($9) sounds dull, I know; after all, you can find some version of this fruit/cheese/nut salad almost anywhere. But I was in the mood for a light start to the evening, and the salad was beautifully balanced and dressed with restraint. The Fuji slivers were so thin, they were translucent.

We were so tempted by the sautéed potato gnocchi, cipollini onions, white truffle oil, roasted garlic cream, asparagus ($17) that we begged for a half-portion just to taste. What might have been a gut-busting dairy bomb in less skilled hands was light as a feather. (Maybe two feathers.) The gnocchi were fluffy and the delicate cream sauce was infused with deep, sweet notes of roasted garlic and onion. Though one food writer I know calls truffle oil "cheap thrills," this dish proves there is a time and a place.

It also illustrates both the flairs and the flaws of the Café Majestic kitchen: Begg is a young and talented chef, but he plays it safe too often. Dishes like grilled Hawaiian ono, pea shoots, green garlic, sea urchin cream, chili oil ($28) prove that he doesn't have to. I loved the uni's subtle sea-kissed sweetness, and there was just enough chili oil to keep the lusciousness in check. Pea shoots, a food I generally avoid, added just the right crunch and bitterness, and I gobbled every last one.

Grilled Mountain River Farms venison loin ($28) is decidedly un-local -- it comes from New Zealand -- but my boyfriend declared it the best he's ever eaten. Its raspberry-pink flesh was tender and free of the gaminess venison is often cursed with. Bitter endive and blood orange marmalade gave a one-two punch, and a snowfall of pine nuts added creaminess. The fiddlehead ferns coiled on top were a welcome reminder of spring in an otherwise wintry dish.

I was disappointed with dessert. The Medjool date tarte ($8) was simply too sweet. A flat pastry disc was topped with a thick layer of pureed dates and star anise ice cream, then drizzled with Marshall Farms honey. I loved the Middle Eastern nod, but the dish needed something tangy to save it from itself.

General manager and wine director Ryan Maxey chose flattering wine matches for the food -- a 2006 Condes de Albarei Albarino Rias Baixas for the ono, a 2004 Santa Barbara Vineyards Syrah from Santa Ynez Valley for the venison. More than his wine pairings, though, we loved his enthusiasm and southern hospitality.

With a grown-up ambiance and captivating cooking, Café Majestic has a lot to offer. If chef Begg would give freer reign to his more inspired touches, it could just become one of San Francisco's most exciting new restaurants.

Café Majestic
1500 Sutter Street
San Francisco
(415) 441-1280
Open 7 days a week for breakfast and dinner

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well." Virginia Woolf

Maybe. But sometimes it's more important to have fun. When it is, Presidio Social Club is the place to go. It offers revamped American classics, most of which don't merit more than a shrug, but the atmosphere makes it a winner anyway.

From the outside, PSC -- its self-assigned urban moniker -- looks like the old clapboard barracks that it is. An old-fashioned mailbox from Mayberry days hangs on the porch, and just inside the doorway stands a drum set painted Technicolor red. The entire place is a nostalgia-lover's fantasy of the giddy pre-war years when woman wore their hair in elaborate pin curls, men said things like, "Aw, shucks," and Big Band was king. Ceiling fans resembling airplane propellers whir slowly overhead, mimicking lazy, sweat-soaked summer days, and potted palms sweep the floor with wide green leaves.

I walked into this carefree atmosphere a few weeks ago, roughly four months after opening. The crowd was only partially anachronistic, with just as many white-haired ladies and gents "dressed for dinner" as young LucasArts employees in flats and skinny jeans swarming the marble-topped bar. Even the communal table, reserved for walk-ins, was full. The hostess escorted my friend and me to a roomy two-top in the side room, and it was a great table -- close enough to ride the buzz of the main room without having to endure its noise.

One look at the cocktail list got my feet tapping. I was tempted by the French 75 ($9) with cognac, champagne and lemon juice, as well as the Pisco Punch ($8) with Pisco (a South American brandy), pineapple, and bitters, but settled on the lip-smacking Presidio Pink Lemonade ($8). Vodka infused with Buddha's hand, the Edward Scissorhands of the citrus world, was blended with limoncello, simple syrup, and a splash of Campari. It was sweet-tart, just like the ghost of a girl I saw flirting with the dashing officer in my mind's eye.

From the "hors d'oeuvres" section of the menu -- the name another quaint touch -- we ordered PSC Seafood Cocktail with shrimp ($7.95). I grew up in the South and in our family, shrimp cocktail was considered terribly posh. My grandmother even had special dishes for the occasion. I loved PSC's presentation -- a pile of oyster crackers and fork-speared limes on the side -- but what was described as "Mission taqueria-style" tomato juice with chilies was really a barely seasoned swimming pool for baby shrimp.

Gruyere cheese toast ($8.50) was a grilled cheese sandwich, plain and simple. The bread was so buttery, it overpowered the Gruyere's nutty flavor. The fondue tomato dip livened things up, even if that combination can be found on roughly 99% of San Francisco menus right now.

The PSCaesar ($9.50) looked like a Caesar salad but the creamy dressing tasted more like Ranch. It didn't make it any less good, just a bit of false advertising.

Next up was the "Broadway & Columbus" ($13.95), an homage to two of the City's most iconic neighborhoods, Chinatown and North Beach. Unfortunately, it looked and tasted like a poor attempt at using up leftovers. Wide egg noodles in a bowl of orange zest-dotted broth were topped with chunks of fatty duck. The pasta was okay on its own in a soothing, I'm-not-feeling-well kind of way, but one bite of bland, greasy duck was plenty. The dish simply never came together.

Now ask me if I care? The drinks were tasty, the fun-loving atmosphere infectious and the prices hard to beat. By this time I was enjoying an Alamos 2005 Malbec ($6) by the glass. When our waiter recommended it, I admitted I was wary of ordering the cheapest wine on the menu. (Am I the only one?) He convinced me to order it anyway, and I loved it for its raspberry flavors layered with spice and long, velvety finish.

All I can say is that PSC saved the best for last. Like Pres a Vi, they've hopped on the dessert tasting bandwagon -- a trend I'd like to see more of -- with four full-sized desserts ($7), four dessert "sides" ($5), and a mix-and-match approach with one of each ($10). We shared three chocolate cupcakes whose barely cooked insides were a dead giveaway for their inspiration -- molten chocolate cake -- but you can't go wrong with something that's fresh from the oven. The top looked like decorative beads on a cut glass serving dish and added a wonderful crunch, while the shot glass of hand-whipped cream was a cool foil.

Service was a mix. Our waiter had the wink and swagger of a good ole boy, and I had to wonder if he was flirting or stealing nips from the bar since we rarely saw him, but the food runner and busboys were both on top of their game.

At meal's end, the critic in me may have shrugged, but the rest of me had fallen in love.

Presidio Social Club
Building 563 Ruger Street in the Presidio
San Francisco
(415) 885-1888
Open Monday - Saturday for dinner

I am what is known as a germaphobe. (See also: obsessive-compulsive disorder.) During cold and flu season, I never venture out without my purse-sized hand sanitizer. Sick friends know to bow out of dinner if I'm hosting, and I have been known to disinfect seatbelts and radio knobs after a cold-ridden colleague rides in my car. The last time my boyfriend had the stomach flu, I instituted a quarantine so rigorous that he was banned from my bed and bathroom until all surfaces and linens could be bleach-cleaned.

Given my anti-germ proclivities, what on Earth could make me willingly ingest 10 billion living bacteria every single day? The promise of a souped-up immune system.

That, and a bar of chocolate.

I'd never heard of probiotics until two months ago, when a sample box of Attune Food's wellness bars arrived on my doorstep. (Full disclosure: they sent them free of charge, a common and ethical way of introducing members of the media to a new product.) As I read through the literature, I learned that probiotics exist naturally in foods like blue cheese, yogurt, and tofu, and they've been around in supplement form for years. But now companies from Dannon (Activia yogurt) to Kashi (Vive cereal) to Attune are adding them to foods. Here's why: preliminary research suggests that these friendly bacteria may be able to prevent cancer, tooth decay, and allergies; lower blood pressure and cholesterol; reduce the uncomfortable effects of lactose intolerance and irritable bowel syndrome (IBS); and keep a healthy digestive tract working smoothly.

I have to admit, I was intrigued. Who hasn't had the occasional upset stomach after an orgy of rich foods and untold bottles of wine? And, okay, I'll admit it -- I had visions of becoming a sort of Anti-Germ Superwoman, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and ride Muni in December without gloves and a gas mask. So I started snooping around to learn more.

To understand how probiotics work, we have to talk about something not normally considered polite food blog conversation: the colon. Our intestines are full of bacteria -- 100 trillion, to be exact -- that help us digest fiber, absorb nutrients from food, and eliminate what we don't need. They also play a significant role in our immune system, killing off harmful bacteria. When these gut flora get out of balance -- usually a result of stress, illness, antibiotics, or alcohol -- disaster can ensue.

Probiotics help reinstate that balance by replenishing our intestines with good bacteria. They are often taken hand in hand with prebiotics, a kind of fiber that feeds the good bacteria while the colony repopulates itself.

In order to help you, foods containing probiotics have to meet three requirements:
1. The probiotics have to be alive when you ingest them.
2. They have to survive the digestive process and reach your intestines.
3. They have to be in sufficient quantities to have an effect.

There are several different strains of probiotics but all of them have unpronounceable names. Two of the most popular are lactobacillus and bifidobacterium. Different strains do different things, and the scientific jury is still out on their overall potential. Some researchers have seen promising results on a number of fronts from preventing allergies in children to lowering blood pressure, while others claim that probiotics are still not well understood. But the one thing nearly everyone seems to agree on is that they can help keep your digestive tract functioning without any snafus.

The small print that accompanied Attune's package indicated that I should eat one bar every day for 14 days to judge the full effect. It also stated that "some people may notice minor intestinal discomfort for the first few days." Hmm. One woman's minor intestinal discomfort could be another woman's oh-dear-God-why-me? So I emailed the company and asked them to be more specific. Their reply? Possible bloating and/or gas. I admit that I stared at that box of chocolate bars for a few days. I felt like a lab rat, but the potential benefits -- fewer colds! -- eventually outweighed any worries of unwelcome flatulence.

I unwrapped a Cool Mint Chocolate bar and took a bite. CRUNCH. The first thing I noticed was that it was delicious. I'd expected it to taste like something that was good for me -- mealy, slimy, or chewy all came to mind. But this was creamy chocolate bliss over crisp rice. A few days was all it took to hook me. I felt better -- no intestinal discomfort at all -- and I've been eating them ever since. I've also conducted a small and wholly unscientific focus group on my own. Three friends with ailments that veer from the serious (IBS) to the annoying (occasional constipation) to the mundane (allergies) have tried them. It's not cold season yet, so I can't tell you if they'll keep us healthy or not, but three out of four of us are still eating them -- "germs" and all.

Note: This post should not be considered a substitute for professional medical advice.

A small bit of research reveals that Pres a Vi, one of the new restaurants in the reinvigorated Presidio, has its roots in the suburbs. (Va de Vi, its older sibling, is located in Walnut Creek.) Unfortunately, a small bit of dinner will tell you the same thing.

I made my way to Pres a Vi on a rainy night about 4 months after it opened. Perhaps because of the weather, I noticed how hard it was to find. It's hidden amongst a handful of cookie cutter office buildings, and if you're approaching by car -- as I assume most dinner-only visitors to the Presidio are -- signs are few and far between.

When I finally arrived, it was to a room full of warm, red-hued woods and fabrics that evoked a sophisticated, cozy cabin. The place was bustling with birthday parties, a young bar crowd, and several tables of baby boomers having dinner, but it wasn't loud. Though the room is quite pretty, it's also fairly common by San Francisco standards. Long bar populated with pretty-somethings? Check. Open kitchen? Check. Ubiquitous communal table? Check.

My friend was late to meet me, and the host treated us with some pretty fierce attitude when we checked in nearly 15 minutes late. I can empathize with the frustration of late arrivals, but to be fair, I had checked in earlier to let him know I was waiting for my friend to park. He was rude then, too.

When we sat down, we didn't have a wine list -- a pet peeve of mine -- so I caught the eye of the nearest waiter. His reply when I asked for one was gruff and annoyed. Okaaaaay.

When he returned, he explained, "There's a certain way we have to present the wine list." He then proceeded to run through the list of flights, which come in tastes of three and can also be ordered by the glass or by the bottle. "And if those aren't enough, there are 400 more in here," he finished, handing over the wine book.

The owners of Pres a Vi are clearly proud of their wine program. The name of the restaurant, in fact, loosely translates to "captivated by wine" in Catalan. It's encouraging to see so many offerings by the glass (48 plus 2 for dessert) and the bottle list hits on most of the world's major wine regions, so it's understandable that they'd want to brag a bit. But come on: the first thing most people want to do after a hard day's work is order a drink and relax. Forcing your customers to beg for the wine list is shortsighted and inconsiderate. If it needs presenting, so be it, but have the hostess do it.

Service was amateur throughout the meal. There were long waits for drinks when the food was already served, a food runner who handled our request for more wine by fumbling over how he wasn't authorized to take our order (well, go get someone who is!), and a plate of pork belly that was inexplicably served before both seafood courses.

On to the food. There were some lovely tastes from Chef Kelly Degala's small plates menu, which hop scotches all over the world. Like the restaurant, the plating was gorgeous, and the long rectangular dishes showed off our first two courses beautifully. We started with hamachi teradito ($14), slices of sashimi topped with micro arugula, anju pepper aioli, and blood orange oil. Citrus and spice were about all I could taste. Together, they were a flavor bomb that brazenly overpowered the hamachi (which may not have been a bad thing, since I detected a bit of fishiness from it here and there). The wild mushroom-ricotta ravioli ($10) were better. The sauce was wonderful -- a silky, subtle sherry brown butter with a hint of lemon -- but the fried shallots were soggy from the sauce, and the fried sage leaf was greasy.

The best thing about the Singaporean BBQ style kurobuta pork belly ($10) was the interplay between the tart and crunchy green papaya salad and the sweet honey-soy glaze of the pork. But the meat itself was chewy in a way that unctuous belly shouldn't be.

The pork was followed by grilled prawns satay ($10) with a Thai red curry sauce and soy-maple glazed black cod ($15). Both were fine, but not good enough to erase the disappointment of the preceding dishes. Throughout the meal, I kept wishing we had spoons to take better advantage of the sauces that accompanied nearly every plate, since they're one thing the kitchen does exceedingly well.

For dessert, we opted to share the cookie plate ($15) from the tasting part of the menu. I love the concept of dessert tastings, smaller portions of several things meant to be shared. It gives you the opportunity to indulge your sweet tooth without ending up like Kirstie Alley, and to sample more things from the menu. Unfortunately, the cookies were lackluster. The chocolate chip lacked enough chocolate oomph as did the chocolate meringues, and the coconut macaroons were greasy.

Both of us walked out of the restaurant deflated. I have heard good things about Va de Vi over the years, and it's made the Chronicle's Top 100 Restaurants list the last three, but it's clear from my visit that Pres a Vi is not living up to the family name.

Pres a Vi
1 Letterman Drive
San Francisco
(415) 409-3000
Open 7 days a week

I've always thought reincarnation is an interesting concept. You live, you die, and you return smarter and thinner and full of snappy comebacks that are always ready right when you need them. (Or something like that; check with the Hindus for a more complete explanation.)

These days, restaurants are as eager for a second chance as anyone. In mid-January, David Gingrass and Bridget Batson, the owner-and-chef duo behind Hawthorne Lane, reopened their staid SOMA restaurant as TWO. The décor and the New American menu have both been revamped, and they're a lot more casual and more fun than they used to be. If Hawthorne Lane was a graying matron who insisted upon using china and crystal at lunch, TWO is a swinging single with a penchant for slamming tequila body shots.

The décor is part Tiki lounge, part Brady Bunch. Coconut lights hang above a massive copper and concrete bar, walls are paneled in wood, and banquettes are covered in a groovy olive and tan fabric. Mustard yellow tables come with psychedelic orange peppershakers, and the ladies' bathroom is papered in giant retro red and silver blossoms.

The first time I went for dinner, my boyfriend and I sat at a table. The second time we took friends and perched at the bar, where service was better. Per Restaurantland's New World Order, the cocktail list features housemade infusions like lemon blueberry tequila. I chose the Royal Hound ($12), a drink Anna Nicole Smith would have liked. It was pink from muddled ruby grapefruit awash in vodka, Cointreau and a splash of bubbly, and a candied grapefruit rim sparkled like diamonds.

Eighteen wines are offered by the glass, including two reds served "en vrac" (in bulk). These wines are stored in barrels that have been lined so the wine doesn't pick up unwanted flavors or aromas. Prices are a few bucks cheaper than the other options, and the Syrah/Petite Syrah/Cabernet blend was a very drinkable mixture of fruit and spice.

Servers insist the food is made for sharing, and some of it is, but there's too much cutting and reapportioning needed to split most plates. Chilled asparagus on sourdough crostini with ricotta and prosciutto ($9.50) is a case in point. A veritable jungle of greens sprouted from the gigantic toast, and cutting it in half was annoyingly messy. Though I liked the touch of lemon and the al dente asparagus spears, eating it made me feel like a cow with wild clover hanging out of my mouth.

Two that are easy to split are the crispy-fried Hama Hama oysters ($11), which arrived nestled in a bed of rock salt. The oysters were plump and hot, the dough was light (if a touch thick), and the celery root remoulade was a delightfully bright take on tartar sauce. Pizzas ($13/$14) were a runaway favorite on both visits. The crust was thin but pleasantly chewy, and both versions we tried (black olive, goat cheese, and prosciutto; duck confit, caramelized onions, and Crescenza cheese) offered an appetizing blend of toppings.

The best dish bar none was the bacon and egg raviolo with sage brown butter ($9). One oversized ravioli was filled with bacon, spinach, and an egg yolk, which was softly poached during cooking, resulting in a rich, gooey slick that spilled out when cut open. Truth be told, I wouldn't have minded more bacon for my buck, but it was still glorious.

The pork schnitzel ($18), however, was an unmitigated flop. It was greasy and so large that it looked oafish and clumsy on the plate, and the braised escarole underneath was too salty to eat.

Both veggie sides we tried were a hit. Caramelized broccoli with garlic, chili and lemon ($5) was admirably charred with well-balanced flavors. Despite suffering from a dreadfully unappetizing name, the stewed broccoli rabe ($5) tasted deliciously bitter.

Desserts were playful. Chocolate peanut butter and double chocolate mousse cupcakes ($7.50), the latter styled to resemble a Hostess creation, outperformed the mini ice cream sandwiches ($7.50) like Gwen Stefani and this year's crop of American idols. The crumb was moist and rich, and the icing hovered on the restrained side of sweet. We actually licked the wrappers clean, I am mortified to report.

Before we left we asked the bartender what the old crowd thought of the new place. "They came in once or twice when we reopened," he said, "but most of them haven't been back." You can't please all the people all the time, I guess, so you might as well suit yourself. Maybe that's a lesson Gingrass and Batson learned the first time around.

TWO
22 Hawthorne Street
San Francisco
(415) 777-9779
Open for lunch & dinner 7 days a week