I've been walking by for months trying to peek through the papered windows. Hoping and hoping that one day on my stroll, the doors would just magically swing wide open. Sometimes I'd actually force myself to go a few weeks without checking, convinced that the next time I did, a new bustling cafe would be livening up the sleepy morning stretch of Grand Avenue that I call home. You see, for all of the cafes and amenities we have, we don't have an independent morning spot with great espresso, coffee and interesting morning pastries. Until now.

Now let's get one thing straight: Charlie Hallowell, chef/owner of both Pizzaiolo and Boot and Shoe Service, doesn't do things half-way (and thus, I think, the wait for the perfect time to take that kraft paper down from the windows). From wonderful fresh salads and delightful wood-fired pizzas at Pizzaiolo to those fantastic salty olives and strong cocktails (and pizza, of course) at Boot and Shoe Service -- there are innumerable reasons to visit both. And since moving to Oakland I find myself frequenting one of the sturdy wooden tables at Pizzaiolo drinking a macchiato, nibbling on a cinnamoney donut hole and stealing internet from the tenants upstairs. The morning service there is lovely and the locals have caught on: it's packed.

And finally: the new cafe adjoining Boot and Shoe Service, formally DiBartolo Cafe, opened last week and looks pretty promising. In short time, I predict, it too will be packed. Like Pizzaiolo's morning service, there are a variety of simple pastries and morning cakes and lots of seating (they are keeping it wi-fi free for now) at counters along the whole periphery of the space. The inside is spare and clean with high ceilings, brick walls, and fantastic light. Hallowell has opted to serve Sightglass coffee, and the staff and other customers I chatted with seem thrilled with the decision for a few reasons. It's local, it's excellent, and it's not Blue Bottle (which, while fantastic, is ubiquitous these days).

You can find a short list of coffee drinks including lattes, cappuccinos, macchiatos and the like along with a special mocha made with a housemade chocolate consisting largely of dark Valrhona chocolate. If you're into drip coffee they brew one cup at a time, taking just as much time and care with a simple cup of coffee as they do a more involved espresso drink.

They also offer housemade granola in a bowl with fruit and milk/yogurt or in a big ball jar for $10 ($1 of which is a deposit for the jar). I haven't had a chance to try the granola yet, but the staff insists it's the best you'll ever have. It's on my to-do list this week.

What I have tried are their perfect cappuccinos, crumbly currants scones and buttery almond cake. The pastries are all done in-house by the pastry chef at Pizzaiolo, so if you're familiar with the carefully curated sweets there, you'll feel right at home. I've always been a big fan of their scones because they're not huge and hefty, but rather: light, simple, and seasonal. And the almond cake is the perfect morning compliment to a cup of strong coffee: not too sweet, buttery, with a nice sweet layer of almonds on top.

While they're not currently rolling out any special savory items midday, there are plans to do a variety of breads and spreads and more fixed-menu sandwiches in the future. So stay tuned. And another exciting aspect of the space to come: there are plans to open in the evenings for espresso beverages, plated desserts, and cocktails. The idea is that it can serve as a spillover for folks waiting for a table at Boot and Shoe Service but can also be a new spot to come and snag a cocktail or have an evening espresso before a stroll around the lake.

So they're off to a great start. And like all great starts, there's a definitive reason to go and check it out now, but there's also promise in what's to come down the line. A most welcome addition to the neighborhood.

Boot and Shoe Service
3308 Grand Avenue
Oakland, CA 94610
(510) 763-2668
Hours: 7 a.m.-3 p.m. everyday

In retrospect, I wonder if events like the one I attended on Saturday night are even designed to attract people who like to eat. Ostensibly, that would appear to be the goal. San Francisco's lively, Twitter-happy community of dedicated chow-chasers loves to anoint an emerging trend with a splashy party. When you arrive at a pop-up restaurant 35 minutes before service is supposed to begin, and there's already a crowd milling around the outdoor patio, and a cheery host tells you to expect an hour-long wait -- you hope that the meal is the draw. When the food doesn't measure up to your expectations -- admittedly pretty high under the circumstances -- you wonder if the kitchen isn't playing catch-up to marketing -- the sort of fashionable frenzy only a well-oiled social networking machine can generate.

On Saturday, we arrived at Coffee Bar on Mariposa near Florida for a preview of Hapa Ramen's hotly anticipated Ferry Building Farmer's Market stand. It was around 5:30 p.m., and by 6:00 p.m., the line had stretched down the ramp, through the patio thick with ramen-starved humanity, out past the gate to the sidewalk, and on down the street, well past our field of vision. I put in my name. The host guessed we'd be seated by 6:45 at the earliest, so we ordered up a round of drinks. They went quickly, so we had a few more. Alcohol was taking hold around the darkening patio and the interior. People looked unsteady, pink-faced, and increasingly irritable. Tampopo flickered on a screen above the dining room; some people were studying it, swaying blankly to the DJ's hip-hop soundtrack. Bloggers tucked away cameras and notebooks and cozied up to beers. A loud woman heading up a party of twelve kept hounding the host, playing every angle. The bathroom line swelled until it seemed nearly as long as the one snaking outside. There was little else to do besides drink at this point. The event was basically a party featuring beer and wine (at restaurant prices) with the guarantee -- more accurately, the whiff of a promise -- of a sizable snack appearing somewhere down the line. So, drink we did. By 9:15 p.m., my girlfriend and I had consumed three 22 oz. bottles of Sapporo, a 12 oz. bottle of Trumer Pils, and nearly a bottle of tasty rose -- the latter of which a friend helped down. I impulsively dashed out into the night in search of snacks to tide me over. The cafe's pastry case near the bar had long since been emptied, and only a few errant currants and crumbs remained. I walked to the Starbucks on the corner, but the barristas were sweeping up. I contemplated running down to 16th Street and the glowing red sign of Safeway. Without taking cost into consideration, I wondered if I could order, receive, suck down, and pay for a lobster bisque and some oysters at Circolo before my name was called. I wandered back towards the party to consult my girlfriend when, upon lurching through the doorway, I saw her waving from the top of the stairs. My name was, in fact, being called. I looked at my cell phone. It was 9:30 p.m.

Tampopo started for the third time not long after we sat down. I couldn't peel my eyes away from the egg yolk scene, even with our food arriving. Someone probably had a great bowl of ramen on Saturday night, but I didn't. The noodles I slurped were pretty good, but the broth they swam in tasted timid, under-flavored. The broth in my girlfriend's bowl ($13) was cool; our friend's proved slightly warmer, though still just a few ticks past room temperature. Mine, it was hot enough, just right temperature-wise. As I spooned it up, I glanced around in case a guerrilla Goldilocks, chagrined by the wait, was swinging in to snatch it. I bemoaned the pork shortage in my bowl, and coveted the surplus in one perched on a nearby table. The fried chicken floating on top of the soup was delicious. Immediately upon inhaling it, I fantasized about a whole plate piled with crusty brown slugs. Apart from a sweet, earthy melange of maitake, tofu, and mirin ($7), the appetizers were unexciting and -- in the case of a rough, peppery arugula, radish, and pea salad priced at $12 -- too expensive.

The Internet might have brought folks out to Coffee Bar on Saturday night, but once they were there -- laughing, swirling wine, boring holes into the hosts' brows with desperate hungry eyes -- they communicated directly, face-to-face, with only minimal interference from technology. I myself -- in such settings typically about as gregarious as a cactus -- actually met people while I was waiting. Before I left on my snack-quest, I met a couple who -- famished -- had actually ducked out to eat half a dinner's worth of small plates at another nearby restaurant before returning. I met people in the bathroom line. A few were passionate about ramen. As he fidgeted behind me, still waiting to be called, one guy gestured in the direction of Tampopo's beaming face and the steaming bowl in her hands. With no encouragement, he blurted out, looking a little misty:

"They can't show this and serve shitty ramen; they're making a statement here."

I met one of my girlfriend's co-workers. His name was called an hour-and-a-half before ours. When I saw his bowl arrive, I called up to him for a quick assessment. He leaned down and passed me his cell phone. Fittingly, he'd discretely typed out a Tweet-length review: something to the effect of "doughy noodles, okay broth, tough meat." Much later, when I was guzzling my own bowl, a stranger approached with a small crew.

"Is it worth it?" he asked.
"How long is your wait?" I responded.
"An hour-and-a-half."
"No," I said, already thinking of the tacos I planned to enjoy on the walk home. Over at the next table, a couple squabbled. They'd been seated for half an hour, and were still awaiting food. He wanted to wait; she was annoyed. They left in a huff. I hope they reconciled, preferably with a few tacos to mediate.

Importantly though, I don't want to indict Hapa Ramen for the unsatisfying situation. I don't go to events like this very often -- in part because I know the food is frequently subject to inconsistencies sometimes even beyond the chef's control. This experience solidified that suspicion. The operation was simply overwhelmed. On Sunday morning, I read on Hapa Ramen's Twitter feed that 500 people had been served. That is astounding. Ramen isn't something you can just dish up either; it requires a lot of moving parts. In this case, the fried chicken, the slow-poached egg, the (ideally) hot broth, the noodles with the right lightness and consistency -- they all had to come together at the right time. Anything tumbling out of order skews the overall effect. A chef can pull noodles, but he can't control the Internet, and part of me guesses that the massive turnout will generate more interest -- even if more than a few bowls of ramen failed to pass muster -- precisely because getting served was such an ordeal. No ramen is worth a four-hour wait, though this particular rendition might have been much better in a less tumultuous setting -- perhaps tastier, and certainly scrutinized with less intensity after, say, a wait of merely 15 minutes. The wait was not just about space in the restaurant; it also reflected the strain under which the kitchen was cooking, and the fact the cooks had to have been deeper in the weeds than Mary-Louise Parker. Maybe if you go to events like this a lot, you have to not mind not eating. Maybe you just have to will yourself embrace the chaos and have good humor -- refusing to succumb to the notion you're eating at a real restaurant. Make no other plans you can't easily bail on. Be prepared to improvise. Bring a candy bar, and maybe another to share.

Is there a drink for every occasion and mood? When one reaches for the bottle for any given reason, Deborah Pardes of Get Smart Radio wanted to know "which one?"

On April 1st, Pardes invited mixlogist Brian MacGregor of Jardinière and wine wiz Debbie Zachareas of Ferry Plaza Wine Merchant to discuss The Heart of Drinking: The Psychology of Mixology and Enology at Coffee Bar-- a place where, appropriately, the beverages of choice are much less about caffeine and more about alcohol in the darker hours of the day.

Taped before a live audience, the episode promised to get to the bottom of the issue-- and the bottle-- with a little help from a live audience and the lively Get Smartypants Band. Pardes kept the show moving along with questions from the audience, a few corny jokes, and a topical song here and there. Sort of like Dinah Shore, but minus the cooking segments, Tennessee accent, and three-camera technology. Like Miss Shore, the tone of the show was as bubbly as a bottle of good champagne, but didn't really get too deep into the Heart of Drinking. Instead, the show seemed more about Drinking with Heart than anything else, which seemed to suit the audience just fine.

As the show moved along, MacGregor and Zachareas discussed the appropriate wines and cocktails to accompany any number of moods and occasions as promised by the show's title.

For weddings, births, and other celebrations of hope and newness, the obvious answer was champagne. The bubbles rise to the level of our spirits. Funerals? That's another drink entirely, unless one is especially delighted by the deceased's passing. Browner liquids, such as scotch or bourbon were deemed appropriately somber and comforting.

What do you drink when you are happy? Is it the same thing you drink when you're sad or bored or trying to get laid? According to the audience, the answer was yes. To them, tequila was the answer to everything. Zachareas agreed, while MacGregor opted for a classic daquiri for a splash of sexiness. Sugar-rimmed beverages were listed, along with the obvious correlating jokes.

Near the end of the broadcast, or podblast as it was termed, the audience members were invited to take a quiz. Hands were raised, people were called upon to exhibit their listening comprehension skills, and prizes were won. I left the evening with a bag of white cheddar cheese-flavored Smartfood popcorn, one of Deborah Pardes' compact discs and a bellyful of Belgian beer.

But I came away with a bit more than that. When I got home from the show, I was forced to examine my own drinking preferences: the Friday tradition of dry gin Martinis, the warmth-giving of winter-drunk Manhattans, the cooling summertime Vespers and crisp white wines, the solace of a neat rye whiskey, the edge-blurring world-weariness of a good Negroni. I have my drinks that I reach for, whatever my mood.

And now I am thinking about the weekend ahead. What to drink to send off a friend moving back to Paris for a few months? A French 75 or two? What to have after chasing three children for an afternoon? Something strong, I should think. And what does one drink with an old soul after a day's urban hike? Something that screams San Francisco, perhaps. Something obscure. I haven't yet decided. And I don't have to.

I think I'll just see where my mood takes me.

This was supposed to be an easy-does-it post...

Go to Coffee Bar. Go to Coffee Bar to get a beautiful, just-for-you cup of Clover-made coffee. Go to Coffee Bar because it is not Starbucks, which, not surprisingly, is just around the corner.

And then, upon my second trip into the place, I bugged the barista into letting me take pictures of my coffee being made:

202 Degree F. water goes in, barista stirs with care...

Machine works like a big French Press in reverse and makes what looks like a giant, overbaked sugar cookie...

Out comes one of the best cups of coffee I've ever had...

Blah, blah, blah...

Well, I thought, spending more than $10,000 on a coffee machine is so absolutely worth it! And so is the $3.00 charged per cup. Really.

I still think so. If you are a coffee lover and have not had Clover coffee, I suggest you do so. Now.

I was feeling so self-satisfied. I'd had a long, pleasant walk, I was in a sleek, beautiful space with a good book clutched under my arm, and I was being very well caffeinated by a cup of coffee so strong and well balanced, that I felt no need to add sugar or cream, which is atypical of my style. I normally drink kindercafe in the morning. I had everything I needed for a good half hour's rest-and-refuel.

And then the barista told me that Starbucks had recently bought the company that makes the Clover machine. I felt as though the Publisher's Clearing House van had just pulled up to my house and, as Ed McMahon was about to hand me my bouquet of balloons and over-sized check, my doctor telephones me to tell me I have only two weeks to live. A certain bitterness crept into my otherwise perfect cup of coffee. I think it was my tears. Or perhaps some of the bile that rose from my esophagus as I tried to digest the news.

Perhaps Starbucks saved enough money from the tips they stole from their baristas to buy Clover's soul.

I suppose a small consolation is that Coffee Bar was able to purchase its Clover before Starbucks wrapped its caffeinated tentacles around it. And that it's very much worth experiencing.

I also love the fact that the folks at Coffee Bar are pleasant, helpful, and relatively no-nonsense about their coffee. Their coffee menu is simple:

Sorry, Yelp woman, no cinnamon. Bring your own if it's that much of an issue for you.

Remind me later to tell you about my mixed feelings about Yelp.

Go to Coffee Bar for a nice, big cup of this:

Nuff said.

Coffee Bar
Open Daily from 7 am
1890 Bryant Street
(Mariposa and Florida)
San Francisco, CA
94110
415-551-8100

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