Earlier this week, while tooling around on the Book of the Faces, I noticed that my friend Pascal posted photos of something he called "Operation Tartare." Those less Parisian or simply less dramatically inclined than he might have simply called it "lunch."

At least, that's what I planned to call it.

I was suddenly overcome with the desire to ingest raw meat and egg, just like Pascal because he's always been much cooler than I am. And I liked the idea of making this dish by myself and for myself. I thought it might make me feel like some kind of food daredevil. Kind of like Andrew Zimmern, but with hair and without a travel budget.

If I had had the time, energy, and guts to take down a cow, I might have, but this is lunch we're talking about. I only had an hour I was willing to give over to this sudden craving. I didn't even consider coaxing an ultra-fresh egg from a chicken's cloaca. Maybe next time.

I was careful about the meat I purchased. I explained to the butcher what I was planning to do with it and she was kind enough to cut me a fresh, center piece of tenderloin. She wished me luck. I made a quick move over to the eggs, grabbed a baguette, and headed for the checkout line. Everything else I needed I had at home. I was in and out of the store in 10 minutes. Delightful.

When I returned home, I tossed the beef into the refrigerator, pulled out an already clean cutting board and scrubbed it again with hot, soapy water and a fresh sponge. The idea of giving myself a side order of e. coli seemed oddly unappetizing. So was the thought of salmonella from raw egg.

My desire for raw meat, however, was stronger than my fear of foodborne illness. Ruling out pregnancy as a possible reason for this urge, I made my lunch.

And it was absolutely delicious.

After doing the washing up, I read a tweet from another friend, who is not at all French, stating that 38,700 pounds of ground beef had just been recalled from California and New York for possible E. Coli contamination.

Crap.

I did a little google search to refresh my memory as to what this little bacterium with business-like name could do to me:

ESCHERICHIA COLI O157:H7

Disease: Hemorrhagic colitis
Source: Serotype 0157:H7 toxin contracted by drinking water which contains raw sewage (usually during travel). Also, can occur in raw or rare ground beef and unpasteurized milk.
Symptoms (after eating): Onset: 3-4 days; severe abdominal cramps followed by diarrhea (often bloody), nausea, vomiting, fever lasting to 10 days. May require hospitalization. Possible complication-Hemolytic Uremic Syndrome (HUS), a urinary tract infection capable of causing kidney failure in children.

No thank you.

I reminded myself that I was eating organic beef that I chopped myself on a clean surface with well-manicured hands, not factory-ground burger fodder. I calmed myself.

"3 to 4 days, I thought. That means I can finish up the work week without vomiting on my guests." It was a most reassuring time delay, given the fact that I work in a restaurant. I could have my stomach cramps, fever, and other unpleasantness in the privacy of my own home over the weekend.

It's been three days since my lunch. I am now entering the window of symptom onset for E. Coli. I'll let you know how I do. Happily, I'm well out of the salmonella woods-- onset happens between 6 and 48 hours.

Remind me to write Pascal and ask him how he's doing.

Steak Tartare

If you are one of those people who wish to believe that this dish was inspired by the sight of Tatar horsemen placing pieces of meat under their saddles to tenderize it because they couldn't find the time to stop and do it properly what with their hectic nomadism and all, you would be in the wrong. The Tatars did, in fact, placed meat under their saddles, but it was to help heal and guard against saddle sores for their poor, overworked horses.

Sweat-soaked, sore-healing meat. Sounds delicious.

In Europe, France* and Europe, Belgium, the dish is sometimes referred to as steak américain. Why this moniker, I can't be absolutely certain but, given the fact that it's usually served in the same shape as an uncooked hamburger patty with a side of fries...

Don't quote me on that. It's pure conjecture.

I recommend getting your beef directly from a butcher, if that is at all possible. Tell him or her what you're going to make, so you have someone to blame should things go horribly wrong for you.

Serves 2 to 4 hungry horsemen

Ingredients:

1 pound beef tenderloin, trimmed of silver skin, fat, horns, cow bell, and sinew.

Worcestershire sauce, as much as you like

Tabasco or other hot sauce, as much as you need

Salt and pepper to taste

2 eggs, as fresh as possible.

Optional garnishes:

Cornichons, anchovies, minced red onion, Dijon mustard, capers, the telephone number of your nearest emergency room, Tums, crusty bread.

Preparation:

1. On an unimpeachably clean cutting board, mince your meat. Place in a pristine glass or ceramic bowl.

2. Add Worcestershire sauce, pepper sauce, salt and pepper. Mix gently, forming into two patties comme les Hambourgeois. Place each patty on a chilled plate and make a bit of a depression in the center of each.

3. Gently crack your eggs and remove the yolks, which will hopefully remain whole. Place one yolk in each of the meat depressions.

4. Serve with your desired accompaniments.

5. To consume, say your prayers and hope that you remembered to wash your hands with hot, soapy water. Next, break the yolk and let it ooze all over the meat, being careful not to think too much about the poor Tatar horses' saddle sores.

6. Sprinkle your desired condiments over this fine mess and mix to combine. Spread on pieces of crusty bread that are torn, not delicately sliced, or just eat with your hands and make manly grunting noises (women are especially encouraged to do this).

7. Stay within 50 feet of an unoccupied restroom for the next 3 to 4 days, just to be on the safe side.

* If you don't know what I'm talking about here, I'm sorry, but I can't marry you. If you choose to watch the video, fast forward to 7:50. Thank you ever so.

Shokolaat Lobster Salad Sandwich. Photo courtesy Kitchen Gadget Girl

The first thing you see when you walk into this self-described modern bistro are the sparkling cases stuffed with rich piles of handmade chocolates and pastries. That decadent display alone would be enough to draw one back to Shokolaat, but I was after quite another attraction: a meatloaf sandwich.

I've been to Shokolaat only for lunch (truth be told, I find their lunch menu far more interesting than their dinner offerings) and I have yet to be disappointed. Last spring, I had a mushroom soup drizzled with mint oil that was incredibly satisfying without being overly rich. That soup was good, very good, wonderfully good, but the salad I paired with it was great.

There's was nothing particularly interesting about the salad in question -- if I recall correctly, it was just greens and herbs -- but the greens were fresh and springy and the vinaigrette was neither too heavy nor too sweet. Fresh salad greens seem so simple, but I've met way too many salads that are ruined by limp lettuces and bad vinaigrette and, for me, there's nothing so disappointing as a bad salad. It's surprising how many restaurants can get it wrong.

But oy, that meatloaf sandwich! I'm a meatloaf lover. I love it hot and fresh with a steaming baked potato that has the perfect salt: butter: sour cream: minced scallion ratio. I love it cold the next morning, noon, or night. However, until Shokolaat showed me the way, I never loved it on a sandwich.

Served open-faced on two pieces of hearty bread coated with thin slices of oven-melted cheese, the spicy meat mixture has a tender, succulent crumb, full of flavor and comfort. Sigh. I get a big silly smile on my face just thinking about it.

Oh, and a word on that cheese addition, because of course I have decided cheese opinions. I don't add cheese to the meatloaf sandwiches I now make at home, but Shokolaat's sandwich has just the right amount to give flavor and texture but not so much that it puts this fairly elegant sandwich in grinder territory. I loathe it when cheese takes over any dish except fondue, but Shokolaat strikes the perfect balance.

Unfortunately, I found out that the meatloaf sandwich rotates out with other sandwiches they like to offer. "We have a really good hamburger right now!" the Shokolaat guy insisted when I called to ask about the meatloaf sandwich. Hey, I'll try it, but there are bunches of places in Palo Alto and Menlo Park to get good hamburgers. The same can hardly be said of an awesome meatloaf sandwich.

Shokolaat Pizzetta. Photo courtesy Kitchen Gadget Girl

Other highlights I discovered are two tasty pizzettas with pretty good crusts, macaroni and cheese topped with brioche crumbs and served in an impossibly adorable, personal-sized Le Creuset Dutch oven, and a lobster salad sandwich with avocado and Meyer lemon vinaigrette on a fresh, buttery croissant. The menu calls the lobster sandwich the "Neighborhood Favorite" and notes that they tried to take this particular item off but people, like, rioted or something, so they learned their lesson and there it stays.

Maybe I need to start a riot to bring the meatloaf sandwich back sooner...

Shokolaat
516 University Ave (at Cowper)
Palo Alto, CA 94301
650.289.0719

Hours:
Lunch: Monday-Friday 11:30am-2:00pm
Brunch: Saturday-Sunday 11:30am-2:00pm
Dinner: Monday-Saturday 5:30pm-9:00pm; Sunday 5:30pm-8:30pm

A few years ago, I worked at a law firm in the Financial District. Sometimes, I'd bring my lunch from home -- typically a sandwich or some leftover pasta, invariably an uninviting shade of its dinner-time self. More often than not though, I'd pick up food from the one of the delis, steam table salad bars, or assorted take-out spots studding the blocks winding around the 30-story office building where I worked. Save for the occasional hike up the hill to Chinatown or Ferry Building sojourn, by and large, this micro-community of eats was it for me. There was a San Francisco Soup Company outpost next to the lobby. I frequently enjoyed the chicken tortilla soup, usually in a bread bowl. There was a sandwich shop clinging to the other side of the building. I liked how the owner sliced avocados for my turkey sandwich: he popped out the pit, made six swift incisions, and fanned the contents out like waves along the expanse of a split dutch crunch roll caked in mayo. Then, both above and below layers of tomato, red onion, lettuce, and halved banana peppers, he carefully folded sheets of watery turkey so no errant bits flapped over the sides. The cross-section was beautiful, like stained glass, quite Scanwich-worthy. The sandwich, of course, tasted like most you get downtown for $5.25. I tried many others, and while a few slightly farther-flung establishments stood out for their fresh-carved leg meat, decent tomatoes, free cups of coleslaw, and the like, I went there again and again -- because I appreciated how the man sliced avocados, because the price was right, and, most importantly, because I could leave my desk, zip down the elevator, get a football-sized sub, and slip back into the confines of my closet-like office before a YouTube clip finished buffering.

There were also the self-service salad bars: piles of faux-fancy greens and their common accoutrements -- bacon bits, squishy cherry tomatoes, pre-packaged croutons, and drippy canned beans -- alongside lamp-warmed tubs of sorry-looked ravioli bathed in thin sauce, dried-out roasts, and other lackluster entrees, bacteria-friendly, all conveniently sold by the ounce. Despite my reoccurring health concerns, these places terrorized my wallet more often than my digestive tract. I'd go, stack a few deceptively heavy items in a plastic container, add a tuft or two of lettuce, grab a roll, and head over to the weigh station, where the listless cashier would declare, to my shock and horror, that I now owed upwards of $10 to the awful enterprise's greedy proprietor, money I could have put towards three days' worth of decent bread and cheese -- plus a few cold cans of beer after work.

Office workers are captive diners. Since people will pay more for convenient bad food in the middle of the day, lunch spots charged with feeding the downtown drones know their registers will ring regardless of how good their wares are. For every self-described foodie frantically mining for diamonds in the roughest of roughs, there are a dozen people who, at least for an hour or so, don't care.

A Lee's Deli. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

I once found bugs of indeterminable type floating in a huge styrofoam cylinder of wonton soup from Lee's, that ubiquitous chain of dirty delis with the heinous red signs and peanut butter sandwiches for $2.75. After pouring the half-gallon of buggy broth down the drain and rinsing out my mouth with diet Dr. Pepper, I telephoned the more seasoned co-worker who'd recommended I try the joint in the first place. She screeched over the phone: "Dude, you're not supposed to get the soup!" She emailed a few minutes later to say the salad bar was off-limits too -- I could go only for sandwiches, and just specific ones at that: Nothing involving meat, fish, or eggs rendered into salad form; nothing served hot. Another time, I ordered two slices of mushroom pizza from a weird cafe around the corner offering nearly every sort of lunch-like dish an unimaginative person might ponder gobbling. The guy behind the counter -- definitely not a pizzaiolo -- slipped the skinny, grease-mottled triangles into a to-go box of flat-screen proportions adorned with the visage of a portly, mustachioed man in a floppy chef's hat. One of the partners stood next to me on the elevator back up, and I, a little embarrassed, sweating profusely from the heat emanating off the gigantic pizza box, could have sworn he was smirking. The head partner at this firm was a older man on the brink of retirement. On my second day of work, his secretary pulled me aside in the hallway and whispered that he hated the smell of other people's food -- if I wanted to eat anything with a remotely pervasive odor at my desk, I'd need to be careful and keep the door closed so as not to incite his wrath. The head partner and I never actually spoke, but once I turned the corner of our shared hallway too quickly and almost ran into him -- holding in two hands a plastic bag sticky with fish sauce oozing from a carton of Thai noodles wrapped inside. He must have been in a hurry because he merely grunted and shook his head briskly before clomping off.

The morning I planned to write this blog, I woke up with a sore throat and the sniffles. I took the day off work. While I no longer toil in the upper reaches of a downtown office building, it felt disingenuous to write about eating at work when I was actually in bed, re-watching "Miller's Crossing," scooping peach sorbet right out of the container. I started thinking about foods we eat when we're fighting a cold. Some people don't eat at all; others eat more than usual, seeking out remedies via sustenance in the form of garlic, citrus, dark mineral-rich greens, and bright red berries.

Like many, I crave soup when I'm ill, particularly those of a brutally spicy ilk. Until the restaurant churlishly (and curiously) tried to cut costs by halving the size of its soup containers, I was a big fan of Spicy Bite's Indo-Chinese hot-and-sour, a fusion-y concoction L. E. Leone once deemed "the spiciest, zaniest, most medicinal, and most maddeningly delicious bowl of soup ever." Most recently, I've sought out the Lao-style chicken soup from East Oakland's Green Papaya Deli. The stock for this magnificent soup may have been leeched from the house-sized chicken in "George's Marvelous Medicine" -- rich and wholly enveloping, as if a free-range fowl's most sparkling, soulful essence could be poured forth, pumped up through J. Mascis' wall of amps, and compressed down again to pool impatiently within the confines of an 8 oz. bowl. It arrives speckled with thin-sliced green onions and bony bits of bird floating throughout, shot through with enough lime to bring a sour yet warm catch to the back of the throat -- a wrecking ball for the curtains of mucus in your chest and the helmet of ache encircling your head. Of course, if you're well enough to take BART to Oakland in search of soup, you're probably well enough to go to work and get paid to sip a lesser tonic and nap under the desk.

The Sentinel. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

When we're home sick, we're comforted by routine -- making smoothies, taking baths, chugging whiskey, and getting soup delivered. When we make it to work, we're governed by habit too. Apart from the way we like our avocados sliced, how we spend our lunch hour says a lot about our priorities. I've gone out of my way for The Sentinel's delicious chickpea sandwich, but I'm too lazy and otherwise preoccupied to make a habit of it. Some people like to get together for lunch, to sit outside, eat something nice, and momentarily forget all about fuzzy computer screens and conference calls. Addicted to Facebook, others grab whatever's most convenient and haul it back to the office to spill over the computer keyboard. Some people run errands on their breaks because they know they won't have time after work. I used to religiously play basketball at the Y.M.C.A. during lunch. I'd leave at 11:45 a.m. and rush back by 1:20 p.m., still damp from the shower, wondering, almost on a daily basis, whether or not anyone important might have noticed my lengthy absence. Most days, I'd enter the lobby slowly, glancing around furtively, ready to fake a hobble should a supervising attorney approach and ask where I'd been for so long. Thankfully, I never had to stoop so low. I lived in a state of heightened anxiety, but at least the food was free. Yes, that's right -- the food was free. About halfway through my tour of duty at this office, I learned why no one ever seemed to actually eat lunch until after two. Every day, in at least two or three conference rooms spread out across three floors, groups of lawyers gathered for midday meetings. Lunch was inevitably served -- usually Chinese or catered deli sandwiches. When the meetings let out, the leftovers were supposed to be ferried to one of three main kitchens where they'd be divvied up by employees who happened to be passing through. In reality, however, receptionists with favored perspectives would send out curt email bulletins to a select group of staffers once the conference room doors had been flung open and the parade of suits had disappeared. In that short window of time -- after the lawyers had left, before an administrative assistant could arrive with a cart -- scavengers would descend. Once I learned this, I wheedled my way on to the list and made the next evolutionary leap -- from scrounging leftovers, to lazily buying takeout, to finally, gloriously, sustaining myself on food I did not pay for.

And then I quit.