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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you move to the Mission District from somewhere far away, you learn about taquerias and what they offer. You realize that tacos are special snacks, plebian tapas, almost, and a topic worthy of a conversation all their own. Platters of grilled meat with fluffy rice, puddles of beans, negligible watery salads, and stacks of tortillas are for dads and adolescent boys. Quesadillas are tempting because their fully suiza'd incarnations incorporate a burrito's most appealing elements -- the meats, the flag-hued trifecta of guacamole, salsa, and sour cream, and so on -- but every time you try to down one, you sweat cheese and suffer cramps. Nachos are a little silly, masochistic, a nutritional mockery; they belong in sports bars, where they should never be ordered. Portable, tasty, and immensely filling, burritos are your thing. Ohio had burritos too. So did Kentucky. But, until California-style wraps invaded the fast food lexicon, those were vile orange cheddar-and-ground beef roll-ups populating the refrigerated cases of gas stations and college dining hall steam tables. You never ate them before, but now, having thrown down new roots in America's burrito basket you try many variations on this startling new discovery, too many, in fact, your stomach wearily tells you again and again, as you retire to bed at least two or three nights a week with a baby-sized slug of meat, beans, rice, and tortilla burrowed into your gut. After a few months of playing the field, following recommendations and wandering blindly into the taquerias with the catchiest names, you home in on the burritos you like best. For a time, with each salsa-flecked triumph, you have a new favorite destination. With like-minded connoisseurs, you debate the merits of various establishments' interpretations of the form. Out-of-town visitors always want to know where to find a good burrito. By the time they get around to asking you, you're wiser, over the course of weeks and months, a true aficionado. You come to understand that, while there are many very good burritos in your neighborhood, seeking out the perfect specimen is a impossible undertaking.

The best taquerias are frequently inconsistent. Even at the top of the heap, most earn their stripes for doing a specific few things really well -- a sublime meat or two, expertly seasoned and stewed or grilled, a special salsa, perhaps, or a unique portioning and folding method permitting an ideal and harmonious mix of wet, dry, spicy, rich, and acidic substances within. You never find a burrito that synthesizes all the traits you hold dear, but you do learn, for example, that El Metate's burritos are smaller than most you see in the Mission, a dependable, yet mildly sporty sedan navigating streets dominated by cumbersome trucks. Devotees tear up like Paula Abdul over the taqueria's sensational pork in chile verde. El Metate's burrito-crafters refrain from toasting the outsides of burritos prior to wrapping them in foil, but their innards more than compensate. If you ask at the right time, you might get your mitts on a bag of confetti-colored flour tortilla chips and a cup of extra-spicy salsa. A late-night hotspot for hungry drunks, El Farolito toasts admirably. Its strongest filling is boiled chicken, sublime moist shreds that could have been birthed in a cauldron of noodle soup. The salsa bar at Farolito is puny, but the green, as it's invariably called, puts it on par with the grand spreads you see at frillier taquerias – a creamy, avocado-slicked puree you want to slip into an i.v. after dipping a chip or two. El Castillito really toasts, more thoroughly than Farolito, until the shell of a burrito is flaky and singed, almost like a shawarma. Re-fried beans, often eschewed, excel here; they act as edible glue, fusing with melted cheese to unite the more flavorful components. Papalote has a rust-colored salsa so smooth and unctuous you can easily convince yourself it contains cream and butter. Irrigate the interior of your fresh shrimp burrito, and take home a few jars to eat ice cream.

Don't get me wrong though. I'm not telling you where to go for a burrito. Anyone you meet out here can tell you where to find one -- if you don't already know by now. As local media has noted over the last few years, there are numerous websites dedicated to the enjoyment and evaluation of burritos around town. I'm thinking primarily of the diligent and judicious Burrito Eater. Similar operations drop knowledge in other California cities. For instance, my friend Crawford runs Dr. Burrito in San Diego, and regularly schools ignorant folks on his terrain's regional particulars. These are experts. Lay-people obsessed with finding the perfect burrito -- again, a preposterous endeavor -- usually possess too much free time, and probably log an unhealthy amount of time crafting witty Yelp reviews. The taquerias I patronize most are the ones closest to my house or the bar. The idea of going out of your way for a six-dollar meal you'll eat in ten minutes contradicts the essence of a burrito. Nonetheless, if you engage the debate, you come to the conclusion that most taquerias you end up liking a lot are better at something than most others. When you go out for a burrito, you head to a destination with areas of strength that suit your predisposition at that moment. In this sense, you're re-visiting an experience, like putting on a beloved record or watching re-runs. I would like to listen to the White Album again. I would like to see Season Three of The Wire once more. I would like a fish burrito with no sour cream from El Metate. Dialing in a go-to combination from a reliable purveyor is the only recourse a dedicated burrito-hound has, though daydreams about the impossible persist -- the fantasy of a mutant hybrid burrito boasting the best traits of a dozen of the neighborhood's best. A garrulous housemate once eloquently outlined the concept:

"In a perfect world I would buzz around the Mission with a rocket pack on my back, collecting my favorite meats from each taqueria. And I would fold all the juicy delights into a giant burrito, probably the size of a heavy bag for boxing. I would eat some of the burrito, and then sit it up on the couch next to me, like a friend."

What if you could take El Metate's chile verde pork, squeeze it into an El Farolito-sized shell, take it to Castelito for toasting, and then crown it with dollops of Papalote's salsa? Shortly after the exchange, I visited Taqueria San Francisco on 24th St., near York –- incidentally a Burrito Eater favorite -- and couldn't, for the life of me, decide between ordering mine with chile relleno or chicken. In a moment of loopy clarity, I ordered them both in one burrito. The guy at the counter kind of smiled faintly. Ten minutes later, I was back at the house, hauling something silver and as heavy as a brick out of a thin plastic bag. It proved to be one of the most exciting burritos I have ever attacked. The doughy batter surrounding the hacked-up pepper had melted into the foundation of beans and rice. The juicy stewed chicken found a ready foil in the acidic salsa and the pepper's mild heat. Chunks of buttery avocado studded the interior. I had skipped the sour cream, but not the cheese, so this burrito was queso-heavy, a twisted, solid mass from the chile relleno running down the middle like a spine, and another layer melted against the inside of the tortilla.

I have not revisited this particular adventure, though other mildly outside-the-box burrito variations followed suit. Two years ago, upon recovering from a two-day bout with a stomach virus, slogging through a final cautionary day of bread and jam, and, on the fourth day, enjoying 2.5 hours of taxing pick-up basketball, I limped into El Farolito and ordered a super chicken burrito with extra meat, rationalizing that the extra calories would do me good. When I sliced the massive cylinder down the middle and turned the halves to expose the cross-section, it looked as if a turducken had exploded inside the glittering foil sheath. I ate 2/3 of it, and immediately collapsed for an hour, with the lights dimmed in my room, listening to Sibylle Baier and cursing myself. Incidentally, a frugal friend with a serious appetite has a good technique for extending the sustaining power of a burrito. He pulls off the foil, cuts a surgically precise slit lengthwise across the side without folds, and scoops out the "guts" with chips. Then he fills the hollowed middle with pico de gallo, packs the tortilla back together into a semblance of its original shape, and sucks it down.

Taqueria Guadalajara's steak and shrimp burrito, regular

Just last week, I was standing, cold and somewhat frazzled in the dining room of Taqueria Guadalajara, another 24th Street establishment. I hadn't had a burrito in a month, and was trying to decide what to order. I thought about the relleno-chicken mash-up I'd downed three years earlier, how it had awakened burrito 'buds I never knew existed. I knew most taquerias didn't mind letting patrons double up on fillings, but Guadalajara actually has a "mixto" option clearly listed on the bright, broad menu positioned above the counter. I ordered a burrito with steak and grilled shrimp. The result –- salty and chewy with a hint of the shellfish's brine peeking through the mix –- was good but not as balanced and magical as the relleno-chicken combination. I wondered if two flavors over-crowded in most arrangements, if a burrito was best served by a subtle backing section supporting a dominant soloist –- say, soothing boiled chicken, or bold, zesty carnitas -- not a duet. Still, I wondered which combinations would work best. Tripe and carnitas? Steak and chicken?

As I dived again and again into my selection, I wondered: What might up the ante, and take the burrito further out into the void while remaining respectful? Stupid wrap franchises have ruined fusion burritos with their jasmine rice-and-curry concoctions to be sure, but what if fried chicken replaced boiled chicken in an otherwise straightforward preparation? Or if thin-shaved lamb from Old Jerusalem's shawarma spits cozied up to green salsa and re-fried beans? A shrimp rolled out of the burrito and onto my lap. I ate it. The possibilities were as endless as the half-eaten tube before me.

At Los Jarritos, the Reyes Padilla family's sit-down eatery on the corner of South Van Ness and 20th, components of the restaurant's fantastic chilaquiles remo are reminiscent of canonized comfort foods from other cultures.

Like noodles in a day-old lasagne, the quarters of fried corn tortilla are pasta-like, smothered in tomato sauce, congealed, pinioned under an oozing crown of cheese.  Nestled amongst the bits of tortilla, the long-simmered strands of chicken taste as if they have been lifted from a huffing stockpot of soup.  Scrambled eggs are there too, slippery and elusive, binding everything into a velvety mass further enriched and enlivened by a pour of crema.  As the crema melts and disappears, the effect is smooth:  none of the comforting elements stand out unless they're deliberately eaten apart from the others; taken together, the flavors are big and familiar, yet invigorating and, to the uninitiated, new.

Sometimes, the homiest dishes -- foods without pretense or artifice -- are most revealing about the cultures from which they spring, and inspire the most debate amongst their devotees.  However, from countless regional Mexican renditions -- like white sauces in Sinaloa and Guadalajara's polenta-like cazuela cook-downs -- to American adaptations that echo Tex-Mex migas, all chilaquiles aim to soothe -- regardless of a particular variation's provenance and claims to authenticity.

The other weekend, hungover and exhausted from a morning of pick-up basketball, I was looking for comfort in sustenance.  I found it easily, several thousand calories' worth:  two distinct and excellent versions of chilaquiles served up at two very different Mission District establishments.

The chilaquiles at Los Jarritos aren't particularly spicy, merely salty and luxurious.  Cranberry-colored and riddled with ice, a pitcher-sized glass column of agua fresca de jamaica -- a refreshing tea-like infusion of dried hibiscus flowers -- compliments the richness with tart notes as well as sweetness.

Furthermore, you need not make a breakfast of chilaquiles alone.  The "Mexicano" side of the divided desayunos menu -- the one from which you should be ordering -- is rife with other enticing offerings, like machaca, a melange of flank steak, scrambled eggs, onions, tomatoes, and peppers, and huevos divorciados.  The latter boasts tender pork cubes in two sauces -- a red, oily chile colorado and a spicy, slightly sour chile verde -- kept separate and served atop two runny fried egg rounds.  The basket of pillowy, sweating tortillas comes in handy here. Strips of the thick discs are good for sopping sauce and scooping up errant morsels, but, nibbled unadorned, they also offer a welcome respite from the heavy assault of pig and eggs.

Interestingly, there are huevos con amor as well, but they are not as delicious and, surprisingly, no less expensive.

Inside, Los Jarritos looks as bold as its food tastes, like a typically kitschy roadside diner wonderfully lost in translation.  A chalkboard announces specials like birria and menudo.  The tabletops are a lively turquoise; sombreros swing from hooks high up on the walls alongside toy guitars in pastel hues and large black-and-white photographs.  A miniature plastic marlin peers down blankly from a lower perch.  Tiny painted drinking mugs -- the restaurant's namesake -- hang in bunches between the windows.
 
By comparison, the interior of the four-year-old Los Pastores is demure:  a floor tiled in matte brown squares, a beige back counter, and peach walls dotted with a few faded reviews in simple frames.  If the inside of the restaurant is austere, the outside is barely visible at all, even from just across the street -- a narrow storefront at the foot of Bernal Hill, right where Cortland runs into Mission.

Chilaquiles con huevos from Los Pastores. Photo by Bucko W.

Here, the chilaquiles con huevos barely resemble their chicken-laden counterparts at Los Jarritos. Tortilla triangles are fried until they are brittle and brown around the edges, and arranged over a shallow pool of thin green sauce shot through with citrus and chile heat.  Cojita-studded crema tops the chips, darting out in little rivulets from under a trio of overlapping fried eggs that leak yolk at the slightest twist of a fork.  When the big plate arrives, the individual parts are distinct, uncombined, but their sum emerges gradually over the course of eating.  The first few bites contain crisp tortilla, a little sauce, and a sliver or two of egg.  Pour the bowlful of extra sauce over the eggs, and let it soak in.  Once the sauce has done its work, and the broken yolks from the eggs have been swirled in, the tortilla chips will be soft, with just a pleasurable hint of the old crunch remaining.  You can order chilaquiles with steak in lieu of eggs but either way, skip coffee, and instead slurp a pineapple agua fresca -- ultra-sweet, extremely cold, and topped with pale froth like a soda jerk's quaffable confection.

Because chef, owner, and server Irma Calderon does all the work herself, service at Los Pastores is fastest when the room is empty -- early on a weekend morning.  Bustling Los Jarritos is a more polished operation, but a server still sidles up and cracks, "time's up!" five minutes after the menus have been opened -- not that you really care.

Visit either restaurant on a Saturday at any time, order up some chilaquiles, and indulge in a self-satisfied smirk as you contemplate the mornings many neighborhood brunchers are putting themselves through:  forty-five minute waits on crammed sidewalks for mediocore food they'll end up scarfing in a 20-minute frenzy.  

Oh, you might be waiting too, but at least you'll be at a table, comforted by the chilaquiles in your near future, sipping an agua fresca, and enjoying good fellowship -- ingredients of which great morning meals are made.

Ardent fans of homemade corn tortillas, papusas and pleasantly plump gorditas know that arepas belong in Latin America's reigning family of corn-based flatbreads. A staple in Venezuela and Colombia, arepas fill the workaday cook's most important need: foods that are easy to make and easy to use and never boring.

Early recipes required only cornmeal and water. Most cooks now season with a bit of salt, while some lean toward richer versions with milk, lard or butter in the dough. In Venezuela, arepas tend to be split and filled like sandwiches, while the thinner, leaner versions typical of Colombia are often topped with minimalist fillings for breakfast.

Both make perfect handfuls of snackalicious treats when filled with scrambled eggs, cheese, black beans, shredded or sliced meats, avocado, chorizo, spicy cole slaw or whatever leftovers you have hanging out in your fridge. You can dip them into soup or stews. You can even, if you have a pot of tea or coffee at the ready, split them in two, toast them with butter and then spread liberally with homemade jam for a treat every bit as satisfying, if not as proper, as well-made scones or biscuits.

If you're Venezuelan, you might have a Tosty Arepa on your kitchen counter. Or you might just walk down the street and grab one from any number of street vendors or eateries selling freshly made arepas around the clock. Fortunately for us up north, they're incredibly simple to make.

Unlike many other flatbreads from Mexico, generally made from nixtamalized maize (an ancient, lime-based technology used to loosen the hard hull of corn kernels), arepas depend on untreated corn that has been precooked then ground finely. Head to your nearest Mexican or South American market and browse right next to the masa harina for the precooked corn meal ground especially for arepas. The most popular brand of masarepa or arepaharina, Harina P.A.N., comes in a bright, yellow package that's graced with a smiling woman in a polka-dotted head scarf. Don't even think about making this with regular cornmeal. Some recipes use masa harina, but purists will insist that you track down the real deal. Once you have the precooked cornmeal, all you need is a sprinkle of salt, some water and an oiled skillet or griddle. If you're feeling fancy, you can stir butter or olive oil into the dough.

Arepa dough is super kid-friendly. The youngest ones will love its very moldable texture, so parents may want to make extra. For adults who like to play in the kitchen, consider arepas the first step to learning how to hand-pat thinner, more difficult corn tortillas. Keep a small bowl of water nearby; a small amount wiped on your palms will keep the dough from sticking as you roll and pat. Less dextrous cooks, young and old, can simply shape rounds against a flat surface rather than between two palms.

Some like to form hefty rounds and then later remove the interior to make space for savory fillings. I usually make mine thin and crispy, but fluffier versions are great for soaking up sauces. Many recipes for thick arepas, resembling English muffins or hamburger buns, now call for browning on both sides in a pan and then finishing in the oven, right on the rack, for 20 to 25 minutes until they're puffed and cooked through. Traditionally, though, they were cooked completely on a comal or griddle.

One of my favorites ways to enjoy an arepa -- hot from my biggest, heaviest cast-iron pan -- is to fill it with a single, thin layer of nabulsi cheese, an early experiment with leftovers that became a surprisingly good pairing. Nabulsi, a brined, boiled cheese from the Mediterranean, has a dense, smooth texture and a lovely flavor derived from caraway or nigella seeds and ground cherry pits. Slipped into the still steaming arepa and left for a minute to melt gently, the cheese complements perfectly the tender corn of the bread. Roast chicken and guacamole make another excellent filling for an arepa.

If the night-time hunger pangs hit while you happen to be in New York, generally in the vicinity of Queens and specifically near the intersection of Roosevelt and 78th, then -- lucky you! -- you can stop by the Arepa Lady's cart to taste the essence of soul-satisfying street food: sweet arepas filled with soft, fresh cheese.

If, back here in San Francisco, you're strolling through the Mission District, swing by the 24th Street BART station and try one at Mr. Pollo. They offer sweet and savory versions, and all I can say is: save room for both.

Mr. Pollo
2823 Mission Street
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 374-5546
Map

Arepas

Makes: 6 rounds

The technique of sprinkling the cornmeal into the water, rather than pouring water over a pile of cornmeal, helps prevent lumps.

Ingredients:
2 1/4 cups tepid water
1 teaspoon salt
About 2 cups masarepa (precooked white cornmeal)
2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil, butter or rendered lard

Preparation:
1. Stir together the water and salt in a large bowl. Slowly sprinkle in the cornmeal and stir to incorporate. The dough will look very wet, but after a few seconds the cornmeal should soak up the water completely.

2. Knead the dough in the bowl for 5 minutes. If the dough sticks to your hands, sprinkle in a little more cornmeal. If the dough cracks at the edges and does not form a ball easily, then add water, drizzling in a tablespoon at a time and kneading well to incorporate after each addition.

3. Divide the dough into 6 equal parts. Moisten hands, then roll each into a smooth ball. Pat with your palms, pressing gently and evenly, to make rounds about 1/2-inch thick.

4. Heat a heavy skillet or smooth griddle over medium. Add a small amount of oil and cook the arepa until golden brown and crisp, about 5 minutes on each side. The interior will remain very moist. Transfer to a rack or paper towels and let cool slightly. Split with a sharp knife into two thin halves and fill as desired.

(Photo courtesy of Myleen Hollero.)

If, from high above, you could pick up California, stretch it out thin from tip to tip and then flip it in a graceful arc over the equator, you'd have a piece of land that looks pretty much like Chile. Last month, CEOs and politicians met in Santiago to discuss Plan Chile-California, a trade agreement that would create a "partnership for the 21st century" in areas such as education, energy and agriculture.

For the past 10 years, though, Paula Tejeda has been quietly working her own brand of business development and cultural exchange, one empanada at a time, in San Francisco's Mission District. Stroll by the Redstone Building on any Saturday or Sunday to taste for yourself her efforts to connect Chile and California.

Chile Lindo, named for a song extolling the beauty of the country, is a storefront kitchen known and loved in the neighborhood for its meat turnovers. The classic Chilean empanada is simple and instantly recognizable: thinly rolled dough filled with beef, egg, black olives and raisins and then folded into a distinctive trapezoid shape. No lazy half-circles or crazy curried-duck-and-cardamom-with-rhubarb-compote combinations here in Paula's kitchen. This is the real thing. And very very good.

She carries her savory pastries along Valencia Street during the lunch hour, selling to merchants who can't leave their shops. You’ll see her offering them to hungry patrons during Friday happy hour at the Make-Out Room and the Latin American Club. On a sunny day, you might even spot her in Dolores Park with her familiar wide, wicker basket. Anyone who can resist Paula's smile, warm banter and freshly baked empanadas, has a heart -- and stomach -- of unyielding ice.

One newly converted customer claimed her pastries are even better than Julia's in D.C, knocking down the queen of empanadas and pushing the never ending East Coast-West Coast rivalry into the world of Latin American meat pies.

While Paula long ago gave up the rolling pin for the ergonomic convenience of an automatic pastry sheeter, each empanada is still cut, filled and folded by hand. She tracked down a special, rougher grind of beef from a local butcher to mimic hand-minced meat and shops for her cumin and other spices from nearby Bombay Bazar.

Since it opened in 1973, Chile Lindo has passed down through three different owners. After running the kitchen for a few years in the late 1990s, Paula took a break to study at City College and then Mills College. A detour to the Renaissance Entrepreneurship Center recently re-fired her business interests. With a business plan in hand and lots of meetings with potential funders, she intends to grow Chile Lindo over the next several years. She needs $50,000 to transform her current kitchen into a café, complete with an espresso machine and comfortable décor and an expanded menu that includes other Chilean sandwiches and snacks.

Currently, a neighboring restaurant loans out their ovens to her. An assistant, Ramon, forms the empanadas, four at a time, in the mornings, and Paula takes to the pavement herself to sell them.

She's still teeny tiny micro as businesses go (considering that the SBA defines any bakery with 500 employees or less a small business). Fortunately, the Bay Area is rich with programs that help entrepreneurs incubate their businesses from idea to profit. La Cocina, Women's Initiative, C.E.O. Women and Renaissance are especially supportive of food ventures, helping countless informal vendors become successful business owners.

As her business grows, she'll be adding other items to the menu. One that many of us are eagerly awaiting is the hotdog completo, a Chilean specialty that highlights fresh avocado, diced tomatoes and mayonnaise. For now, before the lines grow too long, stop by Paula's Chile Lindo kitchen and ask for one of her empanadas.

Chile Lindo
Currently serving Saturdays & Sundays, 10 am - 6 pm
2944 16th Street
San Francisco, CA 94103
(415) 642-8887
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A shopper at Duc Loi Supermarket carefully selects large chunks of freshly fried chicharrones, while rendered lard begins solidifying on the counter nearby.

For over twenty years, seven days a week, Howard and Amanda Ngo have sold fresh, affordable produce and a quirky blend of both Latin American and Asian ingredients at the heart of the Mission District.

Looking for purple corn and whole-blossom jamaica in bulk? They have it. Ube yam and cashew fruit and banana leaves in the freezer section? Check. Dried peruvian beans or dried tofu nuggets? Check. Goat ribs and ox tails and whole, fresh pig heads? It's all there at the meat counter. Young, watery coconuts chilled and ready to hack open for sipping on a sunny afternoon? Most definitely yes.

The tart fruit of whole tamarind pods and the smokiness of boiled brown sugar satisfy a range of palates from Malaysia to Mexico.

Landing in the San Francisco in 1987, by way of Saigon and then Georgia, the couple's first store filled a mere 700 square feet. Two months ago, their newly built supermarket stretched its aisles to 4,000 square feet. That's still small for a full-service grocery store (major chain stores might cover 50,000 square feet), but their success in serving their immediate neighborhood's needs in selection and price reflects a commitment that bigger markets rarely have. This past February, the City of San Francisco awarded a certificate of honor to Duc Loi, which just happens to mean "ethical profit" in Cantonese.

"Carne de soya" and a multitude of spices and dried chiles hang along the back wall.

Walk in any day, and you'll see Amanda, wrapped in her puffy down jacket, arranging produce or directing the butchers to bring out more chorizo. They make their own chorizo onsite and every week supply surrounding restaurants with nearly 400 pounds of it. Howard is the man in khakis holding a clipboard and, most probably, rushing to his next meeting with managers, suppliers, community leaders or city officials. The city's bureaucracy is much more difficult to navigate than figuring out which potatoes sell better.

Glistening links of chorizo are tied fresh every morning.

They're still filling out their new shelves. Howard expects to grow their current selection another 1,000 products as they continue to settle into their larger space, sourcing more organic products, building up their clientele, and responding to customer requests. In the coming months, expect to see a deli with Vietnamese sandwiches and other popular takeout food. An underground parking lot will also open soon.

Both Amanda and Howard are open to suggestions and feedback, so introduce yourself if you haven't already. Ask about the ingredients you don't recognize -- I promise you, there will be many of them. We all talk about meeting farmers at our weekend markets, but taking the time to learn from our neighborhood supermarkets is just as important in building a locally based food system that both accessible and cultural appropriate.

Ube yam, young coconut and whole cashew fruit are just a few of the diverse ingredients in the freezers.

More to the point, for those of us who need freshly rendered lard, dried beans, banana leaves and a variety of spices and aromatics for making tamales one day, then Asian sweets the next, there's no better place to shop.

Duc Loi Supermarket
2200 Mission Street
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 551-1772
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Light your altar for Jesus or your dead ancestors.

Slim as a finger or big as a fist, wrapped in papery corn husks or supple banana leaves, sweet as spring or spicy as summer -- the humble tamal in all its forms and flavors has become the star of an annual fundraising event in San Francisco. Taste of Tamales By the Bay will be coming again to the Fort Mason Center on Sunday, April 26, 2009.

During the rest of the year, the organizers of the event, the Benchmark Institute, helps develop better quality legal services to low-income communities. With an office in San Francisco's Mission District and with a potent blend of inspiration and hard work, their staff have proved tamales to be as unifying as they are fortifying.

I can still remember the first time I succumbed, one sunny day on a San Francisco sidewalk, to the low and furtive murmur of "hot tamales, hot tamales." Without a word, I followed a man to a minivan parked at the curb. Inside, his wife and teenaged daughter dug into their secret stash, kept warmly bundled inside 5-gallon buckets covered with thick towels. One pork, one chicken. I found a fire hydrant to lean on and ate both tamales straight out of the plastic. That red minivan still appears in my dreams.

So with much excitement, I’m heading to the Taste of Tamales festival. A wide variety of vendors will offer tamales and other tamale-friendly treats, such as hand-fried plantain chips by Estrellita’s Snacks, heritage beans both cooked and uncooked from Rancho Gordo, and coffee by Mama Art Cafe. In between all the tasting, you can browse gifts like colorful tile paintings from Suha Suha Studio or books new and old on Mexican and Southwestern cooking from Omnivore Books.

The margarita competition should be as fun to watch as taste. Family-friendly events include storytelling sessions and a tamale-making demonstration.

Those fascinated by how cuisines crossed the oceans can stop by the stage for my presentation, South By Southeast Asia: Tamales in the Philippines and Guam. Filipinos sailors manned the first Spanish ships that landed on our coast, while the Manila-Acapulco galleons directly connected Mexico to Asia long before California even appeared on maps. I'll be showing how corn deliciousness wrapped inside a leaf moved and morphed across 7,000 islands in Southeast Asia to mash up in Manila with its Chinese counterpart. Along with cheese and pork, peanuts and coconut milk made their way into the post-colonial tamal. For the first couple of hundred who arrive at the talk, there'll be tastings of these unique versions of tamales still enjoyed in the far-reaching Pacific archipelago.

A detailed schedule will be posted soon. In the meantime, mark your calendars for the last Sunday in April. You might want to skip breakfast that day.

Taste of Tamales By the Bay
Sunday, April 26, 2009
12:00 noon – 4:30 PM
Fort Mason Center
Buchanan St. at Marina Blvd.
San Francisco, CA 94123
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Conference Center, Landmark Building A

When you hear the word "horchata," what comes to mind? I'm sure the answers will vary. The most literal-minded of you will think "rice milk," some of you may simply associate it with the concept of the "taqueria," while others might draw a complete blank. I for one can't get the image of the mouthy whores of the Mission district out of my head. Not that I associate them with actual drink, it's just the phonics of the word that lead me there.

The word horchata is derived from the Valencian word orxata, which itself is derived from ordiata (from the Latin word for barley, hordeata). A popular, though quite unsubstantiated, myth tells the story of a young Moorish girl who gave King James I of Aragon a beverage of ground chufa (tigernut or earth almond) and upon drinking, the king exclaimed, "Això és or, xata!" (This is gold, girl!).

So there you have it. Believe it or not.

The origins of the beverage are as cloudy as the drink itself. The Egyptians had a similar drink made of barley water mixed with honey. The Arabs brought a form of it up to the Iberian peninsula in their unconquerable days, and the Spanish have loved it so much for so long that they ended up pouring it all over the New World.

In Mexico, the beverage is made of rice, water, cinnamon, and sugar. In Spain, the chufa is the preferred source of starch. El Salvador has its own version, too. Pretty much everybody has their own version which they deem to be correct, but the essentials remain the same: a source of starch, water, and some form of sweetener. Cinnamon is commonly used (and personally, I feel that horchata without cinnamon is just plain rice milk). Lime or lemon zest are also frequent guests in the mix. It is entirely up the the preferences of the individual making it.

And I say make your own. It requires more effort than wandering down to your local taqueria to buy some, but it is inexpensive and extremely satisfying-- much more so than those whores in the Mission, certainly. And it's gold. It's tasty white gold, girl.

Horchata

After examining several recipes, I settled on one that included almonds. The almonds give an extra bit of complexity to this otherwise humble-but-wonderful beverage.

Makes about 5 to 6 cups, depending.

Ingredients:

1 cup of long grain white rice
1 cup chopped almonds, without skin
5-6 cups of water (depending upon one's preferences)
1 cinnamon stick
1 cup of simple syrup or sugar. You may use less or more, according to your taste for sweetness.
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preparation:

1. In a coffee grinder (that does not smell of coffee), pulverize the rice into dust. Most effectively done in two or three batches.

2. In a suitable container, combine rice, almonds, cinnamon and 3 cups of water. Let sit covered overnight.

3. The following day, pour the mixture into a blender and purée until as smooth as possible, adding as much sugar and water as you like.

4. Strain the horchata. Some prefer to do this through a sieve lined with cheesecloth. I prefer to use a tea towel, since there is a lot of grit involved. It takes a bit more time and hands-on wringing, but the gripping and twisting motions are an excellent way to work out pent up aggression, and the results are much better. So I think.

5. Refrigerate or simply serve over ice with a scant sprinkling of ground cinnamon.

The thing that struck me speechless was the salumi.

I know what you're thinking. "Salumi?" you're thinking. "That is so, like, 2006." Maybe. But when it's as good as it is at Bar Bambino, it never goes out of style.

The small salumi plate ($9.50) was the first thing my boyfriend and I settled on during our inaugural meal at Bar Bambino. The selections, which change daily, were chosen for us by Alex Potter, Bar Bambino's salumi guy. He and his batons of porcine goodness occupy a small corner of the main dining room, just to the right of the bar, where he works feverishly to keep up with the plates that circle 'round and 'round the room.

Clad in an impeccable white chef's coat, Alex himself delivered a wooden tray to our table that glistened with creamy pork fat. It was stacked five rows deep with three kinds of housemade salame as well as prosciutto and pancetta. He walked us through each one so that there was no doubt what we were eating -- an oversight too many good restaurants make.

"This is the ciauscolo," he said, pointing to the one farthest from me. As owner Christopher Losa explained via email, ciauscolo comes from the Marche region of Italy, just south of Emilia-Romagna on the eastern seaboard. "Ours is done in a bit firmer form than most (it's traditional in the Marche to have ciauscolo spreadable, not unlike French rillettes) because I like to have the purity of the meat flavors and seasonings be fully accessible and not competing with bread," he wrote. Bar Bambino flavors their version with garlic and allspice.

Next there was a salame toscano, made with red wine and black peppercorns, and a finocchiona, distinguished by fennel seeds, lavender, and other aromatic herbs. I picked up a sliver and held it up to the light. It was sliced so whisper thin, I could have read the menu through it.

We happily munched our way around the plate, letting slices of barely crisped pancetta melt on our tongues and fighting over the last slice of finocchiona. Christopher says that all of Bar Bambino's own salame is made from Duroc pork that is raised naturally in Iowa. "But we recently found a Duroc-mix locally (Sonoma) that our next batches will be from. I'm excited to see how the local pig fairs [sic] from a taste/consistency perspective."

In addition to Bar Bambino's housemade salumi, all of which is made in a curing room in Geyserville, Christopher offers a sopressata from Salumeria Biellese, a New York-based artisan producer that's been around since the roaring twenties, and plans to expand his selection by offering goodies from other like-minded producers.

"I am an avid supporter of the renaissance in cured meat artistry that is occurring locally and I want to offer the best of Italian-style cured meats that we can source," he continued. "Just as I can't make the best wine, cheese or bread to offer my customers, I know that somebody can do more than we can alone."

My boyfriend and I enjoyed the rest of our meal equally well, from the "al ginepro" bruschetta ($8.00) -- creamy chunks of chicken liver enlivened by a sprinkling of fleur de sel -- to the polpette ($14.75), meatballs in a light sauce of tomatoes, onions, and chard. My only real complaint was the chintzy wine pours (I noticed punier than normal glasses at Nua, too -- a disturbing new trend?). As annoying as it is to pay good money for a Lilliputian glass of vino, it's even more frustrating to be constantly waving down your server.

But the meal was lovely, and the salumi some of the best in the city. This little piggie cried "whee, whee, whee" all the way home.

Bar Bambino
2931 16th Street
San Francisco
(415) 701-VINO
Open for lunch and dinner Tuesday-Sunday

"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