Are you one of those people who walks or drives around your neighborhood thinking, "Gee, I've always wanted to eat there?" Or do you often wish that you could find others in your 'hood that enjoy eating out as much as you do? Perhaps you're the type who spends all their time at home, in front of the computer, bunny slippers locked and loaded -- and the only time you step out your front door is to grab a hard-earned dinner at your favorite local haunt.

If you've never heard of Dishcrawl, you're in for the newest addition to culinary social networking, emphasis on the social. The concept is simple: it's an eat and meet event. Four restaurants in one night, with a small groups of your yet-to-be-discovered closest foodie friends. How could you resist such a night?

I caught up with the ever-dynamic Tracy Lee, CEO of Dishcrawl and the driving force behind the company's progress.

Tracy Lee, Dishcrawl CEO

How did you come up with the idea for Dishcrawl? What was your inspiration?
I've always been about bringing people together over food.  Building Dishcrawl gave me the opportunity to spread happiness with food as my vehicle and community as the destination.  Better yet, growing into other cities allows me to empower other passionate entrepreneurs to do the same.  

I am inspired to share the same principles as the chefs and restaurateurs we feature.  We feed people because it makes us happy.  I love being a part of that mission.  It's the most primal way for us to nurture and comfort society.

How would you describe Dishcrawl to someone who's never heard of it before?
I hope the concept of "never eat alone" rings a bell. Imagine 50-150 folks gathering together on a given evening to venture through four restaurants in one night.  Not only do you get to meet your neighbors, but what better way to meet the chefs and owners of your local restaurants!  It's fun, delicious, and a great way to get to know your neighborhood.

How much does it cost to participate in a Dishcrawl?
The cool thing about Dishcrawls is that they don't cost an arm and a leg! Typically our Dishcrawls range between the prices of $10-$30 in the Bay Area. For those high end lovers, stay tuned. :)

How does Dishcrawl compare to other food-related events?
It's not often you get to try 4 different restaurants in a single night or get VIP status for your foodie palate; but it's not just the awesome experience of meeting local chefs and restauranteurs, it's also other Dishcrawlers that make our events unique.  Awesomeness attracts awesomeness.  Everyone at the Dishcrawl is fun, awesome, and ready to eat great food.  

We're all about community and making new friends!  If you're not ready to have fun, don't bother coming. :)

What are your plans for the future of Dishcrawl? How do you plan to expand and grow?
We're listening to our Dishcrawlers' desires and hunger to socially engage online.  We are building an online community that merges the needs of restaurants and food lovers.  The result is a satisfying food experience around a neighborhood restaurant and a friend or two gained from friendly folks down the street.  

I hope one day to be able to unite all Dishcrawlers around the globe on an international Dishcrawl, but baby steps first.  

What is your background as a food lover in the Bay Area and beyond?
I've always loved food and have been feeding people all my life.  As I began to travel, I had the opportunity to try a variety of cuisines and appreciate regional specialties.  The inspiration on those plates are what tickle my fancy and keep me going.  Nothing makes me happier than being able to discover truly unique items and feature them at the Dishcrawls (example: pork belly donuts at The Sycamore, SF).

Do you have any advice for other folks who have a fun and unique idea for a culinary business?
Yes.  It's simple.  Go with what you know and what you're good at.  Find some need and fill it.  Be consistent and dedicated. Be ready for hard work, long nights, and sacrifice if you want to start something.  Once you're ready, make sure to stick to your mission, aim high, and be ready to do things you never thought you could do. 

For the most up-to-date info on upcoming dishcrawls, follow Dishcrawl on Twitter.

After Le Krewe, a wretched Italian joint called Spiazzino moved in, followed closely by Dosa, which seems to have handily broken whatever dark spell had caused the carousel of doomed ventures to spin for so long. I'm not merely invoking Halloween's sallow after-glow. The notion of a real curse was half-jokingly bandied about a Chowhound board seven years ago. If some great chef's ghost, vengeful in the wake of his ancient restaurant's untimely demise, meddled with the revolving residents of 995 Valencia, the curse was piddling compared to the dastardly pox enveloping the 1100 block of Valencia, further up, on the Noe Valley side, between 22nd and 23rd.

That strip has been gutted like a fish. More crowbars swing behind the block's entrances than whisks and knives. Until 2006, Saigon Saigon occupied the large space adjacent to Lucca's parking lot. The food -- decent Vietnamese -- perked up a part of town lacking in lemongrass, but until very recently, through haphazard strips of lumber across the front facade, a squatter's paradise was visible within. Currently, its "For Rent" sign matches the one on the door of the old Watergate space. In 2003, when I moved into a building on the block, my apartment -- a massive converted one bedroom with a slanted floor and dirty beige carpets -- was positioned directly above the kitchen of that good French-Asian fusion restaurant. Almost immediately, Watergate moved to Nob Hill, where it later expired. The very solid Watercress took over the space yet closed three years later. I'm not sure what came next -- the much-maligned Senses or the endearingly clueless Janitzi with its convoluted "cuisine of the Americas" -- but currently the space is for rent. With walls that felt no further apart than my outstretched arms, Caffe Ponte Vecchio was a doll-sized trattoria. The food, especially the S.F. Weekly-approved lasagne, was tasty enough, but the charming atmosphere (lots of candles, silent soccer on the television) kept the tables tight with customers -- until the Tuscan proprietor closed up shop and moved to Florida, purportedly to spend more time with his mother. Bistro Annex came next and collapsed after a few years.

Aside from Lucca, the esteemed Italian grocery on the corner, the Columbian restaurant El Majahual has been the block's only survivor -- though I've never seen more than a few people in there at a time.

I left my apartment on the 1100 block in 2004, due in some small part to an increasingly fragile neighborly relationship with the social worker who lived upstairs. He'd blast James Taylor at high volume yet charge down the stairs screaming and purple-faced if my roommate and I had a few friends over for dinner. Even watching television was risky. The landlord was a character but not any slimier than most I've met. Something would break -- the sink disposal, a faucet -- and he'd figure out a temporarily satisfactory method of repairing it swiftly and inexpensively. It would break again and the process would start over. I see parallels in the state of the block's restaurants. If restaurants unworthy of the prime location routinely open and sputter, diners expect less. Each weak new attempt feels like a band-aid on a deep wound.

Maybe that's why the owners of Zaytoon have taken two years to renovate the Cafe Ponte Vecchio space; they're waiting to open once people have had time to clear their heads of negative associations with the block's run of failures. According to its website, Zaytoon will sell falafel sandwiches and shawerma wraps. For now, the interior -- an expanse of shiny pea-green tile -- is visible, nearly ready for action. As much as I like falafel and shawerma, and feel that, with Ali Baba's teetering towards major mediocrity for the past five years, and Old Jerusalem being more conducive to dining in, room exists for a newcomer to the genre to make a mark on the neighborhood, I fear Zaytoon won't succeed -- if only because of its strange and sickly color scheme. I hope I'm proven wrong.

My knowledge of the 1100 block is, of course, quite limited. I've only lived in San Francisco for seven years. My brief history is but one possible narrative of a discrete period of time situated around a small stretch of sidewalk many others know better. My difficult upstairs neighbor had rented his apartment for eleven years by the time I showed up. He's probably still there, and has seen many more restaurants come and go.

The cycle of trumpeted launches, seasonal specials, and eventual shutters spur your memory. The people I saw a lot of back when the Ponte Vecchio space belonged to Pont Vecchio aren't, in large part, the same people I see now. I recall the only truly good dinner I had there, before I practically lived next door. My first San Francisco roommate, a college friend, and I were celebrating his birthday. He'd been through a break-up; we were new arrivals, without a lot of friends, eating ravioli and swilling Chianti. There was something funny and a little lonely about a platonic, dude-ly supper for two at Ponte Vecchio, a place with a serious romantic pretense. The moment crystallized the start of a new era. College was over; there were fewer people around to help us celebrate the landmarks in our lives; going out for dinner was a good time, and while we were earning enough money to do so comfortably, there was still a whiff of irony about it, like we were play-acting. While I went there once or twice during the year I lived next door, by the time it closed just three years after that inaugural meal, I'd almost forgotten it ever existed. I was comfortable in the City. My first roommate had moved to New York. I was a few years into a serious relationship. I was leaving my second post-college job and searching aimlessly for the third, and I'd lived at other apartments and houses scattered across various parts of the neighborhood -- on short blocks with their own long stories.