Lidia Bastianich and her fabulous shows on Italian cooking have always had a special place in my heart. As an Italian American originally from New York, I love to not only watch Lidia cook up a storm but hear her talk about how Italian food has influenced American culture. Watching Lidia is something my mother and I do together when she visits, and her shows invariably lead to my mother telling animated tales of enormous family meals at her Neapolitan grandparents house in the Bronx and remembrances of my own grandmother’s take on various dishes. But more than that Ms. Bastianich inspires us to get into the kitchen and cook.

When I was a kid I didn’t realize that the food I was eating on a daily basis was not actually eaten in Italy. My mother’s Sunday Gravy was a cherished weekly event and I figured Italians were eating this dish not only in New York and California, but Naples and Palermo as well. Same with her tangy vinegar pepper Chicken Cacciatore and Christmas Eve black olive pizza. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized Italian American food falls into its own special category, full of ingredients that immigrants found after my great grandparents and others traveled through Ellis Island or landed at airports later in the century.

You see, it wasn’t until recently that ingredients like farro, San Marzano tomatoes and Parmigiano-Reggiano started to appear regularly in American grocery stores. Before this, Italian immigrants and their children were limited to using ingredients that were local to their new homes and often distinctly American in taste. So America’s love for beef led to the aforementioned Sunday Gravy, a rich tomato-based sauce full of meatballs, sausages and bragiolle that isn't made in Italy itself.

I have quite a few of Lidia Bastianich’s books, but I use them a little differently than my other cookbooks. While I might open up my new "Sunday Suppers at Lucques" by Suzanne Goin or the gorgeous "Tender" by Nigel Slater to drool over the photos and feel inspired to try something new, Lidia’s books are like visiting my grandmother’s and mother’s recipe files. So much is comfortable and familiar, but with the clear difference that they also provide well-detailed instructions -- something my mother and grandmother thought was covered by phrases like “cook until done” or “add a little of this and that until it tastes right” (all said with a heavy Bronx accent).

Ms. Bastianich’s new book “Lidia’s Italy in America,” which she wrote with her daughter Tanya Bastianich Manuali, is no different. The focus here is the unique ways Italian American immigrants interpreted dishes from their homeland throughout the United States. The book is broken down into the standard sections of antipasti, zuppe, pasta, etc., but within are pages that highlight specific specialties from different areas along with descriptions of the Italian American neighborhoods that created them. So in Poultry we find a vignette about Federal Hill in Providence Rhode Island but soon after follows a recipe for Roberto’s Chicken Piccante from a chef on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx (a neighborhood dear to my heart as it’s where my father grew up). The gamut of Italian American cooking is covered with descriptions of the people who make these neighborhoods distinct and some history as well.

Although I’ve never met her, Ms. Bastianich’s is sort of like my TV culinary mother. Sweet and nurturing while also firm with her advice and directions, I trust her to help me navigate the path of Italian cookery. I will admit that I have occasionally been disappointed, as I was with the deep dish pizza in this book which was more bread than pizza. I can’t really complain, however, as the recipe says “it is a cross between focaccia and a pizza," so she warned me. My suggestion if you make it is to cut the dough in half and add more filling to the top, but remember I’m a Neapolitan-American raised on thin crusts so I’m a bit biased. More often than not, however, I have been quite happy with the results. The baked Rollatini of Sole offered a delightfully lemony take on fish cooked with breadcrumbs and the Italian American Meatloaf is, without a doubt, the best meatloaf I have ever made. My kids and husband raved about it and we all had seconds. Note, however, that the recipe is so big it makes either one incredibly large loaf, or, if you’re like me, one for your own family and one to share with the mom who took your kids for the afternoon.

"Lidia’s Italy in America" has that type of easy cookbook style I like best when reading recipes I will actually use. The recipes are laid out clearly and are easy to follow. I also enjoyed her stories on American neighborhoods and their Italian citizens. My only criticism is that there are hardly any pictures of food (most are of the people in the neighborhoods she visited). I love recipe photos in cookbooks because it’s reassuring to know what dishes are supposed to look like when you cook them and I felt this book could have used a few more. But that is a minor criticism. As she’s done many times before, Lidia Bastianich has provided a solid compilation of Italian American recipes, this time with an emphasis on those that truly reflect the diverse and eclectic nature of the many types of Italian neighborhoods there are in America. So if you’re in the mood for authentic Italian American recipes from the embodiment of Italian mama-ness, pick up a copy of "Lidia’s Italy in America."

Italian American Meatloaf, salad and roasted potatoes. Photo by Denise Santoro Lincoln.

Recipe: Italian American Meatloaf (Polpettone)

One would think that meatloaf is very American, but its origins are actually in a German colonial dish of minced pork mixed with cornmeal. Italians serve it a lot as well, and in this rendition the cultures blend deliciously with the addition of a pestata, a paste of carrots, celery, and onions. Not only does the meatloaf taste delicious, but it is foolproof, moist every time. The leftovers reheat as if just cooked, and Italians love to serve it with roasted potato wedges.

Serves 10 or more

2 cups cubes of country bread with crust
1 cup milk
2 medium carrots, cut into chunks
2 medium stalks celery, cut into chunks
1 medium onion, cut into chunks
1 1/2 pounds ground beef
1 1/2 pounds ground pork
1 bunch scallions, trimmed and chopped
1 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano or Grana Padano
1 cup marinara sauce or puréed canned tomatoes
1/2 cup chopped fresh Italian parsley
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon dried oregano
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.

Put the bread cubes in a medium bowl, and pour the milk over them. Let the bread soak until it is soft. Meanwhile, combine the carrots, celery, and onion in a food processor, and pulse to make a fine-textured paste or pestata.

When the bread is soft, squeeze out the excess milk and put the bread in a large mixing bowl. Mix the pestata, ground meats, scallions, grated cheese, marinara sauce, parsley,salt, and oregano with the bread, using your hands to distribute all of the ingredients evenly. Oil a 10-by-15-inch Pyrex or ceramic baking dish with the olive oil. Form the meat mixture into a loaf in the oiled pan.

Place in the oven, and bake until browned and cooked through (the center of the meatloaf should read 165 degrees F on an instant-read thermometer), about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Let cool for 10 minutes before slicing.

Chicago Deep-Dish Pizza. Photo: Lidia Matticchio Bastianich.

Recipe: Chicago Deep-Dish Pizza (Pizza Alta di Chicago)

One could call this dish pizza bread, and it is a cross between a focaccia and a pizza. In Sicily, they make a high pizza called sfincione, topped with tomatoes, oregano, and a few anchovies. It is sold in warm squares as street food from a cart. The idea for deep- dish pizza came from the early Sicilian immigrants that settled in Chicago, although the excessive toppings are not something one would find in Sicily.

Makes 1 pizza

FOR THE DOUGH
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1 packet instant dry yeast (2 1/4 teaspoons)
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for kneading the dough
1/2 cup fine cornmeal
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for bowl and pan

FOR THE TOPPING
4 ounces provolone, sliced
4 ounces mozzarella, sliced
1 to 1 1/2 cups marinara sauce
2 ounces pepperoni, sliced
1/2 cup grated Grana Padano or Parmigiano-Reggiano
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

Pour 1 cup plus 3 tablespoons warm (90 to 110 degrees F) water into a bowl, then stir in the sugar and yeast. Let sit until the yeast begins to bubble, about 5 minutes.

In an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, mix the flour, cornmeal, and salt on low to combine. Pour in the yeast mixture and the olive oil to combine while still mixing. Once the dough comes together, switch to the dough hook, and knead on medium-high speed to make a smooth dough, about 2 to 3 minutes. Add a little more water or fl our as needed to make a soft dough. Put the dough in an oiled bowl, cover, and let rise until doubled in size, from 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 hours.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Punch down the dough, and press it into a 14-x-10-inch oiled baking pan or an oiled 12-inch cast-iron skillet, gently pressing the dough up the sides to make a shell. Fill the shell with an even layer of the provolone and mozzarella, then spread the sauce to cover the cheese completely. Top with the pepperoni, and sprinkle with the grated cheese and oregano. Cover with foil, and bake 45 minutes. Then uncover, and bake until the crust is deep golden brown and the pizza is bubbly, about 20 minutes more. Let sit about 5 to 10 minutes before cutting into wedges and serving.

Recipes excerpted from Lidia's Italy in America by Lidia Bastianich. Copyright © 2011 by Lidia Bastianich. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Related Programs:
• Watch Lidia Celebrates America -- Holiday Tables & Traditions on KQED TV tonight 12/20/11 at 8pm. View additional airtimes.

From Mark Kurlansky, the author of Cod and Salt, comes The Food of a Younger Land (Riverhead Books: 397 pages, $27.95)-- "A portrait of American food before the national highway system-- before chain restaurants, and before frozen food, when the nation's food was seasonal, regional, and traditional-- from the lost WPA files."

That's quite a mouthful.

Reading this book at a time in history when eating local, organic, seasonal food in an urban setting like San Francisco is either a genuine passion, a fashion statement for those wealthy enough to afford it, or somewhere in between, it's a pleasure to find a book that chronicles a time when eating in such a manner was not a matter of choice or politics, but rather one's only option.

Culled from boxes of manuscripts originally intended for publication nearly 70 years ago as America Eats, Kurlansky took on the task of finishing what the Federal Writer's Project under Katherine Kellock could not, thanks to an interruption of funding and interest created by a little something people called World War II.

Writers and would-be writers in the late 1930's were given the task of collecting recipes, statistics, and food lore from around the country to create a comprehensive tome of American foods and local culinary traditions, region by region, the likes of which had never been attempted. All paid for by the United States government and its Federal Writer's Project, an organization poet W. H. Auden, as Kurlansky states, referred to as "one of the noblest and most absurd undertakings ever attempted by any state."

While Kurlansky's claim that American foodways are quickly becoming homogenized or altogether disappearing (for a good musing on this, please read Jane and Michael Stern's review) is arguable, and not all of the writing is, well, brilliant (Kurlansky shares that an alarming number of entries began with the phrase, "In the Fall, when the air turns crisp...), there are a number of gems worth mining in this work.

Some (very subjective) highlights include:

"Diddy-Wah-Diddy," a one-paragraph story by Zora Neale Hurston.

"An Oregon Protest Against Mashed Potatoes" by Claire Warner Churchill.

"New York Soda-Luncheonette Slang and Jargon," uncredited

And, naturally, an uncredited poem entitled "Nebraskans Eat the Weiners."

It's good fun, and a grand source of old-fashioned-- even obscure-- recipes and traditions. I, for one, can't wait to try baking a Depression Cake (p. 316), but might just take a pass (for now) on Kentucky Oysters (p. 157). Not because I'm squeamish, mind you. It's just not the right season for it. I'll have to just wait until the fall.

For more on The Food of a Younger Land, listen to Michael Krasny's interview with Kurlansky on Forum here at KQED.

The National Association for the Specialty Food Trade put on their 34th Winter Fancy Food Show this week, allowing for exhibitors from around the world to do precisely that-- exhibit themselves. Thousands of vendors and merchants descended upon the Moscone Center in San Francisco from January 18 to January 20th for a fancy food frenzy.

I'm not sure I would agree with the term "fancy"-- it's always been a troubling word. As a noun, the word "fancy" connotes a liking formed by caprice rather than reason. As a transitive verb, it is an action of mistaken belief, of pure imagination. As an adjective, which is how, in this case, it is applied, the word suggests that the food exhibited at the show is "of particular excellent or highest grade."

Fancy is, naturally, open to interpretation. Much of the food-- the hundreds of olive oils, cheeses, and cured meats, for example, are just that-- excellent and of the highest grade. But does this term also apply to the likes of, say, Fartless Chili and frozen pizza? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is simply a matter of prejudice. Yet products were snatched up by buyers from France to Fresno.

Since this was my second food show, I was able to learn from my previous mistakes, which included: feeling obligated to try everything, trying to see everything, and making actual eye contact with vendors while wearing a press badge. Armed with experience, I was able to roam the floors with a vague, pleasant eye that managed to avoid the dull and zero in on what was, to me, at least, of interest.

The following are a few of the more interesting items found at the Fancy Food Show. They are selected according to my own delights and prejudices. Since this was an international event, I gave no preference to the local, which is my normal custom. Some of the products are odd, others unfortunate, while others are just plain good. Enjoy.

When I first arrived at the show on Sunday, a woman in the press room gave me a few suggestions for booths to visit. One of those was Brent's of Napa Valley, where I got my morning off to a good start with their Firey (sic) Beer Brittle, made with Red Tail Ale, Spanish peanuts, and chile de arbol as the key ingredients. It was, to put it mildy, fantastic.

I was determined not to spend my day candy-sampling as I had done before with unfortunate results. I stuck to my vow of avoiding the hundreds of cracker and olive oil offerings and stick with what was new and interesting, faltering only occasionally at a cheese counter that gave up samples of Wensleydale. Three times.

I did, however, feel bound to visit the Vosges Chocolate booth to sample the suggested Enchanted Mushroom bar, made with Reishi mushrooms. While the chocolate was excellent, I had forgotten that I had been granted permission to photograph the product the previous day by a kind woman, but neglected to remind the staff of this matter. My fault. But the Harpy that descended upon me at my re-appearance turned the pleasant chocolate-umami taste in my mouth bitter. So no photo. What I never have understood about this convention is that these vendors are here to exhibit their goods. There's no hiding at an exhibition, no magic Keebler Elf-like factory, so why was she so guarded about her product? There was too much else to see and do to worry about it too much. I mentally flipped that gorgon the bird, but reminded myself to be more careful about taking photographs in the future.

On with the show...

A very enjoyable booth-- perhaps, one of the highlights of the show for me-- was the one belonging to Bacon Salt, home of Baconnaise and, incredibly, Baconnaise Lite. The pleasant irony of all their bacon-related offerings is that there is no bacon involved in the making of any of their products. And that they are, in fact, vegetarian. This is typically not my style of food. Fake anything has no general appeal, but oh, their give-away bacon-flavored lip balm. They gave me two. I think what I was so taken with was the good-guy frat boy feel I got from the creators. And I mean that in the best sense. The Fancy Food Show is, in its own way, a fraternity of food vendors. Nowhere was the party atmosphere thicker than at their booth. They even asked me if I wanted one of them to put on the bacon suit hiding under the front table so that I might have a photo taken with it. The hospitality industry, in my opinion, at its best.

My next notable stop was at the Tur-Duc-Hen booth. I'd never had the much-blogged-and-Twittered-about holiday fad food, nor had I ever had any real desire to. Not being much of a coprophage, I find it difficult to imagine that any food beginning with the letters t-u-r-d could be much good. Sean Timberlake of Hedonia remarked, upon my mentioning the product, something akin to "Great, they've managed to take three birds and turn them into one, flavorless dish." I could not have agreed more.

With all the sugar, processed food, and unnaturally-formed proteins already ingested, I needed a bit of gustatory help. Fortunately, I found myself in front of the Seis Natural booth, with their bee bread, royal jelly, and Aguijon-- a libido-increasing, honey-fueled sex potion. Intrigued by the bee bread, but not wanting to increase my sex drive at a gigantic food show, I sampled the Vitalmiel, which promised to "power up my globules." It tasted of honey, of course, but contained a difficult-to-describe acidity which balanced the sweetness. Perhaps it was the mere power of suggestion, but I found that my globules-- especially the ones I never knew I had-- were indeed powered.

Close by, I was offered a daily dose of Yakult from Japan. I had accepted the sample expecting some drinkable yogurt made from yak's milk, but what I got was a jolt of about 8 billion probiotic bacteria swimming around in a surprisingly delicious, tangy, citrus yogurt drink. I mentally set them to work on the tur-duc-hen.

One more reason to love Japan was the discovery of Hello Kitty pancake (pictured in the top photo), brownie, and cupcake mixes. All in Spanish. Much to my disappointment, the vendors explained that their current licensing extends to Mexico, but not, as yet, to the United States. So for those of us looking to add a little extra kawaii to our mornings, we'll just have to wait a little longer.

Among the more personally irritating offerings at the food show was the Iron Chef wine collection. The wines are produced in Italy, a country with a reputation for creating some of the most sought-after wines in the world. And some of the worst plonk. Though Iron Chef wine, at least the Sangiovese I tasted, would not fit neatly into either category, I would place it closer to the latter than the former. To me, it is marketing at it's worst. And don't get me started on the packaging.

After two days of wandering, talking, and tasting, my feet ached and my globules were fading. Fast. I had seen enough good, bad, and, for the most part, boring food products to last me the rest of the year. I would have given anything for a smart, new cocktail on offer, but I couldn't find one, though I know they must have been around somewhere. I was just too brain dead to put the effort into navigating a map.

As I began to make my way out of the North Hall of Moscone Center, I spied a little stand-- nothing of special interest at first glance. Natural Directions Organic. The banner suspended above the booth promised, "All Natural, All Organic, All The Time." They sold sparking, organic juice. What caught my attention was the woman standing beneath the sign. She was, to put it bluntly, anything but natural. If she was the representative of natural direction, I felt the company had taken some unfortunate turn off the highway several miles back and had gotten hopelessly lost. From a distance, I could just make out the swollen shape of her collagened lips saying a little something to a prospective customer. As she smiled, her forehead remained motionless-- as stiff as the naval captain's cap she wore at a cocky angle over her bleached-blonde hair. She was, at the very least, fancy.

I moved closer to her, wanting to make certain she was, in fact, a real woman. As tired as I was, I felt the need to find out if she was a drag queen, which would have been a stroke of ironic marketing brilliance, in my opinion. I chatted her up a bit, asking about the products she was selling because I wanted to hear her speak. As I did, I looked into her eyes. Or, rather, just above them, to the false eyelashes that had been put on at an angle almost as jaunty as her hat. She suggested I try the pomegranate soda."That's the best one, if you ask me," she confided. "It tastes even better with a little vodka in it."

"Well, what doesn't?" was the best I could reply.

And then it hit me-- this woman, who a mere five seconds prior I had viewed as oddly unreal, was, in fact, the most honest person I had encountered at the show. Not that the others were especially dishonest. It was simply that all I had heard from people for two exhausting days were talking points about the greatness of their products, which was understandable, given the venue. But here was this wonderful woman-- suddenly lovely in my eyes-- who decided to tell it like it was.

It was just the refreshment I needed.

Pity there was no vodka.

My friend Mark, who knows about everything before I do, has been wanting to go to Brenda's French Soul Food for months. He planned to take some people to brunch there a few Sundays ago. It was, however, closed. They don't do Sunday brunch. Who can blame them? Unless drag queens are somehow involved, the thought of Sunday brunch makes me cringe. The two of us hoped to have dinner at Brenda's last week. The only glitch in that little plan was this: Brenda's doesn't serve dinner. Rather than being miffed, I found that news heartwarming.

When I was a young and foolish California Culinary Academy student, one of my courses called for creating a restaurant business plan. My teammates and I decided that a breakfast and lunch-only venue would suit our tastes just fine, since you can really mark up egg dishes. We'd be doing what we loved-- serving up great food, but we'd have our evenings free-- enabling us to have a relatively normal social life. We could have our pancake, as it were, and eat it, too.

Brenda's, then, is a place after my own heart. It's exactly what I'd want to do if I were crazy enough to run a restaurant.

Located at 652 Polk Street between Eddy and Turk, Brenda's shares a stretch of road with two other food venues. On its right is Kentucky Fried Chicken-- a place of no culinary pretensions whatsoever. To its left and across the street is the California Culinary Academy-- a sad, musty diploma mill that churns out nothing but culinary pretension every few weeks. Hovering somewhere pleasantly in the middle, Brenda's has not disturbed that delicate balance of the block in the least. What it has done, thankfully, is bring great food to the neighborhood.

When I arrived at Brenda's on Wednesday morning, I was told I might sit wherever I liked by a tall, thin gentleman with a scruffy beard who was, it would seem, the sole server on the floor. I took a small table near the door, where I could have a clear view of the customers around me.

The restaurant is small. Two white-clothed tables for four in the center of the room, one small table in the window, and five small tables along the left wall.Counter stools populate the right wall, just below a bank of mirrors which runs the entire length of the place.

I ordered a coffee and dug into my portable Sherlock Holmes, which I placed on top of my little notebook. To my left was a man about my age with a scruffy beard, also reading, but near the end of his meal. Looking at my notebook and camera, he asked me if I was going to do a write up on the place. I cringed at my obviousness. That and the fact that every man in the place, including myself, was wearing a scruffy beard. I lied to him and took another sip of coffee.

There were two men sitting in the window. One was a handsome fifty-something Frenchman . His non-French breakfast companion was rattling on loudly about Napa wineries, San Francisco restaurants and who he knew just about everywhere else. Fortunately, he made his great show of saying goodbye to Brenda before I started eating.

I asked my server which beignets he thought were best. He suggested I try the beignet flight ($8.00) and decide for myself. I did.

From fore-to-background in the photo above: plain, Granny Smith apple with cinnamon honey butter, molten Ghiradelli chocolate, and crawfish with cayenne, scallions, and cheddar. It is the order in which I ate them. My server stated that people normally consumed the crawfish first. I am delighted that I didn't, because it was by far my favorite-- the chewy sweetness of the crawfish popping every so often through the ooze of the cheese, the heat of the cayenne, and the sharpness of the scallion. I am already planning my return to have a full meal of them.

They were all quite good, really. The apple beignets weren't overly sweet. They had a subtle saltiness to them I found appealing. I'm not an expert on these pastries, per se, and I've heard some people (Yelpers) whine that beignets in New Orleans are normally much bigger and cheaper. I would hardly call the portions here small. Or over priced. In fact, nothing at Brenda's is more than $10.00.

Wondering what to order next, I asked my server's opinion on the matter. Mentioning that I was intrigued by the Pineapple Upside Down Pancakes with Vanilla Bean Cream and Ginger Butter, he said that, while they were great, I might not want them after so much beignet. He was right, of course. When I asked about the Hangtown Fry special I noticed written in white grease pen on the mirror across the way, he smiled. That's all I needed. It doesn't take much arm-twisting to get me to order a Hangtown Fry. "Grits or potatoes?" he asked. "I'm kind of a potato guy," I said. I saw his smile fade a little. "But, I suppose I'd better have the grits, right?" His face brightened. I was grateful for my ability to read social cues. I told him I'd keep the menu, in case I wanted to order anything more.

It is obvious from the above photo where I placed the most of my gustatory enthusiasm. The grits. Buttery, lightly peppery, and just salty enough. The pat of butter I was given may have been intended for the biscuit, but mine ended up on the grits. I did not ask for instructions.

I never knew I liked grits. In fact, my two or three previous experiences with the dish had left me rather bored. In my thoughts, grits were an unseen province of salty, beehived situation comedy diner waitresses and they were meant to be kissed in some kind of submissive fashion. Well, I kissed Brenda's grits, and I'll kiss them again, happily.

While I was tucking into the fry, a man and woman dressed in chef whites wandered into Brenda's from the Culinary Academy. I thought how sad it was that they couldn't find anything worth eating over there. The man, I noticed, had one bright blue eye and one of milky hazel. I got caught looking, so I initiated a brief conversation with them about the school. I admitted my status as an alumnus and warned them to keep a wary eye out for people who do not understand the etiquette involved in walking around a busy kitchen with 10" chef knives. Their reaction to the pitying look on my face when I was told that tuition at the school had nearly tripled since my graduation eleven years ago indicated to me that our little interview should end as quickly as possible. I went back to reading The Adventure of the Copper Beeches and stuffing my face.

As I sat eating and reading, another man of my approximate age and scruffiness sat at the table beside mine. I really must shave. Unlike his predecessor, he seemed uneasy in his status as a single diner. He tapped is fingers and wagged his foot as though it had fallen asleep within the first ninety seconds of his being in a seated position. When his eyes weren't darting about the place, they were fixed upon his iPhone. I didn't know whether to laugh (on the inside) or cry. Few people seem really at ease with dining alone. It made me mildly depressed, but it did give me an idea for another blog post, which made me mildly cheerful.

The Hangtown fry itself was good, loaded as it was with salty, smoked bacon and fresh, fried oysters. But my delicate, hummingbird frame was challenged by the enormous portions of both dishes tried. Delicate, too, was the biscuit-- the flavor of fresh butter melted in my mouth as is the way with the good ones and it had a flakiness that, had the biscuit taken a human form, might be diagnosed as Brittle Bone Disease by medical students. I mean that in a good way.

I was unable to finish my meal, being as well-stuffed as one of those beignets from earlier in the meal. I took my remaining victuals home and had them for lunch. The grits were good even then, served cold.

My server returned, looked at the menu still placed on the table, and said, smiling, "Are you still planning on ordering more?" My brain said yes, but my stomach disagreed. I looked out the window at the Eastern Park Apartments, a retirement home that is neither in the East nor anywhere near a park. I thought to myself that, if I kept eating like this, I might not live to an age which might necessitate my inhabiting such a place. I sided with my stomach and asked, instead, for the check.

Now, I do not know Brenda Buenviaje, namesake of the restaurant. I chose not to introduce myself nor ask questions during my first visit. My photo-taking and journal entries made me look idiotic enough. When I took a closer look at Brenda's website, I read her profile and had a better clue as to why the food made me happy-- she is a former head chef of Sumi (the only good restaurant in the Castro, as far as I'm concerned) and of Cafe Claude (my I'm- hungry-and-tired-of-watching-other-people-shop/ I-need-a-drink place of choice). She looks like someone I might like to sit down with over a glass of wine. I only hope, should that occur, that I can stifle my desire to blurt out grits-kissing remarks.

I'll be back to Brenda's, and soon. There's a lot there that I still need to try, like the Grillades and Grits, the Egg and Bacon Tartine, and those Pineapple Upside Down Pancakes. But really, it's that crawdaddy beignet. Second only to relieving my bladder, it was the first thing I thought about this morning. Really, I swear.

Brenda's French Soul Food is located at:

652 Polk Street (at Eddy)
San Francisco, CA 94102

Telephone: (415) 345-8100

Hours of Operation:

Breakfast is served Monday through Friday from 8 am to 3 pm.
Lunch is served Monday through Friday from 11(ish) to 3 pm.
Brunch is served on Saturdays from 8 am to 3 pm.
Closed, for now, on Sundays.