Last week, Bay Area Bites blogger Stephanie Im called attention to Secret San Francisco's popular Facebook presence. A few days before Im's post appeared, I myself joined the group with a few lazy clicks, galvanized into action by the droves of friends doing the same. At least, with its relentless updates regarding their statuses, Facebook made me feel like I was part of a movement. "Is it because we all love a juicy secret? Is it because we're bored?" wondered Im in her piece. "Perhaps we gravitate to these projects because they exude a sense of authenticity, of being 'in the know,' and part of something special and communal," she continued. "Or, it could simply be...some things are just too good to keep to ourselves."

Im listed the Iso Rabins-curated Underground Farmers Markets, Mission Street Food's feasts at Lung Shan, and all manner of street carts as the sorts of secrets worth shouting around, but those examples might as well be echos -- almost old news to studious, Internet-savvy members of the eats-frenzied populous. At this point, despite their youth and D.I.Y. ethos, they are institutions, pillars of the city's mainstream, well-documented food culture. Still, regardless of your personal familiarity with Im's suggestions, Secret San Francisco makes its mission clear enough: "Share San Francisco's secrets! Post any lesser known great places to see in San Francisco. Please give details of how we can locate it and what makes it a hidden gem."

A certain variety of hard-charging food sleuth elitist loves dropping a rarified knowledge of the city's unheralded offerings. Another group of elitists takes no less pleasure in heaping abuse on the first for drawing attention to the sneaky little places they covet for themselves. Occasionally, they invade Secret San Francisco's Facebook page. The best naysayers employ deadpan sarcasm. One suggests Burger King for a great hamburger; another celebrates a little grocery store called Safeway. Some however directly criticize eager posters for sharing too much, operating under the not unreasonable logic that widespread publicity on behalf of something unknown tends to make that thing known pretty well very quickly. What if your favorite bowl of pho suddenly became half the city's favorite too? Would it suddenly start tasting a little bland and watery? Would you tell yourself that the cook was slipping? Would you maybe start believing that he'd gotten so drunk on the fame Facebook had brought his pho, that he'd -- with pungent irony -- neglected to keep preparing it with quality in mind? Or would you still love that pho but merely hate the swiftly forming crowds -- lines of pho-fanatics at the door, arriving earlier and earlier each morning, leaning against the cafe's glass windows, poking away at iPhones, waiting for the sign to flip. With their incessant chatter and their rows of white order tickets fluttering in the kitchen window, the people on the sidewalk swarming in -- presumably without jobs to attend, errands to run, or any otherwise consuming pursuits -- would scuttle your plans for timely lunch-break repasts. You'd stop going altogether. The cafe would start selling its pho at a stand outside the Ferry Building on Saturday mornings. The price would double. Amanda Gold would write about it. You'd find another favorite pho spot, which might or might not be an attention-seeking copy of the one you started out loving in the first place.

To shuffle in a music world hypothetical: If guttural blips, synthetic gurgles, and ambient drones suddenly enjoyed broad popularity, and noise bands displaced Jay-Z, The Killers, and Coldplay at the top of the charts, would the bands' old fans -- Aquarius Records employees, mostly -- take solace in the Black Eyed Peas, by now a fringe retro-pop act struggling to pack Bottom of the Hill on forays through the Bay Area? Probably not, but people stressing out over the decreased edginess of what they consume -- whether it be music or a bowl of pho -- tend to be overly concerned with how their consumption patterns reflect upon them as people -- at least, no less concerned than those who fire up the laptop every time they trip over a good sandwich.

In a comment to Im's post, Haggie (one name, like Madonna) accused Secret San Francisco of catering to "lazy suburb dweller[s]" trolling websites for cool food scenes to muck up. While it's pretty far-fetched to claim that "anyone...[living] in San Francisco knows about the secret spots" already, Haggie does have a point, albeit one couched in excessively feisty lingo. Since witnessing a half-block line curling along the pavement outside of Lung Shan on a Thursday evening at 5:35 p.m. nearly eight months ago, I have not even tried to go to Mission Street Food -- not because I think popularity has dulled the value or coolness of the operation's goals in the slightest, but because I don't like to wait. Waiting might not be a problem anymore. And I could always make a reservation, I guess, but just remembering the line makes me think of crowds, which I don't like -- and suddenly the idea of going starts feeling like an ordeal to weather.

One problem with Secret San Francisco's Facebook page is the fact that restaurant owners post on it about events happening at their own establishments. That is sort of lame, just on principle. I won't mention any of the names I recognized, but I have seen a few things written by a few people probably largely interested in generating business for themselves, not spreading the wealth of shared experience. Likewise, incidentally, some of the exuberant laudatory posts regarding bands I have never ever heard of come off as plants by members, friends of members, or girlfriends or boyfriends of members. The thing has been around for a few weeks and it's already nearly as tainted as Yelp, that dinosaur of a site plagued by posters grubbing for freebies by way of harsh critiques -- many of which seem far-fetched. On Yelp, after all, a reviewer might give a pupusa place two stars and claim a general deep-seated aversion to pupusas as sole cause for the expressed discontent.

The Internet insists on constantly providing us with new ways of searching out, organizing, and assessing the stuff we like to do in the city. Restaurants, bars, grocery stores, and street carts enjoy an absurd amount of attention on Twitter, Chowhound message-boards, assorted iPhone apps, Tablehopper (along with less ubiquitous electronic bulletins), and of course, now Secret San Francisco. The subjects are not necessarily new, but the channels of communication are configured differently with each innovation and trend. I don't want to blame them for all of the potential problems associated with the rampant sharing of the city's secrets. The real problem is that people have too much time on their hands, and they're choosing to spend it online, telling everyone they can about what they like and do not like. In addition to actually working at work, getting exercise, and playing with their kids, people should walk around and physically see the city for something other than a flickering stew of html, updates, messages, and links.

As a writer who masquerades as a blogger, I frequently fall prey to the tendency. On a daily basis, I must look for fresh topics to cover, and sometimes that leads me to rely too much on the Internet's ever-changing spectrum of social networking possibilities for inspiration. Someone reports something -- a secret, maybe -- and it ricochets off of other websites. It's linked, and re-linked, Tweeted, and re-Tweeted, posted, and re-posted. Writers here and there lackadaisically re-write the news as fresh content for a site, and the process starts again and again with slightly different slants each time. Within 24 hours, the secret is out like a light, nearly all bases are covered, and the story is as dead as a slab of fish on ice -- all thanks to the publicity pinball machine.

At times, I wonder how my very minor contributions to the maelstrom affect restaurants and businesses. I'll walk past a restaurant and think: Wow, I'm here, for the first time; I wrote about their egg salad special last week -- I wonder if they're selling more egg salad now. I'd just as soon turn off the computer and poke around the city and write about what I uncover. When content is required to circulate so rapidly, that vein of information-gathering is inefficient. Though I do my best, I wouldn't have time to do laundry if I relied upon it solely. At the same time, it's much more satisfying that way. When I moved here in 2002, San Francisco was a different city. That wasn't long ago, but the way I learned the city then -- specifically food to seek out -- was through people I met at parties, book club, work, and pick-up basketball games. I read the newspaper food sections and hit up Yelp from time to time, but I also just talked to people and visited the restaurants they recommended -- places like El Zocolo and the now-defunct Lorca. Doing so made me a more social person. It made me attack the city so as to eat what I heard was worth eating. The secrets I've amassed that way have stuck with me the longest, probably because I have faces, stories, and voices to go with them. They are ones I share with others -- in conversation, whenever possible.

In celebration of our most patriotic holiday, I am declaring my own independence from what I consider one of the most irritating sites on the internet-- Yelp.com. Even the name causes me to chafe.

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the word "yelp" means:

1. Noun: a sharp shrill bark or cry (as of a tog or turkey); (see) also squeal.

2. Intransitive verb: To utter a sharp quick shrill cry.

At least. they've given themselves an accurate name.

Perhaps it is my own, personal distaste for democracy, especially in terms of voting for, say, restaurants (think Zagat), pop singers (think American Idol), or even presidents (think about whomever you wish) that makes me dislike sites such as Yelp. Before your underwear gets anymore bunched in places, I am hardly un-American. I am a firm believer in our particular form of government, which happens to be republican, rather than democratic. And before your y-fronts become irretrievably lodged, I am referring to systems of government, not political parties. For the sake of argument today, I shall limit my discussion to restaurant commentary.

It seems that anyone with access to a computer today can write a restaurant review, myself included. But is everyone's opinion worth reading, let alone writing? That is certainly debatable. I for one, don't think so.

Call me a snob. Call me an elitist pig. I've been called much worse.

Of course, I believe that everyone is certainly entitled to his or her opinion, but many opinions expressed on sites like Yelp are neither well-informed nor, as is more often the case, well-written.

For example, I've chosen three reviews of Brenda's French Soul Food on Polk Street, which has, as of this posting, 338 Yelp reviews. This is from a four yelp star rated piece:

"I enjoyed this place a lot. We found parking right on Vaness. Our wait was about 20 minutes. We arrived at 11am I think. It will seat about 20 people-30people. I did not see Brenda though."

"My first time eating beignets -- I did not know it came in threes, I should of ordered one of each. We got three apple ones. It was gooood and fattening."

"I ordered the bowl of gumbo (dark gumbo). I am use to the tomatoey colored gumbo but it was pretty good."

"Also got an entree of the Harrytown special which includes oysters, grits and biscuits."

"I loved the biscuits."

"Cute little place to revisit or bring out of towners."

Harrytown Special? I can only assume she meant Hangtown Fry. With testimonials like this, it's not surprising the restaurant sustains such long lines out the door. Are reviews such as these typed on a texting keypad, rather than at a keyboard? That would be a charitable explanation of such short sentences. It's like some unevocative, bastard form of haiku. It horrifies, but that's just fine, since I tend to savor crappiness. The only point it serves, in my book, is as the object of mockery.

Now here is an excerpt from a not-so-good (two yelp star) review:

"Just before we passed out from hunger, they brought over our beignet flight which was good, our favorite beignet was the crawfish. The only other compliment I have is for the coffee. The breakfast plates were mediocre. My friend, who was starving, took 5 bites of her omelette and left the rest."

She certainly has a flair for the dramatic. If one decides to set out and review a restaurant, whether one has enjoyed the experience or not, one should, to the best of one's ability, explain why. What made these crawfish beignets good? What could possibly compel a starving woman to take only five bites of an omelette? These are things I want answered. If a reviewer cannot accurately describe her experience-- the food she ate, the service she received, or her surroundings-- she has no business wasting anyone's time with her fourth-grade writing skills. Make that third grade-- I know a couple of nine year-olds who write much more vividly.

And, finally, here's a rather terrible (one yelp star) piece:

"I am as honest as a heartbeat, so believe me when I say that this spot is highly overrated. I just have no desire to come again-- wait or no wait."

"I had a bit of all four of our plates and the sampler benettes, so here goes my opinion..."

"My dish-- The Shrimp and Goat Cheese Omelet Grits and Cream Biscuit-- The shrimp was not devianed and thus flavorless. I opted not to have the bacon relish on top so I will be fair and refrain from further commenting about it. I like my gritts creamier than it was but it was tastey and the buiscutt was pretty good."

"Watermelon Sweet Tea-- Free refills, but they don't really tell you that. liked it because it was not sweet, and I like water. It was also luke-warm."

"The Chalkboard Special, Shrimp Pot Pie- The shrimp was overcooked and rubbery, and the veggies were overcooked and mushy. Boo Hoo!"

Honest as a heartbeat. Perhaps she should have her cardiologist examine her for arrythmia. I don't trust anyone starts off by telling me how honest she is. It was a bad review on a number of levels, star ratings aside. I do, however, admire her creative spelling, the fact that she feels shrimp proto --intestines are where all the flavor is, and that she can't tell the difference between a mirror and a chalkboard. I read the bit about why she likes the Watermelon Sweet Tea about ten times.

If you're interested in reading about her bikini waxing at the Pink Cheeks Skin Salon in Sherman Oaks, I will happily email you her yelp profile.

I had hoped the members of Yelp Elite might be a little more helpful or, at least, better writers, since the elite page states:

"...Yelp members who get in are known for having reviews that are insightful, irreverent and personal (aka useful, funny and cool!)."

Of course, it also requests that Elite members have:

"Personal pizazz! Even after all this, we look for a certain je ne sais quoi—we call it Yelpitude. To paraphrase Supreme Court Justice James Stewart when defining pornography in a case about obscenity, 'Yelp Elite is hard to define, but we 'know it when we see it.'"

Perhaps I should have sensed trouble when I realized the Yelp Elite squad (or, at least, the person responsible for writing the copy) had mistaken a much-beloved Campbell's Soup-hawking actor for Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart.

The first elite reviewer I read was a young lady named Beverly. She went on and on about her experience with a DAT date to Frisée Restaurant in the Castro. I hope that by DAT she meant "Dine About Town". Please read:

"Sidenote: It was cramped as s**t. We sat upstairs and the ceiling was like 6 feet high and we sat at a tiny itty bitty table next to a tiny itty bitty walk way. Oh and the service. SLOW AS S**T. I want to minus stars for the service but the food was so good I just can't bring myself to do it."

What is it about her personal writing style that led her to become part of the Yelp Elite? Was it her penchant for using fecal terms when describing her experience? Perhaps it was her photos (which are required of all Elite members). Maybe her two lip rings at the right-hand corner of her mouth catch enough food so that she might savor it more thoughtfully upon her return home from dining, quill pen in hand and that deep-in-thought dreamy look that only fake, blue-tinted contact lenses can properly convey. Does she have "that certain je ne sais quoi"? I'm thinking it's more like elle ne sait rien.

Well, I've had my fun at Yelp's expense today, but to be fair(ish), I must say that, in browsing the site for several hours this week, I have come across some people who do offer thoughtful-- and fairly well-written-- reviews. Case in point: Kerry "Tempura Assassin" K in describing her experience at Burritoville in San Anselmo:

"[My husband] was a little more offended at the sight of iceberg lettuce on his carne asada taco ($2.95) than I was. Granted, yes, iceberg lettuce in a Mexican restaurant is an insult to my intelligence, I was able to forgive. This was largely due to the chips, which were thick, crisp, and toasty as well as a lovely salsa bar, friendly and welcoming service, a clean environment, and a buy 9 get 1 free taco card."

"Caveat lector: on the back of the frequent buyer card, it spells out the number of tacos in spanish, "uno, dos, etc." After the 9th one it says "bingo gringo". Gringo eh? That must mean that either Latinos and Chicanos don't eat here or the food isn't real Mexican. So perhaps my taste can't be trusted with this review. If you keep reading, read on with that in mind."

Finally, someone who notices and describes those little details that make a review worth reading. That, and the fact that she used the term caveat lector correctly (or at all). A bright, shining tablet of antacid to save me from so much Yelping bile. I'd really like to hug her. If elite membership could be limited to the likes of Kerry, I think I might have a little more faith in the website. Otherwise, what is the point of creating an elite class, if it is open to, well, everyone?

If you accused me of elitism, you'd be absolutely correct in doing so. Why should I waste my time reading the average person's average review? I don't want an average guy running my country, building my home, or giving me a colonoscopy. I want experts. I want smart people. Same goes for my restaurant reviewers. If all you can give me in describing a gumbo is "OMGITSAWESUM!!!", perhaps you should just keep it to yourself. The world beyond your Myspace friends list is not ready for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blah, blah, blah...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nuff said.

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

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