what I like

I don’t know a lot about art. I haven’t studied it, I don’t often go to museums and when I do, I don’t really know what I’m looking for. And though I’m loathe to admit it, though I myself cringe when I hear other philistines say it: I know what I like. It sounds so perfectly inane, so uninformed, so ignorant. And it is. I admittedly lack the vocabulary, the study, everything else to explain why I seem to have a visceral reaction to something on the wall. Makes me want it on my own, want to look at it all the time, want to know the story behind the image.

The same is true with me with wine and coffee. I don’t know why I like something, but when it’s good, I’m going to pour myself another. The cat won’t get any leftover cream from what I’ve allotted a pot. I might feel that third glass of wine in the morning. I make my choices based on some rudimentary knowledge, a handful of mnemonics and loose associations. I’m mostly driven by instinct, and usually it pays off.

In the morning it’s Rwanda coffee. That is, coffee I pick up from Ritual on Valencia, ground for the French press I employ in the morning with the directions of a brewing guide from Stumptown in Portland. The only way I remember the coffee I like is that I know I feel oddly conflicted about it. Rwanda. There’s bad things happening there. Where does this coffee really come from? Am I somehow supporting genocide with my coffee? I go to Ritual every Sunday, remind myself that some question will go up, and I’ll remember it’s not the Kenya I like. If there was a Darfur blend available, my mnemonic would fail and I buy that one.

At night, I’ve been pouring Cotes du Rhone. I know. I know I’m supposed to list vintages and geography and everything and anything else I’m supposed to know. But I don’t know it. I can’t commit those things to memory, even though I’m damn good at Trivial Pursuit and I often have the chance to feel a palpable sense of pride when I get the final Jeopardy clue and the actual contestants on TV miss it.

I’m not sure how to start learning. I always thought I would learn by exposure, by osmosis. But it isn’t taking. For now, I’m relying on instinct, because, well, I know what I like.

beautiful disaster

In Portland, when I was at a loss for what to have for dinner, I always knew I could count on a lovely, complementary combination: chicken satay and salad rolls. In my last few months in town, I began an informal survey of sorts, finding the best skewered chicken, the freshest, snappiest salad rolls and a peanut sauce that the two handheld delights would share. Since moving here, I’ve found one great satay specimen after another, but the salad rolls, well, they have been a little more elusive. So I decided to try my own hand at them.

Just three blocks to me is another country. I’m even more of a minority there in this already minority-majority city. At 5’3, I’m tall and speaking only English, Russian and Spanish, I can’t understand a word. From what I understand Clement St is the real Chinatown of San Francisco. Monterey Park to Los Angeles’ downtown pagodas and wishing fountains.

Shopping there is a bit of an adventure. I feel like I’m taking a risk by buying shrimp that aren’t protected behind a glass case, or that I’m making the wrong choice of one kind of rice noodle from an infinite array. I’m all for choice in the marketplace, but I’ll never understand why there is an entire row dedicated solely to two kinds of noodle: rice and wheat.

I finally pulled myself away from the very, very exciting candy aisle at the market there (the big one on 8th and Clement) where so many cute cartoons beckoned me to try any and every candy there. With a big bag of fresh ingredients ($15.80!), I headed home.



It didn’t take me too long into the prep work to realize why I’ve been so hesitant to really do some hard-core cooking in my kitchen. I thought it was just the electric stove with just one big burner that was holding me back, but it turns out there’s something else amiss. I have great granite counters. Four of them. Each about 1.5 feet wide going 3 feet back. Nowhere to just sit and cut and prep. This is a problem. Still, I kept on.

I made stations. One for the soaking, draining, cooking and draining of rice noodles, a place to pluck, rinse and spin the herbs, another spot doubled as a red-pepper chopping/ rice paper soaking station and then, finally the shrimp cooking in ginger and garlic on the stove.

It was an awkward dance made more awkward by an obese cat spurred by the smell of fresh shrimp to weave figure eights around my ankles.



Finally, with all the ingredients at the ready, I laid a sticky slippery round of rice paper on a plate, lined up two shrimp, then piled on thai basil, cilantro, mint, a couple sticks of red pepper, bean sprouts, and a healthy bunch of rice noodle. I delicately pulled, folded and plied the paper over and around the little heap. Flipped it over, and well, I had something. It was certainly not the most elegant salad roll, but I found something endearing in its lopsided looseness.

I’d make them again, and I’d do it soon. I have a fridge full of fresh ingredients, a few ideas on how to make them even better (mango shrimp rolls? Dash of lime? Jicama?). Inspiration has struck, even though my kitchen may not yet accommodate me.

just what I needed

Since I moved out of my apartment in Portland, I've been craving things I could count on. An apartment. A job. Things like that. I'm finally begining to carve out a routine here, but in the meantime, have lost my will to cook or to seek out anything culinarily fun. I've spent too many nights watching "CSI: Wherever" over a bowl of pasta with scallops and peas (my go-to easy dish). So today, buoyed by a freshly-cashed first paycheck and armed with new issues of Gourmet, Saveur and Food & Wine, I decided to kick off my gastronomic life here.

Being the one of the few nicer restaurants in SOMA, coco 500 is bustling. There is table after table of executive lunches and casual candidate get-to-know-yous. I wouldn't be surprised if most of the checks are paid with corporate credit cards. All these business happenings leave the heavy wood bar blissfully empty. I pluck Gourmet from my bag and select a stool. In a minute I'm drinking fresh spring water and surveying the menu. There's a paparadelle with pork sugo, olives and pine nuts, the inevitable wedge salad (though this one is freshened with pickled onions), and a roasted lamb tartine on levain with watercress that all catch my eye. I wait for the specials though, wanting to survey all my options before I make a choice.

Then I hear it. Local fresh sardines with a meyer lemon vinegarette and a side salad of arugula and frisee. "It's really good," the server says, "but it won't be enough for you." She points me toward the 'small starts' section of the menu. The coco500 mole "taco" (their quotes, not mine) gives me pause, and I ask about it. Before she can finish the phrase "slow-cooked beef cheeks," I tell her I'm in. Beef cheeks, after all, are my most favorite cut of meat.

I order up a prickly pear soda from the no-alchohol section (though I have little to do, I still have to go back to work), and crack open the Gourmet.

I turn the page to the first main article, which details a fish restaurant in Tulsa, OK. The pic shows a deep-fried flounder with a nice side of hush puppies. "That looks good," says Peggy, my server. "It does. The hushpuppies too," I respond.

"Oh," she offers, "there's a place in Berkeley that does some great hushpuppies. tiny place. Someone's name. A few stools and that's it. But really good."

And with that, we were off. I, of course, mention the hush puppies at Screen Door in Portland, about the food there all sustainable and organic, which then prompts Peggy to tell me that she had moved here from Portland too. The magazine stays open to that page for rest of the meal.

The "tacos" come (quotes mine this time). Lined up on a long black plate are five tortilla chips, each one with a perfect little mound of savory, collagen-rich braised beef cheek topped with a dollop of avocado salsa and a cilantro leaf. These are good, rich, satisfyingly crunchy and meaty at the same time. Big little bites.

Peggy hasn't just moved from Portland, she had worked in Portland. In food. At some of the best places there were. She helped open Zefiro, wrote the tome that is the saucebox cocktail menu- a legacy that looms large to this day. I offer her Portland food gossip in exchange for the inside scoop on where to buy produce, the wine shops to hit and shopping districts I seem to have overlooked. It's the kind of conversation that moves into its own tangents, that when you reach the end of that tangential stretch, you quickly walk your way back to the origin, eager to complete the thought.

The salad comes next. Three meaty sardines glassy-eyed and firm, peering up at me from their bed of fresh frisee and arugula. They are really, really good. Salty, substantial (for a little fish) and satisfying. I usually hate frisee. It bugs me. Gets caught in my throat. But this is good. Leafy, sweet. All in all a really good dish. Only the heads and tails remainon the plate.

I keep my Portland restaurant recommendations to a minumum, really putting all my weight behind Le Pigeon. "Really," I offer. "Gabe's the one who got me into beef cheeks." She explains that when she visits, her friends cook. "Well then, go for the dessert. Apricot cornbread, with maple ice cream and, " I pause for impact, "bacon."

Her eyes light up. "That's my kind of place."

coco 500, with its freshness, ease and seasonable sensability is my kind of place. I'll be back. I'll be back soon. I'm glad to have found such a perfect way to officially kick-off my San Francisco gastronomic adventures. More to come. I promise.

on a mission

After spending the better part of a biting cold January day looking for an apartment in San Francisco, I found myself craving something warm and comforting. Something substantial, with protein to fuel the rest of the day’s search. And, after having realized I’m going to spend a bit more on housing than I budgeted, it needed to be cheap. This is how I found myself in the heart of the Mission, waiting in line for a burrito.

I had heard talk of the legendary Mission burrito long before my trip down here. There were tortilla comparisons and longing for slow-cooked meats. A place where even the veggie burrito was cravable. I didn’t understand it. How could meat, rice, cheese, avocado, beans and salsa be so transcendent? I think I had a mission burrito about ten years ago, and I don’t remember it as a seminal experience. I just recall making our way to an unwelcoming part of town, using my high school Spanish to the best of my ability, and falling deep into a post-burrito coma once back at the apartment.

A few days ago, when I was led on a driving tour of the city, we passed by La Taqueria on our way to find tacos. My guide dismissed the place as over-rated and gringophiled, but I wanted to see what all the buzz was about. I parked around the corner, double-checked to make sure the car was locked, and made my way down to Mission.

I knew when I walked in I had made a good choice. A long line stretched down the counter, necks craning to view the backlit menu board. The ordering process is so swift and efficient, you’ve got to have your ducks in a row before you get to the front of the line. There were murmuring of orders running down the line. “should I get the chicken, or the carnitas. Ok, you’re getting a taco, and then you wanted a quesadilla too?”

Behind the counter is an amazing display of precision Mexican food assembly. A spoon dips into salsa, distributes it evenly over three burritos. Checking tickets, chopping meat, add moving things right on down the line.

I made it to the front of the line quicker than I thought when I first walked in. I’m greeted with a quick, but warm, “Hola. Hi.” And I place my order. Marinated chicken burrito with cheese and avocado, no salsa. And cantelope agua fresca. I stake my claim near the pass and wait my turn. I don’t have to stand too long until my number, “sixty, setenta!” is called.

There’s been a hell of a cold snap bracing the city. Few are willing to sit outside, but me, fresh from the great ice-locked northwest, it doesn’t seem so bad. I grab a stool in the sun, with a great view down the line inside. And then, the first bite of the burrito. A light, doughy tortilla stretches and breaks, gives way to a burst of succulent flavor. Adobo-marinated chicken mixing with cheese and cool bites of avocado, held together by moderate layer of starchy refried beans. What surprises me most, beyond the big flavor is the moistness, the juice, the savoryness of the whole thing. This is so good. In a few minutes, I ask for the people next to me to start passing napkins, and one explains to me in halting English that he usually goes through a half-dozen per taco. Not bad.

I hop down from the stool, crumple up the foil and wax paper, place the green plastic basket on top of the trash with the rest, and walk back to my car. Satisfied, warmed, and ready to take on the next open house.

finding my way

I took off from “home” to find home, sans quotation marks. I wanted to dive right in, to experience the city firsthand. To finally sit behind the driver’s seat with nowhere to go, nothing to do. If I got lost, then I had done my job. I couldn’t tell you where I started or where I went through. I’m sure my route made no sense at all, and if someone had been tracking me, for sure would have thought I was crazy. I pushed through neighborhood after neighborhood, following on my map where I was, circling the parts that struck me as nice with a purple sharpie. Hayes Valley got a nod. Over Pacific Heights I scratched “boring?” but then when I came upon a nice collection of shops and restaurants, I drew a line through it. “no!”

I had always experienced the city with tunnel vision, destination focused. “Just tell me how to get there.” So whenever I would return, I’d have quick moments of recognition. “Jenny used to live there.” “Morgan and I had dinner there.” But then, driving around, I started to put the pieces together as a whole. I was amazed to find out, it’s not as big as it seems, but it still seems infinite. There seems like there are a thousand things to discover. When anyone begins to describe a favorite place, it usually starts with the adjectives “great” and “little” in quick succession. Living here might just be a veritable treasure hunt, replete with hand-drawn maps where X marks the spot.

I found such a gem on my first day, though to be honest, Noneifbysea had done some research to get me there. Ritual Roasters is a little slice of Portland, right in the heart of the Mission. They’re doing coffee Portland-style, with Stumptown beans, in fact. I walk in, and they’re playing Tapes n’ Tapes, the album I had recently tapped as my Moving to San Francisco soundtrack. It seemed to perfect. It was. I asked after their whole bean coffee, to see if they had Columbia La Virgina specifically. They didn’t, but then the guy behind the counter (who had just moved from Portland himself) recommended the Limu. Funny thing. Limu had been recommended to NIBS and I. Twice. And we bought it. Twice. And both times, we hated it. I couldn’t believe the scene was unfolding a third time. I had them grind up a half-pound of Kenya to take home.

I grabbed a cup of drip and a blackout cupcake topped with a pastel dollop of lavender frosting. It was astounding. Chocolate, lavender, the coffee, tapes n’ tapes, a whole room of Portland hipster doppelgangers, tucked behind laptops, strangers sharing tables meant for friends. I had entered a displaced Portland Coffee-obsessed yupster paradise. I wasn’t home, but I was closing in.

I got back in the car and continued to wind my way around the city for a couple more hours. Finding dead-ends and alternate routes, climbing hills for the fun and sheer terror, apologizing to my car’s transmission over and over again. I have my ipod on shuffle, and every song that comes up seems just right. A josh rouse song I haven’t heard in years. A smattering of Ella. A lot of Costello. I sing. I drive. I get excited about being here.

Finding my way with surprising ease back to the Bay Bridge, I feel my heart surge in a way I hadn’t expected. I took a deep breath, and I couldn’t contain my smile. It was the same way I’d felt that night I met Noneifbysea. A little nervous. A little excited. On my way to falling in love.