San Francisco: Money's just food you haven't eaten yet

Last week around this time, I was looking back on my fantastic trip to San Francisco, hosted generously by Aaron & Genevieve Saenz.

A: "What did you pay for that?"
G: "Like, an eighth of  what it's really worth."

 We made a fair effort to sample the best coffee in the area, which took us to Blue Bottle Coffee, and after an appropriate waiting period, we were handed two ceramic-dripped cups of organic black magic. At home, I use a plastic Melitta dripper for one cup days, the jumbo French press for three cups and beyond. I have to say, the ceramic dripper combined with the organic micro-roasted grounds made my home methods and coffee skills seem inferior in every way, but I think my snooty poseur points are now way up just for mentioning it.

Take off that seat belt, girl. 

As we sipped, we grooved in the sun to a nearby boombox playing all the hits of the 90s while waiting for our table at the highly-trafficked Stacks. Beyond popular, a Saturday morning here is harrowing to behold. Hoards of people waiting inside, outside, and jammed in corners, all in the frantic paths of servers and bussers struggling to get to tables. Space is not the issue here. With decor inspired by a Parisian silk flower fever dream, brunchers flock to Stacks for their comfortable food. We enjoyed a short stack of blueberry wheat germ pancakes and a fresh veggie egg skillet, but I was so immersed in our victory at finally getting a table in the center of the action that the food took a backseat. But in a "let's make out in the backseat" kind of way. Really good.



Snack time took me and Genevieve to Isobune Sushi, the "original" sushi boat restaurant in Japan Town. I have had sushi mechanically pass me by on conveyor belts, but I've never been able to reach out and pluck it from a floating vessel.  I always though sushi boat meant something a little less exciting than actual sushi on actual boats. Isobune's adorable wooden dinghies float along a clear blue canal encircling the sushi kitchen. We were seated quickly, handed hot hand towels to freshen up, served hot tea and took our time choosing our fare. Everything's very compact, and seating is tight, but the bar provides ample privacy for two. Though we tried to linger, we sailed in and out in under 20 minutes.

Rapid fire vanity photos. We very nearly did it right.

 With just enough time to spare before our walking tour, we slipped into Pika Pika, a highly-confusing Japanese photo circus. The art of purikura was one unknown to me until now, and I'm not really sure I actually get it. Here's what we left with.

One of our favorite afternoons was spent at The Franciscan. Overlooking Alcatraz off Fisherman's Wharf, the dining room is flawless. Built in the 50's and recently remodeled, it's a beautiful place to spend an afternoon gazing at the bay while enjoying some fresh antipasti and cocktails. The smoked trout crostini arrived with toy box tomatoes, capers, avocado and a dish of dreamy, creamy, housemade burrata. No idea what burrata is? Mozzarella blended with cream blended with whatever makes life worth while. We were going to stop there, but it seemed absurd to leave without trying their Italian sundae: frozen custard drizzled with olive oil and garnished with flaked sea salt. Woof. And I would have stopped there, but before I knew it I was ordering espresso and sambuca. Genevieve and I get along so famously, it's easy to get a little grandiose.

 Bottomless thanks to Bill for sending me away for my birthday, San Francisco, Imperial Spa, Tom Brown, Aaron, Genevieve, and their whole rompous, good-time gang for a great weekend.


Dine of the Week

Hey handsome.

The first stop off the train was to Straw, one of the first places I ever reviewed on this here blog. Maybe you recall?  While in town, I think I measured every meal against the resounding triumph of this one, simple salad. The Aunt Sally. Mixed greens, beets, strawberries, goat cheese & pecans tossed with a sensible balsamic vinaigrette. Nobody's handing out awards here, you could make this at home and play it off as your own reasonably-gourmet invention. The true cause celebre here was the addition of, oh yes, precious bacon.  Maple-glazed and shining with emulsified meat-shame and fatty pride, two strips were laid briefly to rest atop my salad to conserve space at our table, and for that I thank our waiter. Fresh, smokey, nutty, I don't want to get too graphic, but this salad has stayed with me, haunting my every trip to the kitchen, and my every dining dream.
I'll be back for you, Aunt Sally.