Typically, when I heard the phrase "Cordon Bleu", I used to think in purely French terms. Mustachioed men in perfect white chef coats tasting expensive-looking dishes with silver spoons pulled from little pockets in their sleeves. Or I'd think of the literal translation, which is, of course, "blue ribbon", which I might mentally attach to one of the chef's coats. Since I moved near Polk Gulch four years ago, the little Frenchmen in my head have been replaced by thoughts of five spice chicken. And I couldn't be happier about that.

The restaurant isn't much to look at. In fact, there are those who are downright turned off by its distinct lack of physical charm, décor and, well, apparent hygiene. As far as I'm concerned, the unadventurous can keep their distance. It's not as though Cordon Bleu needs their business-- there's a line out the door every evening.

Why the line? Well, Cordon Bleu is tiny-- nine stools bolted around a formica counter, three small tables in the back, and next to no room in between. The real reason for the crowds, however, is the chicken, which they tout as... just read the sign:



I've never been to Vietnam, so I wouldn't know. Considering the fact that the jungle fowl-- the ancient proto-chicken from which all others derive-- originated in Southeast Asia, the Vietnamese have been able to take their time perfecting chicken recipes. The one at Cordon Bleu is pretty damned good, but the best? I'll take their boast with a grain of salt. And a pinch of five spice.

Chinese Five Spice, if you didn't know, is a combination of ground cinnamon (cassia), star anise, cloves, Sichuan pepper, and fennel. When rubbed on chicken, it gives Cordon Bleu the means to pay its rent.



When I visit the place, it's usually before or after seeing a film at the Lumière Theatre, depending upon the subject matter. I'd much rather fill myself here than with movie theatre fare. And possibly for less money than a coke, some popcorn and a candy bar.

The food is-- I hesitate to use the word cheap-- inexpensive. I can stuff myself silly for $8.25 with the "Number Five", which I think is the most expensive thing on the menu.



The Number 5 consists of one piece of "five spiced roast chicken" which, apart from roasting, spent a good deal of time on the grill, one pork and glass noodle fried Imperial roll, one "shish kebab" (which is neither shish nor kebab. It's very thin slices of marinated steak. The only common ground it shares with kebab is that it is meat that spents a good amount of time over a hot grill), country salad (shredded cabbage), and "meat sauce on rice".

Meat sauce on rice. Ground pork, peppers, onions, tomato. It's piled high on nearly every plate. I'm fond of its no nonsense name. And its flavor. It's no surprise to me why SF Weekly dubbed Cordon Bleu the Best Dive Restaurant of 2006. It's good food. And damned cheap.



The next time you're in the neighborhood, whether it be to see an art film, catch a drag show, or pick up a hustler, stop by Cordon Bleu. That is, if you can get in.

Cordon Bleu Vietnamses Restaurant

1574 California Street (at Polk Street)
San Francisco, CA 94109-4708

Phone: (415) 673-5637

Hours: Tuesday- Saturday 11:30 am- 2:30 pm, 5-10 pm.
Sunday 4-10 pm

Cash Only. No alcohol is served, so bring your own beer. Hell, bring some for the women behind the counter. The last time I was there they said they could sure use one.

Labels: cordon bleu, dives, michael procopio, restaurants, reviews

For years, I've driven by Russia House-- it's large, red letters and neon-framed windows staring me down every time I head south on highway 101. I've wanted to go there for a long time, but just never got around to it. This week, I finally stared back.

Very little information could be gleaned from a Google search of the place and no one I know had ever been there. The most information I could find was a list of seven comments on Yelp.com. The reviews were decidedly mixed. Rumors of all-you-can-eat (and drink) Russian food, dancing, and either a hostile welcome or no welcome at all were all I had to go on. To me, that sounded almost like a dare. I discussed the restaurant with a friend of mine who felt equally up to the challenge. In fact, she said she already had her Russian name picked out for the evening-- Katinka. While I googled her stage name (which I learned means "pure"), she made the reservation. We gathered a group of eight people together, figuring there was a certain safety in numbers.

While I busied myself snapping photos of the Russia House sign upon arrival, the three dining companions I showed up with were confronted by a man of about sixty dressed in blue jeans and leather jacket standing near a sign that read "Dress code strictly enforced." A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was anything but welcoming. After explaining that we had a reservation, we were allowed entry.

Once past the Russian Cerberus, we stepped inside the zodiac-themed blue doors and walked upstairs to the dining room. The first thing I noticed were the enormous crystal chandeliers that seemed to be in some sort of battle with the neon of the bar for who could throw off the most light. It was extremely bright.

The second thing I noticed was a little girl, maybe seven years old, in some sort of ice dancing outfit. My friend Gary asked if that was the Russian Jonbenet. Several other children of varying ages were all dressed up and running about.

The third thing to capture my attention was the group of about thirty people standing about two banks of long, platter-filled tables. Some of them stared at us blankly. Others stared out the window, waiting for someone or perhaps something to happen.

The fourth thing I noticed was that no one came to greet us. After about a minute of standing around trying not to look helpless or uncomfortable, my friend Lyle stopped a waiter who was rushing past us. We mentioned the name of our reservation. He pointed to a table for four and said we could sit there. When we explained that more were joining us, he pointed to a larger table next to the large party with all that shrimp cocktail. We sat. And then we sat some more.

What was I hoping to accomplish by being here? Was this a big mistake? Was the big, Russian dinner I've been promoting among my friends going to be a big, Russian failure? I wondered.



After a thorough examination of a wall mural we decided could only have been inspired by Russian fairy tales filtered through the mind of a Chernobyl survivor,we tired of sitting without benefit of food or drink. No one had approached us for minutes. Lyle pulled some money out of his wallet and beckoned a blond woman who was standing under the neon sign of the bar to come over. He asked for her name and how we might procure some service. While he did this, he handed her the money. She handed the money back, telling us that she was Elya, the owner. When I asked her if she wanted the name of our party for reservation purposes, she said, "No, it's okay. I don't need that." At that point, I knew we needed some vodka. Fast.

We made our vodka selection-- not expensive, considering we had to buy it by the bottle, but decent. 750 ml of Absolut for $60. When it was brought to the table, we asked if there was any real Russian vodka to be had. Elya replied, "No, not yet. Soon." Lyle asked how long Russia House had been open. 20 years. Russian vodka must be harder to obtain than I had previously thought.



We also asked about the menu. We had heard of an all you can eat and drink feast, but what we had in front of us was an a la carte menu. She told us, yes, she did that sometimes on Fridays. Fridays? I told her we understood the restaurant was only open to the public on Saturdays. She shrugged her shoulders and said that sometimes she felt like opening on Friday, too.

When she noted the empty seats around our table, I explained that we were still waiting for the rest of our party.

"Your girlfriends?" she asked.

"Sort of," I replied.

"Are they Russian?"

"No. Not Russian." I thought of the fake Russian names they'd be using tonight.

"That's surprising," she said. "Ninety-five percent of the American men who come here have Russian girlfriends or wives. So why have you come?"

I thought about how to answer that one, but settled on, "To have fun!"

She smiled and got our waiter. I think at some point in that brief exchange, it was decided that we liked each other and the mood of the room shifted. The girls arrived, we settled into our first drink, and Lyle took charge of ordering appetizers.

What came to the table were baskets of soft rye bread and butter, platters of beef tongue, smoked salmon, smoked sturgeon beef piroshke, and shrimp cocktail. Lots of shrimp cocktail.



The beef tongue was good with a little mustard sauce and soft rye bread...



The beef piroshke was excellent. We were certain there was more that just meat in them. We briefly discussed which organs might have been included.



The best dish, to the unanimous decision of the table, was the smoked sturgeon. Salty, faintly smoky and butter on the tongue, it needed nothing but perhaps a little vodka to keep it company on its way down my throat. We had two platters. They even threw in more shrimp cocktail.



Our table livened up after some food, cold vodka, and soda water served in iced pitchers. I looked over at the birthday party next to us. I still didn't see anyone smiling. Just people milling about in fur stoles (women, naturally) and not touching their food. I thought they might be having a wake instead. Commenting on the brightness of the lights, my friend Gary looked to the birthday crowd and commented that he now understood why Russian women wore so much make up-- it was to hold up under those damned bright lights. He wondered where he could get a make up mirror with a Russian setting. I drank a little more vodka.

Then, suddenly, everything changed. Everyone's attention turned to the bandstand. A woman who looked remarkably like Jan Wahl started singing. The lights, mercifully, were dimmed. Everyone started smiling and moved to the dance floor. Apparently, the party had begun.

People danced, moved back to the tables to drink a little, and then danced some more. We watched from our table, since our main courses had arrived. Chicken Kiev, which seemed like a must-have since I frequently ate the Stouffer's version as a child, was a bit of a dry disappointment, and shashlik -- kebabs of fish and chicken, we found tastier. Lots of potatoes made their way to our table, as did some excellent pickled vegetables. The hands-down favorite was the watermelon. The eight of us were stuffed and ready now to give our full attention to what was about to happen on the dance floor.



The little girl in what we thought was an ice dancing dress was partnered with a dancing boy. Everyone in the restaurant crowded around the dance floor. We were shown the proper way to swing dance, fox trot, and just about every other kind of trot. The dancers were cute and we laughed and clapped for them, but the Russians looked on humorless, as if this were something to be taken very seriously, which doesn't seem so surprising when one considers that Russia has produced some of the greatest dancers the world has ever seen. Think Nijinsky, Pavlova, and Baryshnikov. I felt as though I might be missing something important. I had another sip of my vodka.

A much older couple then took over, showing us hot Latin-inspired moves that loosened up the crowd a little. Decency (or simply poor photography skills) prevents me from showing you the 13 year-old girls costume, but I can show you an example of her excellent hand movement...



Having been shown how it's all done, we took to the dance floor ourselves, working off the shrimp cocktail and vodka. Everyone else in the room seemed to have the same idea.





Back at our table for a little resting and watering, I saw that the birthday club had finally sat down to their meal. For a minute or two at a time. Some ran off to dance, some came over to flirt with a couple of my friends.



I thought perhaps we'd gone about our dinner all wrong. We ate then danced. The Russians danced, then ate. Perhaps there was sense in that. Do we see dancing as a digestive activity while they see it as an appetite stimulant? I wondered.

I also wondered what all the fuss regarding hostile service was about on Yelp. In my opinion, the people that walked away from the place weren't trying hard enough (Yes, I know-- they have a good point). I regarded the experience as a bit of travel adventure.

I'm certainly no sociologist, but given centuries of strong-armed governments, pogroms, and war, I don't think it strange that Russians might be a bit tight-knit, insular, and suspicious as a group. Once we got past the doorman and actually started talking to people, we found them warm and lively. It just takes a little while. To make more pat generalizations about the Russians, I think that any civilization that has made such incredible contributions to literature, music, and dance is worth the effort to get to know a little better. And those little matrioshka stacking dolls. Sigh.

What started out as a rather uncertain evening ended up being a hell of a lot of fun. If you can see yourself making it past the doorman, I say put on your (fake) fur hat and your dancing boots and just go.

Here's a sped-up video of the place. Stop at any frame to get a good look at the joint:



The Russia House is open to the public on Saturday nights. Please don't ask the hours, because I have no idea.

Russia House is located at 2011 Bayshore Boulevard in San Francisco, 94134
View Map
Call 415-330-9991 for reservations. Be strong.

Labels: michael procopio, reviews, russia house

Despite the proliferation of excellent burritos and taco trucks worth chasing down, it's hard to find a decent sit-down Mexican place in San Francisco. While Mexico DF isn't quite perfect, it's good enough to overlook the flaws and welcome its addition to the city's restaurants.

They say you never get a second chance to make a first impression; visually, Mexico DF nails it. From an oversized rustic chandelier made from a lattice iron grill and hanging crystals to vivid back-lit artwork by Oaxacan artist Rufino Tamayo, Mexico DF is a beautiful space with refined nods to the country that inspired it. Tables are laid with brightly colored chargers, and the open kitchen is roofed with a cherry red canopy. On a recent Saturday night, though the bar was calm, the dining room had a pleasant buzz to it. Service, though rumored to be amateur, was anything but. Our server was friendly, full of recommendations, happy to answer questions (where the goat was raised, for example) and he changed out our plates and silver between every single course.

The name of the restaurant, which refers to Mexico's capital city, gives some idea as to the focus of chef David Rosales' cuisine. The dinner menu offers a bit of everything (except burritos), from ceviche to soup, tacos to whole roasted fish.



We started with the house guacamole. If you had asked me to rate the restaurant after only one bite, I would have awarded it an A. Thick, creamy, and judiciously seasoned, the guacamole ($9) arrived with a handful of tortilla chips architecturally arrayed in its greenery, as well as two kinds of salsa (sweet chile de arbol and peppy tomatillo-habanero, which are available for sale by the bottle). Our server brought us a back-up supply of chips so we could lap it all up.



Both the margaritas we ordered -- the sweet, midnight-colored Xochimilco with hibiscus and peach juice ($9) and the classic Polanco ($10.50) with Herradura reposado -- were well-made and easy to drink. Next time I'd like to try a version with muddled grapefruit just for kicks. After our guacamole, we switched to wine. The Tobia tempranillo ($12) was smokier than I liked, but the fruitier MAS malbec ($8) suited me well. Neither were particularly astute matches for the food, however.

It was the corn fungus that convinced us to share the chile relleno rather than one of the ceviches. A gigantic mild green pepper ($14) was stuffed first with corn, summer squash, and the musky sweet Mexican delicacy known as huitlacoche, then coated in breading, deep-fried, and drizzled in crema and Tangerine tomato salsa. The fried coating got soggy under the sauce, but its inner beauty shown through, and we gobbled up the the insides wrapped in their crisp pepper shell.



For our mains, we heeded the mighty call of the taco. The chuleta consisted of small pieces of lean pork loin ($9 for two), a confetti of raw white onions, and chile de arbol salsa on the side. They were only okay. I was craving a juicier meat, I suppose, so it's my own fault for ordering the loin. But it doesn't change the fact that they were no better than average. Next time, I'll get the carnitas.

The cabrito ($12 for two), however, were oustanding. Goat meat is popular in a variety of cultures, from Latin America to the Middle East. It isn't something we gringos eat a lot, and I can tell you we're missing out. The rich, juicy, slightly smoky barbacoa-style goat was the best thing I ate all night.

We're gluttons, so we also ordered a huarache corn masa "sandal" with grilled short ribs ($10). The meat had a great grilled flavor, but it was too fatty for me and I spit it out. My boyfriend devoured it, though, and I found myself compulsively picking at the queso fresco on top.

I'm not sure whether I loved or hated the house pickled jalapenos ($2) that arrived at my request with my tacos. The thin carrot slivers were sweet and tangy, but the peppers packed more punch than a heavyweight boxer in the fight of his life, and my poor palate got quite a scorching. I had to order a side of crema to cut the heat, and sat spooning it into my beleaguered mouth for quite some time. Still, I can't say that I didn't sort of enjoy the rush, and as soon as my tongue had cooled, I picked up another one and took another bite. (A much smaller bite.)

We ended our meal with a burnt caramel flan ($8). I'd hoped it would change my mind about flan, and though it was creamy and the sweet caramel sauce burnt just enough, in the end it was only flan.

Overall, we enjoyed an above average meal, tasty margaritas, superb service and a few standout bites. I really appreciated the more unusual ingredients on the menu, neither of which I can recall seeing on a local menu before. Our server told us that the goat is raised in Colorado for Niman Ranch, and the huitlacoche is grown for the restaurant by a local farmer. Next time I'm craving Mexican and I want to sit down and linger over dinner, I'll be back.

Mexico DF
139 Steuart Street at Mission
San Francisco
(415) 808-1048
Open 7 nights a week for dinner, M-F lunch

Labels: catherine nash, mexican, Mexico DF, restaurants, reviews

A provocative question, especially for a food-loving town in a beef-righteous nation. It's a question that I can't even answer, really, not having sampled every burger in the Bay Area, or even the smaller list of San Francisco cult favorites.

But one thing I can tell you is that the burger at the newly opened Spruce is absolutely, unequivocally, utterly delicious.


photo by Jen Maiser

I met a friend there on a recent Monday night about two weeks after it opened. (Was this the most highly anticipated restaurant opening in recent memory or what?) We snagged two seats at the bar and settled in for drinks, I with my bourbon stone sour ($8) and Jen with her Clover Club ($8), a sweet-tart blend of gin, lemon juice, and Hangar One Aqua Perfecta framboise eau de vie. (The former: eh; the latter: double-yum.)

Even though we were splitting a burger at the bar, our meal started with an amuse bouche, a small gift of the world's best beet chips, vivid vermilion and perfectly salted, with a side of horseradish cream. They hit the spot.



We were in a nibbly mood so we shared two orders ($7 each) of housemade charcuterie -- which is surely now the most oft-typed phrase in my restaurant write-up vocabulary -- and enjoyed noshing our way through coins of soft smoked chorizo and glossy slivers of spicy coppa. I devoured the onion relish compulsively, and liked the sprinkling of smoked pimenton. We drank, we talked, we admired the view (chocolate mohair walls, soaring steel trusses, a glittering skylight) and took in the crowd, mostly couples and friends hungrily eyeing their food rather than one another.



When the burger ($12) arrived, it was draped, on request, with a melted slice of cheddar but otherwise unadorned, save for a small garden of lettuce, tomatoes, pickled red onions, and thin sheets of dill pickle on the side. Many regulars of the Village Pub, also owned by the trio behind Spruce, liken the "bun" to an English muffin, and that seems as apt a description as any for the thin, textured, somewhat porous bread. My only complaint is that they really overdid it brushing the bun with butter. Other than that, the burger was perfect -- hefty enough to feel good in the hand, satisfying, well-seasoned (an area where the kitchen clearly excels), juicy, and flavorful. Every bite was delightful and I would have eaten every last pickle if my mother hadn't taught me to share.




The fries that came with it were served in a silver cup, and assuming they are the same ones that accompany the bavette steak on the dinner menu, fried in duck fat. Holy Deliciousness, Batman! Crisp, just the right side of greasy, and perfectly salted; odd, however, that we had to ask for ketchup (and mustard). Is it really so rare to want these condiments when ordering a burger and fries? They should just slap them on the side and be done with it.

The service throughout the meal was spot on, though the lamp on the corner of the bar made it hard for our bartender to tell when Jen's drink had run dry. We passed on dessert, even though they were created by Bay Area wunderkind William Werner, formerly of the Ritz-Carlton Half Moon Bay; a girl has to save a little something for the next time.

I perused the dinner menu while I was there and, despite being written by a devoted minimalist, a few things on it popped out at me -- watermelon and arugula with cured sardines, for instance, and crudo with vegetables escabeche (did I call this new trend or did I call this new trend?).

I'm looking forward to my next visit.

Spruce
3640 Sacramento Street
(415) 931-5100
San Francisco
Open 7 days a week for dinner, M-F for lunch

Labels: burger, catherine nash, restaurants, reviews, Spruce, Village Pub

There are a number of restaurants in this city that have captured my imagination-- restaurants about which I know absolutely nothing, apart from the clues given away by their often antiquated signs and odd locations. Russia House and Julius' Castle come to mind. I am not typically curious about what's new and exciting. I leave that to other, hipper bloggers. Show me a restaurant that has survived fire, earthquake and food trend and I'll be there. Sooner or later. It's not as if they're going anywhere.

I've driven by the Old Clam House for years. Or, rather, been driven by it-- I don't have a car. It has captivated me for a number of reasons. First, it's location-- a rather depressing stretch of Bayshore Boulevard, near the stretch of the 101 called the James Lick Freeway-- a fact not lost upon me. Next, it's age. The Old Clam House has been in business since 1861, making it second only to (please correct me if I'm wrong) Tadich Grill in terms of senility. Lastly, the name itself-- The Old Clam House. Does the word "old" modify "clam" or "house"? I assumed the latter, but refused to dismiss the former. A home for retired prostitutes also came to mind, naturally. My friends and I talked of going there for a long time.

Finally, after one near miss a few months ago, my friend Bill thought it high time to gather up the menfolk and wander down Bernal Hill for a special dinner-- my birthday dinner-- at the Clam House. As I sat with a cocktail opening birthday cards, I noted that a card from one friend read "To an (old) clam." Everyone, it seemed, was ready for the evening ahead.

When we arrived for our reservation, the seven of us were greeted warmly and offered our table promptly, but we paused long enough to note the Wall of Fame lined with celebrities either gracious enough to bestow autographed 8 x 10 glossy publicity photos they just happened to be carrying with them at the time or desperate enough in their ebbing careers to think that any publicity is preferable to none at all. I couldn't decide. One of my favorite Old Clams to grace the wall is pictured below. Please forgive the light reflection obscuring her face. I feel that, out of kindness, I must obscure her identity, however lightly.



Once seated, we were greeted by our server with water, baskets of sourdough bread and individual cups of hot clam broth which my friend Dan, who swallowed his fear of clams (the actual meat, not clam byproducts or the idea of clams) to come to dinner, declared it good. And it was-- subtly flavored. Briny and fresh tasting without being too, well, clammy. It struck a good first note.

While figuring out what to have for our main courses, we contented ourselves with beer and ordered two plates of fried calamari. My friend Bill and I ordered cups of clam chowder, which seemed like a too obvious choice, but a good one, nonetheless. The clams inside the chowder were plentiful and tender; the potatoes had enough tooth to them without being undercooked. I could smash the chunks on the roof of my mouth with my tongue. If I wanted to. However unsubtle it may have been, I introduced Bill to the pleasure of adding tabasco sauce to chowder. I like the heat it gives and the pretty pink color, naturally. The fried calamari was exactly as it should be, too. Crispy and ungreasy with just a little bit of chew. I normally avoid cocktail sauce and go straight for a squeeze of lemon, but I dipped a few tiny tentacles in, since the sauce was homemade. I might have stifled a yawn, but that's just me. It was good cocktail sauce, if you like that sort of thing.

While browsing the menu, I noticed that the restaurant served Scalone Bordelaise. If you are among those fortunate enough never to have run into this terrible shotgun marriage between bivalve and gastropod, scalone is a mixture of scallops and abalone-- two wonderful mollusks when kept in their separate corners-- usually ground together and frozen into patty or steak form. They must be pan fried directly from the freezer, in my experience, or they will do what is only natural-- separate. The only reason I know this is that this dish was served as an annual specialty at the Bohemian Grove camp I worked at last summer. We referred to the dish as Scabalone which, to us, is what it looked like when sufficiently browned on the griddle. Our campers ate it with a squeeze of lemon. as though to sanitize. I can imagine that adding a creamy sauce to it would only make the scab look infected. I moved down the menu.

I opted for the Mescalanza because it had a bit of everything in it-- crab legs, clams, prawns, Oysters Rockefeller. That, and because the name made me think of Mario Lanza singing "Be My Love". Impossible to refuse, in my book. I think I made the right choice, at least in terms of the dish's theatrical value...



Flaming seafood. An attention-grabbing entree is always in order on one's birthday. I thought about making a wish by blowing out the clam, but thought better of it.

I'd never had a seafood bordelaise before. The sauce itself was fine, but made an already rich dish obscenely so. I nibbled at the Oyster Rockefeller slowly, since there was only one and, to me, the star attraction. To my surprise, I actually liked clams drowned in sauce, but I think the other bits of seafood suffered, like the prawns and crab. Though impaled on skewers suspended above the bowl on what looked like a dumb bell rack, it was impossible not to coat everything I touched with bordelaise-- it was all over my hands. When my butter-coated fingers dropped a prawn into the bowl, I discovered a bit of sunken treasure-- an ear of corn. I think the fact that an ear of corn can go unnoticed at the bottom of one's bowl for several minutes illustrates either the immense size of the bowl in question or the limited observational powers of the person eating it. I vote for the former but won't rule out the latter. Shaking off as much sauce as I could, I bit into the corn. The corn juice released from the now-damaged kernels mingled with what sauce remained, not so much running down my chin, but getting absorbed by my beard. The corn was abandoned.

The other dishes ordered by my dining mates were just as gargantuan. The clam linguini was enough to feed all seven of us and was actually delicious. My friend David's Lazy Man's Cioppino was served in the same oversized bowl as my Mescalanza. We questioned why the dish was named "Lazy Man's Cioppino". Since the crab legs were uncracked and the prawns still in their shell, we assumed that the lazy man in question was the one who prepared the dish.

As we finished our dinners, or at least tried to, I asked our server for a hot towel, since my hands and part of my left forearm were coated with bordelaise. She said yes, but returned without one. I asked someone else for an extra napkin and was given a few small ones of the paper kind. I was wedged into the middle of the table and didn't feel like getting up to go to the bathroom, so I just moistened the paper napkins with what little water was left in my glass and cleaned myself up as best I could given the tools I had. I had hoped that someone might think about clearing our table of dirty plates, but hope accomplishes nothing except the heightening of future disappointment.




I am very glad I didn't get up to go to the restroom. As we abandoned our dinner, my friend Gary turned to all of us and said, "Keep an eye on the door of the Ladies' Room and see what comes out. It's good."

We all tried to keep up our conversations, but everyone kept staring at the Ladies' Room door. A couple of minutes passed. Nothing. A tall, fifty-something blonde entered and then exited two minutes or so later. Was that what we were supposed to be looking at? No, of course not. We'd all stared at her as she went in.

As my attention was beginning to flag, out came a rather tall woman with enormous breasts that were so ill-contained by her overflowing tank top that her aureolae peeked over the top, though her shirt was partially covered by what looked like an open Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation 1814 leather jacket. Her stride was confident across the restaurant, even in her high heeled boots. She wet her index finger with her tongue and wiped the corners of her mouth as she walked. Someone at my table intimated that she might be a working girl. I thought perhaps she was just having the same issues with the excess of bordelaise I was.

Then a man came out of the Ladies' Room adjusting his pants. I knew then that the joke I'd made about the the restaurant being a home for retired prostitutes wasn't too far off the mark. I'll just have to omit the word "retired" the next time I tell it.

Considering the fact that this woman was a practitioner, one assumes, of the world's oldest profession, I thought her behavior best suited for the oldest restaurant, Tadich Grill. Since I don't know what the world's second oldest profession is, I was at a loss to give her any restaurant-appropriate career advice.

No dessert was offered to us, though I had heard tell of flan being available. It would have been nice to have had a candle to blow out, to make a wish for my 38th year, but it seemed so obvious to me that this woman stole my birthday thunder. There was no way in hell I was going to out-blow a professional, so I let her have the honor. I just wonder what she wished for. I hope it was something nice.

Labels: michael procopio, reviews, the old clam house

When a new restaurant opens, it's hard to know ahead of time how things will turn out. Some places get a lot of buzz but never live up to it, others turn out fabulous food but can't make ends meet. Some places are packed night after night, even if the food isn't anything to scream and shout about. Unless you have a trusted crystal ball in front of you, sorting out a restaurant's fate is usually the job of Father Time.

But with Laiola, even before I stepped inside I knew that the place was going to take off. Mostly, because a mere four days after opening -- without a liquor license, no less -- it already had.

I rolled up to the old Pizza My Heart location on Chestnut Street near 8 pm on a weekday night. The narrow storefront is all windows, and it was packed full of P.Y.T.s, with more hanging around outside, madly texting friends to meet them there. A faint pinkish glow emanated from within thanks to the stunning pressed copper ceiling; it's a very flattering light for all the pretties (and the not-so-pretties, too).

When I walked in, I was smacked in the face by the cold, hard truth: Laiola couldn't serve any wine yet. I looked behind the bar at all the shiny wine bottles and sighed. The good news? They were waiving corkage, and Nectar Wine Lounge down the street was kindly selling their retail wines at 10% off. I turned to my friend Karen to discuss who would go fetch a bottle, when I got even better news: My friend Brett was just finishing his meal at the bar, and he had more than half a bottle of albarino left. Would Karen and I like it?

Let's see. Is Thomas Keller a perfectionist?

We plopped down next to Brett and, from our perch at the bar, watched one of the cooks drape thick slabs of succulent-looking slow-roasted piglet over a pile of gigante beans ($19). Plate after plate, the aroma was enough to reverse my unfavorable impression of roast suckling pig formed years ago in a heavy wooden-beamed restaurant outside Madrid. I vowed to try it again one day.

Laiola bills itself as a "California restaurant inspired by Spain" -- and it's heavy on the Spain. A glance at the wine list showed it's all Spanish-grown or Spanish varietals, with most offerings by the individual miniature carafe or the bottle. A clever touch, those carafinas, which hold one-third of a bottle of wine. They look to be a great value, too, hovering near $10 apiece. Rumor has it that cocktails created by Camber Lay (Range, Frisson) will rock the house soon.

Chef Mark Denham (42 Degrees, Hawthorne Lane, Manresa, Postrio) has created a flexible menu, with a small selection of house-cured charcuterie, a dozen appetizers, a handful of entrees, and a few quick desserts. We opted to share a series of tapas, and loved the spicy salchicon ($6), five fire-engine red coins of pork sausage served on a slab of wood. Laiola's website says it's made from "a mix of coarsely ground Niman Ranch pork shoulder and back fat seasoned with plenty of Pimenton garlic, chile powder and cayenne pepper." Mmm.



We also oohed and aahed over the marinated local sardines, garden vegetables in escabeche ($11), crisp local sardines roasted and served atop baby vegetables like carrots, shallots, and cauliflower, each pickled in their own brine. I'm calling this the dish of the summer. Like the equally good version at Nua, it alternates between salty and sweet, cool and hot, crisp and soft.

The deep fryer was down so we didn't get to sample the patatas bravas ($6), a classic Spanish dish comprised of thick wedges of potatoes dressed with spicy aioli. But the bacon-wrapped Medjool dates stuffed with chorizo, grilled, and drizzled with aged Balsamic vinegar more than made up for their absence. They looked like small brown lumps when they arrived, but they were so smoky-sweet and good that I didn't mind burning my fingers or my tongue to finish them off.

Service was adept, and our knowledageable waitress was full of passionate recommendations. Not all of them paid off -- the side dish of rapini, for example, was undercooked and fibrous -- but given that Laiola was only four days old and besieged by malfunctioning kitchen equipment, delinquent paperwork, and masses of hungry diners, I forgave them their trespasses.



We didn't have dessert, but I was sorely tempted, especially after watching Brett slather toast with thick chocolate ganache drizzled with fruity Arbequina olive oil and a dash of Maldon sea salt ($7). It's a dish I've had before, even made before, and I speak from experience when I say it is the epitome of divine simplicity.

When we left Laiola, it was still buzzing (still!) even though no wine could be sold on premises in this notoriously "thirsty" neighborhood. It is already a place to see and be seen, but it is also a place to eat -- and eat well -- and, like the patina on the copper bar, I expect it will only improve with age.

Laiola
2031 Chestnut Street
(415) 346-5641
San Francisco
*No reservations*
Open 7 days a week, 5:30 - 10:30 pm (bar open till 11 pm)

Labels: catherine nash, Laiola, Marina, Mark Denham, restaurants, reviews, Spanish food, tapas

Summer reading should be pleasant fare. Though I had found perverse comfort earlier this season in Barbara Tuchman's A Distant Mirror-- the wars and epidemics of our own century seem paltry when compared to the Hundred Years' War and Bubonic Plague of the 14th-- I felt that, just perhaps, I should read something slightly more upbeat; something that didn't cause me to frequently check myself for lice, fleas or imaginary buboes. Something fun. Something food-related.

I was saved from reading MFK Fisher's The Art of Eating for the 17th time when Ian Jackman's Eat This: 1,001 Things to Eat Before You Diet fell into my hot --and mercifully plague-free-- little hands.

Jackman spent two years writing about and several more eating his way through farmers markets, hot dog stands, panaderias and testicle festivals-- and any place else that serves up food in this country. The result is an entertaining, mind-blowing catalogue of regional American food traditions and obsessions.

Eat This satisfies my criteria for pleasant fare-- something I can pick up and put down, jumping from chapter to chapter without getting lost. Though not a comprehensive work (which is impossible be given the expanse of this country, so don't cry about the omission of scuppernongs), it is a work of astonishing breadth, fascinating food facts and inspiration for many a future food hajj.

When I first flipped through these 382 pages of information, I was overcome with regret that no one ever uttered the words "road trip" to me. Not once. "Vegas" was about as far as it went, and culinary adventure was not the motivation behind that utterance. As I browsed further, skipping about between chapters in Part One: Eating In that seem organized like sections in a supermarket, I came across bits of food history I could relate to-- my father's fascination with Tastykakes in the Bakery chapter, my aunt's penchant for feeding her dog on Chateaubriand while the rest of us ate pasta in Meat.

Part Two: Eating Out is crammed with information not only on what to eat and where to eat it but, for example and (to me) much more fascinating, how a national dish such as the hamburger varies from region to region. A Sloppy Joe-like Dynamite? Go to Rhode Island. Butter Burger? Try Solly's Grill in Madison, Wisconsin. I'll need to ask my Madison contact about that one.

The bits of trivia Jackman picked up along the way are filling up the few remaining parts of my brain as yet unsaturated with useless information, which suits me just fine. From Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation, Jackman shares a wonderfully creepy burger fact:

Q: Which two American institutions were founded in San Bernadino, California, in 1948?
A: McDonald's and The Hell's Angels.

If you tell me that information isn't going to slip out of your mouth at the next barbecue you attend, I won't believe you.

Of course, for every one item I've tasted or place I've visited (or worked at, for that matter-- four are mentioned in this book), there are 20 listed that I haven't-- a fact I regard with hope rather than frustration. Pancakes at the Original Pantry in Los Angeles? Check. Hungarian Hot Dogs at Tony Packo's in Toledo, Ohio? On my to do list. My friend Gary's family is Hungarian and from Ohio. I've heard the stories, I've seen the photos. Jackman's credibility rating shot way up when I read that. Not that he needs my approval.

In a country I have often viewed (from my cultural bubble of San Francisco) as alarmingly homogenized, where the lingua franca has been peppered with phrases like super-sized and non-fat venti, Eat This simply proves that there are still a lot of lumps in the American Melting Pot. Thank God.

As I step up the planning of my impending holiday in Greece next month, my thoughts are already turning to the next trip. I'm thinking somewhere more exotic. Like Vienna, Georgia. I've never been to the Big Pig Jig Barbecue Contest. I smell a road trip coming on but, this time, I won't wait around for someone to utter those words to me. I'll say them myself.

Labels: books, eat this, ian jackman, michael procopio, reviews

I have a love/hate relationship with wine bars.

On the one hand, I love a good one. Give me a glass of something silky and bold, a plate of nibbles, and a comfy seat where I don't have to read lips to hold a conversation, and I'm as happy as a paparazzo outside the LA courthouse.

But these days, the term "wine bar" is bandied about so frequently, it's lost its meaning. Too often it's just a marketing ploy to encourage folks to frequent the bar of a restaurant that doesn't have a liquor license.

So when Nua opened as a restaurant and wine bar, I was suspicious. And rightfully so: though the wine list is long and esoteric, it's more restaurant than wine bar (and they've since dropped the term from their website). But I've forgiven them for hopping on the bandwagon because the food is utterly superb.

Chef Anna Bautista takes her cues from the Mediterranean, hopscotching from Provence to Andalucia to Italy, and the laidback charm those places are famous for has rubbed off on the four-month-old restaurant. On two of our visits, we made a reservation at the last minute -- I'm talking 4:30 pm on Saturday for a 7:30 table that night -- and on the third we changed the time. (Twice. What can I say? I'm indecisive.) Every time they were accommodating, and even sat us early.



Nua is clearly cultivating a neighborhood vibe, and when the weather permits, they fling open the front windows accordion-style to better channel the energy of their North Beach surroundings. The comfortable interior is what I'd call retro-modern, with color-blocked orange and cream leather banquettes, and shades of cool blue, orange, and honey-brown throughout. The staff is friendly, they split plates and glasses of wine without being asked if they know you plan to share, and they're knowledgeable about the wine list. On each visit, we enjoyed unfamiliar wines, like a Spanish Crianza from Bierzo to a white wine from Greece. My only quibble with the wine service is that the pours were on the small side our first two visits, but by the third they'd normalized.

The food, however, is outstanding, and it's why Nua has become my new favorite restaurant. Each meal began with a small plate of foccacia bread and a pool of golden-green olive oil. The menu is loosely divided into small and large plates so you can go the appetizer-entree route, or graze on a series of small plates (though the waitstaff doesn't explicitly advertise that option).



We ordered the sardines escabeche ($10) twice. Two meaty slabs of fish were arranged on a landscape of crisp Blue Lake green beans, miniature cauliflower florets, sweet pickled shallots, and currants. The sardines tasted light and fresh, and the dish teetered pleasantly between crisp and soft, tart and sweet, surf and earth.



We also ordered the side of roasted cauliflower with capers, pine nuts, and parsley ($5) each time. If you aren't a cauliflower fan, a bowl of this will change your mind. Roasting caramelizes and crisps up the tiny white florets, and the zesty dressing of olive oil, capers, and parsley makes them positively addictive.



Initially I balked at ordering the endive salad with white peaches, blue cheese, and hazelnuts ($9); it just sounded humdrum. But one bite changed my mind. The peaches were Platonic examples of their species -- sweet, juicy, floral, and full-flavored. There was just enough champagne-tarragon vinaigrette to match the bracing blue cheese and bitter endive.



The piquillo peppers ($9) we ordered on visit two were stuffed with a whipped salt cod and potato brandade, flash-fried, and served with a sauce of garlic, shallots, and parsley as well as some frilly frisee fronds. They were good, but they didn't get my tail wagging as much as other things did.

The Parisian herbed gnocchi ($14) melted in my mouth, and the baby artichokes and mushrooms created an earthy stew around them. The best part about the gambas al ajillo ($11) weren't the plump shrimp, but the fiery broth they were bathed in. When the prawns were gone, I used the foccacia fingers to soak up the robust juices.

Housemade merquez sausage offset with a cucumber, fennel, and tomato salad ($13) tempted us on the first visit, and I loved the contrast of hot and cold layered within the dish. But the veal and pork albondigas ($8) may have edged it out as my favorite meat dish. The meatballs were soft but held their shape, and the flavor was so clean and subtle that I could almost taste the milk fed to the little calf. The almond bread sauce was a revelation -- no tomato to strongarm the delicate morsels.



Like the small plates, entrees are lighter than they are heavy, and bursting with flavor. A recent seafood risotto with corn ($20) tasted of summer, while the quail
was accented with a plucky plum sauce and crisp green beans. Though portions were generous, neither left us feeling like we'd overeaten.

The blueberry fromage blanc tart ($7.50) was a light, fresh way to end the meal, but it was the butterscotch pot de creme ($7.50) we found ourselves oohing and aahing over time after time. Unlike its beloved Zuni cousin, this is a plain pot de creme, flecked with vanilla and covered in a layer of rich, supple butterscotch sauce. The creaminess of the custard is the perfect canvas for sweet butterscotch, though they ought to think carefully about the cookies served alongside. The almond cookie complimented the butterscotch beautifully, but the rich chocolate brownie battled the sweeter pot de creme all the way.



At Nua, the food isn't flagrantly experimental, but it is flawless. The wine list is full of surprises, the staff is easy-going, and the atmosphere is pleasant. No matter what you call it, that's my favorite kind of place.

Note: This review was based on 3 anonymous visits.

Nua
550 Green Street at Columbus
San Francisco
(415) 433-4000
Open 7 nights a week

Labels: catherine nash, mediterranean, North Beach, nua, restaurants, reviews

The thing that struck me speechless was the salumi.

I know what you're thinking. "Salumi?" you're thinking. "That is so, like, 2006." Maybe. But when it's as good as it is at Bar Bambino, it never goes out of style.

The small salumi plate ($9.50) was the first thing my boyfriend and I settled on during our inaugural meal at Bar Bambino. The selections, which change daily, were chosen for us by Alex Potter, Bar Bambino's salumi guy. He and his batons of porcine goodness occupy a small corner of the main dining room, just to the right of the bar, where he works feverishly to keep up with the plates that circle 'round and 'round the room.



Clad in an impeccable white chef's coat, Alex himself delivered a wooden tray to our table that glistened with creamy pork fat. It was stacked five rows deep with three kinds of housemade salame as well as prosciutto and pancetta. He walked us through each one so that there was no doubt what we were eating -- an oversight too many good restaurants make.

"This is the ciauscolo," he said, pointing to the one farthest from me. As owner Christopher Losa explained via email, ciauscolo comes from the Marche region of Italy, just south of Emilia-Romagna on the eastern seaboard. "Ours is done in a bit firmer form than most (it's traditional in the Marche to have ciauscolo spreadable, not unlike French rillettes) because I like to have the purity of the meat flavors and seasonings be fully accessible and not competing with bread," he wrote. Bar Bambino flavors their version with garlic and allspice.



Next there was a salame toscano, made with red wine and black peppercorns, and a finocchiona, distinguished by fennel seeds, lavender, and other aromatic herbs. I picked up a sliver and held it up to the light. It was sliced so whisper thin, I could have read the menu through it.

We happily munched our way around the plate, letting slices of barely crisped pancetta melt on our tongues and fighting over the last slice of finocchiona. Christopher says that all of Bar Bambino's own salame is made from Duroc pork that is raised naturally in Iowa. "But we recently found a Duroc-mix locally (Sonoma) that our next batches will be from. I'm excited to see how the local pig fairs [sic] from a taste/consistency perspective."

In addition to Bar Bambino's housemade salumi, all of which is made in a curing room in Geyserville, Christopher offers a sopressata from Salumeria Biellese, a New York-based artisan producer that's been around since the roaring twenties, and plans to expand his selection by offering goodies from other like-minded producers.



"I am an avid supporter of the renaissance in cured meat artistry that is occurring locally and I want to offer the best of Italian-style cured meats that we can source," he continued. "Just as I can't make the best wine, cheese or bread to offer my customers, I know that somebody can do more than we can alone."

My boyfriend and I enjoyed the rest of our meal equally well, from the "al ginepro" bruschetta ($8.00) -- creamy chunks of chicken liver enlivened by a sprinkling of fleur de sel -- to the polpette ($14.75), meatballs in a light sauce of tomatoes, onions, and chard. My only real complaint was the chintzy wine pours (I noticed punier than normal glasses at Nua, too -- a disturbing new trend?). As annoying as it is to pay good money for a Lilliputian glass of vino, it's even more frustrating to be constantly waving down your server.

But the meal was lovely, and the salumi some of the best in the city. This little piggie cried "whee, whee, whee" all the way home.

Bar Bambino
2931 16th Street
San Francisco
(415) 701-VINO
Open for lunch and dinner Tuesday-Sunday

Labels: Bar Bambino, catherine nash, charcuterie, Christopher Losa, mission, restaurants, reviews, salumi

There are some things in this world best left to the imagination; people, places or events so idealized they could never live up to the expectations built up around them -- your wedding day or a menage a trois with a pair of identical twins or, in this case, dinner at what has been referred to as the best restaurant in the world-- The French Laundry.

Ten years ago, a friend organized a chauffeur-driven pilgrimage to the French Laundry. Being fresh out of culinary school, I could scarcely afford the dinner, so I politely declined the invitation. Besides, I had been taught that limousines were for funerals and diplomats, so riding in one was out of the question. I was anything but diplomatic in those days and, had I chosen to spend what little money I had from my $8.50 an hour kitchen job, the only funeral I would have been attending would have been my own after my parents decided to kill me.

I'd regretted not going ever since. I've since wondered what it would be like to dine there. When my friend Lyle invited me to join him in place of his mostly vegetarian and largely non-drinking girlfriend, I said yes. Two days later, I went to see Thomas Keller interviewed along with Dorothy Cann Hamilton at the Commonwealth Club. I enjoyed hearing him discuss his philosophies regarding life, food and a life in food. I was excited that I would soon be sitting in his dining room eating what he had to offer.

I don't think anyone living beneath a certain sky-high tax bracket can go to The French Laundry without making it into some sort of event. It is not, by it's own design, a place one goes to grab something to eat. When we visit, we pack our emotional baggage full of inflated expectations and drag it behind us through the little garden and into the front door. It is the one thing the hostess who greets you is unable to check.

My fellow diners and I arrived on time for our 6:30 reservation and were whisked into a little side room, dimly lit and cool like a cave with walls of river rock, where our table awaited us. A little window cut into the rock showed off the wine room. If this was, as I had sensed, a place of worship, we were seated in its chapel.

Two couples shared our space. One pair dined with such grim seriousness that I thought one of them-- or their relationship-- might have only days to live. The other couple, from Houston as I gathered from their limited conversation, looked a little bewildered and on their best behaviour. I leaned into the center of our table and whispered to my dinner companions, "Why is everyone so quiet? No one seems to be having a good time!"

It was true. Except for us, of course.

Our waiter soon introduced himself, explaining and expanding upon the nine course menu. He was aware of the two bottles of Burgundy we had brought with us and suggested that we might start with a bottle of champagne, since it went so well with the first four courses. Lyle was presented with a wine list and we were given a moment to look it over. Lyle passed the list over to me and I browsed. We had agreed amongst ourselves that we weren't interested in champagne, but some sort of white wine was definitely in order. I saw a short list of Austrian wines that interested me. When the waiter returned, asking which champagne we might prefer, I told him we were interested in drinking a still white wine instead. Feeling rather dense, I said as much and handed the list back over to Lyle. Our waiter once again suggested champagne. We once again declined.

Enter the sommelier. We assumed he was the sommelier, since he was very knowledgable about wine, but he did not introduce himself as such. I explained that I was looking at Austian wines. Lyle mentioned his preference for crisp minerality, for something interesting at around $60. The gentleman returned almost instantly with precisely what we were looking for-- and Austrian Riesling. We were very delighted with his selection.

The food began its slow, steady dance to our table. And I do mean dance. Movements are choreographed. Servers perform what is known as ballet service-- dishes are served in synchronized sweeps by, in our case, two people. Plates from the left hands glide down in front of diners one and three followed by plates from the right, supplying diners two and four. It is all seemless, perfect. A simple, well flavored gougère here, a doll-sized black sesame tuille cone filled with Scottish salmon served there. Both charming. The two amuses seemed to carry with them bold-faced bullet points in what I imagine to be Thomas Keller's mission statement: the former promised a mastery of understatement, while the latter promised the evening of theater that lay ahead of us. Conflicting messages certainly, but not incompatible.

Our food selections were noted and our deciphering of lampshades applauded by our waiter.



Wash. Do not use bleach. Iron. I wondered how many of the other diners in the restaurant had an intimate knowledge of laundering. We turned our attention briefly to the linen. Not a crease or stain to be found. I noticed that my napkin was the size of an adult diaper and was, in fact, folded as such over my lap. I quietly tucked the edges around my hips and under my crotch and hoped no one noticed as I looked down to admire my handiwork.

With the meal under way, our conversation turned to food, as it invariably does with foodies. "There's a slight bitterness to the foie gras. What is that?" ."Lyle? Okay. Did that little Tokyo turnip just explode in your mouth like it did in mine?" "Did he say Jurassic Period salt?"

And such like.

I am pleased to tell you-- pleased to tell myself, at any rate-- that I was too busy enjoying the company of my dining companions and the food before us to be snapping many photos of the food. I did manage one or two, like the one of the Line-Caught Atlantic Halibut shown below:



I made an attempt to capture the pretzel rolls-- Lyle's favorite thing-- on film, but it looked rather unappealing in the photograph. "Did you try a pretzel roll yet? God! It tastes just like a pretzel!" We then explained to him that it was, in fact, a soft pretzel which merely lacked a knot.

As we finished off the bottle of Austrian Riesling and tucked into a beautiful Volnay given to Lyle as a birthday present, our conversation became more animated. So, too, did the main dining room. I actually heard laughter from some place other than our table. I turned around to see a room full of 55 to 65 year-olds dining and chatting. Over my right shoulder, a table of European businessmen with deep voices and, surprisingly bright-colored socks. I wondered what they were talking about and where they would go after dinner. I made no plans to join them.

Back at our table, the conversation turned to Evelyn Waugh-- Brideshead Revisited and my favorite character, A-A-Antoine. He had a stutter. Lyle's friend Jack and I offered our impersonations. I asked if he had ever seen or read The Loved One. He offered a detailed rendition Liberace's brilliant upselling of funeral services at Whispering Glades. I was impressed. Later in the meal, I learned why Jack took such an interest in that scene-- he's a funeral director.

At this point I went up the narrow staircase-- a staff member nearly hurling himself over the bannister to make way for me-- to wash my hands for the second time and, for the second time, found the single occupancy room empty and spotless. It seemed as if it were merely for show-- toilet tissue wrapped in silk ribbon, unused. Cute, but I wondered if people in polite society ever rid themselves of unneccesary body weight, or if they had people to do that for them. I returned to our table to find my diaper folded neatly on the table. We finished our sixth course -- a Snake River Farm "Calotte de Boeuf Grillée"-- with not too much comment. It was excellent. Techinically perfect. Of course it was.

Yet something was not quite right. At least to me. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The food was uniformly beautiful, flavorful and perfectly executed to the detection of both my eyes and palate. The dishware and silver were often conversation pieces. The rooms were lovely-- well-appointed and understated as though to counterbalance the fact that this building once housed a brothel.

And the staff? A sudden chill came over me. Or was that the Glacé de Fruits Exotiques set before me after the cheese course?

There was, below the smooth, perfect surfaces of the French Laundry, a subtle uneasiness; a tautness under its skin, like that of a woman fresh from a facelift-- eager to please her wealthy lover and unable to relax her facial muscles.

I scanned the members of the staff. Everyone was clean, very attractive and well tailored. They all smiled, but not too widely, as though no one should have a better time than the guests. Eye contact was always just narrowly avoided. Or did I imagine that? If our waiter would attempt levity, he would say, "I am only joking" before any of us had even the time to react. The fear of offense was fascinating. There was a Stepford-like quality to the members of the front-of-house staff that I found troublesome.

When he spoke at the Commonwealth Club, Thomas Keller stated that "Cooking is about repetition-- the perfection of the task at hand." I would agree with him there. Mr. Keller has perfected his cooking through strict repetition. But that repetition seems to makes its way into the dining room as well, which is unfortunate. When our food was brought to the table, it was described in marvelous detail, but it the delivery of information gave the impression of having been memorized, scripted and completely uniform. No color. Words like gougère and gratinée were mispronounced.

When our bill was presented, we were disappointed but not terribly offended that we had been charged $50 for uncorking the bottle we'd brought and had opened for us. In my experience as a waiter, if a guest brings a bottle of wine yet purchases a bottle from a restaurant's wine list, the corkage fee is waived. But I do not make policy and we were already of the mind to pay it before we even sat down, but it struck a slightly sour note at the end of our evening.



As we looked over our bill, Jack made a generous offer-- that he would pay for the food if the rest of us took care of the rest. Then the waiter, who happened to be standing between Lyle and Jack, offered that he would be happy to split the check four ways, if we liked. Jack replied that that woulnd't be necessary and that we just needed a minute to figure out the bill. Instead of leaving us alone with our bill, our waiter picked it up from the table. I cannot remember why, but I'm sure there was a logical reason for it. Lyle asked what the total was and, in what I hope was an attempt to be helpful, our waiter then read our bill-- which was, I'm sure quite conservative by French Laundry standards-- out loud.

"Food: $1,020... Wine: $166..."

We were pleased to know that everyone in the room knew how much we spent. Perhaps our waiter thought that a guest at one of the other tables might avail us of his or her superior math skills. We were, all of us, quietly horrified.

The check was paid. Shortbread cookies and copies of the night's menu were distributed, two round coasters with the restaurant's name on them that reminded me of dress shields were pocketed and we left.

On the drive home, we talked about our experience. We all enjoyed it very much. The food was wonderful, but only the little Tokyo turnips and chocolate-covered macadamia nuts were hailed as "amazing." We were well-sated bodily. Just enough food, just enough wine. But none of us saw it as truly fantastic. Not the best meal ever.

And that is our own damned fault. Or mine, at least. There must be such tremendous pressure to operating a restaurant like The French Laundry. It's an institution. It's a shrine to which so many come expecting the greatest meal of their lives. With food prices of $240 ($270 if one opts for foie gras), one almost demands it. How can one restaurant satisfy all the unspoken expectations of, well, everyone who has ever dined there, or ever will? It can't.

Perhaps Mr. Keller is correct in his approach of uniformity and repitition. It seems to be working for him and, I'm sure, the majority of diners there. It is his consistency that has kept his machinery well-oiled and running more or less smoothly since 1994. I just don't think it's for me. Which I can accept as either my own virtue or my own flaw. Whatever the case, it is my own.

I am, however, extremely glad I had the opportunity to dine there. I applaude Keller's food, his technique and his sense of fun-- at least on the plate. Now if he could just get his waitstaff to loosen up...

Labels: michael procopio, reviews, the french laundry