in range

not often can you authoritatively say this thing or that thing is the best. well here's not one, but two things that can be added to that list. the best thing about living (back in one month, after a 10 month exile in palo alto) in san francisco is the food and the best restaurant for your money is range.

range is a petite eatery, though not quite as petite as it appears from the outside. the front third of the restaurant has a bar and a handful of tables that they keep open for drop-in guests. but if you walk toward the rear, there is a back room decorated in a modern classic theme, both with its artwork and other rectlinear accountrements. the room is dimly lit and somewhat sparse so it lacks the formality of true four-star dining. and while that also extends to the prices, it does not for the quality of cuisine.

it should be said that the cuisine is new american, so unlike fine french brasseries the descriptions of menu items won't be littered with ingredients you can neither pronounce nor identify. and for some, that foreigness may be part of the fun for splurging on a meal out. it's not for me.

i've spent the past two friday evenings at range so between what my dining companions and i have ordered i've sampled a majority of the menu. however it should be said that in that one week time frame, the entire dessert menu has changed (bring back the plum upside down cake please) and they offer a daily specialty cocktail so there was no way to get bored. the bavette steak (similar to a skirt i was told) was very good, cooked to a perfect medium rare with an encrusting that bursted with flavor. however, i thought the horseradish cream sauce could have been applied with more moderation. the steak stood fine on its own, and about halfway through the meal i began to clean the sauce off the slices of steak with my fork as best i could.

essentially, that was the kitchen's only misstep. the brown sugar glazed chicken served with a nearly molten spoon bread rivaled the famous chicken of zuni. and the slow-cooked pork chop ranks so close to perfection that it makes one completely rethink their stance on the meat. i could rattle off a list of things on the menu that were also terrific, but i'll just mention one dessert: a muscato-soaked nectarine served with a dollop of mascarpone and a scoop of blackberry sorbet and a lemon-pudding cake. in fact, the only thing more remarkable than the food may be the price. starters never cross $15, entrees $20, desserts $8.

over the last six weeks, i've spent my dining dollars at bacar, zuni, plouf, globe, acme chophouse, and three seasons. and while all are at the same or a higher price point, none of them come remotely close to matching range.

dress code

on a lazy weekday afternoon, i found myself at the stanford gym pumping a little iron, some andrew bird playing in my ears courtesy of my iPod nano. i stood waiting for an enormous -- and flamingly homosexual -- samoan man to finish on the chest fly machine. likely, i was contemplating how embarrassed i should be that i'd have to remove about 75% of the weight if i hoped not to tear my arms from their sockets while performing the exercise. but my thoughts were interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.

a stocky black man introduced himself, identifying himself as the assistant general manager of the gym. now he was a bit too big to have a napoelon complex, but nonetheless, he seemed to take his position of power with great seriousness as if he were in charge of homeland security or national intelligence. in my mind, assistant manager of a gym is sort of like a junior cashier at mcdonalds, but that's beside the point. still, i think mr. manager enjoyed his pseudo alpha position.

he said (paraphrase):

"you're in violation of the dress code. we don't allow cargo shorts. but I'll let you slide this time."

gee thanks, that was magnanimous of you. sainthood in your future perhaps, mr. manager, for such acts of unmatched kindness. being the curious soul that i am, i decided to inquire. it turns out the buttons, allegedly, ruin "our upholstery".

yes, he referred to that sticky, pleather-esque substance as upholstery. funny, i thought the bodily excretions of the hundreds of profusely sweating women and men seeping into the upholstery, making it about as virulent as mutated anthrax and fragrant as an unwiped ass after a night of spicy indian food, was the real problem.

silly me.