it's the chocolate stupid

i had mixed feelings as a child when my mother used to return from the chinese grocery store. she always returned with goodies: pickled cucumbers, fried gluten, sticky rice, pork buns, egg custards, and sweet rice cakes.

but soy milk too.

invariably, when i saw her unload groceries, she'd pull a half gallon of soy milk out of those pink plastic bags and place it in the refrigerator. once in a while she'd tell me to drink some or without asking just bring me a glass of it. i'd anticipate a glass of fresh squeezed oj (out of the carton, but still good) then look down and find the translucent white liquid and realize how wrong i had been.

the dreaded beverage even made an appearance in a recurring nightmare of mine. now it wasn't on the level of my earthquake nightmare -- at least until high school, but probably till i moved to california, i thought people died in earthquakes by a crevasse opening up in the earth and them falling into the bottomless hole (i was never sure whether they plummeted all the way to the magma) . hey, that's how it happened in my dreams (i woke up before reaching the magma). no, the soymilk dream was more of a mild night terror. my mom would tell me to drink the soymilk and i'd refuse. she'd insist politely and i'd start pouting. then she'd get angry and start yelling. to my credit, i don't recall ever criying despite the verbal abuse. yes, i remained strong until waking in a cold sweat.

but this past week, having fallen sick and with my car in the shop, my only access to non-delivery food came from one of the local markets. and because i'd always thought it looked charming from the outside, i elected to try the natural food store, aptly named the natural food store. as i wandered through its narrow isles, i came upon the shelf displaying all varieties of soymilk. and as fate would have it, the vitasoy brand was discounted to just $1.99 for a quart.

the idea of giving soymilk another try began to rattle around inside my skull. well, i did like tofu quite a bit now, which i wasn't fond of as a child. and like soymilk, tofu also comes from the soybean. perhaps my soy tastebuds had changed from a hatred to a love during my transition from child to adult. so i pulled one of the rectangular cartons off the shelf and placed it in my blue shopping basket.

when i returned home, i was excited by my purchase. i let it chill in the refrigerator, then popped the plastic tab and poured myself half a mug. i took a sip and was shocked, not because it tasted terrible, not becuase it tasted good: because it tasted great. as i swished the liquid around my mouth and then swallowed, the beverage leaving behind a smooth memory of sweet cream, i wondered, could this really be the same thing that had disturbed my nights as a child?

but of course it wasn't the same. the box i had pulled off the shelf was chocolate soymilk. and when i returned the next evening to purchase another basketfull of groceries, the carton i pulled off was vanilla soymilk.

three days later, i ventured out again to fetch a carton of the delicous and healthy treat known as soymilk. but this time i elected for another market, one that did not carry the vitasoy brand. so instead i took home a carton of silk vanilla soymilk, this time in the half-gallon variety. as soon as i reached my home i pulled off the plastic tab and poured myself a hearty glass. i raised the cup to my lips, my mind already anticpating its delicious reward. with my mouth wrapped around the brim of the glass, i took a full gulp and then another. come sugary richness.

but it never arrived. i looked down into the glass for answers. i couldn't understand what had happened. i turned to the counter where the carton rested. i reread the copy on the box. it still said vanila. then i turned to the nutritional ingredients. there the answer lied. only 3.5g of sugar per serving in silk instead of the 7g in vitasoy. i could barely taste the vanilla and i didn't like it. and if i couldn't taste the chocolate i wouldn't like that either.

oh soymilk, i thought you a friend for life. but no, my old friends, chocolate, vanilla and sugar simply made you beautiful for those two blissful nights. at least i'll have them forever.

my car's hobson choice

i've always loved this term. apparently it refers to a stable owner thomas hobson who lived in the 16th century that made the following offer to his patrons. take the horse in the stall closest to the door or take no horse at all.

it's all about the illusion of free choice. technically, hobson gave his customers a choice. but if you're in a rush to deliver fresh ahi tuna to the trendy, new sushi joint and 100 miles from the closest town, not taking a horse isn't much of an option. over time, the meaning has expanded somewhat and now often refers to the choice of two bad options.

which brings us to my car, or as i like to call it, my retarded stepson (not related, but only a father could still love it). those who call themselves friends of mine know the laundry list of problems that i've had over our seven years together, the most notable being the subframe of the car detaching.

now i have a different problem: the headlights blink, but stop when the turn signal's on. so should i be an asshole and annoy the hell out of anyone with the misfortune of driving in front of me by continuing to flash them with my xenons or have them think i'm an idiot who always thinks his turn is coming up?

well it sounded cool at first

once in a while, i'll let someone in on my pseudo-secret. i've played cards as my job. then i show'em my rolex. that gets the maximum reaction. shows how baller i am.

just kidding of course -- not about playing cards for a living or having the rolex, just showing it off.

on those occasions i do tell, i always get a favorable reaction. simply put, playing cards seems cooler than what most people do. you can only have the following conversation so many times (1) before it grows tiresome:

me: what do you do?
boring person: i'm a lawyer/banker/trader/equity analyst.
me: you like it?
boring person: not really.
me: cool.

you don't meet a poker player every day and their interest becomes obvious when they say "really?", showing their shock that someone uncorporate might still cavort with the yuppies. this interest is a manifestation of their optimism: they might actually have a conversation that interests them.

i need 10 seconds to kill it.

invariably the second or third question in their line of inquiry goes "what makes you so good?". and if i had even a little stomach for pretentiousness, i'd say something like "i don't know. i guess i can just look into people's souls and find their fear." that would probably go over really well -- if i could keep from puking on myself after expelling that load of shit.

i've actually spent time trying to figure a good answer. i came up with this:

"you know, cards is no different than any other battle between two men. and no matter how strong someone is, if you keep pounding them over and over, sooner or later they break. they see you coming and they wince. (pause for effect) then they're yours."

now unless the woman (you know it's a woman becuase you wouldn't spend this much time chatting with someone of the same sex) is hiding a membership to gamblers anonymous, she'll have no idea what you are talking about. but who cares, that sounds hot and alpha. but again, puke. or at least some uncontrolled laughing about how ridiculous i sound.

so instead i say the truth. i'm not actually great. i have no special skill. unless you count not having an emotional breakdown at the table after taking a bad beat a special skill. it is unbelievable often people will give away their next three months of rent money while trying go kill bill on someone who caught a lucky card on them.

that's it. i've never been great at cards, and never will be. but i never suck either. and my good is usually just good enough.

farmer brown

it's 3 a.m. and i feel like writing a blog entry. what i don't feel like is trying to come up with a catchy title for the entry to describe my visit to farmer brown.

i heard about the restaurant a few months ago, but it never made it close to the top of my restaurant list. it's a nice concept though. they buy all their produce from local black farmers. that sounds socially responsible, but when i mull over the concept, it leaves me with a couple of questions. do other restaurants discrminate against black farmers? because if they're not, i'm not sure this policy accomplishes anything. and secondly, is there any sacrfice in quality by only buying from black farmers. i'm sure there are black farmers who are doing great things, but what happens if there are no black farmers who specialize in certain strains of mushrooms? do they use inferior mushrooms, or not use mushrooms at all?

i don't have any answers and these thoughts would never have arisen if everything had been perfect. alas, it was not. we started with the handcut kennebeck fries and oysters fried in cornbread. the cornbread crust gave the oysters a hearty crunch, and its slight sweetness played well with the brininess of the mollusk. on the other hand, the fries disappointed. the dish had two varieties -- regular and sweet -- and about half of each were served lukewarm, as if they'd been sitting out for a few minutes.

overall, the entrees were a step up. the catfish and shrimp jambalaya had a nice spice to it, but was a bit of a one-note song. once the spiciness subsided, there weren't any other flavors to savor. on the other hand, the crisp, light batter of the fried chicken kept the meat moist while infusing it with a rich flavor. served with a side of dirty rice, the dish probably could have benefited from a slight reduction of sodium, but was strong overall. we only sampled one dessert -- lemon layer cake -- which should be avoided unless one finds dryness and density desirable in their final course. prices for all dishes are reasonable -- starters under $10, mains generally under $20.

what i was happy to see was a mixed crowd. this probably sounds racist, but it's pretty rare in san francisco to see a high percentage of black and filipino diners. but that certainly makes up a large part of the clientele at farmer brown. i hope that trend spreads to other restaurants, including those that don't have a soul food bent to them.

try, try again

just about one year ago, i posted the following as my new year's resolutions:

i will update this daily.
i will update this daily.
i will update this daily.

oh yeah, and i'm going back to the gym.

well that failed miserably.

thanks to the handy counter on the side of my blog, i see that i posted a grand total of 38 entries in 2006. that falls a bit short of my goal of 365. i did go back to the gym but then i went back to not going to the gym for most of the year.

but what would life be if one gave up every time they failed (answer: short). so for 2007, here goes.

• stop biting my nails (several weeks of success to report already)
• dinner party once a month (starting february)
• cook one real meal per week (multiple pots and courses)
• one month cycle
  
• stay with the gym (add ten pounds of muscle and lose five pounds of fat)
• 20k invested
  
• 2 trips
  
• remember how much i like my friends (keeping in touch, visiting, gifts)
  
• keep chin high (six days so far)

that's all for now -- or should i say all for 2007

a slight modification to the theory of humor

as proponents of democracy know, ideas great in theory can turn to disaster when confronted by the test that is the real world. so as thomas jefferson asserted in the federalist papers, i could not say with certainty that my theory on women not being funny held up until subjected to the rigor of outside examination by women.

and after some drunken debate over new year's dinner, i am happy to report that my theory held up beautifully to its first test. however, the contribution of others' ideas has showed me that even the finest theories can use several iterations of revisionism, the way of reasonable men. so without further due, i unveil the new, improved version of my theory.

men can make men laugh and women can make women laugh -- but men alone make both sexes laugh.

and to be honest, i'm not sure the things that women say to make other women laugh really qualifies as humor. rather it may just be idle chatter, which because of some unexplainable natural phenomenon causes giggling to ensue in half the world's inhabitants.

i'm sexist

but i'm right: women are not funny.

now some feminista might counter with the ellen degenereses and tina feys of the world. but remember, we're not talking about women who are funnier than the average woman, we're talking about women who are genuinely, laugh out loud, belly aching, bladder distracting funny. say dave chapelle, chris rock, jerry seinfeld, jon stewart etc.

so if and when you're lucky enough to find some girl who really has it, she's a keeper.

being that it is christmas, try this at home. ask your siblings about the funniest female person in their life (for accurate results, female significant others should not be present). then look around and observe the confounded looks that appear on the faces of those around you as they desperately search their memories for someone that even somewhat fits the charge.

maybe i should consider myself lucky. i have ran across the rare breed that is the humor-producing woman. and as chance had it, she shared her sensible theory to explain the scarcity. humor, unlike femininity, big tits and a hemispherical backside, is not valued in women. hence it goes unnurtured. and once females find they are unrewarded for the trait, they fail to incorporate it into their personality.

now, in my mind, this is unquestionably true. on the other hand, it doesn't constitute a complete explanation either. if it were, we wouldn't know what polonium or radium was. but of course madame curie did indeed identify these two elements, which leads us to the question of why there hasn't been a truly funny woman to emerge from the woodwork. in the end, it's only intellectually honest to conclude that there must be another factor, biological being the most obvious, that contributes to the female disposition for humorlessness.

i leave you with this statistic: 2.25. that is how many funny women i've run across in my short 29 and one-half years. whether that makes me lucky or not, i've yet to determine.

the panhandle's shining star

a short while back, i debated with a friend of mine where the good restaurants in san francisco were located and which neighborhoods played the haves and have nots. we didn't agree on everything (i dissed his home neighborhood, north beach, while giving props to the mission and marina), but there was little argument that the panhandle was severely lacking.

one restaurant can't change that fact, but the opening of nopa at hayes and divisadero certainly marks an effective first step. pick day of the week and one will still find the restaurant teeming with patrons, nearly all of whom seem to be chatting enthusiastically over a glass of wine. all the chatter means private conversations have to occur at raised vocal levels, but it also lends a festive ambience to the restaurant ideal for combatting the malaise that follows a mundane work day. the wide open space and exposed kitchen only add to this fact.

however, not all was perfect with the meal. The dishes generally shined, but the service ranged from curt to downright icy. the hostess nearly left my friend and i behind as she weaved through the crowds as if there were an unannounced race to our table. and the gelid blonde couldn't even manage a smile as she handed us our menus before skirting away. and though the service never lagged, at times it felt like we were being prodded through our meal in order to free our table for other patrons. our server gave terse explanations to my inquiries about the wine list and left the check halfway through dessert without ever asking if i desired a cup of coffee or a glass of port to accompany my sorbet.

still, the shortcomings of the service did little to detract from enjoyment of entrees like the mediterranean fish stew, which comes heaped with baby golden potatoes, squid and served in a hearty rouille. however, the real star of the meal is the seared black cod, a generous cut that your fork slides right through served with a crispy skin that adds a richness to the white fish. it's only the beef carpaccio with which i have qualms over the preparation. the meat is exceptionally fresh and with its topping creme fraiche achieved a buttery richness. however, the beef was sliced so thin it degenerated into a pile of mush while trying to extract it from the plate's surface.

even before i dined at nopa, i'll admit to being a fan. as much as the panhandle needs good restaurants, but the city of san francisco needs quality dining options that stay open past midnight (nopa serves until 1 a.m. daily) all the more. the food itself virtually guaranteed a return visit, but the extended hours means it earns a spot in the regular rotation.

13, 12, 11...all good things come to an end

over the past year, i've made a point of mentioning the wire every time the subject of tv arises in conversation. i do so because no other piece of viewing entertainment, whether on the big or small screen, even approaches the greatness of the series. it's the best thing on television. sadly it's also the best show on television no one watches. so i do my best to spread my word, because others deserve to share in that quality. and also in the hopes, faint as they may be, that a season six may somehow come to bear if a few more people start tuning in or buying the dvds.

and like i say to those i hope to convert, i wish i still had four seasons to catch up on.

the king of all liars

up till now, the best one i'd heard was on a shuttle from the atlantic city airport where a fellow rider claimed to have built an automobile that ran on used vegetable oil. he'd taken it cross country once too, though he'd have to stop at mcdonalds ever couple hundred miles and ask the fry cook for a bottle of their used oil. apparently, that made the car leave a trail of french fry fragrance.

well that all changed at the 21st amendment this past evening. i met a friend for a beer before the giants game and found him conversing with an older gentleman. as i approached him, he excused himself to the bathroom, but not before introducing me to bobby. i asked if he was also headed to the giants game. he said no. and i believe that to be the last truthful statement he uttered.

now with my fleeting memory, i'll never be able to do justice to the whoppers he dropped, but here goes.

- professional craps gambler, or "whale" as he likes to call himself, who travels the world, but spends a lot of time in vegas, mostly in comped suites at the belaggio.
- bigtime sports bettor, i mean to the tune of 2k-3k per game. that is all 16 nfl games every week. but he never uses a book. being italian, you just bet person to person.
- godson of frank sinatra
- and my personal favorite, fucked playmates with whitey bulger, reputed boston mob boss

the gayest thing i've ever done

other than suck that biker's dude cock (just kidding). well it has to be shopping at the container store. and not just shopping, but examining the various opening mechanisms to garbage cans; comparing the aesthetics of an enamel paint versus stainless steel; wondering if an 8 gallon capacity would be enough, even for a single "man".

as i wandered through the 2(!) expansive floors of every goody ever conceived that could hold other goodies, i wondered, perhaps out loud, whether i was actually one of those dudes who gets married, has kids, and on their 42nd birthday finally gets the whole guys in uniforms thing.

and this suspicion only grew with each moment i weighed the merits of whether a dual-direction drip tray warranted an extra $20 for a dish rack. i determined it did. well it had to be -- the red sticker pasted onto each box said so. so i was relieved to see another man pushing a well-stocked shopping cart past my aisle; at least until he greeted his boyfriend (the top) in a voice i could only imagine on a man if a monkey had been trying to juice an alto tenor's balls.

so as i stood waiting to checkout, i resolved to watch some porn or use my hammer to do something as soon as i got home.

well just as soon as i set up the dish caddy.

the business model of outlets

everyone loves getting a deal. it makes you feel smart, as if you've somehow outsmarted the system such that your money is doing more for you than the next guy's money is doing for him.

the outlet mall depends on this sort of thinking. fancy brand names set up shops, take in the past season's (and sometimes many seasons before that) ugliest designs, reduce their markup by some impressive percentage, and hope their brand will blind the shopper's aesthetic instinct. not to say that one cannot find worthwhile purchases, but one has to look mighty hard. and i can only guess what great proportion of shoppers feel the tinge of buyer's remorse on the drive back home.

all of this makes sense for the hugo bosses, calvin kleins, and kenneth coles of the world. but as i strolled through the 100-degree heat of the gilroy premium outlets, a store caught my eye. not because i thought i might find the one piece of attractive clothing, but because i could barely fathom how an outlet for this particular vendor came to be: jelly belly.

would a jelly belly outlet sell all the flavors that no one cared to purchase, i.e. tasted like shit? and if so, what would possess someone to patronize the store? granted there are plenty of fat people moving (or not) around gilroy but would they not opt for the flavors that actually taste good. after all, i can't imagine the candy to be prohibitively expensive. i mean, they do sell them at safeway.

light bulb. how about a gummi bear outlet. we can sell bulk packages of the yellow ones that even half the fat little 8-year olds who get picked last in kickball leave in the bag.

know your audience

through my year of j school, one theme always arose in discussions of the media: they don't write for the people who read them. it's why there's a business section in the paper, but not a social welfare section. it's why the silicon valley gets big coverage while oakland is largely ignored.

these thoughts occurred to me as i was picking up a few slices at arizmendi for my saturday lunch. as i ambled down ninth avenue, i noticed a banner hanging across the front of andy's, one of the local chinese joints. it boasted that asian weekly had bestowed the honor of best kung pao chicken (presumably for either sf or the bay area).

now i am not here to uphold or debunk asian weekly's claim. in fact, i am completely unqualified to do so, for i have never tasted andy's kung pao chicken, nor have i ever ordered it elsewhere. furthermore, i have never ate at a chinese restaurant where any of my companions to do so. this leads to me believe, that asian people don't really order that dish.

which brings us to the original point. why would a newspaper written for an asian audience have a best of category that is irrelevant to an asian audience?

the davis reduction

of the select group of guys who i consider true friends, one seems to do exceptionally well with the opposite sex -- with one caveat. he's got terrible taste in women. he thinks asian girls are overrated -- fine, i agree -- but he also digs the trashy look as well. the around-the-block but i clean up well thing. if i didn't know him and saw a photo album of his exes, i'd have pegged him for italian with an affinity for gold necklaces and earrings.

so to no suprise, the conversation lead to the discussion of handling women. the techniques, so to speak. his #1 ploy: the davis reduction. now i'd never heard mention of this particular tactic, so i asked him to explain. apparently, reduction is the term doctors use for mending broken bones. davis is his physician colleague who has transplanted this method to the male-female relationship.

apparently, davis, like so many others, has a difficult girlfriend, one whose psychosis seems to arise at regular intervals. and so when one of her moods shows, it's time to cut off the face time. ignore her, then reestablish the connection a few days later (say five) as if nothing out of the ordinary has taken place.

subtle, yes. without words you have communicated to the female who has control over the relationship. yet you were not mean, and in fact she has nothing to even accuse you of, since nothing out of the ordinary has even transpired. at least she thinks that's what you think.

i was of two minds while listening to my friend elaborate on the practice. one, i've always done this, though i never came up with a clever name for it. and two, it's retarded that this is how relationships have to work. because my friend was right. and so despite my approaching true adulthood (30) and him on the fast track to a career in orthodpedics, this is the idiocy that all people deal with. all for a little love; and a little more sex.

0 for 2

it's pretty rare for people to flake on me. i think it's because people like me. it might be because i make plans with so little time in advance there's no way to weasel out. nonetheless, on each of the last two evenings, i've had people cancel on me. goddamn planning.

but it's worked out. sort of. instead of drinks and dinner, i "decided" to work. and by work, i mean play cards. i think that sounds terribly pretentious -- when you refer to playing a game as work -- but when you're counting on the money to pay your apartment and nourishment, it is what it is.

i've been running a little salty recently; it may have something to do with my karma being shit right now. so instead of pushing things, i've pretty much stayed away from the (virtual) table. but my "diligence" paid off during the unexpected open spots in my schedule. a few fortunate cards, some horrendous play by my fellow players, and the last two days have given me rent and a token for my orange savings account.

all the same, i'd like to avoid the flaking moving forward. the good luck can stay though.

that looks mighty heavy, sir

make a list of the most loathesome activities and moving surely makes an appearance somewhere near the top. i can say that to be true, both personally and for all those individuals who populate the p2p review sites, like gayot, tribe and yelp. there you find dozens of posts entitled 'best money i've ever spent' or 'absolutely worth it'.

heeding the advice of those experienced with movers and the voice inside my head saying hard labor is better left to others, i secured an appointment with the local faves, delancey street movers. in three hours -- including an unpaid lunch break -- they moved my stuff from my one bedroom in palo alto to the same in san francisco. i'm not sure they broke much of a sweat.

and therein lies the rub. while i loafed in a lawn chair basking in the peninsula sun, phoning my other bourgeosie friends to extol the virutes of hired muscle, i began to feel, well, a wave of femininity. and the feeling was only exacerbated when the most diminutive of the three movers tossed my dresser -- which i nearly slipped a disc trying to move in -- over his shoulder and walked, seemingly on a layer or air, down the stairs and to the moving truck.

"strong, isn't he," another of the movers mouthed to me. yes, he was. but something made me suspect something between the lines. i found a silent, "weak, aren't you" there.

yes i was happy to not be scuffing my hands while fumbling box after box, item after item of furniture. hell, i might get a splinter. still, what does it say about a man who, through hours of work where the only thing he moves are numbers around a spreadsheet, has sissified to the point where he cannot even move his own possessions?

all these thoughts crossed my mind as i sipped a glass of bordeaux while unpacking my belongings from the boxes -- so neatly stacked by those three blue collar fellows.

attractive people don't like the homeless

i recently attended a charity art auction sponsored by an organization called the coalition to end homelessness, a name that more or less explains what the org considers its mission.

taking place at the somarts center on brannan, i figured it would attract a young and cultured, yet still profoundly hipster crowd. hence, even if i didn't take a liking to the art -- which i didn't -- i would still have plenty of pleasing things to look at. and not that i'm superficial, but this is was a profoundly unattractive crowd. and not that stylish to boot.

recently returning from a one year exile on the peninsula, i'm easily impressed by even a hint of urbanity (i.e., vintage jeans, you must be cool) on this night though, i may have secured the title of most metropolitan at this gathering. at least i had a hood.

fool me once, shame on you. fool me twice...

well shame on me of course. apparently some lessons are difficult to learn. and so i found myself once again dining in a tapas restaurant, hoping that small plates would finally fulfill their big promise.

this time the culprit was iluna basque, a somewhat trendy eatery on the corner of union and powell in north beach. as you walk inside, the interior designer's fondness for maroon becomes immediately apparent. the walls wear that color, as do the accoutrements selected to hang from it. but despite the bordello-esque hue of the restaurant, the corner location and long windows spanning 180 degrees of the exterior chase all possible feelings of claustraphobia.

and now to the downside; the dining experience. the first inkling comes just as you take a seat at your table. you unroll your place setting and spread the napkin across your lap, only to realize there is paper in your hand. it takes audacity to put seared foie gras on the menu and then ask patrons to dab their mouths with the product of a recycled notebook, but iluna basque does just that. if only they had demonstrated such boldness in other aspects, say the cooking.

between the three of us, we selected nine small plates, including a butter lettuce salad, seared scallops, a duck empanada, a petite ribeye and the aforemention foie gras. the only thing that stood out was the salinity. each bite elicited the expression of one who had inadverently swallowed a mouthful of atlantic ocean water. in fact, the saline flavor was so overpowering that you could taste nothing of the ingredients themselves. the only relief from this sodium infusion came from the wine, an excessively sweet and hollow grenache.

the one dish of the nine that i cannot speak for would be the cheese plate, which we ordered yet never arrived, except on the bill. upon mentioning to our server that he had overcharged us, he felt no need to apologize for the omission or to ask if we would still like to have the dish brought. without a word, he snatched up the bill walked back to the kitchen and made the correction. i'm not even certain he said a word -- not then or during our entire meal, since he felt no need to make a visit, other than the mandatory ones where he was dropping off food.

it's too bad, i mean for iluna basque. my two dining companions are recent transplants to north beach, and have plenty of money to spend. and i happened to know they were on the lookout for a regular neighborhood spot. somewhere to spend their money 3 or 4 times a month. the restaurant certainly lost them. and me along with it.

bar tartine: it's no tartine

if you live in san francisco, you are either well acquainted with tartine bakery or severely deprived. i suppose you could also be vegan, hence not able to enjoy their delectable baked goods, but there again you fall into the category of severely deprived. some doubt tartine's perfection, calling their bread pudding excessively eggy; those people would be mistaken. a more appropriate manner to describe the dish, and everything else they serve, would be the finest way to start a day.

despite the occasional complaint, however, the acclaim for tartine bakery is nearly universal. initially though, bar tartine -- same people, full restaurant -- failed to garner the same level of praise. inconsistency permeated the menu and the service lacked the attentiveness and precision of formal dining and the warmth and care of the best neighborhood establishments. or so the reviews said. but as the months passed, so did the critics. the dishes, which previously lacked imagination and suffered from flawed execution, had been fixed. now everything they served matched the quality of their bakery sister. allegedly.

i beg to differ. nothing on the menu was priced exorbitantly, nor did anything deserve to be. along with one of my regular dining partners, we split two each of starters, appetizers and desserts. i confess to never having any sort of confit except duck, so i was intrigued by the tuna confit salad. now i'm aware that tuna confit is just an alias for starkist. the fact that the greens were horrendously over-dressed in italian vinagerette only exacerbated the situation. my companions watermelon and radicchio salad was a significant upgrade, but still short of remarkable.

sadly, the entrees brought little relief. the sweet corn risotto was slightly undercooked, leaving the center of the risotto slightly chewy. but the pan-roasted quail didn't make me feel i had erred in my selection. the green salad the quail was served with actually overshadowed the bland prepartation of the fowl.

even the desserts, which would seem almost guaranteed to approach perfection given their relationship with the bakery, didn't quite meet expectations. the warm chocolate cake with chili flakes finished with a suprising kick, but it was notable primarily for its novelty. even their signature dessert -- muscato soaked nectarine served with a scoop of basil sorbet -- though excellent, brought little glee. the peel of the nectarine made it such that even when slicing with a knife, the fruit was ground into a pulp-like form. plus my knowledge that just a few short blocks away at range, a nearly identical, but superior version of this dessert was being served, simply made me wish i had chosen another dining location.

i'm sure i'll check back in a year or so. by then, maybe they will have actually sorted through their problems.

bocadillos, or how i learned to kick the tapas trend

i love the idea of tapas. but slowly and sadly, i am arriving at the realization that they don't work well in practice. sort of like marxism. in manifesto form, everyone involved is happy and well fed. in execution, not so much (see: ussr, late 20th century).

well tapas too. is it not every visit to a restaurant that after looking at the menu, you are faced with many more options than you could possibly try? not with tapas. instead, you get a taste of all the dishes that strike your fancy. mix it with a pitcher of sangria, a fex kalimutxos and a cafe con leche after dinner, and not only has your yearning for food been satisifed, but you're just caffeinated and inebriated enough for a night of socialization (and further revelry).

at least in theory. i've given tapas a fair chance. more than fair some would say. in addition to bocadillos, i've frequented esperpento, ramblas, picaro, alegrias, thirsty bear, cesar, cha cha cha and others i'm sure i've forgotten. i'm still waiting to be overwhelmed.

bocadillos has its high points, the foie gras roll and the grilled shrimp with pepper flakes most notably. but it has its low notes as well. the calamari was oversalted and the short ribs didn't fall from the bone when my knife and fork nudged them as they should. considering bocadillos represents the finest tapas san francisco offers, well, perhaps it's best to just stay away. the portions grow smaller, yet the price not to the same extent. the service seems rushed and uneven and the kitchen's execution inevitably tends toward inconsistency. maybe they're just asked to handle too many dishes at once. or possibly, the unshakable hipness of small plates these days means attention to cuisine just doesn't matter much.

whatever the reason though, i think i've finally learned to stay away. let the young urban professionals who populate the in-crowds fill the tapas restaurants; i've got other places to squander my paltry salary.