Take That, Bobby Flay

Of all the reasons I finally decided to leave New York, Chinese food was one of the more important. What passes for Chinese food in New York would probably be sloshed in a trough in China. Except for a few restaurants in Manhattan’s Chinatown, the rest of the city is a barren wasteland of grease, canned vegetables and frozen meat. New Yorker’s also use plastic packets of ‘Duck Sauce,’ a hyper-sweet version of plum sauce, to further taint this, the oldest and most refined, cuisine.

Growing up in Seattle I could choose from a host of quality Chinese restaurants, representing the full range of regions, ingredients and techniques. While I’m sure the food was dumbed-down to suit me and the other gwai lo, at least the ingredients were fresh, the prices good and the spicy chili oil available on every table. And Chinese wasn’t the only option – there were also great Thai, Laotian, Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean and Phillipino restaurants within two miles of where I lived. I never suffered with a pair of chopsticks – my parents taught me early, and even my country-bred mother could whip up a reputable Mongolian Beef.

Now that I work within a few blocks of San Francisco’s Chinatown, where the pleasures of bok choy, rice noodles and fermented soy products were first introduced to the American palate, I can eat my way across both east asia and the subcontinent and still be back to work within the hour. One of the places I visit most often is Yee’s Restaurant on Grant between Broadway and Pacific. The barbecued fowl hanging in the window remind me of the neighborhood in Seattle I grew up in, so on first sight I knew it would become a favorite. And being the son of a country-bred mother, I am well acquainted with barbecue’s capacity to ennervate both the body and soul (if not the mind).

I usually stop at Yee’s for the barbecue duck over rice, which comes with some sweet steamed napa cabbage. For all this you pay four dollars and sixty cents, which has to be one of the best values I’ve ever encoutered. For my birthday I went ahead and purchased two whole roast ducks, which set me back a grand total of seventeen dollars. What a bargain!

Besides duck you can also buy yourself whole roast pigeons, geese, chickens and loins and rinds of pork. I recently tried out the roast pork over some chow mein – the noodles, fried with some soy sauce and bean sprouts, were a bit bland, but were livened up by some of the barbecued pork gravy. Next time I’ll have to remember to ask for some hot mustard and chili oil – the former for the pork, the latter for the noodles. Many of the neighborhood regulars opt for the congee or, like me, just get some delicious barbecue with the rice-and-cabbage chasers.

After a stop at Yee’s there are so many interesting options in the neighborhood. Drop by Sweet World for a lychee smoothy with tapioca ‘boba’ for dessert. I keep meaning to visit the poultry shop accross the street to choose a live chicken for dinner – they’ll pluck it, gut it and butcher it for you in a flash, making for the freshest chicken you’ll ever eat. Chinese cuisine, while relying heavily on bottled sauces, is definitely not about canned, processed and refrigerated ingredients – that’s English cuisine, and we all know how popular that is. Try to tell that to a New Yorker, though.

On a recent trip, I noted an order behind the cashier for a catered New Year’s party – sixty pounds of chow mein noodles, seventy pounds of fried rice, fourty pounds of stir-fried vegetables and a whole seventy-seven pound roast pig for a guest list totalling ninety-eight. Now that’s what I call a barbecue!

Fag Smoking Funnyman

Last Tuesday night I had the extreme pleasure of escorting the beautiful Monica to a reading by the funniest man to grace NPR’s airwaves since Dick Cheney – David Sedaris. The event was sponsored by Word for Word, a literary theater collective, and held at the First Unitarian Universalist Church. You may have read Naked, Holidays on Ice or Me Talk Pretty One Day, especially if you have dated anyone in New York City with a college education. But reading Sedaris and listening to Sedaris are two entirely different things. And you should really do the latter first, because then when you read his books you can recall the high-pitched nasality of his voice in your head, and laugh that much harder. In the interest of full disclosure, I had the honor of working at a booking and management agency that represented David and his sister Amy, both terribly nice people as well as wildly funny.

My only problem with David is that he gets to live in France and I don’t. I’m stuck in the United States, living under the pyramid scheme of Dubya, Ahnolt and Gruesome Newsome. I feel that Sedaris would have a much easier, and funnier, time skewering life here than taking on the foibles of French life. When asked on NPR what he missed about America since moving to France, Sedaris answered “The Simpsons.” The comic possibilities of artisanal bakers, respected students and elderly folks who fought for la resistance wouldn’t really work, and everyone’s beaten the whole Jerry Lewis thing to death. But Sedaris’ work is less about his environment and more about himself, a la Woddy Allen, leaving him relatively free to roam with his satire.

The first piece he read, “A Guy Walks Into a Bar” about a former love in Chicago, was funny but at the same time very dark and sad. It centers on his somewhat manipulative relationship with his first boyfriend whom he treated with no small degree of contempt and who reciprocated by sleeping around with other men. While the humor of Sedaris’ obsessive-compulsive behavior (like always doing the laundry at 4:15 on a Sunday, or going to the IHOP every night) got the appropriate laughs, his self-deprecating analysis of his controlling behavior toward his lover cuts to the bone. While Nabokov wrote in his “Lectures on Literature” that it is not good of a reader to conciously try to relate to the characters in a narrative, when the writer is there in front of you reading it becomes very difficult not to try. I was definitely along for the ride, analyzing my own recently failed relationship along the terms of his.

The next piece, “Possession,” I had heard performed at PS 122 in New York. It was just as funny, if not funnier, this time around. It revolves around his search for a new apartment with his partner Hugh and ends by recounting a trip to Amsterdam where he falls in love with the hideout of the Frank family during WWII. As his narcissism spins hilariously out of control, he’s convinced himself that Anne Frank’s sanctuary/prison would be the perfect new apartment. Now this – bordering on the fine line between incredibly funny and incredibly tasteless – was genius. It was like tipping a sacred cow. The laughter from the audience was genuine and cathartic, and his presentation was definitely polished from having performed and refined the piece over the years.

“Nuit of the Living Dead,” the last piece, is something new – and soon to be published in the New Yorker in February. Here he takes on his new country situation in Normandy with a morbid overtone. While killing a mouse, he is surprised by some wayward germanics lost on the country roads of France. When he invites the driver inside to offer him a map, he realizes that in his morbid preoccupation with exterminating the vermin he picks up on all the varied things in his home that surely give him away as a serial killer – knick-knacks like knives and skulls, books on the occult, etc. This material was more purely comic, lacking the depth of some of the other pieces. It may be because he hasn’t been working with it as long as the others, or even due to his relatively comfortable situation in life, that he is having a harder time finding the notes of discord and sadness that informed the other pieces. He also stooped to making fun of the tourist’s pronunciation of “willage” for village – the kind of cheap joke about the Germans the French love, but that rings as hollow as the jokes about Japanese accents in “Lost in Translation.”

He finished up with a joke about registering to vote, specifically so that you can feel superior to people who don’t vote; shilling the New Yorker literary editor Bill Buford’s Among the Thugs (which made me feel very clever, and a little dirty, for making the connection between the fact that this is probably the same person who bought his story for the magazine – quid pro quo?), Adrian LeBlanc’s Random Family, and Isabel Fonseca’s Bury Me Standing; and finally answering a few questions. One question posed to him about dealing with the anti-smoking laws here in the states sent him on a rif about the pleasures of France and the hypocrisy of San Franciscans, who will make you sign away your right to smoke in your rental agreement but then knock on your door looking to bum some weed.

So if you’re looking for some incredibly witty autobiographical satire with a manic, obsessive edge, rent Annie Hall. Or pick up a book by David Sedaris. Better yet, get it on tape – Sedaris himself is an admitted “Tapeworm,” a reminder that literature and performance are inextricably linked, as they were for Aeschylus and Shakespeare.

The Eternal Optimist

Okay, so maybe I won’t update this as often as I would like. That’s alright – it will give each post a bit to catch on to a search engine, since I’m not payin’ for no RSS. Get with it Blogger! Offer that shit for free. Regardless, I’m both streaky and verbose, and neither trait lends itself to blogging. You’ll just have to be patient.

Emos get all nostalgic at the St. Francis

The St. Francis has an interesting history. It has been around at the corner of 24th and York for decades. Apparently the San Francisco 49ers were founded at one of the tables, presumably over egg creams and sandwiches. When the rent and lack of business finally took its toll in the late 90s, it was almost lost to history.

Enter the former chef of Boogaloo’s, a trendy diner spot for the post-punk crowd. Picking up the lease and restoring the interior, it has been transformed into an oasis of fifties nostalgia in the heart of the Mission. Who would have thought? With its checkerboard linoleum floor, faux-wood grain paint job on the wainscotting, and cozy booths that were obviously built before SUVs and McDonalds supersized us all, it’s a totally endearing throwback to a time when Jack and Al and Lawrence might have shown up with the munchies or a yen for ice cream.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that one of the reasons I frequent the St. Francis is for the cute counter girls – but I’m not alone. My neighbor Tony frequents for the cute counter boys. So everybody’s happy. I grab a hot cup of good coffee on my way to the BART in the morning, and drop in for a late breakfast on a weekend afternoon.

The fare is classic American diner food, with breakfast all day and sandwiches or burgers for those more inclined toward lunch or dinner. My only complaint is that the food is a bit pricey for the portions, but I understand that they are having to cope with the high rents and low foot traffic that plagued the original owners, so I don’t complain. Still, everything’s fresh and made-to-order, with the corned beef hash ($8) and chef’s mess ($7) being my personal breakfast faves. The ice cream is fresh, local, hardly whipped and incredibly high in butterfat (from Mitchell’s). They will also serve you a beer with your burger if you so desire.

One of the more endearing treats is that they have a candy counter with a number of retro finds, like It’s It bars, Lemonheads and other faves that have gone the way of tailfins on sedans. They also have a great collection of collector’s cards from the eighties memorabilia boom, including packs of Duran Duran cards, Elvis cards (the fat Elvis), E.T. cards and more. At two or three bucks a pack they make great trinket gifts for your eighties obsessed emo friend.

Good for all ages, from the drooling bachelor to the wholesome date to the family with little ones, a trip to the St. Francis is sure to put a smile on your face.

Your used meal sells for $200 in Japan

I work in the exciting world of eTailing, or eCommerce, or whatever. After three hours of pounding the keys I can work up a mighty appetite. If I have enough money I’ll slip out for an hour or so and go grab a bite to eat. Sometimes I’ll wander up to Chinatown for the good stuff (Yee’s barbecue duck, for instance) but if I’m short on time or sleep I’ll head a block over to the Levi’s Plaza, the park that abuts their world headquarters. This is where I can hide out under a tree and catch a few z’s before heading back to work. But first I drop in on the cafeteria for a bite.

I don’t actually work for Levi’s, so it came as a surprise to find out that I can eat at their cafeteria. And here’s the kicker – so can you! That’s right, if you want to eat the same lunch that the guy who came up with Dockers ate, or, more likely, the guy who got the coffee for the guy who came up with Dockers, then this is the place for you. I’m boggled that more tourists don’t take advantage, but then it’s not exactly advertised or officially open to the public, so maybe I shouldn’t be. Breakfast is served from 8am to 10am and lunch from 11am to 1pm.

Some tips on how not to get escorted out of the building by security: Wear clothes that say “I work here.” Levi’s, of course, would be appropriate – ditto for Dockers. I wouldn’t wear Gap jeans – that’s just asking for a fight. Dress shoes would help. Halter tops would probably look more suspicious. Don’t bring shopping bags or the funny hat you just bought on the wharf – those things say ’stupid tourist’ not ‘bored office worker.’ And try not to look too happy – remember, you just had to sit through two hours of meetings discussing the difference between butter and yellow fabric swatches, and you’ve got four more hours of the same ahead of you. And try not to say “sweatshops” or “third-world labor” any louder than a whisper.

The park is actually quite nice, with a fountain and assorted foliage. The brick and glass building on the south side is where to go for food. You can just walk right in the front door, since the lobby is open to the public. Here you can gawk at various bits of Levi’s history, memorabilia and heart-warming corporate slogans. You can also check out their latest and greatest designs and ad campaigns. But if you want into the belly of the beast, try not to get distracted – you’re supposed to look like you’ve seen it all a million times. Just walk straight toward the electronic turnstile gates by the guard station, but instead of trying to get in the offices to steal the plans for their revolutionary advances in denim wear, go to the left into a little wood-panelled hallway where the other cubicle dwellers are headed. This is the cafeteria.

The food section consists of your basic salad bar, sandwich bar, prepared entree, grill and beverage sections. The salad and sandwich bars cost the same by weight, so feel free to mix and match – have a meaty salad with mayonnaise or throw some boiled beets and bean salad on your sandwich. You might be complimented by a curious manager who sees that you’re “Thinking outside the box.” I recommend the roast vegetables, but they go quickly. Luckily few people know what fennel is, so there’s usually some delicious roasted fennel after the standard peppers and eggplant are long gone.

The prepared entrees are different daily. There’s usually a comfort-foody item and a lighter item. Today the choices were a stuffed pork loin with scalloped potatoes or a thai noodle curry, each at $5.50. I went with the latter, since I didn’t get as much sleep as I would have liked and was worried about potato and pork induced food coma (I also avoid the grill for the same reasons). One end of the counter makes salads or, occassionally, sushi, which they had today. I have never tried the sushi – something about cafeteria sushi just doesn’t seem right.

You can get your meal to go, which is nice when you’re on a deadline or when it’s warm outside. I personally try to avoid sitting in the cafeteria, since the decor seems to be 70’s V.A. hospital in it’s inspiration. Plus I generally take a long lunch to get away from work – I’m not always so enthused about running into everyone and their mother from the office, and when you do have lunch with workmates, it’s difficult to take a nap without someone taking offense. People are wierd like that.

Overall the food is pretty good, especially for the prices. Lord knows how hard it is to get lunch for under ten dollars in the neighborhood where I work. And compared to other cafeterias I’ve frequented in my life (the federal building cafeteria in Seattle where my dad worked; New York University; the cafeteria at Hewlett Packard’s Sunnyvale campus – only the Microsoft campus, back when it was just six buildings, free catered lunches at Shockwave.com or the current Yahoo cafeteria compare) the food is definitely superior. Relatively fresh ingredients, well prepared, with enough turnover to ensure nothing’s been in the steam table too long. The Asian-inspired dishes are usually blander than their more authentic ancestors, but they have classic comfort dishes and pastas down cold. And for the health concious and vegetarian there are lots of options. It may have something to do with the culinary institute across the Plaza.

So the next time your eastern European or Japanese friend is in town and they’ve convinced you to take them to Madame Tussaud’s, get off the F car at Levi’s Plaza Park and treat them to lunch at Levi’s world headquarters. You’ll spend less and the food’s better, and they can go home feeling superior to their friends.

Comment and Contribute

Okay, this is purely administrative, but I want to encourage people to comment and contribute to the site. Do you have something to say on life here in San Francisco and why it’s better (or worse) than life in some other city? Then email me. Please. I want to feel loved.

Update: You will notice that at the end of each post is a new comments link. Click to leave comments for the world to see. I promise I won’t delete anything unless it’s nasty or overly critical. So “I really think you should have more about music” is okay; “You’re constantly changing verb tense and your spelling is terrible” will probably not make it because I’m vain and it’s not like you couldn’t publish your own blog on grammatical pet peeves.

Another New York Speciality Found

There are two things that I have a real hard time getting up in the morning without. Okay, make that three since I’m an evil cigarette smoker. Any of them will probably hasten my demise, but I’m going to die anyway and that’s a thought that doesn’t make it easy to get up in the morning. So I rely on the promise of fresh, hot coffee and a delicious bagel. And some cigarettes.

After moving to the bay area from New York City four years ago, I was prepared for a lack of bagels (and pizza – see previous post). While Noah’s New York Bagels can be found all over, I think that Adbusters or the Anti-Defamation League should look into their operation. They certainly aren’t New York bagels and in my humble non-chosen opinion, not even bagels but some other kind of bread roll.

Bob’s Boogie Woogie Bagel Boy on Piedmont Ave. in Oakland certainly makes a roll that’s undeniably a bagel, and these kept me in Sunday brunches for a few years, keeping me at least half a man until I found real pizza here (again, see previous post). Generally I’ve found the bagels in Berkeley and north Oakland better than those in San Fran, but for some idiot reason none of them have egg bagels, by far the best bagel in existence. I’m a man who worked at a bagel bakery in Brooklyn, makes his own lox and will not be denied true bageldom. When I finally moved to San Franciso, I started losing hope and started wondering if anyone had ever made a decent bagel at home.

So one hungover morning on my way to work, standing at the corner where I catch my office shuttle, I spied a little shop across the street that said “New York Style Bagels.” (Note: It turns out that the business is listed in the phone book as “Levy’s Bagels & Co.” – go figure). I’m a skeptic and a cynic, but this shop was obviously not affiliated with Noah’s, so I had a glimmer of hope. Could it be true? I mean, I don’t expect an H&H to pop up in San Fran (though I have had H&H bagels in Seattle that had been shipped frozen), but something heavy and chewy and cooked that within a few hours could be possible, couldn’t it? It’s not like there’s some bagel cabal that shoots any bagel baker if they try to leave NYC (at least I think).

So I ditched the shuttle, figuring that a walk would at least mitigate some effects of bagel breakfasts, crossed the street and entered…bagel heaven. First, they had egg bagels. Egg bagels! I knew I was onto something. Four dollars got me an egg bagel with lox spread, lettuce and tomato along with a medium coffee – breakfast of Kings (County). The bagel was dense and chewy, with that nice richness and color from the egg yolk. The lox spread was a little light on lox, but later trips found that the lox and cream cheese bagel came loaded with fish, so they’re forgiven. Paradoxically, Bob’s Boogie Woogie loaded their bagels down with enough lox to choke a shark – a nice departure from NYC stinginess, but I feel it was to make up for the core deficiency of their bagel prowess. I feel for Berkeley Bagel Boys, though – I, too, was anti-establishment enough to earn more than one scolding from my bagel boss for overloading, but they gambled and dealt weed in the back room, so count it against karma.

To my extreme delight, the drip coffee was none other than Torrefazione Italia, master roasters and purveyors of the finest coffee beans to be had anywhere. Seattlites in the know only go to Starbucks to service their addiction – they go to Torrefazione to enjoy a cup of coffee. In fact it was from Torrefazione that Starbucks stole the idea for their ‘Frappucino’ nonsense – I enjoyed an authentic granita on the way to a Mariners game in 1989.

So here I am, walking on my way to work with a bagel worthy of New York in one hand and a coffee worthy of Seattle in the other. I began to dream big dreams, like, what about an egg-everything bagel? The world is bright and full of possibilities.

Real New York Style Pizza – A San Fran Chimera?

Okay, so everyone knows that pizza in California almost uniformly sucks ass. At least everyone who’s not from California or hasn’t visited New York. And don’t try to talk to me about ‘California Style’ pizza. There’s no such thing, unless by ‘California Style’ you mean it sucks ass AND has fish or chicken on it.

Now of course you can get real Italian pizza – if you’re willing to pay $15 for a twelve inch pie at Il Fornaio. I’m not. Pizza is not supposed to be for rich people, and any Italian would tell you the same. Pizza is a snack, not a meal, and it’s supposed to be fast and cheap. These axioms are well known in the pizza capital of America, New York City. Chicago certainly has a passing acquaintance with these concepts – though what they excel in is the ‘Deep Dish’ style that was invented specifically to challenge the previously stated axiom that “pizza is a snack, not a meal.” But people in Chicago are fatter than people in New York, and I feel there’s probably a corrolation.

So how did San Francisco, a city that gave the world Joe DiMaggio and that has been home to millions of paisani end up with such crappy pie? Who knows. But it did. I can’t tell you how many places I’ve been in this city that served my plain slice lukewarm, with gummy cheese, sugary tomato sauce and enough dough to make Dr. Atkins run screaming. It would be one thing to blame it on the fact that very few pizzerias are still owned and operated by Italians, but certainly few in New York are operated by Italians and most will still serve you a decent slice.

Now for those of you who know New York I’m sure you’re a partisan for one pizzeria and no other, and it’s probably not named Famous Ray’s (unless you went to Columbia, in which case you are excused because you probably didn’t see that much of the city anyway). Me and Woody Allen have at least one thing in common: we both think the best pie is John’s on Bleecker St. in the West Village. Nothing like fresh mozarella made daily on the premises; leafy green fresh basil and fresh tomatoes in the sauce; and a crust you can practically see through that crunches like a torilla chip and then chews like marshmallow – all infused with the smokiness of a wood-fired brick oven. Plato was wrong when he remarked that objective truth could not be known, because the true form of pizza is a slice of John’s (though they don’t serve slices, only whole pies) and I know it and love it. It is not my benchmark, but the benchmark.

So it was with real surprise that on a lovely night of cruising the Mission with some friends, most of them fellow NYC expatriates, that I was introduced to real, good, New York-style pizza. The place was decked out with linoleum everything, had those wierd cascading juice dispensers, half-a-dozen stools along on either wall and the hipsters behind the counter looked like they had just gotten there from Wiliimasburg on the L. Welcome to Arinell Pizza.

I knew I was in the right place when I read the sign on the wall that warns no sugar was used in the sauce and that the only salt to be found was the pinch used to make the dough. This would seem to me a secret to be kept, not advertised, lest other pizzerini in the city decide to take Arinell’s advice and actually start making good pizza, potentially ruining this establishment.

There are two types of slices – thin crust (or regular) and Sicilian. For those of you who don’t know, a Sicilian is a pizza baked on a square, greased pan and is generally more doughy and saucy than regular pizza. Sicilian is good when you’re really poor and can only afford one slice, since it is definitely more filling. For me, however, it bore too much resemblance to the loaves of bread other SF pizzerias make, so I opted for the regular. On a later trip, Arinell’s Sicilian pie was more like a piece of bruschetta than a slice of pizza. That’s a good thing.

The first bite and it was like I was back in Brooklyn. Thin crust on a broad slice, cheese layered over sauce, no sweetness or greasiness. The cheese was real aged mozarella, the sauce was obviously made that day. But the true test of any slice is the crust, and that’s where Arinell won me over. Crisp on the bottom with hardly any chew to it, as though making a toothy sacrifice so that the cheese and sauce could really shine – like the team’s role player and not it’s bloated free-agent. The prices are a bargain for Frisco, with two slices and a soda for about six dollars. I finally found heaven in San Francisco, and it’s between sixteenth and seventeenth on Valencia.

Narcissism Rules!

Okay, after months and months of sitting around reading other people’s blogs, I’ve decided to sit down and start my own. It took me a while to figure out exactly what the hell I wanted to write about – my personal life is rather boring, I don’t know anyone particularly famous particularly well, I don’t have the ‘inside scoop’ on any interesting news and I don’t live in New York (which seems to be enough for many popular blogs).

I do, however, live in San Francisco, which is a kick ass city full of incredible food, great record stores, a rash of indie theaters, snarky leftist politics and flamboyant homosexuals. While not qualified to expound upon the last item, the other items are fully within my purview. And since snotty New York freelance writers with a taste for cocaine and Harvey Weinstein seem to be taking up so much bandwidth, I figured that I’d fire a cultural salvo aimed squarely at the PraDada class by proclaiming my adopted home way better than theirs even if it’s incredibly difficult (though possible) to find good bagels and pizza.

Since I have a job, a little money and no bothersome children to waste it on I have an opportunity to sample some of the restaurants, theaters, media retailers and publications that this city has to offer. When I do, I will race back to my basement apartment and let you know what the deal is. If you live in Frisco (sorry, Herb Caen, but it’s so out it’s in now) you’ll appreciate that I will be sacrifice my own best interests in many cases to make sure you are in the know about food and fun. If you don’t live in San Francisco then I’m sorry, I’m sure you have some nice places to go and some nice things to do, but they aren’t as nice as the places I go and the things I do and you’ll probably feel jealous or at least a little left out. That’s your problem. My problems are finding good bagels and pizza in California, and I’ve solved those problems, so I’m set.

Cheers,

Jackson West