Recently I had a "get to know you" coffee with a potential freelance client. This woman and I had chatted about our shared love of macaroons from Miette, an incredible French bakery at the Ferry Building, so we met there and got a cookie to nibble with our hot drinks.
The macaroon was delicious, and I had to force myself to eat it politely, in small bites instead of one big gulp. I was about to gleefully confess this to my new acquaintance when she said, "The one cookie is perfect! It's all I need for the whole day!"
Just like white shoes and pants, Memorial Day weekend also brings in the lesser known Corn Dog Season. Of course I am completely making this "season" up, but summer is a nonstop celebration of food on sticks. It's more fun than dreading Bikini Season - instead we can have Corn Dog Season! This is simply the only time of year where I am only moderately mocked for my favorite afternoon snack because it's almost socially acceptable - just as long as you are on a ferris wheel. I assure you that NO time of year is acceptable for white shoes. Sadly, I missed the holiday.
Although our plan was to shop for shoes, then drink, Baby surprised me with tickets to see Robin Williams at
Bimbo's. And she had the brilliant idea of getting lobster
rolls because The Lobster Shack was right on our way.
(Don't worry, we still got Baby the perfect pair of metallic ballet flats with a very au courant square toe and understated bow.)
And if you eat out as well, probably you've noticed the trend towards open kitchens that gives diners a peek into the behind-the-scenes action, sometimes for the better, like when you notice the beautiful economy of movement in an experienced cook, or for the worse, like when you hear some lowly prep guy get reamed.
Mostly what I've noticed in my three years of living in San Francisco is the almost complete lack of women behind the scenes. In fact, it's almost a shocker when I see one.
Today I made soup for lunch. The fixins were mostly organic: red lentils, chicken broth, thyme, onion and cumin. The grocery bill was $17, a fair deal for two to three meals.
Scanning the market aisles, I saw a lot that didn't fall into the bargain category. And when I passed the scene above, my cart screeched to a halt: $11 blueberries. I checked, and they were not dipped in gold, or the sweat of Christian Bale.
My mother and her sister, who live next door to each other, had a falling out and haven't spoken in six months. My aunt's mad about my brother burning out the clutch in her car. 10 years ago. My uncle (their brother) who owns a store under my mother's apartment and next to my sister's farmhouse, hasn't taken sides. (Cue "Dueling Banjos.")
While not Sicilian, I have a notable appetite for spite, especially if you mess with my people. So here's my aunt's secret recipe for sweet potato rolls. Unlike revenge, this dish is best served hot.
At five pm on Friday, Colleen called an emergency wishbone clover editorial meeting.
Since Cheap Girl and I had been the beneficiaries of a full day reverse-logic vortex at the Knickerbocker Bank, it was easy to say, "Where do you want to meet?"
We rushed to the bar and found Colleen talking to two friends, M. and D. Turns out, they are real, live readers of wishbone clover who aren't related to us by blood or marriage. (Hi ladies!)
In the editorial meeting we toasted the end of a long week. Colleen distributed excellent gifts from The China Adventure, and we planned misdeeds with chilling attention to detail. Then we were hungry.
We were also in luck, because Colleen always knows the perfect place for a meal. She shepherded us into a taxi and told the driver, "Minna and 7th, step on it!"
I was mildly horrified because they mainly have hookers and drug dealers in that part of town, but I've learned to trust her. And she came through again.
Custom Burger gives you just what the name promises: the burger that you want, the way that you want it. Your choice of meat, bread and toppings. Also, they have sweet potato fries. And wine.
Our order was #13, which was just right. Like the rest of the night.
Chief and I took it pretty easy over Labor Day Weekend, just tooling around the City. On Saturday we decided to drop by Crissy Field, one of the best reasons to live in SF. Happy people and dogs gamboling, kites flying, ships of every stripe on the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge in backdrop of every view. Magic.
Too hungry to start with magic, so we stopped first at a restaurant that recently opened in the Presidio, La Terrasse. It's French, so we had steak frites. Very good. French martinis. Also very good. A nice glass of local zinfandel. Tasty, tasty.
Since I already knew I wasn't going to tell Tiger, my trainer, about this meal (until now, Hi Tiger!) I advocated for dessert. The pot de creme was an easy sell because Chief loves pudding. We agreed to split.
Big mistake. Next time no sharing.
It was the best pot de creme I've ever, EVER had. Because La Terrasse puts salt on it! Maybe that's how most people do it, and I've only sampled inferior versions in the past. I'm just glad that now I know how it should be.
I must be part psychic because it occurred to me to take a picture before eating it. Sorry for the fuzzy, out of focus bad quality. I only had my shitty, little camera with me because my cool, big camera requires rolling luggage and sometimes strains spontaneity. Any way, the light brown bumps on the whipped cream are salty nuggets of pleasure.
You can see the Golden Gate Bridge from the outside terrace of La Terrasse, which partially explains the magic of this dessert. Salt explains the rest.