Lubricious Locanda – San Francisco

We all crave attention sometimes, especially on a big night out. Some nights we’re a little more choosy, and other nights we’ll just settle for a guy like Locanda, a typical pick-up artist. Locanda is THAT guy you meet at THAT bar who tries a little too hard, acts a little too smooth, and wears a little too much cologne. He approaches you in a way only he find subtle, and he indulges you with attention in the hopes that you will indulge him with a little something more.

Locanda picked me up on my last night in SF, when I just happened to be in the neighborhood, and every move he made was just so typical. He started with an indulgent drink, the Aperitivo, a blend of campari and citrus enticing enough to make me stay but a little too sweet to make me linger.

But I did linger for the next course…and the next because he just looked so good on paper. He looked good in person too. A successful pick-up artist always dresses well, and you can’t go wrong with a coat of golden breading like the Fried Artichokes and Veal Sweetbreads. The thing is, Locanda may sport a designer jacket, but there’s really nothing special about it. No dipping sauce to dress up a plain dish, nothing but a covering and a naked sweetbread with an artichoke afterthought.

The truly smooth guy doesn’t just put it all out there like the sweetbreads. A smooth guy only gives you glimpses of greatness, which I can only hope was the goal of the Bucatini all’Amatriciana’s interminable lines of mediocre pasta with tomato sauce is as fresh and cheesy and as a pick-up line. But before you get too bored, it does incorporate an element of surprise. You do occasionally encounter a jaw-breaking cube of rich bacon-esque guanciale.

Pick-up lines are the acts of amateurs, and a true pro can talk a good game. Negging is one way to start, and I feel like that’s all that Bucatini all’Amatriciana was; a bundle of crappy pick-up lines to set up a contrast for the overly-sweet Chestnut-Ricotta Agnolotti. These little packets of sugary paste lay it on thick, but chestnut and ricotta is all sweet, with no savory notes to balance it out. I’d be lying if I didn’t say they quickly become gag-worthy when you’re barely half way through.

Locanda talks a good game, but be careful not to fall because no real talent, innovation, or craft lies beneath the cheesy surface. As sexy and exciting as this modern, mood-lit man seems, you’re better off going for gentleman like Zuni, whose prime ingredients and impeccable skill ring the bells and blow the whistle on all the Locanda-like fakes. After all these years of reviewing restaurants, you’d think a girl would learn.

Zingers at Zuni – San Francisco

I was told that Zuni is an SF institution. I think they meant the dictionary definition of “established law, custom, etc”. But the dictionary also offers an alternate, less desirable definition: a place for the care or confinement of inmates, especially mental patients. And you’d have to be mental to bottle your own wine.

Zuni is a bit of an institution in both respects. Their roasted chicken is an established culinary custom, and their menu is a place for the confinement of all sorts of bizarre ingredients that no one at my table ever heard of. I may not care for the word institution, but I definitely cared for most of the insanity on Zuni’s menu.

When I saw the Piccolo Fritto, I knew I had to have it. Mostly because I had no idea what it was. After a brief description from our server, this dish promised to be as crazy as crazy gets. The puntarelle is a sharp, fresh bite of bitterness, and the sweet wildflower honey draws out the bitters like fat to foie. There is something luxurious about the bittersweet, and I went nuts for this combination of veg and honey.

Zuni may have crazy ingredients, but this week’s theme is indulgence in the lap of luxury. And nothing screams luxury like silky little Nantucket Bay Scallops. The scallops tasted like they went straight from the ocean onto my plate, and a deep green spinach lightens the butter sauce.

I expected the Risotto to be insanely over-the-top, but in that respect, I almost went crazy with disappointment. Then again, this rendition of risotto turned out to be a little kooky too. Instead of predictably hard, buttery grains surrounded by a parmesan colloid, this risotto swam in a chicken-stock-like-soup. The stock is rich, the rice is plump, and the barely-detectable bits of squash add some barely detectable blow-your-mind. Just be prepared for a soupy rice instead of a ricey soup.

I don’t know who Rymee is, but if he thinks he’s creative, then he belongs in an institution. His Finocchiona is simple slices of some sort of salumi next to a glorified salad. The salumi is tasty, but despite quality over quantity, it’s just a smaller, more delicate version of your childhood sandwich topper. The salad with chicory and sunchokes is crisp and crunchy, but it’s really just sliced roots.

The brick-oven-roasted Chicken is supposed to be the stuff of legends, but don’t forget that most legends are just tall tales. The chicken is tender with juicy roasted flavor, but the skin tasted burnt, with no trace of any herbs or spices. Everyone at the table raved at the warm bread salad underneath, but it tasted more like warm oil salad to me, and two sickening bites was more than I could stomach. Still, this chicken may be a legend…of the urban variety.

I love Zuni, and I’d be crazy not to. The ingredients are top-notch and the dishes are loaded with all variations of the high-end and exotic. There are at least 6 words I can’t pronounce and far more I can’t define. But the thing I can define about Zuni is that all these ingredients come together as a compilation, rather than a combination. And no matter how powerful the compilation, I’d still rather have a good combination.

Magnificent Casa Mono – NYC

This week’s theme is cross-country indulgence, and not the kind of indulgence you can buy from the pope. This week is about the over-the-top, the excessive, and the way too much. This is the week we gorge, and it all starts in NYC because no one can put it down like New York City and no one can serve it up like Casa Mono.

No one would consider the chewy, often-rubbery Pulpo an indulgence, but I guess anything becomes rich when it’s lightly fried. No one makes pulpo like the Spanish, even if its pronounciation sounds like it got smashed in a juicer. The pulpo is improved by the bitter bits of grapefruit pulpo, and shiny white slices of crunch give you a fabulous fixin’ of fennel.

I expected the Mussels to be the lighter app, but not when they’re doused in Spain’s equivalent of bacon. These mussels are ensconced by red droplets of oil emanating from the grainy pork. I prefer my mussels sweeter, but the cava adds a bitter edge so I can’t say I cared for the combination. My tastes aside, Casa Mono gets an A for this indulgent effort.

I generally order artichoke everywhere I go, but I’m in awe of the Artichoke at Casa Mono. Fresh mint and oil give the light-and-sour a deep mmm that digs deep down to the base of your tastebuds.

I heart pate, and I really heart the Duck Heart Pate that accompanies the blood-red-pinks of seared Duck Breast. The breast is juicy, and the pate is a smooth-melting grain.  Sorry skeptics, offal is just not as awful as it sounds.

I used to think that the farther you got from Union Square’s tricked out touristic taints, the better the food would get. On the continuum of Baohaus, to the iconic Momofuku, all the way down to the legendary Spotted Pig, this theory works, but Casa Mono holds firm on 18^th and Irving, turning my theory to dust. 

Regular Rose’s Café – San Francisco

If I’ve learned anything about SF, it’s that their food is in a league of its own. The food is SF moves along the same scale the weather. There’s comfortable, there’s warm, and there’s warmer. There’s good, there’s better, and there’s awesome. Good will always be good and great will always be great, and it’s the unremarkably good places like Rose’s Café that serve up a whole new definition of mediocre.

I couldn’t stomach anything heavier than the Beets and Arugula. The goat cheese was whiter than the snow that promises to bury Boston by this time tomorrow, and everything tasted impossibly fresh. You know it’s a good day when your mediocre salad is perfect.

You play poker to win the main pot, but it’s the side bets that bring  in the money and glory. Zoe’s thick-cut and crispy Smoked Bacon was money and makes for a decent breakfast with the Fried Potatoes. I don’t know who Zoe is, but I can’t think of a single flattering reason to have bacon as a namesake. The potatoes were a little undercooked for my liking. Put those sides aside and bite into dense, savory-sweet chunks of Butternut Squash drizzled with sage and parmesan. Lesson learned: make two out of three winning side bets, and you’ve earned yourself a meal.

Rose’s is basic at best, but the basics are pretty much at their best there. And who can really refuse a series of stellar ingredients on pretty little chintz plates? Who can really refuse any food in SF? Bottom line? With so much better brunch all around SF, I don’t see any reason to recommend it or go back, but I also can’t think of a single reason discourage you from trying it at least once.

Ferry Plaza Farmer’s Market – San Francisco

On a sunny San Francisco Saturday, I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. There was a farmer’s market in front of the Ferry Building, but the shiny food trucks of this week’s Off the Grid threatened to pull me in. I was the contestant on the Price is Right, deciding between shells. I was the bachelor during the season finale, caught between two potential loves of my life, and I had to lose one to avoid losing both.

I picked the farmer’s market, but not without shedding a tear for every food truck that gleamed in the morning sun.

A couple of Oysters from Hog Island Oyster Company were definitely not staving off my guilt. Sure they’re sweet and briny-fresh, but at $2/oyster, google a nearby dollar-oyster special if you’re craving these little shuckers.

I tried to drown my regrets with a Café au Lait at Blue Bottle Coffee Company. It almost worked. Don’t skip the line, it’s totally worth it.

The coffee jump-started my broken heart, and Namu’s Real Korean Tacos helped heal the gashes of my internal conflict with little blocks of short rib wrapped in squares of seaweed.

For all that I may have done wrong, a SF Style Red Lox Sandwich at Cap’s Mike’s told me that I did something right. The lox was as pink as the evening sky, and Mike’s own cream cheese remains airy under the weight of the rich salmon. All over a crisp crust of Acme bread, washed down with a dusky Iced Hopi Tea that tasted as dark and stormy as my Off the Grid regrets.

Some will forgive me my choices. Others understand. But to some, I am forever lost. But I stand by my choices, and I reluctantly accept that Off the Grid may be forever lost to me. But the lox was hardly a red herring, and I just might pick the farm fresh every time.