Woodward's Garden Slanted Door Little Joe's Pizza
Many years ago I went to Woodward’s Garden and observed an incredibly well behaved six-year-old sitting at the counter with her father. I remembered what a pain in the ass I was when I was taken to restaurants as a kid and thought to myself that it is a fortunate parent who can enjoy their child’s company in an environment generally geared to adults. It was my theory that taking kids to restaurants and not worrying about whether they will behave will at a certain point acculturate them to the experience. I’ve had to leave a few restaurants such as Slanted Door and Chow with my meal in a bag and stared down quite a few other patrons unhappy with her singing at others. But as Vida approaches three years old she becomes less a baby to worry about taking places and more a companion with her own sense of the world. Fascinated by the world of restaurants but loathe to get a bad meal I tend to eat at the same restaurants over and over. The restaurant that is a hidden jewel known to only a few before it is reviewed and ruined forever has never crossed my path.
I wonder how many restaurants I have eaten at over the past 18 years that I have lived in San Francisco and what I’ve missed or been saved from. I read once that there were 40 restaurants per San Francisco’s seven square miles. What would it be like to, like a restaurant reviewer, eat at a different restaurant each week. Although professionals probably eat at many more I can barely afford one. So here’s the deal. Vida and I will aspire to eat at a different restaurant each week most likely on Friday nights—there is something inherently festive about setting aside Friday nights as Sabbath eve—not just the start of the weekend but also the consecration of the week. I can’t eat at restaurants that I have been to before but they may be part of the story I tell if it somehow relates thematically or geographically to the current restaurant. I will keep a running total of restaurants that I have eaten at either on my own or with Vida.
The esteemed film critic Pauline Kael never saw a movie twice. To her trained mind it was simply unnecessary. She was able to glean the world of a movie and describe it for better or for worse with a first glance and felt that a second would only take away from rather than add to the cogency of her perceptions. I tend to think restaurants are similar. They declare themselves with every dish. But this project isn’t just about the food. Each restaurant tells a story and each customer as they carry the weight of the day into its dining room briefly connects the story with their own lives.
Wanting to start off on the right foot, I told Vida that we would go out for pizza. I had in mind a place on Guerrero. We drive past it along with the empty storefronts of two other restaurants next door when we drive home from her school. I figure if this place has survived when its more glamorous neighbors have folded it must have some appeal to the neighborhood. I find a parking place right in front—thinking things couldn’t be more auspicious for this project. But just then an employee or owner walks out of the restaurant and starts to feed pigeons. Pigeons are congregating around the doorway frantically diving for crumbs of bread. I can’t do it. I think about not only walking past the employee with nothing to do and the pigeons but I considering as well that it’s after six and there are no other customers in the place. I pull out and drive away.
Since I promised pizza I can’t consider stopping at one of the many promising restaurants as I drive down Valencia and into the outer Mission. I drive for miles not spotting any pizza places until I see Little Joe’s Pizza on Mission at Italy. (I wonder how many restaurants we could visit called “Joes”?). We walk to the dining room in the back and I’m a little frightened immediately. There is a table of 15 soccer moms and dads and they are being hectored loudly by a man in obvious conflict with the views of the rest. It gets personal, it gets louder and I’m wishing we had just turned around and walked out. There is no getting away from this table and the screaming of recriminations. I can’t enjoy the red leather booths, or the cheap reproductions of Old Master’s or even the icy and delicious coke until finally they come to some kind of agreement that this restaurant was no place for such behavior. Although they continued to discuss aloud the various dynamics between, parent, coach and the young players it ceased to threaten the enjoyment of our dinner.
I was a little taken aback at the prices on the menu—I definitely aspire to do this project on the cheap—but I quickly settled on a small pizza with Canadian bacon. It was just a half step from the plain pizza that appeals to small children—I still don’t want to risk Vida screaming, “I don’t want that one”. Vida loved the pizza and the slippery leather booths. As she lay down and dangled her arms over the edge of the banquette she repeatedly dropped her napkin accidentally on purpose and then
asked me to pull her up.
The service was friendly but perfunctory. There is always something strange about an entire table, particularly in a small dining room, being taken over by the server to sit and calculate the bills and generally hang out when no one needs help immediately. I also worry about servers eating while working—it almost always seems like a sign of boredom rather than hunger—an attempt to fill the long evening.
Restaurant Total=4
