Dinner With Vida
La Foccacia Haystack Noe Valley Pizza Restaurant
There was little of our dinner experience tonight that was worth the trouble. I should have known better than to go to La Foccacia on Guerrero. Truth be told, it’s the restaurant that I discounted weeks ago because an employee was feeding pigeons outside the front door. I was desperate. I was in the mood for pizza and couldn’t think of anywhere else to go that I hadn’t been too before. If not for the challenge of going to a new place I would have happily gone up 24th St. to Haystack or the Noe Valley Pizza Restaurant or The Sausage Factory in the Castro. Marcello’s would have been fine; Pauline’s would have been wonderful. We were so close to Goathill . . .But as we drove by La Foccacia I was swayed by a review cut out from the SF Weekly posted in the window. I thought that maybe it really was a hidden jewel if I could just get beyond the image of the pigeons gathering in the doorway.
We walked in and went to the counter to order. There was a couple sitting at a table and perched on the banquette next to them was an older Italian woman with a gold chain wrapped around her head. I couldn’t quite make out the context but she was telling a story that had something to do with her father and restaurants that were Mafia fronts in New York. She was obviously not with the couple but had apparently captured their attention as she talked on and on about San Francisco restaurants, food in San Francisco and Italy, food and the people of Argentina as well as her November 1961 visit to Argentina wearing her mink coat. I couldn’t help notice the dozen or so gold bracelets of various shapes and sizes she wore. It was as if she was carrying all her worldly wealth with her. She peppered all of her stories with ‘give me a break’ as she disdainfully described various culinary lapses and restaurant failures. The woman and the couple continued name-dropping and generally showing off during our entire meal. Although this was endlessly annoying, it probably kept them from being distracted by Vida’s unusually bad behavior.
As the gum smacking counter person slowly took my order Vida proceeded to take off her shoes and put them on the table in front of her. She laid down on the banquette and covered herself with two plastic lace placemats. I tried to stare her into putting the placemats back but she went under the table to avoid me. I went to the table and struggled to get her to sit down. A bathroom break was suddenly necessary and we went to the back of the restaurant to the bathroom that had a large window completely open to the surrounding back yards and apartment buildings.
I ordered a Caesar salad that was thankfully fairly good. It was nicely dressed and I tried not to let the chilled bacon bits get to me too much. The Quattro Stagione pizza was divided into four quarters individually covered with sliced raw mushrooms, canned black olives, loaf-like ham slices and huge chunks of jarred artichoke hearts. The sauce was watery and nondescript. As bad as it was, I ate it hungrily as Vida went in and out of the doorway making pig noses on the window. She came back after a while and insisted that I pick off each piece of olive or mushroom from her slice before she would eat it.
La Foccacia projected the right image—the earth-tone walls and wooden floors, shelves of wine and terra cotta counters. The menu was entirely in Italian and offered traditional Italian combination pizzas. But behind the façade was a mediocre pizza place with an industrial can opener. I would have felt better if the place was decorated with red velvet wallpaper and bad oil paintings. At least I would have known what to expect.
Ebisu Minako
Vida has been going out to Ebisu, the sushi restaurant on 9th and Irving since she was just a few weeks old. She now enjoys the tatami room with the rest of us-- except that she enjoys it more. It’s like being at home where its o.k. to get off your chair and check things out around you. She wanders in between the tables and when there are no customers at other tables she gathers packages of chopsticks and teacups. Sushi is the perfect food for any kid you can get to try it. The entire meal can be eaten with your hands and the edamame is a source of entertainment right up there with glasses of water and ice. Although it is more of a sit down restaurant, Vida does so well with sushi that I decided to try and brave Minako, an organic sushi restaurant on 17th and Mission.
Vida hadn’t taken a nap so I thought that the safest route to a sane meal would be to go very early. We were a little too early so after we scoped out our location we took a walk down Mission St. and up 18th St. to Ra Ra’s house to say hello. Ra Ra instantly picked up on Vida’s frantic, nap-less, vibe and wondered aloud why I had chosen this evening to go out for sushi. I agreed that it was risky but thought that disappointing her would be worse.
We walked back to Minako and took a seat by an open window that faced onto Mission St. I thought that the Mission street theatre would keep her amused in between courses. As it turns out people were more interested in us. In between observing our drug dealing neighbors and their customers our food and beverages very, very slowly arrived. Vida started with an organic orange soda and I had green tea. I felt idiotic not being able to order my tea by variety and let the server decide for me. Note to self: find out more about tea. We started with a sesame green bean salad. French green and wax beans were barely blanched and delicately dressed. I felt like I was appreciating green beans for the first time. We then had a fantastic shiitake mushroom and spinach roll wrapped with an inari wrapper and tied with a spinach bow. It was as big as Vida’s fist but she just grabbed it and started eating. In between dishes Vida played with the tea strainer and the bowl meant for it to sit in dropping both on the floor repeatedly. Fortunately the restaurant was almost entirely empty. I kept praying for more food to come before she lost it entirely. An avocado roll luckily arrived and kept her going for a couple of minutes.
I was amazed at the freshness and quality of the vegetables at Minako. I have always secretly resented the crappy conventional vegetables in my sushi at other restaurants—the woody tasteless green beans, burdock root dyed orange and watery cucumber. The Japanese cucumber in the cucumber roll was crisp and sweet. A spicy California roll topped with wasabi tobiko was unfortunately very attractive to Vida. When I wasn’t looking she grabbed a chunk of wasabi and put it in her mouth. The only sign of distress that I saw was her eyes getting wider and wider. Although obviously uncomfortable she was a very good sport about it. Although the wasabi was too spicy she ate all the pickled ginger that came with each dish and wouldn’t stop whining until I ordered an extra dish of pickled ginger for her.
There was only one woman in the kitchen producing all the food and a there was suddenly more competition for dishes as the restaurant began to fill. Vida had enough of her initiation into the Slow Food Movement and took her bowl of pickled ginger to the window to converse with the pedestrians She was harassed by a young man determined to make her tell him to “get lost”. He literally wouldn’t leave until she said “I don’t know you” or “leave me alone,” Either were acceptable options for the guy. I finally had to do it for her. She wanted to climb out of the window and pick the flowers in the flower box. A group of about fifteen people wandered by singing “I’m going to stay on the battlefield”. They echoed my sentiments exactly. Our last dish—broiled tofu with sesame was apparently just being started in the kitchen just as I was anxiously looking to get a bill. We ate it underneath the contemptuous stares of a customer who made the mistake of sitting close to us.
The care taken with the food at Minako was apparent with every dish. But as I wandered to the bathroom through the kitchen I found out more than I needed to know about the restaurant in general. Seeing the small amounts of food in bowls by the sink—okra soaking in water—a half a bag of frozen edamame sitting on the counter— was like experiencing a curtain accidentally lifted before the show started. There was a back room that looked like it could be set up for big parties if there was an unlikely need. The tables were covered with newspapers. The bathroom door wouldn’t close easily and as I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention I let Vida use the restroom with door half open. The toilet had no handle to flush—I finally figured out that the back of toilet was open so that you could reach in and pull a string to flush the toilet manually. We then washed our hands.
This was the first meal that cost us more than 20 bucks. When I received the bill I was torn between feeling regret at spending so much money and satisfied at allowing us to experience the full range of the restaurant’s skill. I didn’t want to seem like the typical customer complaining that organics cost too much. I respect what Minako is doing—although many restaurants claim to use organic ingredients it seems that many do so only where it shows rather than an as an integral part of their mission. I could taste the difference and in between making sure Vida didn’t take off out the window the experience was almost transcendent.
Restaurant Total: 25
Michelangelo's
In the strange world of memory, moments of childhood are more deeply embedded than almost any adult experience. Many of my most visceral memories relate to being out at restaurants with my parents. I remember intensely the frustration at wanting a burger and French fries served in a bright yellow plastic basket-- and my parents allowing the server to talk them into ordering me a child’s plate instead. It was one of the few times I remember my parents following through on threats to leave if I didn’t behave. I now understand more where they were coming from—they were afraid that if they gave in I would think that hysterics worked. But I’m not sure it really works that way. I don’t remember that it was important to have my way but that I had a vision of this special meal and it was arbitrarily being denied. I cried out of powerlessness rather than in an effort to manipulate for future gain. And then there were the endless evenings at the Ye Olde Spaghetti Factory where kids are pushed beyond all endurance waiting for a table while their parents hit the bar. Parents are reluctant to cater to their kids while placing unreasonable expectations on their behavior.
A restaurant in Wenatchee, Washington next door to the motel we stayed at annually—had a lollipop tree. After our meal the manager would take me to the tree near the center of the restaurant and I was in heaven. I probably spent the entire meal talking and asking about the candy, much to my parent’s annoyance. Then there was the restaurant that had a pedal carousel that I would propel round and round while my parents enjoyed their meal. I also understand the incredible desire parents have to actually be able to eat a meal in peace. I think it was the same restaurant that had a playground in back that we would wear ourselves out on after dinner. We also used to go to breakfast at a restaurant in the shape of a Teepee—Washington State rarely tired of exploiting its Native American history-- and get coloring books and crayons. Now we consider the efforts made by restaurants to appeal to children to be blatant marketing strategies rather than a simple way to make kids feel important.
This week we got together for dinner with Vida’s friend G and her father, M. M suggested a place in North Beach that was sufficiently noisy for two squealing children—Michelangelo’s on Columbus. In M’s memory they had family style servings of pasta and meatballs certain to appeal to kids and a simple but good salad. M was a little disappointed that the place had taken on a bit of a touristy vibe and that the bowl of pasta was now an ordinary plate. The salad was good but not quite what M had remembered either. Vida had her first fried calamari and gorged on olives and bread before the pasta arrived so it didn’t matter that the portion wasn’t what we had expected. M and I spent the majority of the meal wincing at the girls fighting over the olives and telling them to sit down. The sturdy wooden booth was just too tempting for them not to stand on it. The pasta was tasty—a perfectly seasoned tomato sauce, with melt in your mouth meatballs.
M was inspired to tell me about a meal he had in Italy but never got the chance. Vida and G had seen a vision and were now held captive by its promise—a bowl of gummy bears was placed on the table next to us. Vida and G were now putty in our hands as we held out the prospect of our own bowl of gummy bears. They couldn’t sit down fast enough. Vida then did an end run around all our threats and scored gummy bears from the table behind us. She had already passed a few off to G before we noticed.
In our culture of perpetual adolescence restaurants don’t try so much to appeal to kids but gratify our desire to remain children. We get multicolored cocktails instead of coloring books. The gummy bears at Michelangelo’s are a clever ploy to win the hearts of adults rather than children and for that reason ring phony. Nonetheless I ate my money’s worth. If I were three years old this would quite possibly be my first recollection
Restaurant Total: 23
South China Cafe Slider's Diner Thai House
The initial inspiration for this project evolved from my reflections on the first dinner that Vida and I shared at a restaurant. After a particularly brutal and exhausting day I decided that we would go for a walk and pick something up to eat—probably burritos. But as we approached Taqueria Zapata on 18th St. I just kept on walking. I just couldn’t go in there again. I thought of revisiting the newest burrito joint on the block, El Castillito, which had been decent the first time but the quality of the steam table holding the food turned me off. I had an idea that we would go to the Thai House down the street but it was more than I wanted to spend. As I walked back toward our house in frustration I found myself in front of the venerable South China Café. If I had been in my right mind I would never have gone in. The dust-covered cases of Tsing Tao in the dirty window were enough to have frightened me away from the place for the entire 17 years I had lived in the neighborhood. I usually attributed its continued existence, despite a consistent lack of customers, to an incredibly long lease. But in my hunger I suddenly thought that maybe there was a group of loyal customers that quietly and singularly (there was never more than one person in there at one time) kept the place afloat. As we went in I regretted it immediately. The wooden booths and old-fashioned counter seating that looked quaint from the outside were revealed to be dilapidated and fake. The wooden booths seemed to have been built from bad wood in the seventies—an affectation of American Chinese restaurant kitsch. The booths were so depressing that I got up and risked 2 1/2-year-old Vida sitting on stools that rotated 360 degrees.
But as we sat at the cracked Formica counter I looked at Vida twisting on the stools and saw a little person joining me for dinner out. In my amazement at her I relaxed as much as I could, considering she threatened to topple off the stool at any moment. In an instant of weakness I ordered Vida her first soda. She seemed to instinctually know how to blow bubbles with the straw. I then ordered probably the worst fried rice and spring roll I have ever had. The spring roll with its sticky red sauce was filled with nothing but cabbage and a few stringy carrots. The oil it was fried in was almost rancid. The tiny plate of fried rice was just enough. Even though the food was bad we had a great time together sipping soda and twisting on the stools. As we sat there one to-go order was passed across the counter and a lone diner came in and also sat at the counter. He was a regular and simply nodded as the man behind the counter guessed at his order. He ordered a soup that looked almost edible. I thought maybe this was the kind of Chinese restaurant that served authentic food to customers in the know and saved the crappy fried rice for unsophisticated fools. Nevertheless I paid about seven dollars for our meal and left. For the first time I had braved dinner in a restaurant without a crew of people willing to walk Vida around the block. She seemed to rise to the challenge. Although we left hungry I was otherwise satisfied.
I was thinking of that evening when we walked down to Slider’s Diner on Castro Street the other night. This place has been around for years but I can’t say I have ever been tempted to go in. I object to the grill in the window. How is it that cooking circles of meat rotating on a grill in a greasy window can be considered an attractive advertisement? When H mentioned that they had a unique feature—a large all you can eat condiment bar—I was sold. Well, not really, I was just looking for a place in the neighborhood that was worth trying. Castro Street is not known for it’s fine dining. Except for Anchor Oyster Bar I would hardly step out of my door for the constantly revolving neighborhood establishments that inhabit the various storefronts of the damned. Slider’s Diner was quite good—it has definitely supplanted the deteriorating Hot and Hunky. The hamburger, Vida’s hot dog and the fries were hot, well cooked and delicious. I didn’t take full advantage of the condiment bar but I admire the concept. Best of all I could eat and watch “Friends”.
Restaurant Total: 22
Sai Jai Thai
Until this week, dinner with Vida has consistently been an exercise in frustration abundantly graced by her quirky behavior. This week at Sai Jai Thai Vida’s idiosyncrasies in no way compensated for the irritation I felt at not being able to take a bite before retrieving her from an incredibly dirty floor. Things seemed hopeful when the wise server (environmental concerns aside) gave Vida a Styrofoam cup of water with a plastic lid and a straw but although she could not actually spill the water she could shake droplets out onto a spoon and noisily suck them out.
It turns out from recent experience that chicken wings can capture Vida’s attention for minutes at a time. I ordered some incredible sweet and garlicky chicken wings that unfortunately came to the table so hot that we were almost done with our entire meal before they cooled to a temperature she would accept. She had no interest in the beef salad but I was so impressed that I ignored some horrible behavior for a few minutes in order to enjoy it. Vida insisted on turning around and torturing the table behind us by staring and singing loudly almost daring them to react.
As I attempted to block out the noise I couldn’t help but notice the cooks in the kitchen. They were clearly professionals—it was apparent that no shortcuts in preparation were being taken. Having spent so many years cooking myself I was impressed by their quiet competence and the quality of the food. Homemade stocks and fresh herbs enlivened the meal so much that I don’t think I will think about Thai food the same way again.
My brother had come along with us giving Vida another target and me the opportunity to try more dishes. We had great Pad Thai and a vegetable dish with red curry. My only minor complaint—more an issue of bewilderment generally—why do soups in so many Thai restaurants contain huge chunks of tomatoes with the stem still on them? I happily take out pieces of galangal root, lemongrass and lime leaves but after that there is usually so little soup left that to remove the tomato makes the whole experience seem pointless.
We left Sai Jai Thai sated but exhausted. On our way back to the car I tried in vain to keep Vida from stopping and shaking out more water from her Styrofoam cup onto the sidewalk. Each time she stopped there would be another Tenderloin character about to run her over. It was Pride this weekend and I was just counting my blessings that I didn’t attempt to bring Vida to the festivities when an attentively coiffed young man dressed in the tightest possible pants walked past us. His lime green pants were purposefully positioned so that a half-inch of crack would show above his silver belt. Vida then dropped her cup and I stopped staring only when her screams got too loud to ignore.
Restaurant Total:15
El Delfin
The weekend began early this week when Vida caught and cut her finger on a bucket at school. Her teacher was worried that she may need stitches or some other attention from a doctor. When I arrived to pick her up she was asleep in M’s arms. I looked at her cut and although it looked like it hurt it didn’t seem serious. When I woke Vida she quickly remembered her trauma and looked at me in anxiety. We left and as I put her in the car she said her finger was “better” and could we go to the park. We agreed that the library was better—she wanted the video I wouldn’t let her get a few days earlier—Harry Potter in Spanish. Needless to say dinner in a restaurant was out of the question.
We went out for our postponed dinner the next night. After a morning of tot soccer (also known as 45 minutes of crying and refusing to do anything resembling soccer), the park and then laundry and a dip in the pool Vida was almost comatose. We went to El Delfin, (another recommendation), a Mexican fish restaurant on 24th and Treat. Vida was drawn to the jukebox and the music. She went and pushed the buttons on the jukebox and did a little grooving to the music until the chips arrived. I saw incredible looking seafood cocktails and soups coming to the tables around us but I didn’t think Vida was in the mood for an adventurous meal. I ordered what turned out to be some of the best guacamole I have ever had—chunks of avocado, tomato and onion seasoned perfectly with lime and cilantro. I immediately stopped regretting what I had not ordered. From where we were sitting the reach in with the beer and sodas was in plain view. Vida wanted a soda but I said no. She got up from her chair and said she was going to go get it herself. Curious whether she would dare go behind the counter and make an attempt I let her cross the restaurant. The music was very loud but over the din I could hear her loudly chanting with an almost poetic cadence in her new Exorcist voice, “I want soda, and I can have it, I’m going to get it, ‘cause my mother said, I couldn’t have soda, but I’m going to get it, myself. The other customers started looking at me and I went and picked her up and brought her back to the table.
We soon had fried red snapper to answer for. The breaded fillets came on a plate with a small round plastic mold that the server lifted to reveal tomato rice with mixed (frozen) vegetables. The presentation of the rice was like a relic from a past ideal of fine dining—the domed cover of a tray revealed tableside—but in miniature. The pile of rice would have no way been impressive otherwise. But the excitement didn’t stop there. Along side the fish was a pile of thin French fries—our meal was now a guaranteed success. I could eat and relax while Vida ate ketchup.
Going out for dinner on Friday nights has a sabbatical feel to it. The absence of Friday night dinners at Grandma’s house has left a void that I have tried to fill in various ways over the years. I miss Grandpa coming home from the Cascade Market and getting yelled at because he didn’t bring home any of the flowers he sold to so many others. I miss saying Kiddush and getting a sip of sweet wine and the salad dressing that grandma would pour for me from the bottom of the green plastic salad bowl that I would then sop up with a rosca. I would like to create a similar sense of ritual for Vida—a feeling that the workweek stops and our time together begins. While we couldn’t go out on Friday night this week our meal wasn’t less wonderful. This week instead of Shabbat dinner we replicated the weekend meal of fried fish and potatoes that my Grandpa was proud to cook. El Delfin seemed to be the kind of restaurant that reminds many people of home.
Restaurant Total=14
Jasmine Tea House China Moon Cafe
For this week’s dinner I decided to break down and ask around for recommendations. I got a list from M, a parent of Vida’s friend G. I figured that G has probably cried and whined so much in these restaurants that Vida’s behavior would seem charming no matter what kind of trouble she was getting into. Vida doesn’t tend to get upset but will stand up on her chair and loudly ask, “can talk in here?”.
One of the recommended restaurants was Chinese. Since Chinese food is best appreciated when you’re not too cheap to order more than one dish I invited Auntie L and cousin E. One of Auntie L’s mythic origin stories (she is going to be 85 next week) involves the fact that when she was young it was extremely provocative for a young Jewish girl to have Chinese friends. She prides herself on her progressiveness and going out for Chinese food reminds her of the difficulty in stepping away from her community and into the wider world of pork.
As soon as I decided to visit the Jasmine Tea House on Mission at Valencia I experienced some strange coincidences. The day after I invited Auntie L to go out I come home to a flyer hanging on my door for Jasmine Tea House. I was disappointed—typically quality restaurants aren’t desperate enough to offer free delivery. Two days later I was at B’s house and there was a Jasmine Tea House business card on his refrigerator door. It was either a sign that I should be going to this restaurant or should definitely be staying away.
We arrived at Jasmine Tea House ahead of Auntie L and E This was worrisome because the window of opportunity for having a relaxed meal with Vida is narrow and if they were too late I could not be held responsible. They were late and Vida had already made it through both our glasses of water and flung two sets of chopsticks on the floor.
E and L brought Vida some early birthday presents and soon paper and presents were separated and the gifts ranked according to significance. The sweater and sweatshirt were allowed to slip to floor where I quickly retrieved them smiling frantic thank yous toward Auntie L’s side of the table. The stuffed dog was given a position of importance next to the water glass, but E’s gift, a menagerie of plastic animals from around the world were given pride of place and allowed to swim in the water glass. This kept Vida busy for a while and we ordered our meal.
The food was some of the best Chinese food that I have enjoyed in a restaurant since I worked at China Moon Cafe. This is not to say it was supreme. The cold sesame noodles were a little tough and the sauce improperly balanced with the sweet and acid competing in your mouth like sparring boxers. In my experience American Chinese restaurants can make a name for themselves merely by using recognizable vegetables. I could actually see the vegetables in the ginger chicken and they weren’t swimming in water chestnut flour. The fried rice ordered specifically for Vida was delicious with crisp pieces of greens and carrots. The “dry fried” prawns baffled me since they appeared to just be battered prawns served on an inedible base of cabbage and stale rice noodles. All and all it was a step above average.
The waiter was patient in the extreme. He checked on how Vida’s animals were enjoying their bath and exchanged the water glass when it appeared that Vida was going to take a drink. Periodically an animal would slip to the floor under the table where it would have to be rescued. I decided that we need to move on when after a trip too many underneath the table prompted Lee to ask me to get Vida away from her leg. We can take a hint.
Restaurant Total=13
Los Jarritos The Rite Spot El Toro
H thinks I am deliberately going to bad restaurants. In truth I am trying to inject some randomness and surprise in what is otherwise a very ordered existence. Vida and I went on a rather late outing to the Harvey Milk Library and making dinner seemed fraught with risk given that some serious screaming or snacking would happen long before anything was on the table. I decided to go down 17th St. and stop at the first restaurant that I haven’t eaten at. As I turned the corner from the library onto 17th I peered up at Orphan Andy’s on 17th and Market and counted my blessings that I had already done some significant after hours dining at this legendary establishment and wouldn’t ever have to eat their greasy fries and see drunks falling off stools again. I had already had a good meal at Tita’s Hawaiian restaurant, eaten way too many burritos at El Toro and decided that since I couldn’t actually see into the place next door and that I had never seen anybody eating there that it was automatically disqualified as a restaurant. The Rite Spot would have been great but I’ve been there too. As I reach the bottom of Potrero Hill it’s looking bleaker and bleaker as far as restaurants and just about everything else goes. I drive by a chinese restaurant but the lack of customers and the two employees in aprons smoking outside led me to keep on driving. And that was it—no more restaurants on 17th St. I turn around in search of a Vietnamese restaurant I was pretty sure was around there somewhere but couldn’t find it. I drive down South Van Ness as the decibel level in the back seat starts to reach a peak with variations of Mary Had a Little Lamb alternating with “I want breakfast”. It had been a rough day for Vida. She fell and seriously scraped her knee, elbow and chin. In the tub she accidentally on purpose inhaled some shampoo. I t was time to give her a break.
I drive by Los Jarritos on 20th and South Van Ness and there is a parking place right in front. We get out of the car and Vida grabs a stick as a talisman and we go into the restaurant. The atmosphere is a combination of festive and dingy with month old Cinco de Mayo decorating the walls and ceiling. Vida was immediately attracted to the jukebox and stood pushing the buttons for a solid 5 minutes while I took the opportunity to look at the menu. When she returned to the table Vida let everyone know we were there by loudly shouting that she wanted a soda and rice and beans. It seemed like the Mole chicken was a specialty of the house but I was certain that wouldn’t go over well with Vida. I ordered a cactus and jalapeno quesadilla and got a plain quesadilla with rice and beans for Vida. When the food arrived Vida yelled that she didn’t like “enchilada”. Since she is regularly subjected to the despised enchilada at school I thought she would understand that the quesadilla and enchiladas were not related and she might like it. She dug into the rice and spit out a few beans back onto the plate before grabbing a corn tortilla and heading for the door. In between bites of my passable quesadilla I chased her down as she attempted to leave the premises.
What I wonder is this—is there a particular food distributor that sells pseudo mesclun salad mixes to mediocre restaurants all over the city or is it something that restaurants come up with on their own in an attempt to live up to the raised lettuce expectations that we now have. This is the second restaurant in as many weeks that has served me salad with an inexplicable combination of radicchio, yellowed arugula and oxidized iceberg lettuce. Los Jarritos didn’t even bother to dress it—they must assume nobody in their right mind would touch it anyway so why waste the dressing. Vida finished her corn tortilla in the car and had two bowls of cereal and milk when we got home.
Restaurant Total=11
Valencia Pizza and Pasta
Whenever I ask Vida where she would like to go for dinner she always says “pizza” so I’m going to have to stop asking. Valencia Pizza and Pasta was the first place that came to mind. We walked into the small and crowded dining room and sat at a table covered with a plastic tablecloth. There were piles of newspapers in the window and the server was wearing baggy gray sweat pants. I looked down and saw what seemed to be the dried remnants of some blue cheese salad dressing on the brightly flowered cloth hanging below the table. The server handed us our menus and I looked around and noticed that nobody was having pizza. Everyone was having roast chicken or steaks and mashed potatoes. But I had promised pizza and in a slight panic as Vida said loudly that she wanted soda I ordered a very strange combination of ham, spinach and sun dried tomatoes.
I was soon comforted by the appearance of complimentary garlic bread. Vida dug in and her soda thankfully arrived. After chewing on the straw until in no longer worked she spilled her soda on the floor and table. Everyone in the restaurant seemed to be having a good time but the atmosphere wasn’t infectious enough for me to stop noticing the dirty windowsills and floors. It seemed to be quite an accomplishment for the cooks and single server to be putting out so much food so quickly—but naturally this kind of volume doesn’t usually allow for cleanliness. My salad soon arrived glopped with dressing—the requisite salad mix complimented by pink iceburg lettuce didn’t encourage my appetite much more. It’s not that it was horrible just not appealing.
Before our pizza arrived we were moved to a booth—it was definitely more comfortable than the small square table we were sitting at but in her excitement Vida promptly slipped between the table and the booth onto the floor. She recovered without too many tears and our pizza arrived. I was immediately disappointed by the obviously frozen spinach layered a half inch thick on top of the pizza and covered with barely hydrated sun dried tomatoes and chunks of ham. It was definitely edible—once I took off the majority of the sun dried tomatoes. Vida was losing patience and spilled her soda again but this time all over her pants and shirt. She wanted to go home and change and come back and when I told her it wasn’t possible she still said she wanted to take her pants off and asked if “they had clothes here”.
Restaurant Total=6
Joe's Cable Car Restaurant
Years ago my Auntie L. used to live on Prague St---a particularly appropriate address considering she is still an active member of the American Communist Party. At the time I rode a scooter that I would take down Mission St. and as I passed Silver Ave. the wind would roar down from the fog bank that always seemed poised above the hills of the outer Mission. The wind was particularly brutal and depressing on otherwise beautiful days when the warm air hitting the cold ocean water gradually obliterated the sunny afternoon. I always drove by Joe’s Cable Car Restaurant and wished I was going there instead of to Prague St.—not because I didn’t enjoy the company of my aunt and cousins but because of the food. Anything had to be better than baked spaghetti with cottage cheese.
Yesterday was that kind of day exactly. You can never have more than a couple consecutively nice days in San Francisco. Just as you get used to not wearing a coat you are suddenly like a tourist wincing and shivering in shorts and a tank top. Vida and I hit a playground in Noe Valley only to be blown away by the wind and sand. Joe’s Cable Car beckoned.
I wonder if all restaurants named for the eponymous “Joe” get their red leather booths at the same place or whether there is some secret fraternity “Decorators of Joe”. The kitch factor places Joe’s Cable Car a step above “Little Joe’s” even though the nostalgia it longs for is it’s own rather than the mafia inspired darkness of Italian restaurants. Polaroids of happy customers line the walls. and favorable reviews are printed for posterity on wooden plaques. There is an in-house butcher that can only be for symbolic value—how long can it take to grind hamburger?
This is definitely a place for children. Kids get some thin pieces of florescent colored wax called “Wicky Sticks” that you can bend and mold into figures. Once again Vida was more interested in her soda than anything else. The meat in a Joe’s Cable Car burger is definitely superior to most hamburgers but Burger Joint still ranks in terms of the overall food and value. I resent being charged extra for French fries. I would definitely return to Joe’s Cable Car but only with people who hadn’t experienced its unique atmosphere. The food just isn’t enough of a draw. Since we didn’t go home before going to dinner Vida was slightly confused when we got home. I told her that we needed to get ready for bed and she said “I want to have dinner first”—and that pretty much sums up her experience.
Restaurant Total=5
