Dinner With Vida
Pizza Express Liberty Cafe Maggie Mudd's
After doing some late afternoon laundry Vida and I drove down Mission St. in search of a restaurant. I took a left on Cortland up into Bernal Heights in hopes of finding an out of the way pizza place. The Liberty Café was tempting. I couldn’t remember if I had ever gone until I recalled an incredible chicken potpie that I had eaten there. I drove past other restaurant possibilities but I was determined not to spend more than 10 bucks. It’s been a very expensive week and I felt guilty even spending that. We passed a pizza place that looked like it only did to-go business and I considered it but kept driving past the business district toward Bayshore. After it was clear that there were no restaurants down that far I turned around and determined to brave Pizza Express. It didn’t really sound too promising, I was sure I had received a generic Pizza Express flyer on my door at some point—one of so many pizza delivery places with the very same menu and mediocre pizza. As we stepped in I saw that there were a few booths and tables to sit at and decided to stay. After so many attempts at ordering toppings at these kinds of pizza joints and feeling like I had wasted my money I played it safe and ordered a plain cheese pizza. At least I wouldn’t be picking toppings off of Vida’s slice.
The menu advertised that “NO Pre-Cooked Products are used in our Food Preparations” which was apparent by the huge mounds of hamburger and sausage meat piled into refrigerated inserts. Having eaten my share of partially cooked mushrooms, peppers and onions on pizzas I wasn’t sure why this was considered a marketing advantage. They “Featured Pizza Made with ‘T.L.C’, which thankfully was translated for the acronym impaired—Tender Loving Care. The sappy sentiments didn’t jive completely with the tough guys behind the counter but I thought I would just take their word for it. None of the combinations seemed alluring enough to lay out the extra dough, the “Cortland’s Special” was a 1980’s nightmare featuring grilled chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, spinach, artichoke hearts, fresh pesto, fresh garlic and onion.
After ordering at the counter—there was no table service--we sat down at a duct tape covered black leather booth. There was a box of “seasoned croutons” on the shelves behind the counter confirming that ordering a salad would have been pointless. Industrial size plastic jugs of pepperoncini and herbs didn’t make me hopeful that this experience would be particularly pleasant either. Nevertheless they were gradually building to a brisk evening business. The phone ringing with each to-go order was so loud it practically vibrated the tables. All of the workers were Indian but there was nothing ethnic happening beyond the bland pseudo-Italian menu. The delivery guys came in and out and chatted with the pizza cooks while waiting for their orders. I was amazed that they needed more than one delivery guy but there were three rotating in and out with pizzas in their ragged delivery bags. One of the delivery guys was actually picking olives off of a pizza that was waiting to be baked.
As the evening progressed families came in and sat at the other tables. Most of the customers seemed like regulars—many ordering pizzas but others leaving with bags of roast chickens and buffalo wings. The community vibe was infectious. I suddenly wished that I had a neighborhood pizza joint that I went to regularly. When our pizza arrived it was just as I had imagined, hot and edible, but nothing special. If I hadn’t been so cheap a roast chicken would have made a meal.
As Vida and I walked back to the car we passed by a huge ice cream cone shaped sign in front of Maggie Mudd’s. Vida insisted on getting an ice cream and I wasn’t too hard to persuade as the smell of fresh cones wafted toward the open door. It was a rare evening in SF—the fog had stayed perched above the Outer Mission and left us alone to enjoy and ice cream cone in relative comfort. While we waited for our waffle cone to be made Vida did a little furniture re-arranging with some plastic florescent green and orange chairs. With cone in hand we went back to our car. Soon after I started to drive I heard a wail of “it’s dripping!!” from the back seat. Vida had taken a bite out of the bottom of the cone and ice cream was oozing out onto her shorts and legs. I grabbed a towel from the clean laundry and wrapped her cone in it. She ate for a while before handing it back to me to finish. And then she asked for the box of leftover pizza and happily devoured a last slice.
Restaurant Total: 37
Rica's Pupusas Powell's Place
Lucky 13. Prayers to our Mother for Perpetual Help. I had my first pupusa tonight at Rica’s Pupusas on 18th St. under the watchful eye of the Virgin. Sitting inside Rica’s is like sitting outside a cozy shack, the kitchen enclosed by faux eaves. The server and an older man sat at a table watching T.V. in between customers while Rica worked in the kitchen. Religious figures, landscape prints and Coca Cola decorations compete for wall space. The unlit Christmas lights hint at a cheerfulness that will emerge, with Rica from her kitchen, when the sun goes down.
H, Vida and I sat at our table with its plastic tablecloth and ate chips with a mild salsa while I tried to imagine what a pupusa was. We ordered guacamole since it was probably the only thing Vida would try and eat. It arrived on a bed of iceberg lettuce with some surprisingly flavorful tomato slices standing up in a flower pattern along the rim of the plate. I heard the light slapping sound of tortilla’s being formed. I ordered a chicken and a cheese pupusa with rice and beans. It looked like a grilled quesadilla, but the masa was softer, not quite a tortilla. The chicken and cheese fillings were light and delicious. The refried black beans and rice were particularly flavorful. H informed me that the proper way to eat a pupusa was with the cabbage salad that came in a bowl with each plate.
Vida had no interest in the bit of pupusa that H put on a plate for her and screamed that she wanted it taken off her plate. She condescended to the existence of a bit of rice but didn’t bother even trying it. She sipped on H’s tamarind drink and a glass of ice water while we attempted to eat. Once again I leaned on the fact that Vida was more interested in H than anything else and I ate spacing out watching the T.V. But in just moments Vida announced that she had to go to the bathroom and H took her across the street to her apartment.
I sat there eating and expecting them to come back. I looked at the bill and after realizing that I didn’t have enough money for a decent tip I nervously looked out the door and across the street hoping they would return. After 15 minutes I gave up and left my pittance on the table and hoped they wouldn’t hate me.
Vida had two dinners out this week. Rica’s was earlier in the week and tonight we were out on Hayes Street visiting a friend’s gallery show. I looked across the street to Powell’s Place. Suddenly nothing sounded better than fried chicken. When first walking into Powell’s it seems like just a take out place with a few informal tables. But we were told we could walk into the dining room and sit at any table. The tables were set with linen cloths and prints of famous African American entertainers graced the walls. It took a while for a server to notice we were there and Vida entertained herself by going up and down the slight grade that served as the wheelchair entrance. The door was open but fortunately blocked off with a large potted plant. There was a metal lattice fence on either side of the ramp and Vida stuck her sandaled foot in between each space in the grillwork climbing from one end of the ramp to the other. She stops at the door and yells, loudly, to know one in particular, “Hey what are you doing out there?’ and “We’re having dinner”. I ordered a chicken dinner for Vida and I to share with a chicken breast for me and a couple of wings for her. The menu announces at the top that each meal comes with “TWO CORN MUFFINS” and they soon arrive but the waitress is nice enough to have a separate plate with “TWO CORN MUFFINS” for Vida as well. When dinner arrives with the side of greens and French fries, Vida has her own plate as well. I am amazed at the generosity and the sympathy. It was apparent that the waitress understood how hard it is when kids don’t have their own thing going on. Every time I order something for us to share Vida asks “where’s mine” and isn’t usually satisfied unless the entire plate is in front of her. I dug in and the chicken happily reminded me of Rose’s, the chicken house we used to go to as kids. The greens were bacon-y, the French fries thin, crisp and hot. Vida of course had nothing to do with the food except to eat a couple of fries, take a couple of bites of my chicken and lick ketchup of the plate. She played with her stuffed cow or “baby” wrapping her up in a paper napkin and putting her to bed on the handicap ramp. Luckily there were no other customers to notice.
When our waitress goes out the door Vida in a mock gesture of concern kind of whimpers, reaches out her arms asks where she is going. The waitress goes to her car parked out front and opens the trunk. Vida asks what she is doing in a half whisper half scream. She overhears Vida and reassures her that she will be back and that she is just getting a book from her car. They had somehow bonded and Vida was extraordinarily concerned every time she left the room.
Vida was incredibly dirty from school, she had lion’s whiskers painted on her face and a considerable amount of mud on her face, legs and arms. It wasn’t until we were sitting at the table and I saw her through someone else’s eyes that I realized how neglected she looked. The waitress came by and asked her if she was going to “take a bubble bath later”. We took the rest of Vida’s meal to go. When we got home she did get in the bath. When she got out, sometime around 9, she said she wanted dinner. She sat naked on her chair in front of the T.V. happily devouring the leftover chicken and French fries.
Restaurant Total:35
Bill's Place
I have a few children’s books that I have been carrying around since I left home. They are close to my heart—books I identified as treasures at a very young age. One of them is “Feeding the Animals” by H.A. Rey of Curious George fame. It’s about a brother and a sister who go to the zoo during “feeding time”. The main feature of the book other than the primary colored illustrations is that the dialogue involved in feeding the animals is phrased as riddles. In order to find out what animal is being fed you have to flip the page. I remember mentally maintaining the element of surprise even though I knew that if “Bill” is “carrying a basket” he must be feeding the rhinoceros. The book’s quaintness is completely out of step with current zoo dogma—although the seals receive a very reasonable meal of fish, the bears are given French rolls and apples. The enclosures the animals inhabit are sterile and bound with wire fence rather than anything resembling a natural habitat.
I pulled “Feed the Animals” out for Vida as a treat and explained that it was mine when I was a “little girl”. It has become her favorite book mostly due the fact that she gets to utter the long and conceptually complex phrase “I want to read the book from when you when you were a little girl”. She can barely get her tongue around the words “little girl” and it comes out more like “little goarl”. The book is falling apart. I enjoy reading it with her but I can’t help cringing every time she turns a disintegrating page. The yellowed tape is barely holding the pages together and it looks like I ate a few too many bowls of Cocoa Puffs while reading it.
When I lamented the fact that we seemed to have run out of burger places to go to H suggested “Bill’s Place” on 25th and Clement. Bill’s Place was a restaurant that H went to when she was a “little goarl”. I was unusually exhausted this week and instead of waiting for the weekend to go out I was ready for a break on Tuesday. Vida was much more motivated to go out as well when she was told that the restaurant was “H’s when she was a little girl”. Vida exhibited unusually calm behavior, most likely because H was there. I enjoyed the few moments I had to not think about Vida and what she was getting into.
The server gave her a “Bill’s Place” coloring page featuring a triple scoop ice cream cone and some crayons. This kept the two of them going while I was looking around and admiring the chandeliers. “Bill” either put them there on purpose in an ironic moment or this place used to be a ballroom dance studio. Bill’s Place also has a counter where you can sit and eat your burger while watching T.V. I don’t think that “Friends” is as popular a choice for restaurant patrons in the Sunset District as it is in the Castro—the Giant’s game was on. In order to further get into the spirit of the place I periodically craned my neck around to an uncomfortable point in order to check on the score of the game. I also ordered a “Giants Burger” with avocado, bacon and cheddar cheese. H had a veggie burger, “sprouts included” according to the menu, but fears of being poisoned by salmonella led her to keep them off to the side. An onion ring provided a suitable replacement. Vida enjoyed her hot dog and French fries. According to H, the shakes are where it’s at but we didn’t indulge. But the burgers were great, but ephemeral, considering the rate at which I ate mine. I felt like Wimpy and was tempted to order another but since it was already Tuesday I would have had to pay for it today.
As cynical as all retail workers are about “customer service” I think we are all secretly gratified to be identified as a “regular” even if it’s only where you get your daily coffee fix. Bill’s Place would be a great place to be known as a regular but based on the offhand service we received from the server made it apparent that this is the kind of restaurant you have to go to for at least 10 years before you can merit “regular” treatment.
Restaurant Total: 33
