A Mission mission

San Francisco never surprises me as a city with nooks and crannies ready for the finding, and new restaurants popping up every five minutes. How am I ever to keep track of them all? I'm just one person trying to keep my stomach to a manageable size. But, last night was a night of many firsts in a familiar 'hood.

I met Michael for drinks at Sky Lounge (or some other name of a similar vein) on the rooftop of the hostel on Mission at 21st. I didn't know such a place existed in the Mission and walked out of the elevator in a slight state of awe. The rooftop bar had a great view of the city and it would have been a lovely place to get another Campari and soda if the wind wasn't blowing my hair all over the place and making us strain to hear each other talk above the wind tunnel madness.

We ventured over to Pizzeria Delfina, the offspring of the other Delfina next door, which opened just a few weeks ago. For some reason, we weren't allowed to sit at the open table next the window and were relegated to sit at the counter, which was actually kinda fun. I eyed the chefs roll out the dough, ladled on just one ladle full of sauce, and slide that sucker into the oven with one slick movement. Our spot also allowed us a view of all the other kitchen happenings, which was slightly distracting.

We ordered a tomato salad with thinly sliced red onions, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and a crostini smeared with goat cheese. The tomatoes were bright red and tasted of summer freshness. The vinegar was a sweet accompaniment. We split one of their daily special pizzas with a name that neither Michael nor I could pronounce and with toppings that we couldn't pronounce either. It was good though. The crust was thin and crisp with just a smudge of a savory tomato sauce. And, for dessert, we shared a slice of their pluot tart, which had a sugary crisp top. A bottle of wine rounded off our meal.

Our last Mission spot for the night was Cama on 16th at Guerrero. Michael made friends with everyone at the bar, and a couple of Brits outside, including the bartender, who poured us some yummy specials. I called Mo to see if he knew what the word "haberdashery" meant, and he did.

Curry mishap

Cooking with me is an adventure. Sure, I have my cookbooks and I try to follow them. But, I don't always measure and, when all else fails, I follow my dad's lead--throw things in a pot, turn on the heat, then eat. It never fails.

Last night was Part Two of Jon's Cooking With Susan saga. He stopped by the house and I had planned for us to make a chicken and potato curry with a basmati rice pilaf. It might sound fancy, but it's not. I've done it before a number of times and it always turned out well. But that wasn't exactly the case yesterday.

All was going well enough. Jon was chopping like a pro, I was dumping spices and chilis into a pot, and we were blending up a storm. When I reached for the blender to pour the tomato puree into the pot of chicken and potatoes, there was a huge plop-squish noise. Tomato puree was all over the counter and the empty blender was in my hand. My heart filled with sadness and disappointment, which was quickly overcome with the question, "How can we save this so that we can eat soon?" Jon picked up a spoon, I picked up a spatula, and we started scooping. We managed to salvage enough to continue on with our curry.

Thirty minutes later, we had a decent curry ladled on top of cumin-scented basmati. Jon said the food was delicious but I knew it could have been better. I squeezed in too much lemon juice and lost a seed or two in the process, so there was way too much tang. The curry wasn't as thick as it should be and tasted watered-down. My impatience and hunger overwhelmed my good cooking habits and I didn't blend as well as I should have, which left us with chunks of ginger and onions. And, the potatoes weren't as soft as I like. But Jon was polite, complimented our efforts, and let me pressure him in to taking a tupperware container for the next day's lunch.

We ended our meal with rocky road ice cream topped with a butterscotch sauce. That made the earlier mishap all okay.

Something fishy

Sunday's and Monday's dinners consisted of a tomato-based fish stew from the Whole Foods in Berkeley and a cheese baguette from Mrs. Wallach's house. The stew was heavy on the fish and seemed more like a dish of solid fish chunks than a soup, but a little bit of additional water made it fine and a good consistency for the cheese bread to soak up the liquid.

I was happily eating along while watching Anthony Bourdain's eating show on the Travel Network (he was in Paris and I was in heaven) Sunday night when Scott, sitting on the floor across the table from me, commented on the smell. It didn't particularly go well with him and his sickness. Ah, well.

Pork chop

I'm faced with a dilemma. Eating out for lunch at work is getting expensive, so I should probably bring my own from home, but there are still so many restaurants in such close proximity to try. I'm stuck. So, until I figure out what to do (or until I get my next bank statement), I think my daily lunch jaunts will continue.

Today's adventure was yet again in the Japantown mall, this time at a tiny place called Maki. I had been eyeing this place for a couple of weeks. Usually, there's a huge crowd outside waiting to get in, so I've been avoiding it. But today, with lunch happening at 1:15PM, the crowds were gone and I was seated as I entered the door. Wonderful.

I'm always curious about Japanese restaurants with a Mandarin-speaking waitstaff. The three women who ran the place all spoke Mandarin and Japanese, and were using both to converse with the diners. They spoke to me in English as I ordered the katsu don. Nothing could go wrong with a fried pork cutlet.

The fried pork came sliced up on a bed of white rice and carmelized onions, and was topped with egg. The rice was delicious. It was fluffy like jasmine but also sticky and slightly sweet like sushi rice. Superb. And, the onions were candy sweet, obviously having been slowly cooked over a low flame. The fried pork cutlet was crisp on the outside but tender and moist inside, something that sounds easy but can test a true katsu master.

I had to just scarf all the pork and rice down though, as I was already taking a longish lunch. I asked the waitress to pack up my leftovers and would have it for lunch again tomorrow.

As good as lunch was, at $15 (including tax, tip, and tea) it was a bit extravagant for my lunch budget; especially knowing that I can get the same thing for about $5 at No-Name-Sushi on Church and 15th. Perhaps it'll be my special treat place.

Crepes a-go-go

I'm still trying to figure out the roommate balance with Scott. Do I leave the house when he has guests over? Or is it okay that I lounge about in my pajamas as he's trying to entertain a cute date? He didn't need me messing up his play, and so dinner with Rob with a great little escape.

We hit up the Hayes Valley hot spots: Fritz, Place Pigalle, and Suppenkuche. I'd been to Fritz just once before with Susie right before she left for Boston and right after I had way too much drink the night before. So, this time, not sad and not hung over sick was much more pleasant.

Rob and I had crepes (mine had chicken, pesto, and other things I can't remember; and Rob's had chicken, cheese, mushrooms, and spinach). The chicken seemed a bit dry and bland, but other than that they were good, although I still don't know why they come in square shapes. And, yes, I did like his better than mine and he was kind enough to let me finish his. We shared fries of the Belgian variety with two types of dipping sauces (a chipotle mayo that the counter guy said was his favorite and a ketchup-y one). And I had a Stella simply because I like saying the name. Stella.

We journeyed across the street to Place Pigalle for more beer since not nearly enough time had elapsed for Scott's date to get underway. I ordered something I can't remember because what I wanted was out (the second time that's happened to me of the two times I've been there). It was good, not too bitter or heavy but nothing overly girly and light, and I was pleasantly surprised.

We continued our beer binge at Suppenkuche down the street. I walk by it all the time on my way home from work, never saw anyone in it, and was full of curiosity. Lucky for me, Rob knew his way around the large wooden table and benches, and led us to the bar tucked away, where Mexican candles covered the counters and German portraits dotted the walls. He ordered a Hef and me another drink I had no clue about but enjoyed nonetheless.

A good evening all around. I hope Scott's was good too.

Here's Rob's take on our night: Rob's blog.

Burrito psychic

It's been a while, I know. And, for those of you who might be wondering, no, I didn't get smashed under my now-existent, large (and so soft) lesbian bed while trying to move it myself. No, I didn't get squished under my wobbly and too tall bookshelves either. And, no, Scott hasn't gotten so sick of me yet that he decided to lock me in the fridge. I'm just adjusting to a new life and waiting for my new computer.

Which leads me here: Japantown. I've had so much ramen, sashimi, tempura, soy with wasabi, green tea, unagi donburi, and barely passable coffee in the last several days that I was craving a burrito (my LA to the Mission roots are still with me). I was thrilled to go to over to Youth Speaks just so I could have an excuse to get a burrito for lunch. So when Ken said that it was part of his plan for us to make a burrito stop, I wondered if he was psychic.

We went to my old stomping ground, Cancun, at my suggestion, and I had my usual, a super burrito with grilled chicken and everything on it. I waited hungrily and executed enough restraint to not scarf down all my chips (a very proud moment). And, when they finally called my number, I jumped with joy from my seat, nearly knocking the bench over.

Oh, it was just like how I remembered it: heafty, warm, and full of gooey goodness. A grilled tortilla never tasted so good as when it's coated with melting cheese and sour cream. But, there seemed to be something missing. I thought I ordered a chicken burrito but the chicken seemed to be missing. There were chicken bits in there, but not enough to warrant the name "Super Chicken Burrito" by my standards. Slightly disappointed, I dug on, hoping that it was just the first couple of bites that lacked chicken. But, nope. The more I ate, the less chicken I saw. Sadness filled my heart and rice filled my belly.

But, I powered on. I wasn't going to let a lacking of chicken ruin my burrito moment. I dug my chips in to scoop out all the rice and avocado in the tortilla shell, and finished my Mandarin soda. It felt like home.