Bakesale busy-ness

The first time I went to Bakesale Betty was with Mo. It was quiet that day, we met Betty and Michael, had our stool table set up for us, and got our water poured into little plastic cups for us. Shortbread cookies and lemon squares came our way. We even got a tour of the kitchen. We felt like royalty and I was immediately won over. That was months ago. Since then, I’ve been back whenever I get the chance weekday off, or, in this case, when I take a little holiday because of Jeanne’s visit.

On our walk from our car to Bakesale Betty, we passed the fire station and three firefighters standing around, carrying boxes of Girl Scout cookies. One of the men asked if we were going to Bakesale Betty. And, when we said yes he told us to tell them that he sent us and that we’d get taken care of. They then asked us if we wanted some Girl Scout cookies and were trying to give us boxes, which we refused since I was equally encumbered with Girl Scout cookies at home.

Jeanne and I got there at the perfect time. The small crowd of people I had seen inside as we were driving by the storefront was gone, and we were able to get a trio of stools in the corner, flanked by windows. I placed our order of two fried chicken sandwiches and potato salad to share with a guy who didn’t recognize that I’d been there before, that I’m friends with the mistress chicken fryer herself, that I’m the reason why “sticky love” is written on their containers. But, he was new and he was cute, and, because of that, he could be forgiven.

We got our chicken sandwiches and potato salad, and set up our corner station. Eleanor had piled on a humongous portion of the cole slaw and shreds of cabbage were falling off onto the paper wrapper. The chicken sandwich was just as I remembered it with crispy chicken and crunchy cole slaw with a slight kick of heat from the jalapeños. And, the potato salad this time around didn’t look as formidable as the last when I ordered a side for myself, naively believing that I’d be able to finish it.

As we ate, we watched the crowd around us grow. We now felt trapped in our little corner. People came in, ordered sandwiches, picked up baked treats, and left to let others order sandwiches and pick up baked treats. Throughout all the hurried madness, the Bakesale staff kept their cool, greeted each new face warmly, and made sure everyone had placed their sandwich order. Jeanne and I were the slowest ones of the bunch. The diners around us had come and gone, and we were the only ones who remained at the end of the lunch-time rush, alone again in our quiet corner.

Citizen dessert

Scott and I spend our Wednesday night’s watching Top Chef on Bravo together. It’s Iron Chef meets Project Runway, and takes place in San Francisco. I like watching it to see where the contestants go shopping and see what San Francisco iconic chefs are their special guests. The episode on two weeks ago featured Elizabeth Falkner, executive chef from Citizen Cake, and Madame S (we also saw Scott’s friend Jonathan, the same man who I had very readily allowed to molest me at Aunt Charlie’s, looking very cute in the episode). So, when it was up to me to decide where to have an after dinner dessert, Citizen Cake was where I wanted to be.

We ordered the rocky road concoction and the rose petal crème brulee with saffron cookies. The rocky road dish was Citizen’s Cake interpretation of rocky road ice cream. It was a little round mound of warm chocolate cake, a glass of marshmallow soufflé with a chocolate sauce bottom, a scoop of walnut ice cream sitting on a Chinese spoon, and chocolate covered nuts and cookie crumbs sprinkled on the plate that held everything together. We were supposed to get a little bit of each thing in one bite, which was a little bit of a challenge as the cake would slide off into the marshmallow cream. When I was finally able to work it out, it was fabulous. The cake dense, rich, warmth, was offset by the airy lightness of the marshmallow cream and the sleek coolness of the walnut ice cream. The nuts and cookie crumbs added a nice bit of crunch. Each ingredient was good on its own, but together they were incredible.

The rose petal crème brulee was also fabulous. The caramelized sugar top was hard and cracked beautifully with the hit of my spoon. Inside, the custard was creamy and smooth, with a touch of rose essence. And, on the side, two little rectangles of saffron cookies sat. They were flakey and buttery like shortbread, and was a magnificent spoon for the custard. Delicious.

Sebo mystery

My neighborhood is still a mystery to me. I’m slowly figuring it out, finding all the nooks and crannies of cool hang out spots, and trying to believe myself to be hip and stylish enough to not only live in Hayes Valley but to step through the doors of all those expensive-looking boutiques. Tonight’s dinner unraveled yet another Hayes Valley mystery—the mystery restaurant behind the shrouded windows.

I had dinner at Sebo, a little Japanese restaurant on Hayes at Octavia. Scott and I had walked passed it a few weeks ago as we were heading out of Paxti’s (whose Chicago style pizza in no way rivals Zachary’s), and we couldn’t figure out what it was or where it came from. The windows were covered in a tan colored screen, there was no sign on the door or windows, no menu posted, nothing to signal that this was a place where people could enter and get their hunger fed. I thought it was a private club of some sort, where only the hippest and trendiest of the San Francisco crowd could partake in the company of other hip and trendy San Franciscans. I’m glad it wasn’t. Instead, it was yet another new restaurant trying to stake a more permanent claim in this neighborhood of rotating retail space.

There were only two tables of diners when we arrived. It was quiet but cozy. It was evident that thought and care were put in to the design of the space. The pale green walls were offset by grayish Japanese-style mounted screens. The angular tables played on the oblique lines running across the screens. The decorations were minimal. Its clean simplicity was stylish yet inviting as was the small open kitchen at the back of long rectangular dining space. There, two young attractive men stood at the bar rolling rice balls and slicing fish. On the planks of wood around them that acted as shelves dishes awaited plating, and a large pot could be seen simmering away on the stovetop.

The menu wasn’t overly elaborate either. There was an extensive nigiri selection with names of seafood that I hadn’t heard of (icefish, fluke, big eye tuna) and some that seemed too questionable for me to even consider trying (monkfish liver). The maki section had some interesting sounding selections as well. The appetizer had the usual Japanese restaurant appetizer fare. And, there was also a section of small plates with chirashi and donburis, among other items.

We ordered a maki roll with lemon, avocado, and tuna, the fluke nigiri, and another nigiri whose name I don’t remember. The fish of both the nigiri was fresh, succulently soft, and buttery. The rice was just perceptibly warm, sticky, and sweet. The flavors of both the rice and fish were so fresh and pure that any more than just a touch of the wasabi soy sauce would ruin the flavors. The maki roll was one that I had my doubts about, mainly because of the presence of lemon, which I found to be an unusual addition. But, when I put the small green roll with a red center into my mouth and the fresh lemon zest punched the rooftop and tongue of my mouth, I could taste its zing mix with the smooth, velvety texture of the of the fish and it was wonderful. We finished off the meal with a glass of the “Five Bridges” saki. It was a chilled one with a fresh, crisp, slightly fruity flavor.

As I walked out of the warm restaurant and into the cold darkness of Hayes St., I was glad that this new little place was here and that I didn’t need a secret handshake to be allowed inside. If only I could feel that way about all those other mysterious shops that look so cool from the outside.

Papusa me!

Papusas are going to be my new tacos. $1.70 for a round of fried dough stuffed with cheese, chicken, and whatever else I like would totally take down a taco in any cart-side snack battle.

Quressa and I joined Gabe and his friends outside of El Rio. They were on their way to get food a few doors down, and we were going to join them, even after having eaten across the street at Cancun, where I had a very cheesy carne asada super quesadilla that was left unfinished. There were twelve of us and the restaurant was already filled with people, just like them, who had left El Rio in search of carbohydrates to soak up those cocktails. We had to split up, six on one side of the restaurant and six on another.

As everyone around me ordered in Spanish, I timidly ordered my single chicken papusa and Tecate (the only things that I knew would be able to find their way into my belly) in English with a meek voice that was somehow audible enough for the waitress to understand. We waited for our food and waited some more. We watched our friends across the room gobble up their plates of beans, rice, and whatever splendid edible else up as we satiated ourselves with chips and salsa. I was far from hungry but those chips looked so good and were so close. Gabe started to yell across the restaurant, people turned their heads, and a lovely bouquet of red roses was sent Gabe’s way when our food finally arrived.

My lone papusa on its plain white plate looked a bit sad. It was a pale tan color and I could see it glistening with the signs of fried dough. I cut it with my fork and dug in. The chicken was not of a sort that I’d usually eat. It had the look and consistency of what I would assume canned chicken would be, but I couldn’t figure out why anyone would purchase, serve, or eat canned chicken. I tried to not let it bother me as I took another bite. Gabe then suggested that I top it with the cabbage slaw. The cabbage slaw was crisp shreds of cabbaged tossed in a vinegar dressing. It was good on it’s own but even better with the papusa. The cool, acidic crunch of the cabbage worked well with the warm, salty chewiness of the papusa. I mmm’ed my whole way through that good-sized papusa and even some of Gabe’s. They were so tasty.

Also, in my journey to becoming an honorary gay Latina, I learned how to mix Tecate with lemon and salt to make a beer rather surprisingly similar to a hefeweizen. It sounds like an odd and disgusting combination but it was deliciously refreshing and vibrant. Tecate and papusa--one awesome $5 meal.

Random drunkenness

Whenever I hang out with Gabe, I inevitably get drunk for no apparent reason. The last time was at a screening of Finding Neverland at the Loews in Manhattan’s Upper West Side. We smuggled in a six-pack of Heinekens in our coat pockets. And, the first time was on my first night ever in New York. We went to the Hole, where I found the only straight guy in the joint, and woke up the next morning with bruises all over and my contacts dried between dollar bills and receipts in my wallet.

This time, Gabe was in my town. I met him at One Bush Street, where his friend Yulie’s workplace was having a party and we were just going to show up. It was a frou-frou party in an eleventh floor law office. Among the crowd of suited men and heeled women, I felt slightly out of place in my jeans and Chucks. But, we were immediately shown to food and drink. The food was the usual Mediterranean plate with those spinach and feta fillo dough things, those cinnamon-tasting chicken fillo dough things, dolmas, humus, and those rolls of with feta and lettuce. The food was nothing spectacular but more than the cheese and crackers (which they had) plate that I was expecting. The wine was a crisp white that constantly filled my cup. Gabe made sure I was always topped off before we made our rounds through the crowd, chit-chatting with the local gay business association members, taking business cards of a dog portraiture photographer and an art gallery owner along the way.

As the blinking lights were telling us that the party was winding down, we finished off our wine and took a bottle to go. Scott, Gabe, and I then headed to Mi Lindo Yucatan for real food and more drinks. We ordered a large appetizer plate, the Poc Chuc, a grilled chicken dish, and two small carafes of sangria. The appetizer plate was a mix of various fried foods with a couple of tamales thrown in for good measure. The fried things were good, but I had no clue what was what and, at some point, everything started to taste very similar. The Poc Chuc, which was a grilled pork dish, was succulent and tender, although I had some bits of chewy cartilage and fat. The chicken was good too, and the slices of mandarin, which at first I found to be an odd accompaniment, was a nice contrast to the taste and texture of the chicken. The sangria went down without any complaints.

After our meal, we headed home to finish the bottle of wine from earlier in the night. There was no falling down in the streets, no finding my way back to the Upper West Side from Hell’s Kitchen practically blind, no mysterious bruises. We were in my town and my house, and spent the night chatting in my living room. Although I didn’t have splotches of purple and blue (although mine are sometimes green) on my body as evidence to the previous night’s drinks, I did wake up with an unhappy stomach and a grumpy hangover.

Backyard brunch

The sky seems a brighter shade of blue and the sun seems to shine more intensely in the East Bay. I made my second journey in a week over the Bridge Sunday morning for brunch at Colin’s house in Oakland. I had shown up early, and Colin was still in a towel trying not to slit himself as he shaved with a scary-looking blade. Adam, his roommate, offered me tea, and I joined him and Rachel outside, finding my way along a hidden brick path, dodging weeds, and finally reaching the sitting area, complete with a hammock, three precarious chairs, and two cinder blocks with a block of wood as a seat (I think the latter was the safest sitting spot).

When Eleanor arrived after a little delay that left us wondering whether or not she and Colin had gotten attacked by a group of Sunday morning church-goers, we cheered. She brought with her a plate of banana bread and lemon scones from Bakesale Betty. We placed the dish on the cinder block next to the dish of chopped Manila mangoes, strawberries, and oranges. The banana bread was moist, just sweet enough, and smelled fragrantly of banana. And, the buttery flakiness of the scones was complimented well with the crispness of the edges and the sugar topping. The fruit was delicious. The mango tasted like Hawaii on my tongue, and the oranges and strawberries were juicy and sweet.

As Adam, Rachel, Toby, Carlo, and I sat out back and ate, Eleanor and Colin were inside cooking up oatmeal pancakes. As if the fruit and Bakesale Betty baked goods weren’t good enough, Eleanor was mixing up a fresh batch of oatmeal pancakes with which to stuff us silly. We laid a couple of sheets out on the cement patio for a makeshift dining area, spread out plates and utensils, and awaited the glorious pancakes. They came out one by one and were offered around until everyone had had one. The pancakes were moist and dense with a slight crunch of the oatmeal. Each little brown round felt like eating a large bowl of oatmeal. After one, I was stuffed but was able to squeeze in half of one more.

We sat around on the blanket-covered cement rubbing our bellies in a pancake induced stupor as we listened to the bird squawk up in the tree. I left Oakland that day stuffed with oats and glowing with a slight bronzing of the skin that dubiously would have happened on the other side of the Bay.

Moshie’s Pippic

Moshie’s Pippic seems more than a little out of place on Hayes St. It’s not hip, it’s not young, it’s not stylish. It’s a wonder how this little Chicago-style deli with newspapers covering the window in such a fashion as to leave passersby wondering whether or not it’s still a functioning establishment has stayed in the same spot for years, especially considering how so many other eateries just a few doors down the street are disappearing and new ones are taking their place in what appears to be a monthly rotation.

Walking along Hayes and passing its small storefront countless times, I wondered what was behind that newspaper covered window and if I’d ever eat there. But, wonder no longer. Scott and I walked past it as we were on our way to check out the war rally. He wanted a bagel and lox and I had a strange craving for a hot dog. And, to our luck, Moshie’s was open and the menu touted bagels and hot dogs.

Inside the small darkish room, an aging middle-aged man stood behind the counter, greeting us with a friendly hello. Pictures of celebrities with thank you’s to Moshie’s hung on the walls next to posters of Wrigley Field. And, an elderly couple shared a pastrami sandwich.

Scott and I ordered the Chimesky (I have no idea how to spell it), which was two hot dogs (although I chose two Polish sausages) topped with chili, cheese, and onions to share, a potato knish, and the lox plate. When our food arrived, the friendly man who had questioned our taking of his newspaper placed it all in front of me. I had a new crush.

We ate the dual hotdogs on an open-faced single bun placed on a sheet of wax paper with plastic utensils. The onions that topped it could have been chopped a bit finer and the cheese could have been shredded rather than sliced into small squares, but the sausage was satisfying. My potato knish was chewy, and with the first bite I remembered that I’ve actually never had a potato knish before. I had no idea if it was supposed to be chewy or not. The knish, however, worked as a good bland sponge to soak up the chili. I washed it all down with a Coke, straight of the can and with no ice, since, as I was told, “It’s the only thing [we] don’t have.”

J-town

I never felt much of an affinity for the Japantown mall. I didn’t quite understand it. I couldn’t figure out why someone would shop at a store called Auto Freak or why someone would choose one sushi restaurant over the dozen others that showcased the same plastic rolls and sashimi in the window that populate the small stretch of Post St.

It wasn’t until I started working at the nearby non-profit that Japantown became a part of my routine and that its quirks became something I looked forward to. My caffeine fix would come from Café Hana, my morning pastry from Andersen’s Bakery, and my lunchtime sandwich from May’s. I would spend my lunch break browsing through books at the bookstore, lost among the shelves of Japanese text until I found my way to the small English section. My mid-afternoon sugary snack—mango Hichews, lychee gummies, that weird ice cream bar thing made of a waffle-like shell with an inside coated with chocolate and a flakey vanilla-flavored ice cream but so oddly good—would almost always come from the small market with the cash registers that bring one back to Little House on the Prairie times.

This morning when I was walking through the Kitetsu Mall sipping my pre-staff meeting coffee from Café Hana (poured by the small, curly-haired Asian woman who knows that I order large black coffee) and munching my rectangular shaped cheese Danish from Andersen’s Bakery, my brows furrowed in sadness, realizing that the small, curly-haired Asian woman might not be there to pour my coffee as I step through the doorway and that the oddly-shaped pastries might be gone too.

A large portion of Japantown is up for sale and the prospective buyer has not promised to save any of it for any extended length of time. For me, this might simply mean no more ramen at Suzu, no more Nutella and banana crepes from Susie’s Crepes, and no more rice bowls at Maki. But for the larger community, especially the elderly Japanese who still reside in J-town, it’ll mean something much more devastating.

Late night pizza non-regrets

My interaction with Scott through my bedroom door a little after 1AM:

Scott (knocks on my door): Are you awake?
Me (under the covers in bed reading): Um, yeah.
S: Come and hang out with us.
M: Um, it's one in the morning.
(About two minutes pass.)
S: How many people are in that room? Where is he? Where are you hiding him? Come out.
M: Um, it's just me.

At that moment, I decide to put on my pants and join Scott and Seth, who are putting frozen burritos on a plate, in the kitchen. I tell them I'm hungry too (I had been hungry for hours but didn't want to eat too late at night) and Scott decides to scrap the frozen burrito idea in favor for the frozen pizza. He goes to the freezer, unwraps the pizza, turns on the oven, and the pizza gets popped inside. Twenty long minutes later, the pizza is done. Scott realizes that he left the pizza on the cardboard, causing a slightly soggy crust, but we eat it anyhow. Pretty good for Safeway frozen pizza.

2:41AM: I lie in bed with a full stomach, feeling slighty ridiculous for eating pizza at 2AM eventhough I wouldn't eat a small snack at 10PM.

Back to California

I said “I love you” to Oakland as my plane bringing me back to the Bay touched the ground. Those five days in Las Vegas were long, exhausting, and filled with second-hand smoke and bad food. I was dying for fresh vegetables, chicken that had the taste and texture of chicken, and real, breathing people to take my order and serve me, not some machine where I slide my credit card through only to carry a plate around to retrieve my own food.

I had only eaten a grainy Power Bar all day and it was already nearly three. The cab driver let me off in front of my much beloved and dearly missed house. I dropped my bags inside, went to the refrigerator (although I knew there would be nothing to eat in there), and turned back out the doors to find a bite.

I walked a block to Momi Toby’s and ordered a chicken sandwich with pesto and tomato on foccacia with a mixed green salad. I took a seat on the wooden bench against the wall, pulled out my New Yorker to read about a small alleyway in Beijing, and waited for the tall, thin man behind the counter to tell me that my sandwich was ready.

I was so happy to eat. The greens were drizzled with a light, barely tangy dressing that I gobbled up, bite after bite. The sandwich was good too, the chicken having the consistency of chicken, although I questioned the authenticity of the grill marks. The tomato slices tasted fresh and the bread was just soft enough. This was exactly what I wanted.

And, as I sat there finishing my sandwich and reading my magazine, Mike Johnson played overhead, thin, young people filled the café with laptops and caffeine, wind blew and clouds began their thick coverage of the sky. I was glad to have brought my scarf and glad to be home again.