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| The Other White Meat |
Carpe Diem
This morning I woke up with a splitting headache in a bed I didn’t know. Vague recollections of the night before swam just outside my memory. The “where the fuck am I?” phenomena usually lasts for no more than a minute or two, before abbreviated recall brings you back to a hazy awareness. And…we’re back: Napa Valley. (this is why I take copious pictures and notes)
Last night at Carpe Diem was a blur of wine and food. Four different white varietals four red may have contributed to my haze. The sommelier, Steve Distler, dazzled us with an array of different wines—each a perfect representation of itself. We blind tasted each, picking it from their extensive list. Clearly practice makes perfect: I was 8 for 8.
The food was original and tightly plated. We started with the “soup of the moment”: one ounce shots, served in shot glasses (1 each) and drizzled with truffle oil. Bang. Then wild mushroom flatbread, topped with gruyere, arugula, garlic, and more truffle oil. Then it was on to the “Quack & Cheese”: Duck Confit macaroni and cheese. Honestly the best M&C I’ve ever had.
For the entrée? Wild Boar ribs in a honey ginger barbeque sauce, with a side of Asian slaw, dressed with a complex peanut sauce. The ribs dripped with enough juice to make a fat man weep. Tears of pure joy.
Dessert was a Mexican chocolate pot de crème topped with sea salt and candied pepitas (see? ubiquitous); paired with a Uruguayan port, it was one of the better nightcaps I have ever had.
Chef Scott Kendall is young, artistic, and eager to please. The front of the house hums with an adorable professionalism compliments of his young wife, Stephanie Kendall. It should also be noted: they have one of the most comfortable guest beds in all of Napa. Cheers.
Cold Feet.
Frigid. Fucking frozen. My god, are those propane heaters (suspended precariously overhead) turned all the way up? When I overpay for dinner, I expect a modicum of comfort. Call me crazy.
Star Belly did not provide this. Unfortunately for them, hardship during dinner does little to improve one's palate. Remember the Donner Party? Yeah. They got so cold they didn't realize they were eating EACH OTHER. With that being said, I don't remember much of the meal.
The things I do remember, are less than flattering. Our waiter, a young peppy Filipino chap, was generally flippant and unresponsive. When I asked about the "Lonza" on the charcuterie plate, he declared it was, "Good. A little fattier than other meats, but house-made and delicious." It was, in fact, not delicious. It was 90% fat, 10% lean; exactly the opposite of what a lonza stagionata should be. House-made or not, it tasted like crap.
The mussels were pedestrian and unimaginative. Fresh, but slathered in an oily "house-made" chorizo (suddenly the most ubiquitous meat in San Francisco), jalapeno and cilantro. Zero imagination.
Even the pizza failed to live up to expectations. Squash, sage, and pepitas (another omnipresent SF menu item, as chefs ride out their Fall gourd stocks), sounds a whole lot more interesting than it actually was. The crust was overly salted, the flavor profile unoriginal.
In fairness to Starbelly, the arctic temperatures are out of their control. However, proper heating elements and placement is certainly not. If you, as a restauranteur, book reservations and seat people in an outdoor environment, their relative comfort is a primary concern. Heat deprivation does nothing to enhance my appreciation of your restaurant. Rather, it gave me ample opportunity to focus on the other aspects of the dining experience that I didn't like, elements that no doubt I would have overlooked had my tootsies been warm.
So, will I try Starbelly again? Most probably I will be forced to: my girlfriend loves this place. But next time? I'm wearing fucking electric socks.
Star Belly did not provide this. Unfortunately for them, hardship during dinner does little to improve one's palate. Remember the Donner Party? Yeah. They got so cold they didn't realize they were eating EACH OTHER. With that being said, I don't remember much of the meal.
The things I do remember, are less than flattering. Our waiter, a young peppy Filipino chap, was generally flippant and unresponsive. When I asked about the "Lonza" on the charcuterie plate, he declared it was, "Good. A little fattier than other meats, but house-made and delicious." It was, in fact, not delicious. It was 90% fat, 10% lean; exactly the opposite of what a lonza stagionata should be. House-made or not, it tasted like crap.
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| Lonza (left) was a letdown |
The mussels were pedestrian and unimaginative. Fresh, but slathered in an oily "house-made" chorizo (suddenly the most ubiquitous meat in San Francisco), jalapeno and cilantro. Zero imagination.
Even the pizza failed to live up to expectations. Squash, sage, and pepitas (another omnipresent SF menu item, as chefs ride out their Fall gourd stocks), sounds a whole lot more interesting than it actually was. The crust was overly salted, the flavor profile unoriginal.
In fairness to Starbelly, the arctic temperatures are out of their control. However, proper heating elements and placement is certainly not. If you, as a restauranteur, book reservations and seat people in an outdoor environment, their relative comfort is a primary concern. Heat deprivation does nothing to enhance my appreciation of your restaurant. Rather, it gave me ample opportunity to focus on the other aspects of the dining experience that I didn't like, elements that no doubt I would have overlooked had my tootsies been warm.
So, will I try Starbelly again? Most probably I will be forced to: my girlfriend loves this place. But next time? I'm wearing fucking electric socks.
From Prussia, With Love
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Neither fish nor flesh, nor good red herring |
Whatever its called, this place makes me wax nostalgic for Central Europe. Right after college, I spent 6 months holed up in a small apartment in Budapest overlooking the Danube. In other words, I have a soft spot in my heart for watered down foreign lagers, shitty service, and goulash. Three things this place excels at providing.
The beer selection is impressive--17 on tap, and gobs more in the bottle. On this occasion I drank a Zywiec from Poland. Mmmmm...you can really taste the Soviet repression in each swig.
The food is good, not great, but regionally authentic with large portions. My personal favorite is the marinated herring, served with house-pickled beets, garlic-fried potatoes, and covered in onions. Guaranteed to cut your chances with the opposite sex by 50%. On this trip I also had the Russian sausage, which was mediocre. The sausage was overcooked and tough. I blame this on Vladimir Putin.
The only thing more authentically European than the beer and the food, is the service. Its stereotypically bad, but done with a delightful accent. My advice for those who insist on complaining about it: be more aggressive, and stop whining. Pretend you are in Europe and act like an overbearing American.
Not without its flaws, Bistro G. nonetheless gets a positive review. Like my mother used to always say: "Lower your expectations, and you will rarely be disappointed".
Sugar Magnolia, blossoms blooming, heads all empty and I don't care...
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| Eggs & Bacon, bitches |
Magnolia and the gentrification of the Haight are symbolic of my own personal transmogrification from a clueless hippie-kid into a more or less fully functioning adult. We all have to grow up sometime--even the Haight. So it's little wonder that I love Magnolia.
Ambience/Atmosphere:
With only a light dusting of 1960's nostalgia (something that could have easily been overdone), the place always seems warm and open. Its weathered antique look belie an attention to cleanliness and detail that don't come easily. Even the noticeable water damage on the ceiling and poorly fixed cracks in the walls somehow give the place a rustic resonance.
The graphic design is clever and subtle: collage art mixed with a series of original sketches. Lots of psychedelic eye-candy without being overwhelming. Again, a palpable sense of detail. The website alone deserves a visit--that's some trippy shit.
Food/Booze:
I've never had a bad meal here. Everything always seems to be on point. This particular outing I had the eggs and bacon (again). Its a peculiar rendition of the classic American breakfast staple. Pork belly and scrambled egg served as an open-faced sandwich on a house-made bagel and drizzled with maple syrup. I said: "Goddamn!"
Wash that down with a half-liter of their notorious Proving Ground Pale Ale--cask brewed on-site in the basement--and you have a perfect breakfast.
Service:
The only word I can use to describe the service is "stony". Clearly getting baked before work is a job requirement here. I'm actually alright with that. Mellow bartenders and servers beget mellow customers. This I like. So, sometimes you may have to remind the bartender that you like to drink beer. Or water. Or that you exist at all. But, don't take it personally. He just got high-as-fuck in the walk-in with the cooks; he's just trying to maintain, man--back off.
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