Destination #39: At The Real People Farmer's Market

I took a long bike ride one Saturday morning, further south than I’d ever been in San Francisco. Finally, after a wrong turn off of Mission Street somewhere, I happened upon about a dozen trucks and two parallel cement awnings as long as football fields bedecked in graffiti underneath Highway Two Eighty, and more Asian people than I’ve ever come across outside of China Town. This is the Alemany Farmer’s Market.

After milling about and discovering the large variety of fruits, vegetables and eggs for about half the price of the produce at the Ferry Building, I decided this was a market for real people. And I shan't forget to mention the half hatched duck embryos. The large population of toothless families confirmed this. It was surely a nice change from the Gucci adorned crowd of Embarcadero.

Of course there cannot exist a Farmer’s Market without food trucks. El Huarache Loco is number sixty on my list for their authentic Mexican street food, specifically their huarache with cactus salad.

Huarache consists of two masa (corn) based tortillas in the shape of beaver tails, stuffed with refried beans, then lightly fried. Unfortunately, the huarache I ate in this parking lot in Alemany didn’t stand up to the cold humid weather very well: Any crispiness soon diminished to a slightly soggy and chewy huarache. The salad on top was refreshing with crumbled queso fresco, fresh cilantro, and spicy chilies, although the cactus tasted a little like canned green beans.

Ok, so the huarache was not my favorite food item I’ve ever bought from a truck, but if it hadn’t been for El Huarache Loco, I probably never would’ve discovered the wonderful and inexpensive Alemany Farmer’s Market. Since this discovery, I have eaten more juicy peaches, cherries, and tangelo minneolas than I have in the last twenty-four years, and it’s barely made a dent in my wallet.

Destination #38: Eating Out The Door

My favorite activity in San Francisco has quickly turned into a trip down Market Street to its dead end at the Ferry Building, eating lunch out on the back plaza next to the water on a sunny day, and watching the gulls fly over Treasure Island. I love sharing this activity with others, so when Peter (an old friend from college) came to visit, I took him with me for an Out the Door lunch.

Out the Door is the take-out fast food version of the fancy Vietnamese fusion restaurant, Slanted Door. Vietnamese food constantly excites me… the idea of it, eating it, talking about it, cooking it. The thought of eating Out the Door’s Vietnamese food on the Ferry Building patio sounds a little like paradise. Out the Door’s chicken rice porridge made it to number fifty-six on the list.

Sitting in the sunshine on a bench with my plastic one-quart vat of porridge, the first bite was delightful. It had a mildly sweet and gingery zing, much like the tofu pudding my Vietnamese host mom used to buy me for breakfast from the Tofu Lady in Can Tho. The fried shallots and fresh spring onion added a variety of crisp textures. After several bites in, when the fried shallots were gone, the porridge lost its zing and I started craving protein, or at least something besides soupy rice. That’s when I discovered stringy pieces of overcooked white meat chicken sitting at the bottom of my porridge.

Eating half of the porridge that Out the Door served was too much. I didn’t even bother taking my leftovers home, which for a cheapskate as myself is something of a revelation. The pork steamed buns are what should’ve made the list: Hot, salty and sweet juicy pork inside a cloud-light bun. Perhaps it was a mistake to take a bite of this wildly tasty bun in the midst of eating my very mildly flavored chicken goop.

Either way, one goopy experience was not enough to deter me from Out the Door. I will just stay away from Asian porridge dishes from now on.

Destination #37: Gooey Steamy Bar Snacks

I have a small obsession with the Bravo TV show Top Chef. After discovering one of the Top Chef contestants was a chef at Absinthe, I couldn’t wait to go to try out number thirty-six on my list.

I met two friends at Absinthe in Hayes Valley for some R&R after a hard week at the restaurant. It turned out to be the priciest restaurant I will have visited in San Francisco so far. Although the dining room is dark, romantic, and quiet, the neon backlit bar and fabulous cocktails give the place a little bit of a funkier and relaxed feel.

After the talk around town of Absinthe’s fantastic food and pricey menu, I couldn’t understand why their most famous menu item is a bar snack… the soft garlic pretzels. It only took one bite for me truly understand.

Four small puffy round pretzels came wafting through the dining room to our table, leaving behind a trail of steam. Pulling one pretzel apart revealed the gooiest inside, similar to a buttery garlic bread. The pretzel was delicious, but the side of Vermont Cheddar mornay turned my pretzel to the most unctuous snack. The mornay was a béchamel style tangy, boozy fondue-like cheese.

There was no way we were stopping at a bar snack. The potato crusted Arctic Char and the whole golden trout that Steph and Sally ordered blew out of the water almost every fish dish I had ever ordered in a restaurant. The flavors were vibrant and the textures varied with the crisp skin and the soft plump flesh. My pork loin was a bit dry as I typically assume pork loin to be. I ordered this dish hoping Absynthe might change my preconceptions of the loin. I also ordered it because the dish came with a sous-vide pork belly beside the loin. (Pork belly is like crack for me. I cannot resist it.) The dish was seasoned perfectly and had the most wonderful balance of flavor with the sweet carrot puree and the savory pork jus.

Even after the mind-blowing fish dishes and my to-die-for pork belly, those little pretzels were still the highlight of a meal. I never thought that a bar snack would be the winning component to a fifty-five dollar meal.

Destination #36: Better than Liguria

My two biggest fans and supporters of the food list decided to cook me a birthday dinner. I took the ferry north across the bay to Marin where Cousin David and Janey were whipping up something magnificent at Jane's parent's house.

It was my first escape from the city in months since being committed to a restaurant's kitchen. Yet David and Jane surprised me by bringing a little piece of San Francisco to Marin... number sixty-eight on my list.

I had ventured to Liguria Bakery in North Beach a couple months earlier to pick up a loaf of foccacia, and even at four oclock in the pm, they were closed. Liguria sells their foccacia until they run out, and considering the focaccia is the only thing they sell, they run out quickly then close down shop for the rest of the day.

The bakery is by no means the cutesy italian deli one might expect in North Beach. It is slightly run down, and their menu is written on one of those tacky ice skating rink boards where one can switch out individual letters to create words. The menu, as aforementioned, is only comprised of different types of focaccia... plain, olive, rosemary, garlic, onion, and a few others.

Some people go to eateries and stores for the ambiance and not the quality of food. Liguria Bakery could only survive if their food were knee slapping good. And it is.

To put it simply, their focaccia is better than any focaccia I ate while in Liguria Italy this November (sorry my dear Italians). David and Jane bought a plain loaf, and it was by no means plane. The focaccia comes in thin square loaves and is light as a feather with a crisp and salty outer edge. It leaves behind the finest olive oil lip gloss.

The rest of my birthday dinner was fantastic. David seared tuna steaks while Jane cooked couscous and a spicy Basque roasted red pepper dish. They also made Jane's mom's world famous three-hour roasted tomatoes. It is comprised of canned plum tomatoes roasted for three hours until the sugars have become concentrated and the tomatoes take on a sweet toasty quality. Bursting with flavor, Jane and David topped slices of the focaccia with these tomatoes. Thank you, David and Jane, for your efforts of cooking tomatoes for three hours but the focaccia really doesn't need any accompaniment. It is just that tasty.

Destination #35: Eating the Ocean

I had done myself wrong in this city… I hadn’t eaten at a true seafood restaurant. Sure I’ve had fish dishes here and sushi there, but nothing to write home about. It was time to change all that. For Dad’s last day in SF before heading back up north, we went to Tadich Grill for lunch, one of the more famous seafood restaurants, and what is known to be the oldest restaurant in the city.

And it felt old. Everything from the décor to the tables and bar to the equipment to the employee uniforms made me feel as if I had stepped into a Humphrey Bogart mystery. Everything has been there since this location opened in the 1960s after Tadich Grill was established in 1849. There are only a few tables available by the windows right near the entrance. Otherwise all of the seating is at the long wooden bar leading to the copper bedecked kitchen.

Dad and I sat at the bar and ordered the mixed seafood plate and number sixty-four on my list, the sand dabs. I had no idea what sand dabs were. I had never seen them on a menu before, and our waitress thought I was crazy when I told her this. It is a Pacific coast fish that Tadich Grill had received fresh from the ocean that day. It is a thin slightly flaky fish similar to flounder, yet a bit oilier like halibut. Tadich Grill served three filets breaded and fried with a side of sautéed long Chinese green beans. The fish was the perfect combination between white flaky fish and oily steak, an important discovery for my food education.

Our mixed seafood plate was really the winner of the day. If I had gone swimming in the deep ocean with my mouth wide open, I probably would have eaten much the same meal. Smoked salmon, oysters, squid, smoked trout, mackerel, shrimp with cocktail sauce… you name it, it was probably there. All served on a bed of lettuce and tomatoes with fresh California avocado slices. Tadich Grill could probably do just fine with a one-item menu, that one item being their mixed seafood plate. It tasted like the ocean.

Whether ordering the mixed seafood plate, Sand Dabs, or their famous chowder, Tadich Grill is truly a San Francisco seafood spot, and remains a place in the city's history.

Destinations #33 and 34: Food as History

Zare at Fly Trap is one of the only restaurants on my list of one hundred that no one has heard of. It opened in 2008, making it one of my more newly opened destinations, but there is no reason that it shouldn’t have a bigger name. I would call it historical Mediterranean food, each dish with a story and a place in the past.

Dad and I ventured downtown to the swankier “Fidi” (financial district) and ducked into a hidden patio blooming with ivy and spider plants. The dimly lit and quiet dining room echoed the serenity of the patio entrance. Every dish on the menu had unique twists and interesting sounding flavors, so Dad and I decided to stick with just appetizers so that we could try more.

We immediately ordered the pistachio meatballs, Chef Zare’s signature dish and the item on my list. With a tart pomegranate glaze and crunchy pistachios, these meatballs were certainly tasty (although I thought the meat was a tad overcooked).

The dishes to follow, however, showed a certain inventiveness and authenticity that I always hope to find. The bone marrow with toast, black sea salt and quince jam made both Dad and I smile. The eggplant with rehydrated yogurt made Dad question why they bothered dehydrating than rehydrating when the chef could’ve just kept the yogurt hydrated in the first place. But like I said, Zare keeps the dishes authentic with a story in mind. If that’s how the Persians did it, that’s how Zare will do it, and it certainly pays off in the flavors of the food.

After our educational and delicious meal, the items on the dessert menu made my mouth water, even after stuffing my face with oozing, dripping bone marrow. But Dad and I decided to pull ourselves away from Fidi and grabbed a cab headed down south to Mitchell’s Ice Cream to knock another one off my list.

Mitchell’s smelled like the Carvel I used to go to growing up, but their flavors are more daring. They have a section in the ice cream display case particularly for their stranger flavors, most of which contain rare tropical fruits from the Philippines, one of which is called Ube… a purple yam. That’s the flavor I was to order.

It was another mildly flavored and slightly boring ice cream cone. I kept licking and licking hoping to eventually taste something, but all I could really decipher was purple wax.

If for some reason you happen to be milling about way down south in Noe Valley and get a serious hankering for ice cream, then give Mitchell’s a visit for their homemade ice cream and friendly atmosphere. Otherwise, I would advise to stay out of the projects and treat yourself to Bi Rite. Next time, I will stay at Zare at Fly Trap for another course. I can only imagine what their desserts could do to the palate.

Destination #32: Afternoon Delight

Since my discovery of beer, I have also discovered that even better than a cold beer is a cold beer in the afternoon. It is unexpected, like a matinee, or salt on chocolate, or sex in the morning.

Monk’s Kettle has both good food and beer, so Dad and I decided to go for lunch. I asked my waitress for a recommendation of an “obscure Belgian beer,” number 50 on my list. The waitress scoffed at this question, as most of the beers on the menu at Monk’s Kettle are obscure, or not easily found. Looking over the thirty-page beer menu, she picked out a few that I might like. After trying samples of each of her recommendations, I chose one and enjoyed sipping my twelve-dollar afternoon beer.

Yes… that’s right, twelve-dollars for twelve ounces of fizzy alcohol. The price of the beer at Monk’s Kettle is almost more impressive than the breadth of the menu. I would highly recommend a trip to Monk’s Kettle for the relaxed atmosphere and the incredible selection of rare beer, but I would advise against going for the purpose of a drunken Friday night. This would not only rob you of your spending allowance, but of your entire bank account. I can easily imagine drinking a little too much and thinking that buying a forty-dollar beer made by Belgian Trappist monks is a fantastic idea.

But for an afternoon or evening beer, Monk's Kettle is a wonderful place. And no matter how many times one visits, there will always be a new beer to try.

Destination #31: Larb... Tastes Better Than It Sounds

Back to the Tenderloin... or the TL, as we like to call it, for another attempt at Thai food. After my boring Sai Jai Tai experience, I was hoping to make amends at Lers Ros with their duck larb, number 45 on the list.

Why it's called larb is beyond me. The presentation and flavor of the dish doesn't represent the word "larb" at all. Sitting down in this funky, slightly swankier thai joint, Liz, Jen and I received our plate of duck larb. My first thought was, "Finally! A salad!" The duck is minced in small pieces and tossed with fresh cilantro, basil, lettuce leaves, and a very tangy sauce of lime juice, fish sauce, sugar and chili peppers. The dish was light and refreshing, a welcome change to the previous dishes I had tried on my list (see ma po tofu). The salad was a flavor explosion, and enough to lift the spirits of anybody passing through the crackhead infested TL.

Before Lers Ros, I had never even seen larb on a menu. So I have now been further educated, thanks to 7x7 magazine. And I would gladly go back for more.

Destination #30: The Price of Living in SF

A friend was visiting San Francisco from Vermont and wanted to meet for breakfast and coffee. When “San Francisco” and “coffee” are put in the same sentence, the mathematical answer is Blue Bottle. In the early 2000s, an artist and coffee lunatic opened his own small roaster to produce coffee for snobs like himself. Today, Blue Bottle supplies the best restaurants in the city with their beans, and trains the restaurants to brew their coffee in the “correct” Blue Bottle fashion.

The result is a very San Franciscan drink, a dark roasted coffee, that which my coffee-freak father considers burnt tasting. Therefore, according to my father, Blue Bottle sells the most overpriced coffee in the world. Sorry Blue Bottle.

Surprisingly, this year Blue Bottle’s coffee did not make it onto 7x7’s list. Instead, it was their Belgian Waffle, and it made it to number forty-eight. I am lucky enough to have a fabulous new roommate who works for Blue Bottle, so he gave me the inside scoop on the Belgian Waffle: The Blue Bottle kiosk at the Ferry Building makes a small, dense, super sweet waffle for people on the go. The Blue Bottle café at the Mint Plaza makes your real deal Belgian Waffle with maple syrup, butter… the whole shooting match. That’s where I had to go.

With coffee in one hand and waffle in the other, my friend and I found stools at the window with the dim, rainy light shining in… a perfect breakfast ambiance. A quarter of the way through my waffle, I began eyeing my friend’s poached eggs on toast with a craving for protein. I began feeling recurring symptoms of my Bob’s apple fritter experience… the sugar shakes I like to call it. I’m sure this would be an enjoyable Belgian Waffle for those who enjoy fried doughy things more than I do. I was still looking for a crispier edge and saltier butter. So, worth the price? I'll have to agree with Dad.

Destination #29: Meatless Ragu

For girls night out, I met three friends at the swanky, San Francisco hot spot, A16. Walking through the front of a dark wooden facade into a dimly lit rustic interior from the Marina sunshine made me feel as though I were walking into a Hollis clothing store from a florescent mall.

We were lucky enough to snag a table with a view of the wood fired pizza stove and the railroad style kitchen, which matches the long-hallway feel of the restaurant itself. We started with a bottle of prosecco, and ordered many dishes to share over the next three hours, one of which was number fifty-one on my list, the maccaronara with ragu Nepoletana and ricotta salata.

This dish sounded super sexy when reading it. The maccaronara would inevitably be handmade, and what would ragu Nepoletana be? Some sort of thick meaty tomato sauce, probably. A Nepoletana pizza always has anchovy. Would there be anchovy??? And ricotta salata... a creamy fresh ricotta, pressed until firm and salted. I was intrigued.

It was a nice pasta dish with chunky red sauce and shaved cheese... whoopty freakin' doo. The noodle was long like spaghetti and round like the thick Vietnamese noodle, bún. The sauce was... tomato sauce. The ricotta salata shaved right on top. I did learn later that the sauce is cooked with a prosciutto rind for flavoring, but I did not pick up the prosciutto flavor (perhaps it was that one glass of prosecco that put me over the edge).

The rest of the food was... okay as well. The pizza was very underwhelming... doughy and cheesy. No italian would be proud of this pizza.

Working in the restaurant industry, I hear a lot of gossip about restaurants around the city. I now cook in a kitchen with a former A16 chef who gave me the full scoop. He left A16 when the kitchen began transitioning from a staff of passionate chefs whose goal it is to feed people the best food possible, to a staff with the sole purpose of making money and going home. This is a constant struggle in the current restaurant world… should one hire a fast, hard working, and cheap employee or a more detail oriented, foodie, who happens to cost more money.

Well, from my experience, the change in quality of food becomes obvious when you go from one genre of line cook to another. This is not to say that A16 doesn't care. I'm sure they do. Perhaps restaurants need to keep a close check on their values so that we truly do not turn into a fast food nation.

Destination #28: TGIF!

I finally got a Friday night off from the restaurant, so my dinner option was obvious. San Jalisco only serves their pozole on Fridays. This would be my one opportunity to try number sixty-three on my list.

San Jalisco is a restaurant located in the mission with the tackiest Mexican décor and the most extensive menu. It is the perfect atmosphere for eating authentic Mexican food amongst the Latino families of San Francisco.

I first deflated from the stress of work with a Michelada, a beer served over ice with lime juice, Worctestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce, and a salted rim… a Mexican beer cocktail, if you will.

When my waiter brought my bowl of pozole stew, I was a bit taken aback by the size of my bowl, but reminded myself that this would probably feed me five more meals.

The pozole was smoky with a sweet corniness and the broth was red with a chili pepper spice. The chunks of pork were fatty and hearty, and the fresh cabbage and radish on the side were enough to cool the palate. I would say my favorite part about the soup was finding a giant chunk of pig bone lying at the depths of my stew, infusing my meal with the most porky flavors.

After our meal, Jane, David and I walked through the Mission (me with my gigantic to-go container) and passed about five bacon-wrapped-hotdog stands. I was a little buzzed after my Michelada and considered for a second conquering another food on my list, but I was not drunk enough to consume more pig products that night.

Destination #27: Adventures of Chairman Bao's Truck

I woke up at noon on a sunny Monday… the start to my weird restaurant schedule weekend. I was starving after all those hours of sleep, so began searching on the Chairman Bao Truck twitter page to see where I could get me a pork belly Chinese bun.

Finding the Chairman Bao Truck is an adventure in and of itself. Unlike many of the food trucks around this city, the Chairman Bao Truck is a moving vehicle. The only way to find the truck’s current location is by going onto its twitter page that very day.

When I looked on the twitter page at one pm, a very excited and enthusiastic post told me that, “Chairman Bao’s Chinese Bun Truck is in Emmeryville at Hollis and 53rd until 1:30pm!!! Hurry up and get your bao buns!!!”

I threw on some pants, hopped onto the back of a friend’s motorcycle, and we sped in the sunshine, across the Bay Bridge, over the sparkling salty bay waters, into Emmeryville, and zoomed around the curvy neighborhood lanes, until… there it was!!! The most beautiful, communist red truck adorned with murals of panda bears and lord knows what else, sitting on the side of a quiet residential street.

That day, the bun options were braised chicken with pickled carrots and spicy mayonnaise, braised pork with pickled cabbage, and number thirty-two on my must eat or die list, pork belly with pickled daikon.

My motorcycle man and I ordered one of each. They come in a white compostable container, each one as big as a White Castle hamburger (with ingredients about two hundred percent better quality than White Castle food). The bun is like a fluffy taco soaking up the juices of the sweet and salty pork belly, which melted in my mouth with crispy outer bits. I was shocked to see that the neon yellow of the pickled daikon is a color that can exist in nature without carcinogenic chemicals. It contributed a refreshing crunch to the fatty belly.

After the first round, we ordered two more. I had to have another pork belly bun. I can’t imagine that would have been my last time at Chairman Bao’s Truck. I will search the Chairman out again in the near future.

Destinations #25 and 26: Chicken and Eggs

The last time I had an egg salad sandwich was in kindergarten when I lost a tooth in the soft wonder bread of my sandwich, staining the fluffy white a lovely red, and adding a little bloody spice to the mayonnaise-y egg. After that experience, I never particularly had a desire to eat an egg salad sandwich again…

But 7x7 magazine forced me to. Number fourteen on my list was the Egg Salad Sandwich at Il Cane Rosso at the Ferry Building. So I took Mom and Dad to this hoity toity spot and we sat outside by the bay enjoying lunch...

The saltiness of the anchovy garlic butter,and the tanginess of the melted aged provolone gave the sandwich a nice zing. The fresh mustard greens on top added a bit of a spicy crunch. It was still a nine dollar egg salad open-faced sandwich. I enjoyed about half of it before my kindergarten horrors began catching up with me.

This egg salad sandwich would not be the end of my birthday eating. It was March 29, 24 years since I popped out of Mama Guda's womb. I lead my family to one of the oldest and most well-known restaurants in the city, Zuni, for the roasted chicken with bread salad, number two on my list.

I had been warned that this dish takes an hour to prepare, and knowing that my father can't sit still for more than five minutes, I made sure to order the chicken as soon as we sat at our little corner table.

The presentation of the chicken alone is magnificent. If Picasso had done a painting of a roasted chicken, it would've looked like this dish: A whole chicken deconstructed, all body parts piled high on a large plate, blooming with fresh mustard greens, and the bread salad hidden underneath. Calling the bread a "salad" rather than stuffing is not a cop out. The cubes of sourdough are dressed in a balsamic vinaigrette and scattered with sweet currants and nutty pineolas. The dressing would've been overpowering for the bread had the chicken not been there to save the day.

The chicken is roasted for almost an hour over a wood fire, so the crispy skin and tender meat is hot and smoky with the most woodsy flavor. It tasted like a gourmet camping trip. Taking bites of this roasty caramel-y chicken with the acidity of the bread was a unique, and pleasing combination. I never order chicken when I go out to eat, because I generally believe that to be lame and boring. But this chicken was, I believe, the best dish we ordered at Zuni and well worth the shame of ordering chicken.

The meal was long and enjoyable, especially with a bottle of Quincy, a white wine recommended by our lovely waitress (which I described as pop rocks in my mouth). Although the rest of the food was not mind blowing, by any means, that chicken saved my egg-y day.

Destinations #23 and 24: Grease Me Up

My parents were in town visiting and I thought the perfect introduction to the city would be Balompie for pupusas… El Salvadorian food in a city full of El Salvadorians. So we ventured to number thirty.

I had never had pupusas before and don’t care to indulge ever again. I ordered two different types; a veggie pupusa and a sausage pupusa. I had no idea which was which as the “queso fresco” (fresh melted stringy cheese) was the majority of the pupusa. It’s basically a smaller, fatter quesadilla in a pita rather than a tortilla. That much cheese and pita in my stomach was enough to turn me away from pupusas forever. Thank goodness for the side order of pickled vegetables.
My poor mom, who ordered a sampler plate (basically a plate full of fried food) felt too sick to eat when she came to my restaurant that night.

For my next meal with Mom and Dad, I made the wise decision to take them to Ton Kiang for dim sum. I thought some clean Asian food might cleanse our systems of the cheesy fried heart-stoppers. Ton Kiang just added more greasy food to our repertoire.

I have been spoiled my New York dim sum where one's options are never-ending and some of them include blue bean soup (a soup that’s actually blue) and chicken feet. The dim sum menu at Ton

Kiang has 24 drawings of different shaped dumplings with descriptions beside them. It reminded me of my favorite book, “What’s Your Poo Telling You” with the graphic drawing of different forms of poo. The food tasted better, though (I’m assuming). Considering the entire dim sum menu at Ton Kiang is comprised of some form of fried dumpling, I had enough meat filled fried, greasy dough to make my stomach feel like a meat filled ball of dough. Shrimp dumpling, shrimp and scallion dumpling, sesame and bean ball, pork belly bun, chicken dumpling... all delicious, but eventually I could no longer tell the difference between one fried nugget and another. I did, however, very much enjoy the family style large round tables accompanied by lazy Susans and the tacky Chinese paintings on the walls.

Destinations #20, 21 and 22: Restaurant Hopping

On a lovely, rainy Thursday, I headed to the Ferry Building to eat some food. My plan was to eat lunch at one of my destinations. Luckily, the person who I was meeting for lunch is A) Not as cheap as I am B) Is just as food crazy as I am and C) An extremely beautiful man who could lure me to do pretty much anything. So I followed this extremely beautiful man on my first restaurant hopping experience.

We started out at the Roli Roti truck for the porchetta sandwich. Porchetta, I learned, is basically pig product wrapped in pig product. This particular porchetta was pork belly wrapped around pork loin then roasted on a rotisserie. When my sexy chef man friend and I ordered our sandwich, the Roli Roti dude sliced off a thick piece of meat, wiped up his meaty, juicy cutting board with our bread, and layered it with the pork and caramelized onion.

The porchetta had a crispy outer layer from the belly, with a juicy and tender loin inside. That salty pork with the sweetness of the caramelized onion was maddeningly delicious. The crusty bread made it a little difficult to eat, but it was all worth it for the explosion of flavor and texture.

Next, we headed to the back of the Ferry Building to Mijita for Sopa de Albondigas, Spanish for meatball soup. It was the perfect day to sit underneath the overhang on the back patio watching the stormy bay waves roll in while eating a bowl of hot soup. It tasted more like Italian Wedding Soup rather than the spicy Mexican broth that I had hoped for, but nonetheless, we had a lovely view while eating it (me especially).

To end our lunch, we ventured back through the Ferry Building to the front where the Scream Sorbet stand was. My food list advised me to eat a seasonal flavor. There were several intriguing options, especially their nut flavors, which aren't considered seasonal because nuts are constantly in season. I paired the almond saffron sorbet with white guava. The texture of their sorbet is so creamy, one would think some fatty dairy product to be one of the ingredients. My almond saffron tasted like almonds and saffron and my white guava tasted like guava. There's no other way to put it. The few ingredients in each sorbet give them the flavor that they're meant to have. My man friend still can't stop talking about his strawberry Meyer lemon paired with vanilla macadamia nut. I have been back to Scream Sorbet three times since.

After my restaurant hopping excursion, I felt that I had stepped up one extra notch away from the life of the dumpster diver... I felt like, not a normal human, but a super foodie human who could not be stopped. Because when you have so many options in a city full of food, why stop at one, or even two restaurants during a single meal?

Destinations #19 and 20: Curry and Cream

Before eating at Muracci’s Japanese Grill for number 16 on the list, I didn’t realize that Japanese curry existed. I’m not sure how authentic the katsu curry is, but it was delicious, and the culinary scene at Muracci’s was comical, so it was worth my trip downtown.

Murracci’s is a like a high-end fast food joint where the more serious Financial District San Franciscans eat during their five minute lunch breaks. Fast food, because, well, it comes out fast and only in to-go containers… high-end because there are little Japanese women cooking individual orders at lightning speed with giant woks in a miniscule kitchen. And like the Muracci pimp, a little Japanese man stands at the head of the line taking down customers’ orders and yelling them to his women in the kitchen.

Once Julia and my food emerged, we were lucky enough to snag one of the many two tables in the cramped space… otherwise we would have been sent out into the streets only to sit on the sidewalk watching wannabe New Yorkers rush around on their cell phones.

But we ate our to-go food in. My katsu curry consisted of a breaded and fried pork chop accompanied by the most beautiful golden brown sweet and savory curry and sweet little bits of pickled vegetable heaven. The pork was delicious. Why? Because anything fried is automatically delicious. That, and dipping it in my curry and pickled vegetables was a spicy, sweet, and refreshing combo.

After snagging a photo of the giddy women chefs and their pimp, Julia and I headed to Bi Rite Creamery to cool our palates.

As 7x7 commanded me to do, I ordered the salted caramel ice cream, number 35 on the list. After my slightly boring Humphrey Slocombe experience, I was hoping for something a little more note worthy. Humphrey Slocombe only reinforced my boredom with ice cream where I feel I must force myself through the last half of a cone. The salted caramel ice cream at Bi Rite, however, was exciting up until the very last bite.

Foods that try to be interesting either suck or are extremely successful. My Secret Breakfast ice cream was on the sucky side. Bi Rite’s unique ice cream flavors do not suck. The flavors explode on one’s palette and make a baby sized cone look sad and depressing. I decided that anytime I spot an ice cream flavor that involves salt, I will eat it.

Destination #18: The Perfect Burger

My favorite thing about riding on airplanes is flipping through the in-flight magazine and marveling at the photos of hamburgers. They always display a bright red center, practically bleeding the tender chuck juices. I’ve always dreamed of eating a burger that tastes as good as these look. I finally found that burger at Don Pistos.

When I realized that number 10 on my list was a hamburger, or la hamburguesa, from a Mexican restaurant, the only words coming to mind were: “Lame sauce.” Why would I ever order a burger at a Mexican restaurant, especially one serving the tastiest tacos in the city. One of my biggest pet peeves is a menu with no common theme. After ordering this hamburger, however, I couldn’t have been happier that Don Pistos had decided to put it on the menu next to the tacos.

I almost missed the restaurant while walking down the street. There is no sign in front and no address. I did a double take and realized this mystery door in the building’s façade was my destination. And let me tell you… walking into a place with no sign and no address made me feel really important, like I was in the know. I walked into a dark rustic dining room with a small bar, and candles lighting the space. It felt like a mafia hang-out, further making me feel like a very important person

7x7’s list, as well as the low price of the burger, are what prodded me on to order this thing. My plate came with a burger, a green chili pepper, and a quartered turnip… a sparsely filled plate. But, biting into my burger was how some people describe love… fireworks. The burger is the embodiment of those in-flight magazine hamburger photos: Tender, juicy, sweet and salty. The only condiment was Don Pistos’ house-made guacamole (also fantastic and made to order) and the buns (which are, in a word, perfect hamburger buns… soft in the middle with a shiny egg glaze on top) are baked at the French bakery right next door. The burger tasted like… bacon. This comes from marinating the chuck overnight in bacon grease, then grinding it the next day.

To put it simply, if food were sex, Don Pistos’ hamburguesa dipped in leftover clam and chorizo juice would be the biggest orgasm ever initiated.

Destination #17: The Last Restaurant on Earth

Nopalito is the San Francisco restaurant where chefs go to eat. The food is delicious and the story as to how Nopalito came to be makes it all the more special:

The older and more well-established Mediterranean fusion restaurant, Nopa, has a kitchen dominated by Latin American immigrants. A different group of employees is responsible for preparing staff dinner every night, so it is often comprised of Latin American cuisine. Some of the employees at Nopa claim that their staff dinner is often better than the food they dish out at service. (And that’s saying something considering Nopa prepares some of San Francisco’s top cuisine.) Nopa’s owners decided to help out their dish-washers and floor sweepers in opening up their own restaurant. And so came to be “Little Nopa” or Nopalito, my number 52 spot for their carnitas.

Although Nopalito has a consistent line out the door and a reputation almost as big, their food is not over the top. My carnitas are the perfect example of Nopalito’s execution. My nice, and very cute, waiter served me a ramekin filled with three hunks of pork. They were very lightly seasoned, and had no sauce. There was no need to mask the pure porkiness. I didn’t need a knife to eat my pork medallions. They literally fell apart at the touch of my finger.

Accompanying my hot, steamy meat (that’s what she said) was a housemade pickled spicy cabbage and carrot salad with green chile salsa, which was the perfect, light, fresh and crisp companion for the pork. I also received several housemade soft corn tortillas, which were warm, nutty and sweet. This food is authentic, yet refined and always fresh, while still maintaining the simplicity that good quality, fantastic tasting ingredients should have.

Nopalito is definitely a top one hundred San Francisco spot, and the carnitas were the perfect choice for the list. My Nopalito eating partner, Stephany, will go so far as to say if she had to eat at one place in San Francisco for the rest of her life, Nopalito would be that place.

Destination # 16: The W to E Scale

When I first moved to San Francisco and was looking for a place to live, my wonderful cousin, David, gave me a simple formula for deciding which neighborhood would be right for me: This formula is now known as the H to Y scale. It is a spectrum, where on one end is the H (Hipster) and on the other is the Y (Yuppie). So, for example, the Mission would be more on the H end of the spectrum, while Fisherman's Wharf is hanging off the Y end.

I've decided to create a similar scale for my food adventure. I call it the W to E scale, W being "White" and E being "Ethnic."

After my Korean "taco" mis-adventure, I was ready for some real, ethnic, Mexican food. I headed to the Castro for some Tortilla Soup at Chilango, #43.

When I walked into the restaurant with my buddy, Winslow, things were already looking a little "white." The place was decked out with chrome counter tops and tables, an open kitchen, and dim lighting for ambiance. There were no Mexican people in the entire place, except for the nice host and his kitchen crew (I think the host spoke a little Spanglish to his guests to make the place seem more ethnic). It's not the hole-in-the-wall that you hope for when going out for Mexican food.

My Sopa de Tortilla had fantastic things about it. It had the type of broth that makes you roll your eyes with immense pleasure, I savory and bold chicken broth with tomato and beautiful spice. The pulled chicken was nice and tender mixed with big chunks of queso fresco (a Mexican style fresh mozzarella) and underneath was a surprise of creamy chunks of avocado.

There were some "white" things about my soup, as well. All of the delicious edibles were piled high in the middle of my fancy white bowl with perfect rounds of carrot and cubes of potato (almost cooked to the point where they could've been served to a Yuppie baby in the Marina) and the broth surrounded the pile, like a mote. This was a little too Euro for my taste. When I order Tortilla Soup, I want a big ugly deep bowl of spicy soup with some tortilla chips sticking out of it, no fancy schmancy hills of food surrounded by motes of broth.

Despite the lack of authenticity, the soup was very enjoyable, as were Winslow's grilled cactus tacos that came with a fizzy beer salsa.

If you're looking for a place where you can join some unshowered men in screaming at a television where Ronaldo, Rivaldo, and Ronaldinho are faking injuries, while drinking a one dollar beer and eating a three dollar ginormous bowl of Tortilla Soup, Chilango is not the place. But it's a wonderful location for going out with a friend to a nicer, more trendy, and still tasty, meal.

Destination #15: Open-Faced Maki

The two ethnicities of food that tend to be the most authentic, delicious and dominant in the city's restaurant scene are Asian and Latin American. The idea of combining the two sounded pretty sexy, so I ventured to the Ferry Building during their Saturday farmer's market for Korean Tacos from the Namu stand, #89 on the list.

I bought two little seaweed wrapped tacos. The rice was nicely seasoned with a sweet vinegar solution that tasted like the seasoning for sushi rice. The cute Korean guy assembling the tacos put the rice on top of a small square toasted seaweed wrapper, the "tortilla," if you will, which felt a little stale. He then topped the rice with my choice of beef or chicken (I got both), which was very mildly seasoned, and a little luke warm after sitting in his mis-en-place all morning. The "condiments" were quite nice, such as the pickled daikon, and kimchi salsa, which actually had tomato, the only trace of Mexican influence. If I were in charge, I would've named my so-called-taco, "open faced beef maki." It seemed to me like a very Americanized sushi roll left unwrapped.

Tasty? Yes. Worth five dollars for two miniscule "tacitos"? Not for a cheapskate like me. However, it was quite nice sitting by the bay, watching the rich white people browse the farm stands, witnessing that Iranian man from the nut stand force free samples of almond brittle upon everyone that passed, and gazing off into the distance at the bay bridge while eating a not-so-mexican korean taco. In this case, it's the experience that counts.

Destination #14: For Phở's Sake

I realized how much I missed the lovely street dwellers of the Tenderloin, so I headed back in that direction to Little Saigon for #42 on my list: Phở gà at Turtle Tower.

I am one of the biggest phở (pronounced fuh?) snobs on the face of this planet. After eating this noodle soup for breakfast lunch and dinner for four months straight in southern Vietnam, and after reading books on phở, and learning the correct way to eat phở from Vietnamese van drivers, I take great pride in eating authentic phở. I also take great pains in observing (as my companion at Turtle Tower calls it) “white” phở, or western phở, or just really freaking bad phở.

Before arriving at the restaurant, I was already judging the phở I would soon be eating:

Point #1: Turtle Tower has a website. Bad sign. Any Vietnamese restaurant fancy enough to have their own website can’t be authentic. A yelp review is fine. Anything more than that is a little “white.”

Point #2: The chef is Vietnamese. Good sign! He’s not Chinese or Japanese or Korean. Just because a chef has squinty eyes and jet black hair does not make him or her capable of making great phở.

Point #3: The fact that the soup I’m supposed to eat is phở gà, or chicken phở, is just a little bogus. I’ve always found beef phở to not only be more authentic, but to be ever more delicious.

After making these judgments, it was time to gain first-hand phở experience and actually eat the freaking thing. Biking into little Saigon was like walking into a kitchen in Vietnam; the smells overwhelmed me and brought me home. When I arrived at the restaurant with my companion, I was relieved to see that point #1 would in fact not be an issue. The restaurant was a sparsely decorated white room with bad lighting packed with people, most of whom were Vietnamese, leaning over white plastic bowls of noodle soup with green plastic chop sticks in hand.

When I told the “front of house” woman in Vietnamese that we would be two people, without blinking at the fact that a crazy white girl was speaking her rare language, she replied back which table was ours. A Vietnamese waitress speaking Vietnamese… another good sign.

My companion ordered phở tái (my personal favorite) which is phở with rare thinly sliced beef, and I of course ordered phở gà. There was nothing “white” about our phở. The meat had not been sliced on an expensive “white person” meat slicer; it looked as though it had been hacked with an ax. My chicken pieces still had the pimply skin and perhaps a few tendons here and there. My friend’s grisly beef was still red raw inside, until she dunked it into her hot broth.

The noodles were incredible. They were slick as wet worms, and not at all mushy. When I found a noodle that looked like a flat worm regenerating, I knew that these noodles were house-made, a great feat for a small restaurant.

The broth is very northern style, which was something for me to get used to. I lived with southern style broth where the five spices (typically star anise, cinnamon, ginger, clove and coriander) hit you in the face, and there are still more herbs, spices, and condiments to be added at one’s leisure. Northern style broth is much more subtle. Northerners also truly believe in phở for phở’s sake. They don’t add those extra herbs and greens… it takes away from the experience.

Although I loved my phở gà, I did feel like I was eating mom’s chicken noodle soup and not necessarily a bowl of hit-me-over-the-head phở. Perhaps this is why the westerners of San Francisco choosing the bucket list voted for a dish more comprehensible to them. I would next time order the soup with the darker broth and the beef shaved right off the cow. That, to me, is true Vietnam.

When I left the restaurant, a Vietnamese man was sitting alone leaning over his steaming bowl of soup, drinking the broth with his spoon in his left hand, and chop-sticking the noodles with his right. All of his concentration was on this food in front of him. Every noodle that he placed between his lips was gone in a split second with the loudest, most obnoxious slirp. For a minute, I forgot I was in the U.S.

Destination #13: The Papalote Drug

Roommate Number 2 may say that he hates food, and he may refuse to take the garbage out, and he may come banging on our front door at 3am too drunk to figure out how to use his key, but he did just bring home chips and salsa from Papalote, so I’ve got to love him for that.

For some reason the salsa at Papalote is a San Francisco icon. Roommate Number 3 explained to me that once one eats something at Papalote, cravings for their food come weeks later. We’re both pretty sure there is an addictive drug added to the salsa.

The flavor was perfect. The tomato was just slightly smoky with medium spice. The thing that threw me off was its texture. It was creamy. All of the ingredients were blended together to make a smooth, mole like, salsa. I am, personally, a fan of the fresher, chunkier style salsa, but who knows… maybe in a few weeks I will wander helplessly down the street to Papalote in a zombie-like trance murmuring the words “Papalote salsa Papalote salsa Papalote salsa.” So I guess the salsa is not so much of an incredible food so much as it is a drug. Well, I conquered #47, and didn'ts pend a dime.

Destinations #11 and #12: Dairy Day

I've worked as the "pizza chef" in two restaurants for the last year, so going elsewhere where others are in charge of making my pie is always slightly nerve racking. It's also nice to get away from pizza after living, sweating, and breathing the stuff for eight hours a day. However, the pizza I ate today was an absolute treat. The Margherita at Pizzeria Delfina (#17), I will go ahead and say, was the best pizza I've ever had.

First of all, there is no choosing between soft and crispy crust. Delfina's crust has crisp bubbles on the outside and is hot, soft and airy on the inside, steaming when you pull the slices apart. The sauce tasted so fresh that for a second I forgot it was winter and thought I was biting into a mid-summer ripe red tomato. It had large spots of melted fior di latte mozzarella, and was dotted with fresh basil. This pizza was so bright, so flavorful (including the crust) and so light, I just had to be one of those obnoxious customers that asks a million questions of the waitress, such as, "What exactly do you put into your crust" and "How exactly do you make that sauce of yours." Understandably, the waitress did not have all the answers, so the chef emerged from the kitchen to talk pizza with me.

Ordering a simple Margherita took a lot of restraint on my part while on the menu there was a clam pizza, as well as the "amatriciana," pizza with caramelized onion and guanciale (aka pork jowls). I am incredibly thankful that I stuck with the margherita... I wouldn't want anything extra taking way from the flavor of those simple ingredients.

And what better way to end a pizza lunch than to eat some ice cream! So off we went to Humphrey Slocombe for #46 on the list, secret breakfast ice cream.

I'm guessing the "breakfast" refers to the cornflakes and the "secret" refers to the bourbon. In any case, the bourbon flavor was surprisingly fantastic, but I needed more bourbon to cut the sugar. The sweetness of the ice cream was a bit overpowering (as I find is the issue with a lot of ice cream) and the crunch of the cornflakes got lost in the soft creamy ice cream. This was one of those cases, like Mission Street Chinese Food, where their signature is not necessarily their best. My companion, and my biggest blogger fan (that's right, I have a fan) ordered the chocolate and smoked sea salt ice cream. Now that blew my mind.

After the ice cream, and pizza, I was happy, but my lactose intolerant stomach was not. (I decided several months ago that rather than avoiding dairy, it is a much better option to ignore/ deny lactose intolerance and suffer the consequences). So to ease my pains, I headed to Magnolia, again, for yet another strong beer.

Destination #10: Peeling Back the Layers of Bliss

There is nothing cutesy or phony about Tartine Bakery. The bakers are all about the food. The tables are long wooden and rustic, made for sharing with people you don’t know, and they are covered with flakey relics of someone else’s pastry. Tartine is not finicky about making its baked goods look like pieces of artsy perfection. It is food. It looks like something you want to eat, not display in a museum. I’ve also never been to a bakery with a constant line out the door.

It was difficult only ordering one thing, especially while peering through the display case while standing in line, but I was there for their morning bun, #7 on the bucket list.

The top of my bun was brushed with orange infused simple syrup, which made it just slightly gooey, chewy and sweet citrusy, then sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. The dough was curled into a spiral. When I pulled back the layers of the flaky crust, my bun exposed the most heavenly, warm inside, as soft and light as a feather pillow, every unwrapping revealing a steamy, velvety surprise, until sadly, my bun had vanished.

Although my morning bun is gone, Tartine Bakery is still there. I am just lucky enough that my list of 100 forces me to return to 600 Guerrero Street for #24 on the list, a loaf of bread straight out of Tartine’s oven. To be continued…

Destination #9: A Match Made in Heaven

I biked down Valencia Street yesterday morning for my #9 destination and #54 on the list: Four Barrel Cafe for their coffee and a chocolate spice donut.

The cafe was not exactly the dive I was expecting from 7x7's bucket list. It was your typical coffee snob cafe: Hipster, faux rustic decor, coffee drinkers watching you as you walk through the door thinking "I'll bet that girl is going to order a latte. So help me if she orders a latte..."

They didn't have the chocolate spice donut! The nice barista told me that their donuts are made at Dynamo on 24th Street, who also serves Four Barrel coffee. Donuts made at Dynamo? Why wouldn't I go to Dynamo instead of Four Barrel.

Dynamo was a breath of fresh air after being judged in Four Barrel (I was probably just being paranoid). Much more casual and definitely no judging (plus I got to watch a latino couple make out).

First I must preface with my coffee drinking experience. I’m not only used to the super strong, over roasted, over priced, over hyped famous Blue Bottle coffee of San Francisco, I’m also used to having a father whose sole reason for moving from Vermont to Portland Oregon, I’m fairly certain, was for his favorite coffee: Stumptown. Let’s put it this way: After looking at 40 houses in the city, the one he chose just happened to be around the corner from Stumptown’s roastery and café.

So when I saw the reddish tint of Four Barrel coffee, I tried imagining the interesting processes that its coffee beans must go through in the picking and the roasting, and the beans must be some rare varietal that I’ve never had before.

Turns out it was just slightly watery coffee. Oh well.

But the donut! The chocolate was slightly fruity, as if it still had traces of its origins from the cacao pod. It also had a surprisingly savory taste. The outside of the cake donut was sprinkled with cinnamon, a little sugar, chili peppers, chili powder, and just a little salt. This was no Bob's Donuts donut. This donut was exquisite and perfect and not too sweet with just the right amount of savory.

Even though the coffee wasn't fantastic, I ended up getting a second cup because I truly believe that donuts and coffee belong together. And in this particular instance, they were a match made in heaven.

Destination #8: The One and Only Cure

I needed a beer, an alcoholic beverage, a pain killer, ANYTHING. Let's put it this way, after one month of living in the apartment where I am, I'm ready to move out. So it was the perfect opportunity to go to Magnolia Brewpub for a "Strong Beer," number 23 on the list of 100.

Here's a story: Three mornings ago, at 4:30am, I felt a body crawling next to me into my bed as I lay peacefully asleep. I bolted upright, switched on the light, witnessed a bleached blond, petit girl, with her pants half off, crawling into bed next to me. I asked who she knew in the apartment, who she was, and why on earth she was crawling into bed with me. She didn't have an answer to any of these questions. Just a typical late night in our Mcallister Street apartment.

I also had the pleasure of walking into a mouse infested kitchen watching roommate number one munching on a dog bone due to the fact that he was too lazy to spend money or time shopping for his own food, while roommate number two explained that he doesn't even like eating food. Yet he refuses to date any girl who doesn't like ranch dressing.

It was at this time that I decided it's time to move out, and time to grab a beer.

I will tell you, factually and accurately, I am drunk writing this right now, after one beer. Ok, so I'm that girl who, after one or two beers sends love text messages to her ex-boyfriend. But I'm telling you, this strong beer was really REALLY strong.

It wasn't until just a few months ago that I started enjoying beer. Maybe that’s because my entire beer tasting experience had lay in the times of college dorm living... throwing ping pong balls into red plastic cups that had previously been used for lord-knows-what, then drinking the contents out of them which tasted like carbonated piss water, but were actually the fine brewings of Keystone Light.

Once my friends and family exposed me to other beer, all I wanted to drink was beer. Beer for lunch, beer for dinner, beer as a de-stresser, beer as a digestive aid. If there's an opportunity to sample and drink beer, I'm there.

Magnolia Brewpub brews "Strong Beer" only for the month of February. I ordered their Tweezer Tripel, a Belgian style beer. Before I got drunk, the flavors blew my mind. It was more bold than the typical Belgian I was used to. The flavors popped in my mouth. Stone fruit, nuts, flowers, and that refreshing cold carbonation that is so wonderful about Belgians. Once I had sipped half my beer, neither my maggot infested apartment, nor the thought of Keystone Light, could effect the magically content mood I was in.

Destinations #6 and #7: Plate Full of Sunshine

The wait to get into Zazie for a table for two was one hour. But after waiting 5 minutes, one of the two tables on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant opened up, a first come first serve table. I snagged it and was on my way to foodieliciousness, #74 on the list of 100.

There are several choices of eggs benedict at Zazie, and in my opinion, there is one that is far more worthy than the others: "La Mer," poached egg on an english muffin with dungeness crab, spring onion, avocado, and of course their house-made hollandaise sauce.

La Mer looked and tasted like sunshine. One beautiful savory poached egg with sweet crab, creamy avocado, spicy spring onion, and the lightest, most lemony hollandaise sauce I have ever had. The combination of these flavors was perfect.

Warning: Order AT LEAST two eggs (you have your choice of one, two, or three). I ordered one egg and was about to eat my plate once I finished the actual food. It was so good, that I forgot to take a picture of the food, and had to resort to a photo of my clean plate after the fact.

At dinner time, I decided to get back to my Asian roots, so I went to Katana-Ya Japanese restaurant for the #5 item on the list: Chasu Ramen.

It's a tiny, very hip spot with a small sushi bar, and a line out the door. The only ramen I had had previous to this experience was the so very gourmet Maruchan Ramen that comes dry in a little plastic package. During my dumpster diving days, my backpacker friends made "Ramen Bombs": Instant mashed potatoes cooked in water with a pack of ramen mixed in. And if you were a super gourmand, you added cheese to the mix. Even I, the girl who ate walnuts off the grocery store floor in the bulk aisle, could never force myself to eat this substance that looked like worms emerging from a swamp.

So, real ramen was sounding pretty good. And it was. The wheat noodles were perfectly aldente, the barbeque pork was tender and savory, and the broth was a thick, almost creamy, miso. I would've loved a bit more of a kick...it's a dollar to add spice and next time I will spend that extra dollar. It was a nice intro to my first non-packaged ramen.

Destination #5: Happy as a Clam

I went to dinner with my best high school buddy who just happens to live in San Francisco as well, and I thought, what better thing to do than for two New Englanders to go eat clam chowder in California? And so our dinner location was obvious: My #5 destination and #28 on the list, Anchor Oyster Bar for clam chowder.

My friend Lizzy is a born and raised Bostonite, and therefore has a refined pallet when it comes to clam chowder, so she would be my guru on this particular adventure.

The restaurant had a funky diner vibe. Small, open kitchen, stainless steal furniture and a long counter with stools. The bread they bring is nothing fancy, just a tasty, medium crust, loaf of Italian bread.

I know it's hard to mess up any food that involves cream, butter and clams, but I've had some BAD clam chowder, the worst of which, if I had tipped my bowl upside down, the soup probably would've fallen out keeping the shape of the bowl with an exciting jiggle.

This chowder was LOVELY. The texture of the soup was smooth and creamy, but not so thick that I felt I was eating "glop." It wasn't overloaded with stuff, but it had a nice amount of chopped potato, bacon, and clams (perhaps it could've used a bit more, but every element was cooked perfectly).

The thing we loved most about it was its simplicity. No bells and whistles here. Just a simple, creamy, sweet and savory New England clam chowder in San Francisco. We were impressed with the restaurant's restraint in keeping clam chowder the way it should be, and not inventing some spicy, swanky, and so called creative chowder. For California, it was good. This, paired with a glass of their house Chardonnay, left me feeling like one happy clam.

Destination #4: My Trip to Candy Mountain

After the butter fritter and ma po ground pork swimming in oil, I decided I needed to lower my cholesterol with some healthier eats. What better cleanser than cookies.

Riding my bike to Hayes Valley, I was sweating while speeding down hills in the 75 degree sunshine, but it could've been 50 degrees and raining when I walked into Miette, my #4 destination, and I wouldn't have noticed. I had to stop myself from singing and doing a little jig in the most adorable, happy, colorful, delicious looking candy shop I had ever been in. Behind the clerk were jars full of multi colored candies. The treats were the only decor the place needed.

On its own pedestal was a plastic tube of the famous ginger snap cookies, #49 on the top 100 list. I bought a tube and gleefully skipped out the door looking like an idiot.

There was something about this cookie. Although lovely and buttery, there was something more, and then it hit me: CARAMEL. What is caramel, really, besides butter and sugar cooked together? But somehow, when a baker slightly burns sugar and simmers it in a pot of butter, the chemical reaction creates a whole new dimension of sweet fat. The flavor of this cookie was bold and nutty with the spicy ginger biting through. Miette prides themselves on using three types of ginger in these cookies (crystalized, fresh, and powdered) so being the ginger fiend that I am, I was one happy kid.

The texture of the cookies, I must say, was perfect. They weren't soft baked (which can sometimes be great, but can sometimes be the sign of a cheap grocery store cookie) and it wasn't so light and crisp that it crumbled in your hand. It had a firmness to it, and a lovely crunch. Yet still, the crystalized ginger gave each cookie a subtle and surprising chewiness.

I will be honest and say I don't quite understand how a ginger snap made it to a list of 100 things to try before dying. I LOVE cookies, but I wouldn't consider any ginger snap to be such a vital part of life. But it was damned good, probably a perfect ginger snap, so what the hey.

Destination #3: Shimmering, Shining, Gleaming Chili Oil

Destination #1 on the list of 100, and my #3 experience: Mission Street Chinese Food for the ma
po tofu.

Before arriving, I prepared myself in full Debbie-downer mode. When I think of Chinese food, this is what I think of: Cops in movies sitting in the office late at night eating oily noodles out of a white and red to-go box. And it always looks so good. But whenever I go to a Chinese restaurant to recreate this image, it is always so disappointing. Chinese food, to me, is dark brown corn syrup with a pinch of MSG.

Mission Street Chinese Food was not this at all. First of all, if you go, don’t judge the book by the cover. The restaurant façade looks like all the other sketchy gated pawn-shops in this area of the mission, with a stained yellow sign that says Lung Shan Restaurant (Note: Nowhere on the sign does it say Mission Street Chinese Food). Walking in is a bit more comforting… clean, nicely lit, spacious, casual.

My buddy Winsie ordered the thrice cooked bacon, and I, of course ordered the ma po tofu. (It usually takes me a solid hour to choose an item off a menu, so thank you 7x7 magazine for making life so much easier!)

First of all, I will say that ma po tofu is where the idea of tofu as the vegetarian/health option goes to die. I received a steaming vat of ground pork with large cubes of tofu, red chili peppers, black beans, all swimming in bright red oil. Looking at this thing made me sweat. It was basically a giant bowl of Chinese Chili… but better!

The tofu was silky smooth. It melted in my mouth. And the flavor of this ground pork stew was indescribable. The only word that comes to mind is savory… not like the corn syrup sauces I was used to previously. And the spice… oh the spice. That was the best part. Although the menu gives this item the highest spice rating (Two cartoon flames!!! Whatchout!), it wasn’t the kind of spice that lights your entire body on fire preventing you from tasting the food. It actually gave my mouth the same feeling that a beer makes my body feel (yeah, I have a low tolerance); tingly, slightly numb, and extremely happy.

Tasting Winsie’s thrice cooked bacon made me realize that, although the ma po tofu is wonderful and unique, it need not be the only item considered on the menu. Each menu choice seems to be fantastic, original, and just as good, if not better, than the #1 item on 7x7’s list. Lung Shan is a must-visit destination in San Francisco.

Thank you, ma po tofu, for giving my mouth the most fantastic afternoon buzz. And the best part is that I was able to take about three quarters of it home (that is one big vat of ma po!) So I put my plastic container of stew in my backpack, rode my bike home, and once I arrived, happily found a pool of bright red oil in the bottom of my backpack.

What a lovely afternoon.