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.