Yesterday evening, two fat, boneless breasts had been dusted with an aniline-yellow spice mix that pulsed with the taste of turmeric and toasted black mustard seeds, underneath a coating that'd bubbled and crisped like Total cereal flakes. It came with rosemary-scented roasted potato wedges crisped in the fryer, and slaw as sweet as chow-chow, redeemed by the heat leaching from a scattering of jalapeno slices.
The chicken's whiff of curry seems perfectly apt here, a place that teeters on the edge of Market-Street skeevy (the heavily pierced kid in the 'fro-hawk, the menacingly cruisy guy with keys lashed to his belt). All it needs? The house sangria, served up in a pint glass over a deep drift of crushed ice.
Show Dogs: 1020 Market (at Golden Gate), 558-9560.