Rising star: Bridget Huber files a portrait of Sour Flour yeast maven Danny Gabriner for Mission Loc@l. The 24-year-old ex-programmer has dreams to eclipse Acme, with the help of his sourdough starters Blarf, Dulce, and Wheaties -- SFoodie's Tamara Palmer reported on Sour Flour back in September. These days, Gabriner is raising funds to launch a commercial bakery, one that'll posit breadstuffs as the city's community center, even as he's giving away loaves and bagels and imparting bread-making know-how to any who ask. It's a very San Francisco story, a mix of entrepreneurship and aspiration for an idealized community whose hub is the table, and mad energy. Read Huber's piece here. Believe us, it's not the last you'll read of Danny Gabriner.
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Truthfully, we're not that interested in what Reichl keeps in her fridge. By comparison, we're quite obsessed with what she keeps in her glove compartment, in her desk drawer, and in her purse -- what she eats when time is short and no one is looking. There are shopping choices one can conveniently blame on a spouse's bad taste, and then there are secret pleasures about which one should truly feel at least a little guilty. What, say, does Ruth Reichl scarf when she comes home from a cocktail party after a few too many toasts? Does she roast a few marrow bones and butter some good bread? Or does she squirt a bit of that sriracha on a microwaved tortilla and call it a night?
"I do like hot dogs," says Reichl when Lam asks her if she's embarrassed by her fridge's contents, adding the helpful caveat: "But they're outdoor food; they're not home food."
Sure, we believe you. If you say so. She probably eats them for breakfast, right out of the package.
According to a late-morning tweet, tomorrow marks the debut of Shirohige Ramen-Ya, a San Francisco street-food ramen truck. The apparent proprietor -- somebody called Yatai -- hasn't returned SFoodie's call for details. But as far as we can make out on Shirohige Ramen-Ya's Twitter page, he'll be rolling up to the corner of Laguna and Hayes (opposite Suppenküche) in Hayes Valley. The menu lists three basic options: shio ramen, miso ramen, and shoyu ramen, all with optional toppings and sides. Regular hours are 11 a.m to 2 p.m., and 4 p.m. to 9 p.m., though it's not clear how long the truck will be around tomorrow. Updates when -- and if -- we get 'em.
really, but that's what it feels like). A stew of cubed beef called tibs wat ($14.75) and steak tartare known as kitfo ($15) both contained spices and nit'ir kibe, or Ethiopian purified butter, but were distinct enough in flavor and texture as to not feel like we overloaded on one thing. The menu also includes chicken,
lamb, catfish and vegetarian dishes of collard greens, split peas,
lentils, and mixed veggies.
We expected good food, but what we didn't expect was the design of the space, which we think is among the most interesting on all of Fillmore Street. The centerpiece, a dividing wall, is modeled after Church of St. George in the Ethiopian holy city of Lalibela. It was quiet at our early bird hour, but each night features international musicians, from piano players to jazz ensembles. It might really feel like church later in the evening when the live music gets started.
• Today is Fritters Day -- maybe the one day even non-potheads can be excused for polishing off an entire apple fritter at Bob's
• Dec. 6: Gazpacho Day -- seriously?
• Dec. 7: Cotton Candy Day -- yes, the Cloud 9 cocktail at Blowfish (poured over house-made cotton candy) totally counts• Dec. 9: Pastry Day -- like every day isn't
• Dec. 13: Ice Cream Day -- butterfat crawl through Humphry Slocombe, Mitchell's, and Bi-Rite
• Dec. 15: Lemon Cupcake Day -- again, seriously?
• Dec. 16: Chocolate Covered Anything Day -- hit up Hot Cookie in the Castro for a chocolate-dipped penis macaroon
• Dec. 17: Maple Syrup Day -- sorry, the McGriddle doesn't count -- technically
An appetizer of semolina gnocchi ($12) was all about texture -- the pliant, pinky-tip pieces of the star ingredient, in a thin, deep-tasting duck broth not ashamed to be cloudy. There were bits of duck and spigarello, too. A nearly perfect square of slow-roasted beef ($23) had a beefiness you tasted in your chakras. It was a boneless rib cut, Niman, with a fiber-y texture like short ribs, under a load of deep-fried shallot rings. Coarsely smashed German butterballs and braised greens were perfect with.
The only dish we didn't love was the cube of ling cod swaddled in Boccalone lardo, poised on Brussels sprouts and a smear of squash and apple puree ($23). The lardo made the fish about as salty as seawater (though, in fairness to Boccalone, the kitchen definitely wasn't shy about salt elsewhere), and the sweetness of the orange stuff seemed a clumsy contrast. But even with a plate you couldn't warm to, it made you wish you lived in the Castro, where Frances could be your neighborhood go-to. As long as you wouldn't mind a whiff of Chelsea.
Frances 3870 17th St. (at Pond), 621-3870
Last Saturday night, our stomach shaken by seconds and thirds of wine-braised goose with pork, veal, and chestnut stuffing, we revisited the original Dosa (995 Valencia at 21st St.) for a South Indian curative. The setting is still evocative of what we imagine a Burning Man chill-out tent to be, what with the fuzzy electronic burbles on the stereo, well-inked servers, and awkwardly dimmed lights, but the food hit the spot, even more than we'd remembered.
We particularly dug the sweet, mild persimmons with house-made rice noodles, pearl sago, coconut milk reduction, and mint chutney -- not to mention the excellent chennai chicken (boneless pieces marinated in yogurt and fried) and tamil lamb curry -- which, despite our inclination toward lightness, we could not resist.On Sunday morning, we felt better, but still quite goosed. That evening, we ventured to Valencia's other South Indian restaurant, the all-vegetarian Udupi Palace in the old Firecracker space (1007 Valencia at 21st St.), just a few feet from Dosa. Udupi is the anti-Dosa. Sitars and harmoniums hang weirdly from the walls. Bollywood musicals flash on a high, swaying television. It's a minichain with few frills: The frowning waiters wear matching maroon shirts and unceremoniously ferry bottles of Kingfisher and puffy balls of poori to your table. Here, an immensely fresh samosa with fragrant steam swirling out from a cracked, bulging outer shell was the big winner, a much better rendition than at Dosa. While no tastier than their counterparts down the street, the dosas and masala-and-chutney-laced thicker lentil pancakes known as uthappams are significantly bigger here, and a few dollars cheaper.
