Mashed potatoes for breakfast
This morning I had an early appointment, and on the way in to work, since I was already running late, I decided to stop at the market and get some breakfast. It was 11 o'clock by then and the only breakfast stuff left looked overheated and uninspiring, so I started checking out the hot lunch options and realized that they were setting out an entire Thanksgiving-style dinner! I got chicken instead of turkey (so as not to fall asleep at my desk), which I ate before I even arrived at my office. Right now I'm eating the most delicious mashed potatoes and turkey gravy, with a little side of cornbread-and-cranberry stuffing. SO yum!
Speaking of fabulous food, I did go back to the city last week to have dinner with Mr. A. We had two dinners, actually – on Thursday and again on Friday, when I went back again to pick him up and bring him home. The Thursday dinner was sort of a surprise, for me at least. I had been looking forward to going to a certain place, only to find out that it no longer exists, after which I spent most of that day psyching myself up to explore a little and try something new. When I got to the hotel, though, Mr. A informed me that an old colleague of his was taking us out. We were going to a tourist place on Fisherman's Wharf (deflated sigh, but whatever – I like sandwiches fine), and the purpose of the meeting was that this person wanted to offer Mr. A a job, and wanted me to be there when the offer was made.
It was nice to meet this person, whom I'd been hearing about for years. And while I have always been impressed by Mr. A's professional life, this meeting reminded me that ... well, that he really is very, very amazing in many ways, and that I'm not the only person who recognizes this. How would it be to have people basically begging me to come work for them, telling me they'd meet whatever terms I require, that they will hold the job for me indefinitely so I can start whenever I want to, etc. etc.? Sitting in that meeting made me feel proud of him, and kind of embarrassed for myself. What am I doing that's that important?
Well, I have my own strong points, just like everyone. Not everybody needs to be good at the same things.
Anyway. I don't know if or when he's going to take this job. I will admit I had some fun fantasies about getting a place in the city, a little pied à terre to stay in between weekends at our country place (the house we live in now) lah di dah etc. ... I could go back to school maybe, or at least find a better job in San Francisco – it would be fun to work for a real company again, and have a chance to actually make some decent money.
[Deleted: Long rambling section about how and why I left my own "career," such as it was, how commuter culture creates fractured communities, how it's starting to wear down Mr. A as well, etc.]
But back to the food! On Friday I went back to pick him up and on the way to the bridge I realized that if we went home right away we would end up sitting in traffic for hours, so we swung back around and went to North Beach to scout out a new restaurant. Our first stop was Washington Square Park, which was swarming with dogs of all shapes, sizes and dispositions. We spent almost an hour just hanging out with them and their people (I especially enjoyed meeting two rough-coated Jack Russell terriers who sprawled on the grass next to each other and alternated barking back and forth for several minutes without ceasing, like a crazy little doggie duet), one of whom (the person, not the dog) recommended a restaurant I had not been to before – da Flora Restaurant, on Columbus.
We walked the few blocks to get there and as soon as I saw the place I realized we were probably not going to be able to just stroll in and get a table with no reservation. Still, I figured, we were there – why not ask? We were greeted by Flora herself, who agreed to fit us in provided we thought we could be finished by 7:25, at which time the table she had in mind for us was reserved. That gave us an hour and a half to eat, which seemed like plenty of time (arriving early in the evening is always a good idea in North Beach if you haven't planned ahead – for parking and eating, both).
We sat down and looked at the menus, which were brief and hand written (not photocopied) and presented in these beautifully bound handmade portfolios. The words "sweet potato gnocchi" caught my eye, and being a sweet potato/yam/any kind of orange vegetable except cooked carrots Freak, I decided immediately that we had to order that. A subsequent Google search revealed that this is something of a signature dish at da Flora, and for good reason – it was fabulous. Bathed in a silky sherry cream sauce and decorated with little curls of pancetta, oooh, if I had been small enough I would've crawled into the plate and snuggled in for a delicious little nap. The gnocchi itself was the pinnacle of all gnocchi – all pasta – I have ever had anywhere. It was so good we had to close our eyes to eat it.
We also ordered a butter lettuce salad, a pasta and crab dish, and a filet of sole on a bed of roasted winter vegetables including artichokes and parsnips that was to die for. And while I was at first a little overwhelmed by the wine list, which included not a single California (read: familiar) wine, Flora graciously helped us choose a wonderful Foja Tonda from Albino Armani that I will definitely be looking for again. When I told her we were from Sonoma and not sure what would work with the meal we'd ordered, she nodded understandingly and said something about California wines being mostly too big for subtle food – something I have often said myself, though quietly, so as not to offend my friends who make those wines ...
Anyway, the wine was yummy, the food was out of this world, and the service, I thought, was charming. Flora kind of reminds me in a way of the late Bruno of the Persian on Haight – it was his place, and if he didn't like you, or what you ordered, or what your friend ordered, he would not hesitate to show you the door. I once got kicked out because the person I was with – not even my friend, just a friend of a friend – having just returned from several years in Spain, tried to order an absinthe. "Oh really," he said. "And how would you like that?" "Um, I don't know, just ... you know, in a glass?" she squeaked, confused. After that he refused even to acknowledge her; looking at me he said, "That's it. Get her out of here." "But –" I tried to protest. "Ep ep! Out," he repeated, and that was it. We crept out like dogs who've just gotten caught with their heads in the garbage (to cite a familiar theme), vaguely ashamed but not exactly sure why. "What just happened in there?" we asked each other.
Flora wasn't like that with us, but I can imagine her brooking no nonsense from anyone, least of all two yokels stumbling in on a Friday night without a reservation. I liked her very much.
The decor is cool, too – dark red walls, marble floors, heavy curtains, dim lighting, small but comfortable tables. The bathroom is lit by candles only – two on the tank, and one next to the sink. I liked that, too. If you go, be sure to look for the intriguing cat-shaped metal handles on the bathroom door.
Speaking of fabulous food, I did go back to the city last week to have dinner with Mr. A. We had two dinners, actually – on Thursday and again on Friday, when I went back again to pick him up and bring him home. The Thursday dinner was sort of a surprise, for me at least. I had been looking forward to going to a certain place, only to find out that it no longer exists, after which I spent most of that day psyching myself up to explore a little and try something new. When I got to the hotel, though, Mr. A informed me that an old colleague of his was taking us out. We were going to a tourist place on Fisherman's Wharf (deflated sigh, but whatever – I like sandwiches fine), and the purpose of the meeting was that this person wanted to offer Mr. A a job, and wanted me to be there when the offer was made.
It was nice to meet this person, whom I'd been hearing about for years. And while I have always been impressed by Mr. A's professional life, this meeting reminded me that ... well, that he really is very, very amazing in many ways, and that I'm not the only person who recognizes this. How would it be to have people basically begging me to come work for them, telling me they'd meet whatever terms I require, that they will hold the job for me indefinitely so I can start whenever I want to, etc. etc.? Sitting in that meeting made me feel proud of him, and kind of embarrassed for myself. What am I doing that's that important?
Well, I have my own strong points, just like everyone. Not everybody needs to be good at the same things.
Anyway. I don't know if or when he's going to take this job. I will admit I had some fun fantasies about getting a place in the city, a little pied à terre to stay in between weekends at our country place (the house we live in now) lah di dah etc. ... I could go back to school maybe, or at least find a better job in San Francisco – it would be fun to work for a real company again, and have a chance to actually make some decent money.
[Deleted: Long rambling section about how and why I left my own "career," such as it was, how commuter culture creates fractured communities, how it's starting to wear down Mr. A as well, etc.]
But back to the food! On Friday I went back to pick him up and on the way to the bridge I realized that if we went home right away we would end up sitting in traffic for hours, so we swung back around and went to North Beach to scout out a new restaurant. Our first stop was Washington Square Park, which was swarming with dogs of all shapes, sizes and dispositions. We spent almost an hour just hanging out with them and their people (I especially enjoyed meeting two rough-coated Jack Russell terriers who sprawled on the grass next to each other and alternated barking back and forth for several minutes without ceasing, like a crazy little doggie duet), one of whom (the person, not the dog) recommended a restaurant I had not been to before – da Flora Restaurant, on Columbus.
We walked the few blocks to get there and as soon as I saw the place I realized we were probably not going to be able to just stroll in and get a table with no reservation. Still, I figured, we were there – why not ask? We were greeted by Flora herself, who agreed to fit us in provided we thought we could be finished by 7:25, at which time the table she had in mind for us was reserved. That gave us an hour and a half to eat, which seemed like plenty of time (arriving early in the evening is always a good idea in North Beach if you haven't planned ahead – for parking and eating, both).
We sat down and looked at the menus, which were brief and hand written (not photocopied) and presented in these beautifully bound handmade portfolios. The words "sweet potato gnocchi" caught my eye, and being a sweet potato/yam/any kind of orange vegetable except cooked carrots Freak, I decided immediately that we had to order that. A subsequent Google search revealed that this is something of a signature dish at da Flora, and for good reason – it was fabulous. Bathed in a silky sherry cream sauce and decorated with little curls of pancetta, oooh, if I had been small enough I would've crawled into the plate and snuggled in for a delicious little nap. The gnocchi itself was the pinnacle of all gnocchi – all pasta – I have ever had anywhere. It was so good we had to close our eyes to eat it.
We also ordered a butter lettuce salad, a pasta and crab dish, and a filet of sole on a bed of roasted winter vegetables including artichokes and parsnips that was to die for. And while I was at first a little overwhelmed by the wine list, which included not a single California (read: familiar) wine, Flora graciously helped us choose a wonderful Foja Tonda from Albino Armani that I will definitely be looking for again. When I told her we were from Sonoma and not sure what would work with the meal we'd ordered, she nodded understandingly and said something about California wines being mostly too big for subtle food – something I have often said myself, though quietly, so as not to offend my friends who make those wines ...
Anyway, the wine was yummy, the food was out of this world, and the service, I thought, was charming. Flora kind of reminds me in a way of the late Bruno of the Persian on Haight – it was his place, and if he didn't like you, or what you ordered, or what your friend ordered, he would not hesitate to show you the door. I once got kicked out because the person I was with – not even my friend, just a friend of a friend – having just returned from several years in Spain, tried to order an absinthe. "Oh really," he said. "And how would you like that?" "Um, I don't know, just ... you know, in a glass?" she squeaked, confused. After that he refused even to acknowledge her; looking at me he said, "That's it. Get her out of here." "But –" I tried to protest. "Ep ep! Out," he repeated, and that was it. We crept out like dogs who've just gotten caught with their heads in the garbage (to cite a familiar theme), vaguely ashamed but not exactly sure why. "What just happened in there?" we asked each other.
Flora wasn't like that with us, but I can imagine her brooking no nonsense from anyone, least of all two yokels stumbling in on a Friday night without a reservation. I liked her very much.
The decor is cool, too – dark red walls, marble floors, heavy curtains, dim lighting, small but comfortable tables. The bathroom is lit by candles only – two on the tank, and one next to the sink. I liked that, too. If you go, be sure to look for the intriguing cat-shaped metal handles on the bathroom door.
Labels: restaurants
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Haight used to have its own 'Soup Nazi'?!
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