wrapmeinbacon

My drink of choice is a vodka with water and lime. Boring? Yes. Practical? Absolutely. But when I came to San Francisco, surrounded by rainbows of cocktails and the people who drink them, I decided to venture outside of my comfort zone. The bar’s name is Cantina. They have a drink named the Misdemeanor. It starts out slow and smooth, almost seductive – which, to me, is foreign for any drink with tequila in it. The agave nectar rolls around your tongue and the flavor of crushed pineapple promises continued sweetness. It lingers for what seems a strange amount of time. Then you get the punch of jalapeño. This is no ordinary punch – it’s stealthy, swift, and powerful. It is probably the only cocktail I’ve ever really enjoyed the taste of.

This may be because it’s delicious, but it’s probably because I am an idiot and enjoy the surprise. After the first sip, I should in theory expect the jalapeño.  Still surprises me though. I just started a bit more seriously seeing someone, and I feel like it’s all pineapple and agave, and I know the stupid jalapeño is inevitable, but it’s still going to punch me like no one’s business. This guy has trouble dancing all around him – he’s charming, smart, ambitious, funny; he has a Duchenne smile (what the hell is it about those smiles?). And I am so incredibly screwed.

Here is my promise to myself – I will remember that it’s not enough to just like someone – I am more aware of that now than ever. I like lots of people, most people. This one has to be right for me. I will not, under any circumstances, promise exclusivity unless my gut says it’s right for me. Right now, my gut just understands when I want to make out. Let the trouble begin.

At least twice a week, I get a specific salad from Whole Foods. There are beans and corn and tomatoes and cilantro and onion and it seems way too many things in it. All of these things seem to fit very well together, and then there’s this strange white cubed thing. Looked it up and it’s jicama. Every time I eat the salad, I think that this white cubed thing is perfectly good, but I just don’t know if it belongs in there.

This city has been wondrous. I’ll go hiking in Muir Woods and marvel at those soaring cartoonish trees, I’ll take a Tuesday off of work to lounge on a sailboat, with the America’s cup a few hundred feet away, I’ll have a latte with a crunchy cannoli with vanilla cream oozing out of every crevice at Caffe Greco in Little Italy, but I have this weird problem: I’m jicama in a beautiful salad – I don’t know how to add to it. I look around me and I see the warmth from friends and family in SF, I feel how invigorating it is to be surrounded by brilliant, hopeful people, but I still feel a little removed from it.

Around two months ago, a man gave me the best compliment I’ve ever received; he said that ironic as it is, Miami will be losing a lot of warmth when I go to San Francisco. Perhaps that’s my addition to this city then. Because as inspiring and active as San Fran is, it certainly needs warmth. That’s a pretty good gift then, no? Maybe you do need jicama.

As a heads up, this will be an unfair post. I’m writing about a gastropub famous for its beer, and I’m not a big beer person. In my defense, if people try the food, and they rave about the beer, then this place must be truly remarkable.

True to form, I ordered the bacon wrapped shrimp with marmalade sauce from the Monk’s Kettle in the Mission. It’s not so much that I liked this dish; it’s more that the dish and I shared something beautiful. It was crunchy and fresh and sweet and it was just one of those moments I could not help but feel really happy. This unveiled yet another flaw in my dating skills: I am significantly more interested in bacon than in my date. This is not my date’s fault. He may offer funny stories, ask interesting questions, and be generally enjoyable and intelligent, but there’s really no way he can compete with bacon wrapped shrimp.

It’s fun to date, but I find myself nervous to start investing emotion into someone. I keep glancing down at those scars, and wondering if it’s OK to get more, and how many I can handle.

In an ideal world, I would like to be surrounded by a bigass moat. I’d load the moat up with whales and sharks and a cross between a tiger and a sea snake (I don’t know what this would look like, but I imagine it would be petrifying). I could devise some clever master scheme to make sure the guy on the other side is good (I don’t know how to do this, but in this situation I crossbred a tiger and a sea snake sooo…). Then I can go talk to him. That might lower the likelihood of scarring.

Unfortunately, in real life, I just decide they look nice and hop over my bigass moat to go say hi. That’s how I get into trouble. And that’s why I prefer bacon to men. Never got a scratch from bacon…just happiness.

New to the dating scene, I have been trying to navigate the norms and etiquette it seems like everyone else is so familiar with.

Here are my problems: I am a fairly unattractive eater (there will be sauce on my cheek – this is a given), and I like to share my food, but in moderation. Some people seem to find the messy thing endearing. I like these people. My last date gently poked fun at me, which I welcomed. Mid-meal, though, I took a break. I wanted to re-energize and then sink back into the most delicious burger I have ever eaten. But the date took my burger! Mid-burger! All was forgiven, though, because upon seeing the horror on my face, he offered to make me kugel. Ladies, I found a secret: a cute man who knows the best burger in town and who can make kugel. Yes, he steals delicious food…but he makes kugel.

This find warrants celebration, but let’s revert to the burger. Hosted in Maven, this burger stands out with its simplicity – they do not load strange sauces on it or smother the buns with butter. The burger screams with juicy tenderness and a tangy, but not overpowering pickle. This is not just any burger – this is THE burger.

I will warn you – not all the dates I’ve gone on or will go on will result in this kind of foodie happiness. The one before this guy took me to try aged cheeses and he talked about boobs for 20 minutes.  Aged cheeses: good. Boobs: good. Places that serve aged cheeses and pretentiously explain the difference between a 12 month aged cheese and a 15 month aged cheese (and how foolish people who eat 12 month aged cheese are): profoundly annoying. Techy boys who giggle when discussing boobs: surprisingly, not sexy. Needless to say, this was not a win. And despite my best efforts to try a restaurant, the next dude insisted on taking me to see Alcatraz this week (If it goes poorly, I will be in a prison on an island. This is bad.).

This process has been so interesting to me – food tests compatibility so well. When someone takes you to their favorite place, you immediately gain insight into their personality: fancy or low-key, a focus on presentation versus taste, how adventurous they are, how research-oriented, how frugal, how healthy. You see manners, generosity. It’s caused me to examine myself in those aspects too. Learning while eating’s not so bad.

There are three things that calm me down: car rides, mountains, and babies. Today, I went in a car ride in between mountains with babies. I was basically comatose.

I noticed this because it was the first time in a month I felt that way. A strange thing happened in San Francisco: I became averse to sleep. Just beyond my door, there would be a graffiti class, or a flash mob (try not to judge, but I may have joined a Beyonce flash mob). There are mountains and parks and lakes that make you do a triple take – it’s all so perfectly orchestrated. Every day, I wake up and think to myself – I get to live here.

There’s just a burst of cold that won’t allow complacency here. People are passionate, hardworking…they don’t care what you want, so long as you want it. They won’t allow for subpar food either. Every bite allows you to sink into a chef’s mind. Chips are not just chips – they are hand cut! With potatoes grown in that chef’s backyard, and cooked to perfection just under an hour ago! They are not just chips – they are chiiiiiiiiiiips.

The very first place I had the honor to try here was Foreign Cinema. They have goat cheese cheesecake. The cheesecake tastes like fresh goat cheese. With a buttery crust. It’s like someone took the best dessert there is, felt no fear when trying to improve it, served it, and did a mike drop.

Yes, they are famous for their fried chicken with hummus that makes you want to curl up into a little ball and then it just feels like home again. And yes, it’s obscenely awesome that they have a foreign film playing on the brick wall in the background – lots of drama, can’t hear a thing, but God, I felt so cultured. All of that is cool. But the cheesecake. The cheesecake.

Just get the cheesecake.

The farmers’ market on the Embarcadero is around 40% responsible for my move to San Francisco. I do eat the samples as my brunch every Saturday. I tell you honestly only because I am so sure everyone else does there the same thing, and because I have no shame when it comes to food (this should be clear by now, no?).

Every fruit is a piece of juicy sweetness I never want to let go. There are six types of nectarines. I know this because I like all of them, and refuse to leave without eating all of them. The jams – what in the world do they put in the jams – are enough to make me melt.

They serve Korean tacos. Short ribs, gently marinated, with kimchi and a sauce made for the Gods, all carefully placed onto seaweed. I don’t know that I’ve had better food. What a statement, I know , but it’s true.

It’s a market that makes you feel cuddly. The people are too friendly and they just want to feed you (is there anything better?). When you move to a new city, and you go through the effort of making yourself vulnerable to so many people, it can feel dizzying. But if I ever feel rejected, I go to this market, and then I remember: wait, I am delightful. And then I have a Korean taco, because that is the ultimate form of love – and then I know it’s all going to be great.

Each course at NAOE evoked such excitement, almost like that giddy feeling in the first part of a relationship. After that thrill, you begin to think about each melding flavor, how the flavors work together, how they complement one another. You find strengths and weaknesses alike. The ending always came too abruptly, no matter how much or how little I enjoyed it, and I was promptly handed a lemon sorbet to cleanse my palate – get ready for another one, they tell you! Perhaps I am unusual in my response to this, but I do get fairly attached to my food, and I don’t take well to switching. That’s what the lemon sorbet is for – it’s tart and cold, and doesn’t allow you to look back.

What is scarier with your dating life is that there is no finite number of courses, no magical number of relationships that will set you on a path to satisfaction. Two courses may await you, or twelve. Even more surprising are the people who keep going past three, past that uncomfortable feeling of being swollen with regret, to find out what else awaits them – what bravery! Or fickle desperation, either one.

I write to you from my lemon sorbet of sorts. I don’t fully appreciate the taste of my last course anymore, although I remember soft notes of honey and mint, followed by a harsh burnt crust. I will procure my next course with greater meticulousness. I don’t know that I am brave enough to go through more than three courses. I love too easily, and feel full too easily. And so, for my next course, I’ve stubbornly shooed away the chicken pasta (sure, it’s good, but it won’t blow me away) and the buttered lobster (generally over-promises and under-delivers). The next one – oh, I will make the next one count. It’s going to be sweet, but airy.

And now, I take you to San Francisco. The good news is that the city was painstakingly picked out, with all the precision you might expect from someone who gets full with three courses. And with that, I bring you to foodie heaven.

In a cozy, dimly lit room lined with candles, I was offered a lace blindfold. The waiter gently slid a glass of Pinot Grigio in front of me and guided my hand to it. There was a warm waft floating over  from the kitchen. It just felt sexy.

Not sure how sexy it was afterward though. What a beautiful thing to be able to eat gourmet food – seven courses, no less – with no one watching you. I am a messy eater. I am about the food – how it gets to me is not as important. Very honestly, I look like a happy monkey when I eat, and here, in this dark dining experience, that is ok!

I took advantage of that a little. I may have eaten spaghetti with my hands. What a transcending experience to savor truffle oil with caramelized onions and baked asparagus. Yes, I licked the plate too. Shrimp scampi followed, with  a light lemon  sauce with anchovies. Between the rigatoni and bucatini, I felt a slow contentment creep over (it was either that or the wine…). And then the cannoli cake. Oh my gosh, you yellow piece of heaven, pressed against fresh ricotta, I love you. Moist, but light, fresh, but decadent, what an incredible piece of art.

I take my hat (and blindfold) off in humility to Chef Adrienne. She helped me rediscover my quiet gratitude for fine food, and my love of eating like a monkey – two things that generally do not pair well together. I’ll be back for you, dark dining.

Sometimes I feel small enough to be swallowed whole. I start to realize acting like a big fish does not give me the credibility of a big fish. And then I eat a big fish and I feel OK.

This opportunity was only presented recently to me. You see, I had an allergy to all things from the sea. Ridiculous, you say? I agree. But with a miracle that makes me question my lack of faith, I grew out of the allergy. Seafood became all mine. A whole new section of every menu, previously just jumped over, now made my dining choices all the more difficult. The world was my oyster (see what I did there?).

In my quest to find the perfect salmon, I found a delicate lemongrass salmon salad. Served on a cedar plank, it comes with a thick lemon primed for juicing. A white balsamic dressing coats the salad, and the flavors are strong, but don’t overpower each other…the whole thing just worked.

It feels great. There’s nothing like a happy belly to put your mind at ease and to savor the moment and the fish. Maybe, after rejuvenating a little, you’ll realize that you’re OK, that even if you are small, you’ve got to just keep swimming, and everything will be alright.

I have been to India –I’ve eaten in hole in the walls, I’ve eaten in fine restaurants, in big cities, in small villages, in homes, the works. Darbar is damn good Indian food. The owner hails from the Taj Hotel in India, famous for its food, and he does not disappoint.

Every bite is rich and flavorful and makes you want to do a little shake dance (is that just me?). The meat is perfectly cooked, the sauces are decadant, the naan is soft but somehow crispy also. The saag paneer is one of the tastiest I’ve ever had, the lamb roganjosh just makes me smile (this is awkward when I am by myself), and then there’s the mama of all Indian food – chicken makhani. You know that scene in When Harry met Sally where Sally fakes an orgasm at the diner, and the people next to her say, “I’ll have what she’s having”? I am 99.8% sure Sally was eating this chicken makhani.

Overall, thank you, Darbar, for the curry, the shakes, and the food-gasms. Job well done.