On to San Francisco
That's right folks. I'm skipping my sojourn to Scottsdale. Why? It was work - and nothing but work. Pretty resort for it, but dang if I had any time to enjoy it.
So, much more productive to just move on along to San Francisco, where I was put up (and put up with) at the lovely new North Beach home of Hi and Ho. And, with Hi and Ho committed to a work schedule on Thursday and Friday, I was left to my own devices...What to do? Who to hang with?
Lucky for me, Hi and Ho weren't the only game in town. My pal Karen had recently moved back to the city and is happily ensconced in an honest-to-goodness food writing position at a Bay Area magazine. (I'm quite jealous!) Lunch was planned.
And, with Karen in a position of foodie majesty, she selected a "hot" new spot - well actually a "hot" new re-creation of an old spot - Cafe de la Presse. The folks at the celebrated SF restaurant Aqua recently took over what once had been a rather unremarkable coffee shop/newsstand and turned it into what they hoped would be a remarkable bistro. Early reviews had been good. Karen snagged a coveted 12:30pm reservation and since she wasn't reviewing the place, allowed the restaurant's flack to give the front of the house a "heads up" about our arrival.
We were both looking forward to an efficient, if not excellent, eatery experience.
We received neither.
If I were to go with a more accurate descriptor, also beginning with an "e," I would have to go for "erratic." And, that's for both the service and the food. Our waitress seemed flustered from the moment she arrived at our table - and didn't improve through the course of the meal. Silverware and plates were forgotten - as was a most necessary cocktail. Not good.
Karen and I decided to try a range of items from what appeared to be a fairly pricey lunch menu. Hmm. With the Aqua pedigree and these pricetags this Frenchy fare was bound to be worth it - non?
Non, indeed. The tasty sounding Provencal Tarte was more like an oversized Carr's Table Water Cracker topped with a smattering of overly sweet-savory ingredients, than the decadent tartlet we had expected. The Pate Plate was a misery - with the housemade Rillette devoid of flavor and palatable texture - actually Play-Doh came to mind.
We hoped the main courses to be better.
What a waste of hope. My $18 Nicoise Salad was flavorful enough, but paltry in portion. And, the Tuna atop seemed out of a can. C'mon. For 18 smackaroos, you could at least grill a wee ruby red piece of tuna steak. Karen's $18 Steak Frite wasn't much better - a sad lump of beef served without garnish or sauce, alongside a collection of disappointingly uncrunchy fries.
We were ready to flee. But, the very sweet hostess, who was well aware of Karen's food writing position, swept down and insisted that we have dessert. We acquiesced and ordered the Cheese Plate. The hostess frowned. Just the Cheese Plate? She swore that we'd be missing out on something special if we didn't also get one of the cafe's luscious pastries. We acquiesced once again, and ordered the Strawbery Tartlet to follow the cheese.
Once the Cheese Plate arrived, we understood why the hostess had worn a frown when we ordered it. One look at the puny plate, with all of TWO cheeses on it, and we were frowning too. For $12 we received a few "Kate Moss"-slender slices of one selection and two wee lumps of goat cheese drowned in olive oil.
Yummy. Not!
The Strawberry Tartlet isn't even worth writing about at this point. You get the idea.
Needless to say that this lunch had one saving grace - my friend Karen. And, happily for me, she is quite a grace. So, lunch, although not a culinary delight, was a delight nonetheless.
But, you know me - I still needed some sort of gourmet satisfaction. I headed off to Alamo Square and toured the Hayes Valley and then couldn't hold out any longer. I needed to have my epicurian itch scratched.
Thank goodness for Absinthe Brasserie and Bar, a glorious refuge of refinement and quality cocktails. One look at their drink list and I knew I had come to right place. And, one sip of my 21 Hayes (pictured above) and I knew I had ordered the right cocktail.
My itch was scratched. I let out a sigh of relief and pleasure.
Now, my holiday had officially begun...