Monthly Archives: June 2010

New Skool!

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For years I’ve driven up and down Potrero Hill, De Haro St. to be exact. Up to 22nd St. to my home. Down to Division St. for work. Back and forth, day after day. For the past two years there has been a curious sign on a showroom building at the corner of Alameda St. “restaurant space available”. It was an odd location, but seemed to have a patio and from what I know of this neighborhood, a lot of potential. We’ve got Adobe, Advent, Zynga and every designer worth his salt within 4 blocks. And, we’re dying for a real restaurant. I’ve dreamed often about selling my business and opening up something in that spot, who-knows-what, because I sensed this was a gem.

Skool Sign

Grand Pu Bah tried, but it proved to be niche rather than the next Slanted Door. Pizza Nostra, from the Chez Papa gang, was a step up, but still didn’t have the ‘it’ factor. There’s a ton of adequate places nearby, from Patisserie Phillipe, Chez Papa, Sunflower, Aperto, Umi Sushi – but nothing would turn the heads of your garden-variety foodie. They’re just neighborhood joints. Enter Skool.

The “space available” turns out to be a sexy spot for the next hot restaurant. I had lunch there today and got a lowdown from the owner. Apparently the landlord had a vision when he built the building years ago. He was willing to wait for the right people to come along to realize his vision. He built out the space with a designer’s eye and the attention to detail is clear. The place just feels good.

The people he chose were the couple behind Blowfish, Andy Mirabell and his fiancée Olia Kedik. Moreover, they teamed up with another couple, Toshihiro and Hiroko Nagano in the kitchen. There’s a definite young- entrepreneur vibe about the space, as the busy themselves to make your experience exceptional and to connect with their potential regulars.

Skool Aji Sandwich

Well, spank my ass and call me Sally, but I’m sold. The menu is loaded with healthy fish-forward options. There is a clear sophistication behind the cuisine and enough to keep me occupied enough to become a regular. I’ve only had the Aji sandwich with a side of fries and a cup of carrot-ginger soup, but I’m ready to go back for more. There’s a coffee-marinated steak sandwich, flatbreads and a bunch of creative fish mains. I’ll work my way through and offer a proper review top to bottom later.

What really has me sold is the idea of maximizing the sunshine of Potrero out on the patio, once they finalized their liquor license. Even on the rare foggy day the inside bar is a really appealing place to swill and they plan on some fab cocktails, designed by a Rye alum (I didn’t get her name). Can you sayz happy hour?

Currently only open for lunch. Opening for dinner on July 9 Phone 415-255-8800 | Address 1725 Alameda Street, San Francisco, CA 94103 | Skype SkoolSF | Twitter SkoolSF | Facebook SkoolSF

Quick Review: Thermidor

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Cool concept. Walking in to Thermidor, located in the ever-expanding culinary bastion of Mint Plaza, feels like stepping onto the set of Mad Men. The hostess was dolled up in a dress with a bow and could easily pass for a Don Draper conquest. The wood-panel decor nails the mid-century-modern vibe that has dominated the design world in recent years. This is the latest concept venture of Spork’s Bruce Binn and Neil Jorgenson.

The food continues the theme with unwavering dedication. Though I barely touched the 60′s, I still recall dishes like pommes Dauphine, celery Victor, scallops Newburg and sole amandine. I was excited to see chicken Keiv, one of my favorite indulgences from childhood, and Lobster Thermidor, the namesake and specialty of the house.

While the food was good, I think they are missing the boat at Thermidor. Most of the dishes we tried came out very traditional versus the modern interpretations I was expecting. It seems they are taking the theme somewhat too literally for my preference. I would have like to have seen them reinvent the form (perhaps unleash the Voltaggio Brothers on the menu?). Deconstruct!

The Pommes were fried potatoes, pretty straighforward. The Caesar salad was creamy, despite my inquiry and assurance that it was traditional style. The standout app was a potato chip with smoked fish, roe and créme fraiche. The mains didn’t go much further than advertised, though the Sole Almondine did have a nice gnocchi accompaniment. The Lobster Thermidor was tasty enough, but again, lacking innovation and a painfully small portion at $32.

The cocktail menu actually delivers on the concept. Brooke Arthur has updated classics in a way that should inspire the kitchen. I’d come here for a drink anytime, and maybe jump over to 54 Mint (the authentic Italian place across the plaza) for dinner.

The Dinner Party Guest

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I don’t get invited to enough dinner parties. I backed myself into this corner. I believe it’s mostly because I am a food snob and a vocal one at that. I mean who would want to cook for someone that has such high expectations for every meal he eats AND might just write about it online? And frankly, my friends are justified for their sensitivity. I judge. I notice subtleties. I criticize, even if it is in my own head. Who would want that pressure?

Still, I have a dark, and very pedestrian, side to my culinary experience. I eat Spaghettios. I love Stouffer’s Creamed Chipped Beef. I have a soft spot for all things crap (in fact I have a post queued up called “Eat Shit”). So, while I wear my judges hat in many realms, I try to spare my friends the expectation of performing for a critic. If you’re reading this, I’ll be expecting an inbox filled with invites…

A few months ago I was invited to a dinner by a relatively new friend we shall now call from this point forward “the Contessa”. While technically not a Contessa by Italian aristocracy (I think), she has regal qualities, an impeccable social standing, refined tastes and a certain air of luxuriousness that follows her every move. She owns a Napa estate that makes Olive Oil for celebrity chefs. She pals around with the SF Opera elite. You wouldn’t necessarily put us together…until we start talking about food. The Contessa and I are soul mates in our zealotry for everything about food, and especially Italian. So, when the invitation came to join her at a home of some friends for dinner, I didn’t have to think twice.

Frankly, my life is so chaotic these days that I didn’t pay much attention to the specifics of the invite. I knew they were friends and somehow into food but I didn’t delve into the specifics. It was enough that the Contessa wanted me there. We’d play it by ear. My calendar invite read “Ciao Adam happy New Year!!! Tiziana wish to have confirmation you and me will go to her Piemontese dinner.”

When we arrived at the lovely loft in Mint Plaza we met our hosts Tiziana and John. It turns out that she is a photographer, who specializes in food. He is an importer of Italian culinary delights (Un Po Pazzo – click on this link to visit), particularly from the Piedmont region. Tiziana is from Piedmont and I immediately knew we were in for a treat. When an Italian is cooking with confidence I’m putty in their hands. The traditions run so deep and food is so engrained in their culture that I am almost embarrassed to claim that I cook Italian food. The mastery and skill of Italian regional chefs, including amateurs and home chefs, makes my dabbling seem Mickey Mouse.

I could see as I entered that Tiziana was organized and had put an effort into this meal, but I joked that it was probably effortless for her, even if it took her days. We started with a simple platter of the finest cheese known to man, in my opinion, Parmigiano-Reggiano. But this wasn’t just plain old Reggiano. No, it was Vacche Rosse, a special variety of the lauded formaggio made exclusively under a traditional process including prime red cows. The taste was subtly different than your average PR. It was a little more mellow, like a nice aged Cab, with a more crumbly texture (it was aged 4-years versus the 2-3 year we typically eat). I wolfed down a bunch along with some homemade foccacia that was lovely.

I watched Tiziana working her salad, which included seasonal greens topped with some poached shellfish, including squid and shrimp. She mixed in some of the fish liquid with the dressing which added a hint of seaspray to the dressing, marrying the fish and the salad. I never thought to do that, but loved the result. Otherwise, your salad would just have a topping of fish, without any real tie to the entirety of the dish. Brava!

Next came the Agnolotti del Plin. Interestingly enough, the first time I tried this dish was the night before at Flour + Water. When it rains it pours! This traditional Piemontese dish is a pasta (Agnolotti) that is pinched (del Plin) to seal it. In both cases it was stuffed with a veal, chard, pork filling and served in a light butter sauce. Flour + Water did a great job. It was light and lovely. Their pasta was incredibly delicate, which I love, but I never would have guessed it was a little too soft, by comparison. But Tiziana had the home field advantage here and brought out subtleties that you’d be hard-pressed to find in a restaurant. The sauce was simple and sparing, just enough to kiss the pasta but not overpower it. The filling bursted with flavor, surrounded by a silk blanket of pasta that retained a little bite of al dente. Brava again!

If that wasn’t enough, our next course was a brisket served with a deep, dark barolo sauce and a light vegetable melange. Her skill at cutting a brunoise was apparent and the lightly-herbed vegetables played a nice counter to the rich meat. As for the sauce, I can confidently say that I have never made such a lovely elixir myself. I find this type of sauce to be elusive for my culinary talents and I made a decision to try to add a few to my repertoire. It was rich and buttery and meaty and rich and barolo-y. I couldn’t get enough.

I must comment that John was no slouch with his additions to the meal. He paired wines impeccably, all from Piemonte. The cheese was from his import company (I’m planning to buy some hunks if anyone wants to split the wheel up). He shared some tomatoes that he claims are far superior to your average DOP San Marzanos I swear by.  And his stories of his life’s careers and capers were incredibly interesting.

Dessert was another regional treat called Bonèt, a custard with ground almond cookies. Paired with a perfect dessert wine (which I will count on John posting in the comments) the night ended on a high note.

As we walked out into the crisp night air I thought about a few things. First, I was wowed by a great meal. How lucky to share such treats with the Contessa and her friends. I cannot wait until I have the chance to visit her Napa estate or, better yet, meet up in Italy for the real thing. And…I love going to dinner parties. It’s not just the food, but the company and the opportunity to talk in small groups. And for the rare opportunity I have to score an invite, I don’t have to do the cooking.

Emelia’s Pizza – The Long Awaited Review

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I relish reviewing pizza. Any regular reader knows that this is probably my most common theme. Last year’s onslaught of Neapolitan joints doesn’t seem to be slowing in twenty-ten. Bring it on.

Emelia’s is a bit of an enigma. Yelpers just love it. Best they ever had. Gives Berkeley some serious bragging rites as a pizza powerhouse (adding to Arinelle and [uggh] Zachary’s). There’s a lot of mystery around the place. It’s got odd hours and a rigid ordering process. In fact, they suggest you call ahead to reserve your pizza, requiring you choose your toppings at that time. They seem like very nice people, yet I sense an underlying Soup Nazi vibe…Still, there’s a preciousness about it all.

The location is a little odd, a non-descript gas-station corner at Shattuck and Ashby. It’s the sort of corner I’ve driven past countless times, but never had cause to stop. There’s a gaggle of businesses that may or may not have included a laundromat, a taqueria, a cheesesteak place, a salon…The interior looks like a tiny East Coast slice joint (yet there are a couple of signs touting No Slices [For You]). One might say it’s a bit of a hole in the wall, but I suspect if the mojo keeps going, and the owner is able to figure out a business model, they might ride a wave to better digs.

Emelia's Pizza - Berkeley

But really we’re here for the pizza and Emelia’s is an interesting bird. The construct defies any traditional stereotypes. It’s not Neapolitan, though has influences. It’s not New York style, though clearly has similarities. In a subtle way, Emelia’s is defining it’s own category. This presents me with a bit of a quagmire, because I cannot review it based upon references and drop into any hierarchy.

The 18″ pie is the only choice with some straightforward toppings. The owner is very coy about his secrets, which I found a little unnecessary. I inquired about tomatoes and cheese and got nada. Even the best pizzaiolos are confident enough to share their ingredients. Hell, in Naples the law dictates the ingredients – it’s no secret. The size is much more akin to New York style, yet the crust, thickness and toppings are clearly closer to Neapolitan.

The sauce was my least favorite part, though it was not bad. To me it could have been a little sweeter – it reminded me of Flour + Water on my first visits, which they subsequently worked out well. The cheese was outstanding and the crust was spot on, bottom to edge. There were brilliant bubbles from the oven and a little bit of the chewy, crunchy balance I like. The cheese was a fresh mozzarella variety, not quite as runny as a typical burrata, but close. A smattering of basil leaves were scattered about.

So, how to rank this? I’m jaded because I love the Neapolitan and New York forms unto themselves. They provide a great reference point. I don’t think it stands up to the best of the best of the best. The owner spent time working for Pizzaiolo, but I think Charlie still takes top billing in the East Bay. Arinelle still nails the [inconsistent] title of proper NY slice in my book. But there is a solid place in the second tier for Emelia’s. I can see craving it, which surprises me. This would be a GREAT party pie, as you get the flavor of Naples but the size of New York. Order a few, but call early.

Lastly, I gained some insight into the owner’s strategy after happening upon a poetry slam at a dive bar up the street. He was packing up and I asked him about the name. His young daughter is Emelia. He’s working his butt off to keep the quality high and churn out as many pizzas as he can, without missing out too much on her developmental years. As a dad, I get that. It makes sense for the odd hours and limited quantity. I wish him the best to scale his idea, hire some solid staff and capitalize on some damn good pizza.

Lafitte is a Butter Face!

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Here we go again…it seems like I get a stick up my ass about a place and that’s the motivation I need to write. My last post was weeks ago and life was going along just fine. Not too much controversy, minding my own damn business, keeping my head above water, blah blah blah. Then I had two instances to try out newcomer restaurant, former underground dining, 19th century pirate – Lafitte. First was a dinner and then I mistakenly booked a business lunch later in the week. I decided I’d give them a Bauer treatment and visit multiple times. Man was it ugly.

Cincinnati Bengal

First, let’s get the Butter Face thing out of the way. According to the urban dictionary, a butter face is:

A girl with an exceptionally hot body but an exceptionally ugly face. “Everything but-her-face is attractive”

I don’t want to come off misogynistic, but “but-his-face” just doesn’t have the same panache. Personally, I always liked the term “Cincinnati Bengal” which boils down to “Nice Uniform, Shitty Helmet”.

So you enter Lafitte and realize someone spent some dough to make it look nice. Clean lines, pretty views – very much a part of the Embarcadero Renaissance that is happening right now. Not very underground. One could easily say that the ‘uniform’ is quite nice. Well done.

Lafitte Interior

Then there is the food. For clarification’s sake, if you haven’t picked up on where I’m heading with this you should be lobotomized I’ll spell it out – the food is the ‘face’ or ‘helmet’. And, fuck me, she’s an ugly bitch!

I don’t like to cast stones too easily well yes I do, and look how I’ve discovered this nifty stikethrough button woo hoo not only did I have two experiences to confirm this, but tonight I attended a food event where multiple trusted colleagues confirmed my assessment. Checking the Yelpasphere shows similar discontent. This dog has fleas.

Without getting into much detail, I’ll give you my basic impression.

For lunch there were several missteps. Little gems are a treasure to me and I’ve rarely seen them so beaten and battered and unkempt while dressed in a watered-down mess (served with a flavorless, mushy polenta ‘cake’). The pasta dish I ordered was billed as ‘Fusilli Pasta: lobster, pea shoots, & spring onions’. In the hands of a competent chef, that sounds rather tasty. One might expect some fresh, silky pasta in a pool of savory sauce and hunks of tender lobster for $18 at lunch. Rather, I received boxed dry fusilli (I ain’t kidding, like Barila) served with micro bits of chewy lobster-like substance and some manky greens on top. To their credit, the sauce was ok. But the crown jewel was a ‘dagwood’ sando that had 4 monster slices of bread, stuffed with rabbit terrine, bacon and black bass. Really? Really? Thank god I wasn’t paying.

Dinner was slightly better, but not that much so. A morel and asparagus quiche was served cold and flavorless. The squash blossom pasta was ‘meh’, as was the chicken with morels. The best thing of the night was Pan Roasted Padrons & Boquerones Vinagrette. But I could make that at home. Mine would be better. Seriously, I’ll give you a recipe.

This all leads me to a gripe. I’ll likely need to expand on this in another post. But just for argument’s sake, how is it possible that a restaurant can be so oblivious to their misgivings when your entire world is in food? It wasn’t hard for at dozen or so people with whom I’ve discussed Lafitte to uniformly identify multiple major problems. What’s going on there that makes them so blind? I’m guessing that sometimes a butter face actually doesn’t really know she’s a butter face. Hmmm.

I suppose the word is out, because on both occasions the place was barren. With lines down the block at La Mar, Slanted Door and The Plant Cafe, it’s not like the potential isn’t there. It might be time to hoist the sails, matey, and head back to the underground. This butter face needs some reconstructive plastic surgery, stat!