It's that time of year...
Photo courtesy of Stan Grossfeld/Boston Globe
I’m quite certain that I’m the only person on our editorial staff who cares about baseball. My boss thinks I’m joking when I say I might have to move around my schedule in order to catch some of the upcoming Red Sox v. Rockies World Series. I know, I know, we’ve got a magazine to put out—but hello! Red Sox in the Series?! Where’s the nearest big screen?
Grilled okra with miso aioli
I’ve never liked okra, until now. It could be because the only okra I’ve ever really tried has been greased up and deep-fried—and fried food rarely appeals to me. So, the other day when I went to Namu and my friend insisted I try their grilled okra, I (very) grudgingly agreed.
Anthony Bourdain's made a career based on No Reservations
People are always asking me to tell them about restaurant trends here in San Francisco. But for the most part, San Francisco is a decidedly untrendy city. Stylish, yes. But trendy, which implies a kind of flash-in-the-pan lemming-like following—not so much. Thankfully. But I’ve noticed a recent micro-trend in the world of restaurants, and I’d love to hear your opinions about it: The no-reservations phenomenon.
Wine bottles and flowers at Quattro
I lucked out last week. After getting home from Cartagena at 1 a.m. on Monday morning, all I had to do was put in five days of work, then I was off again for a night at the Four Seasons in Palo Alto followed by a Sunday in Healdsburg and a relaxing Columbus Day off.
The one and only drawback to Sens, the new restaurant that draws on talent from several trustworthy corners of our local food universe—a general manager and sommelier from Kokkari, chef from Plumpjack Café and pastry chef from Citizen Cake and French Laundry—is getting to it, via an elevator and hallway buried within the promenade level of the mall-ish Embarcadero 4 building. But the location pays off once inside, where your view from the dining room or spacious patio is of swaying palms lined like sentries in front of the iconic Ferry Building.
Rough sketches of the main bar and dining room.
Growing up, I wanted to be an architect, then a doctor, then a lawyer, then an environmental lobbyist (like Annette Bening in the The American President), but luckily I became a writer. Now I get to learn about such a wide array of activities, issues and events. One day, I could be covering an exotic locale, and the next I could be wearing a bright yellow hardhat and touring what’s likely to be a landmark SF restaurant.
I am not an advocate of a low-carb diet—or any diet for that matter. But let’s face facts. Sometimes—like for instance after a week in Philly spent stuffing your face with cheese steak, pizza and homemade ravioli, and with the holiday binge fast approaching—it pays to slow down a little.
I’ll admit that one of my guilty pleasures is reading bad celebrity magazines. I usually restrict my reading to airplanes and at the dentist’s office (where no magazine, no matter how trashy, will distract me from my fate). But I’ve never really understood Us Weekly’s “Just Like Us” bit, where they catch celebs jogging, say, or buying toothpaste, then slug it with “Stars! They’re Just Like Us!” Yeah, just like us, save for the million-dollar paychecks, throngs of paparazzi and houses in Beverly Hills. Well, like somebody’s mother once said, we all put our pants on one leg at a time. And, apparently, like Crest.