Tea, by Sam Taylor, author of “Body of the World.”
By cheryl
By cheryl
If you, like me, head to the Ferry Building each time you come to San Francisco, you’ll know the problem that lies ahead.
After all the honey sniffing, cheese poking and book browsing you’ve done, a question inevitably arises: Where to get a lovely drink and nibble with a sweeping view of the water and Bay Bridge?
If it’s anytime after 4:30 p.m. or so and you’d like a comfy spot in the Ferry Building — good luck. Some of the places there have such terrific happy hours that you’ll be battling swarms of commuters and tourists all looking to belly up.
On a recent visit, however, my friend Matt had a better plan. Outside, on the Embarcadero, he started going north, pushing head-on into thick gales determined to blow us back. After a few minutes, our struggles were over when we came upon a little shack of a building.
From the palm trees plastered on its side and the kitschy neon sign that said “Pier 23,” I knew this would be the perfect spot …
By cheryl
I have been called “the world’s most easily bored person.” By someone who knows me well, too. (And yes, despite such insensitive name-calling, we remain married.)
And so there are very few meals for which I would happily line up more than an hour — if I’m going to subject myself to all that boredom, the food had better be nothing short of earth-shattering.
In San Francisco, the one place that commands a wait of at least 90 minutes on most days and still has my devotion is a little corner restaurant on Washington Square Park called Mama’s …
By cheryl
On a recent lazy spring afternoon, the sous chef and I went on a meandering drive along the winding mountain roads of Northern California.
After quite a few miles of sun-dappled trees and fetching vistas, as lovely as everything was, we realized something else had begun to occupy us. “Are you hungry?” he said, not really needing to know the answer. “I have a little something in mind …”
As he pulled into the small town of Portola Valley, the sous chef began to slow down. Amid the greenery, an empty parking lot emerged, anchored by a small wooden building that would not have looked out of place in an old Western movie.
“We’re here,” he said, stopping the car. “Zott’s!”
By cheryl
It’s not every day that I look forward to eating at a cheeseball tourist trap.
The Fishermen’s Grotto in San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf, however, holds special meaning. Thirty years ago, when the sous chef was an undergrad at Stanford University, his father would breeze into town from their Iowa homestead and whisk him away to San Francisco.
There, the man would regale his son with stories of his own youth in 1950s San Francisco — and invariably, these trips would land the pair at a little place in the wharf. The old man would order a Shrimp Louis, remarking with prickly nostalgia that the pricey platter of creamy shrimp “used to cost just $3.50 back in the ’50s.” And over heaping plates of shrimp and fish, he would share the colorful stories of his bygone years.
So when the sous chef and I found ourselves in San Francisco last week, a visit to the old hangout became a must.
Battling sidewalks jammed with tourists and street artists offering to sketch our portraits, we wended our way along the breezy waterfront and found it: Fishermen’s Grotto, the very first restaurant in Fisherman’s Wharf …