I used to think I understood seasons. Then I moved to San Francisco.
Yesterday was bright and warm, especially walking through the Mission and even in shorts and a tank top. This is early November, by the way.
I was on an outing to meet my friend, Nicole, whom I haven’t seen in ages as she has just begun a new job as an RN for Planned Parenthood. That’s right, I know fancy adults.
What started out as a desire to play Settlers of Catan in Dolores turned into a lunch date at Wise Sons Jewish Deli (because none of our other friends like us).
Wise Sons is pretty small and the reviews will make you believe that you will wait in line forever and never get a table.
We had no wait and got a table right away. Just another lesson to teach you that Yelp can’t be trusted, as it is mainly populated by idiots.
I had smoked trout on sourdough rye with a side of potato salad. Unsurprisingly, I like when things are prepared in traditional fashions like pickling, smoking, and preserving. It was an excellent sandwich.
Nicole had a beautiful, monstrous reuben. The thing is, we got so excited about our food that I only realized I should blog it about halfway through eating. Rookie move.
I was so eager to get back to my meal that I took this blurry photo of Nicole enjoying hers.
And afterwards, while we walked around on a pie expedition, I completely forgot to take pictures of her banana cream pie and my pumpkin pie at Mission Pie. That sentence had a lot of pie in it. I wish my life had a lot of pie in it.
But all was not lost, because Patrick and I went to Southern Pacific. I love this place.
I had my birthday party outside on the patio, they have a fantastic alcohol selection (including their own brews), and the best damn pork sandwich on Earth.
The bahn mi has a slow roasted pork base, kohlrabi slaw, pickled jalapenos and cucumbers, cilantro, and black garlic aioli on a crisp baguette. They also make great fries; but more importantly, they make their own amazing ketchup.
Patrick had a veggie burger that he smothered in housemade mustard. He agreed that my sandwich was delicious.
After dinner, we headed over to the Homestead for my friend Alx’s birthday. In the dark, strange private back room, we celebrated her birth and her tasty raw cashew and raspberry cake.
Alx has a difficult diet for which to cook, as she is both vegan and soy-free. Her boyfriend John, pictured above with said cake, is gluten-intolerant. This has led to her cooking blog My Asshole Diet.
Look at that: cross-referencing in food blogs. It’s like I’m going legitimate or something.
I got drunk.
This is not a singular phenomenon, as a young woman living in what Bourdain (my biggest hero) proposed as one of the last “great drinking cities”. It is, however, a special occasion upon which I got ignominiously tipsy; because I went to Tonga Room, y’all.
The Tonga Room is located in the bottom level of the Fairmont Hotel and it is…magnificent. It’s a straight-up, old-school tiki lounge with a great menu and incredible drinks in a seriously cool setting. There’s a dance floor, a ship’s mast, little paper lanterns, and a pool with a boat that contains a live band. The pool used to be the main pool for the hotel…but now it rains. It rains, with thunder and lightning, into the pool every time the band takes a break.
And lava bowls.
We all got individual drinks, no worries. Everything from mai tais to hurricanes to margaritas to Singapore slings. I do believe there were three rounds. Which explains why I made my face do this when it started raining in the pool:
The winner was definitely Emily, who used her brains to figure out that for the same price as a much smaller drink, she could get this instead:
Good choice.
We did also get calamari, even after an intense dinner at Shanghai Dumpling King.
More importantly, we had dessert.
Emily’s blurry (two drinks in) peanut butter and banana cake.
Our flaming vanilla and…well crap. This is where I fail as a food blogger, because I’m going to be real honest here: I don’t remember what I ordered. I was just so disappointed that our lava bowl didn’t have a flaming center that when I saw the word “flaming” on the dessert menu, I just pointed and grunted. OK, I actually said “please” because etiquette matters.
We loved it. Who is we?
Simone.
Laura.
Caroline.
A motley group of ladies who would sporadically wander on to the dance floor for Jackson 5 and Journey hits.
A very good night.