By Pete Kane
By Anna Roth
By Lou Bustamante
By Anna Roth
By Max A. Cherney
By Anna Roth
By Alex Hochman
By Anna Roth
A brief culinary history of my father: While growing up in Minnesota during the lean years of the Depression, my father was always hungry, a condition he blames not on a lack of food but on the cooking of my grandmother, who didn't believe in using more ingredients than necessary in the kitchen, or even seasonings, for that matter. Yes, she was English, but since her cooking was the only cooking he knew, my father had no idea where his insatiable food-lust came from. Then, one day, when he was about 15, his longings coalesced into a single desire: apple pie. He asked my grandmother to bake him one, but she handed him a cookbook and told him to bake his own.
San Francisco, CA 94105
Appetizer trio inspiration of the day: $12
Phyllo-wrapped shrimp: $11
Pan-roasted chicken with sautéed Swiss chard: $15
Pepper-seared ahi: $21
Murphy-Goode sauvignon blanc (half-bottle): $10
Berry Cosmopolitan: $7
Chocolate chunk cookies with Tahitian vanilla milkshake: $7
Which he did, cutting lard into the flour, slicing an orchard's worth of apples, dusting them with an island's worth of sugar and a forest's worth of cinnamon. He slid the pie into the oven and waited, and since my grandmother's version was a somewhat miserly affair -- hardly any fruit, a crust like a hobo's shoe -- you can imagine my father's delight when he opened the oven an hour later and saw this gigantic, golden mountain of a pie oozing juices all over the place, filling the kitchen with its rich, sweet smell.
By the time I hit the scene, dinner chez Hugunin could consist of anything from snapper and mushrooms in a creamy white wine sauce to chicken Florentine with fresh lemon and a crisp Parmesan crust. We feasted on coq au vin, beef burgundy, chicken Kiev, paella, huge, juicy tri-tips, arroz con pollo, and flaky, melting, unbelievable king salmon caught from the deck of San Francisco's own Wacky Jacky. And then, if you throw in the restaurants we ate at, good places where you could get rack of lamb and Alaskan king crab and where they always served wine to 12-year-olds, well, I had one of those childhoods that makes me look back and say, "Damn, Pop, you're the best!"
I recently had an opportunity to return a tiny portion of the favor when I took my father and stepmother Jean to Spear Street's very excellent Cosmopolitan Cafe. According to ancient legend, Cosmo has taken over a cursed location (formerly Etrusca, Eric, and Capital Grille), and while that didn't concern me, to be honest I didn't expect much from the place, either, for four reasons: 1) I don't like the name (too ... cosmopolitan); 2) I don't like the big, pastel mural over the bar (too pastel); 3) While scouting Cosmo in advance, I tried one drink, the Tropical Cosmopolitan, a slightly bitter, mango-based cocktail that 4) was ringed with granulated sugar.
Having eaten at Cosmopolitan Cafe, I still have the same four beefs. I even tried the Tropical Cosmo a second time -- again, it tasted bitter, and lacked the tartness that, to me, defines a good Cosmo, which is ideally made with fresh-squeezed lime juice. Mango just doesn't provide that necessary tartness, and seems better suited to rum drinks.
Of course, such gripes tend to fade rather quickly when you try seven dishes and all seven of them achieve their potential so effortlessly you have to wonder why all food isn't this good. Mural excepted, the space is stunning. A high, arched ceiling gives the place the open, cavernous feel of an air-plane hangar, though it's anchored with tall windows, plenty of dark wood, snaky metal light fixtures, rich, blue-green zebra-striped carpeting, and deep, inviting, luxurious booths. If you look closely, you can almost see the jazz (both recorded and live) floating around before it cascades to your table, where it hovers at the edge of conversation but never intrudes. Furthermore, our wineglasses were so huge that if God ever tells me I get one last chalice of the grape, these are the glasses I'll request.
Obviously, such magnificent stemware needed to be filled. After perusing the extensive, affordably priced wine list, my father selected a half-bottle of Murphy-Goode sauvignon blanc -- crisp, grassy, reminiscent of a fresh, dewy meadow -- while Jean, who has yet to adopt my clan's passion for intoxicating beverages, filled hers with a good, wholesome glass of low-fat milk. Me, I prefer liquor, and, after sipping some sauvignon, I tried the other two specialty Cosmos (sugar omitted on request): a perfect, traditional version made with Absolut Mandrin, cointreau, and fresh lime juice, and an equally perfect Berry Cosmopolitan in which blackberry and raspberry juices provided all the tartness anyone could ask for, and an exquisite fruitiness to boot.
We began with the appetizer trio inspiration of the day, Dungeness crab done three ways -- tempura'd over spicy corn relish, shaped into a crisp, traditional crab cake, and incorporated into a rich, silky bisque. That's a lot of effort to put into one appetizer, if you ask me, and the sign of a restaurant that cares. Our next dish, arugula and frisée salad with crisp duck, kept the good times rolling. The arugula provided a marvelous backdrop for warm savory duck, pungent blue cheese, and juicy, lightly sweet Asian pears.
Our favorite, though, was the deep-fried shrimp with shredded phyllo, one of those appetizers a person could lose himself in and never want to find his way out. When touched with a fork, the phyllo was so crisp it shattered, adding a nice crunchiness to four juicy crustaceans. The phyllo's usefulness didn't end there, however: We simply had to combine it with the accompanying sweet pickled cucumbers and beets, which, in turn, absolutely had to take a dip in a pool of salty-sweet miso, which wanted to be all over the shrimp, which called for more beets, more phyllo, more cucumbers, more miso, more shrimp, a sip of Berry Cosmo, and so on.
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