By Omar Mamoon
By Kate Williams
By Pete Kane
By Molly Gore
By Lou Bustamante
By Anna Roth
I went to cooking school in Paris. I earned my daily bread by writing about restaurants in Los Angeles, and New York, and then Los Angeles again. But I left my stomach in San Francisco.
There must have been a certain amount of eating in the nine months or so between my birth in Boston and my arrival in San Francisco, but I recall nothing to write home about. Through family friends, we lucked into an apartment on Jackson Street that still induces shivers of real estate lust when I drive by it. (Many years after my family moved to the East Bay -- my parents, both born in New York, were determined to raise their children "in the country," or what passed for country to urbanites -- I confessed to my mother that I had a fake childhood memory which might have come from seeing I Remember Mama or some other San Francisco-set movie. "I remember standing in the window of our apartment and waving to the cable car conductor, who would beat out 'shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits' on his bell in response to me. But there aren't any cable cars on Jackson Street." "There were," Mom said, "when you were a baby.")
Though my mother was cooking us terrific meals in her narrow galley of a kitchen across the bay, my hunger was directed across the bridge, to San Francisco. My parents ate out in posh restaurants in what we always called "the City," and, the next morning, my father would describe to me every course they'd had in near-erotic detail as he shaved. I heard about La Bourgogne, Fleur de Lys, Ernie's, and the Blue Fox; sometimes, after a meal in North Beach, they'd bring back a little cardboard box full of pastries.
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Region: North Berkeley
My first vivid memory of a restaurant meal is a lunch I had when I was 6 or 7 with my father at the Ritz Old Poodle Dog on Post Street. I doubt that he told me about its previous locations, on Bush Street or on Clay and Dupont (now known as Grant Avenue), but I do remember him saying that it was San Francisco's oldest French restaurant, and that it was founded in 1849, to serve the miners of the Gold Rush, who paid for their meals with gold dust and quickly corrupted its French name, Poulet d'Or, to Poodle Dog. The combination of the plush surroundings and my outfit from I. Magnin made me feel like Eloise, one of my two favorite literary characters. (The other was Madeline; it was years before I learned that her creator, Ludwig Bemelmans, was a veteran of many fancy hotel restaurants and had written food books that I'd be as fond of as an adult as I was then of his little Parisian schoolgirl.) But my desire to try something new plus a glance at the menu's prices led me to order scallops, which were a great disappointment. (And I think I was instinctively right: In my memory, those salty, fishy, firm little buttons -- which became saltier from the furtive tears I dropped on them -- were not only overcooked, but, in their perfect circular uniformity, quite possibly not scallops at all, but punched out from a huge wing of skate or ray.) My father noticed my distress and offered to call over the waiter so I could order something else. Mortified, I demurred. He gave me one of his little rib lamb chops; it was delicious, and remains to this day one of my favorite cuts of meat.
My grandma Sarah, who lived in the Sunset, cooked rich Jewish specialties: stewed mushrooms on toast with lots of onions, breast of lamb, roast duck. She'd partially poach a chicken to make chicken soup, then stud the drained meat with lots of garlic and bake it in the oven. On a complicated, ritualized schedule known only to them, she and her sister Frieda would prepare vast quantities of meat blintzes (still the best I've ever had) or plum jam. (My other grandma, Celia, would visit us from Brooklyn in the summer and overfeed me on chicken livers and onions and her own version of strawberry shortcake.) My cousins' grandma Ida took me to my first cafeteria, near Union Square, after seeing Bambi, the occasion of more salty tears; she insisted I eat a salad as well as the hamburger I wanted, and consequently I was too full to eat the éclair that was waiting mutely on my tray throughout our lunch. (Later, when I read Vladimir Nabokov's description of an éclair that was left on a plate "lonely, despised, unwanted," I remembered the one that got away.)
San Francisco meant the scent of roasting Folgers coffee greeting us as we drove across the bridge; walk-away shrimp and crab cocktails; sourdough bread; the all-dessert birthday lunches my mother would treat me to at Blum's; Jack Shelton's food columns in San Francisco and Herb Caen mentioning restaurants new and old (it amazed me when I heard that he was never presented with a check); vast banquets in Chinatown; multicourse Basque feasts at Des Alpes and the Hotel de France; the monumental eagle-topped copper-and-brass espresso machine in my aunt and uncle's house in Parnassus Heights that scared me with its hissing steam; pelmeny and piroshki on Clement Street; trying Peruvian food in the Mission after seeing The Sorrow and the Pity. One godmother lived on Russian Hill, wore fur coats and Joy perfume, and took me to sedate restaurants where she was known; the other lived in Sausalito, and we'd visit her hard-drinking writer boyfriend in Bolinas, whose specialty was a superb steak tartare.