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I knew I would be hoist with my own petard when I wrote last week that the décor of a restaurant isn't all that important to me. Just not quite so soon. But the design of Baraka, the new Spanish-Moroccan tapas place opened on Potrero Hill by the owners of neighboring Chez Papa and Chez Maman, charmed me so much that I was delighted to be there even when a couple (and only a couple, I hasten to add) of the dishes we ordered were less than amazing.
288 Connecticut St
San Francisco, CA 94107-2403
Region: South of Market
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Warm goat cheese $7
Fava-bean falafel $7.50
Stuffed dates $8
Ham and cheese bocadillo $8
Sautéed dorade $10
Orange beignets $7
Open for lunch Monday through Saturday from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.; for dinner nightly, 5:30 to 11 p.m.
Reservations accepted at dinner
Parking: relatively easy
Muni: 22, 53
Noise level: moderate
The corner space affords views in two directions of pleasantly vertiginous streets dropping away in the distance. There are pumpkin-colored walls ("Tomato soup with a lot of cream," Anita thought) with insets of burgundy velvet and candle-filled niches, a huge wrought-iron chandelier laden with more fat candles, and rather baronial wrought-iron chairs softened with burgundy velvet cushions. It's not at all a kitschy look (videthe modernistic orange glass pendant lights hanging over the rear bar), but clean and stylish.
My first meal there is an early dinner with Betsy, a professional chef, but currently working at a wine-importing firm. (I let her choose our wine from Baraka's intriguing list, which features Spanish, French, and California varietals; she picks a lovely 2001 Château du Trignon red, an eminently drinkable blend of Marsanne and Roussanne grapes.) We start with a lovely salad of fava beans, peas, and asparagus tips, all bright green and shining with olive oil and the bright green flavors of mint and cilantro; and a fritureof nicely fried, crisp, whole anchovies, and slices of fennel and lemon, with an aioli that I think needs lots more garlic. I'm less enamored of the next two dishes. (Possibly due to the small size of the copper-topped tables, the staff here seems to serve in courses, rather than plates arriving willy-nilly from the kitchen, as in many other tapas bars.) One is a rather muddy-tasting tagine of mushy monkfish and clams in the shell (at least one pair of shells missing its clam), and the other a grilled "kebbab" of tiny cubes of lamb anointed with salsa verde. "This is wildly salty," I say to Betsy. "And it's not exactly rare, either," she responds, which is what we replied when asked how we wanted it cooked. But then, tapas wereoriginally salty snacks designed to encourage drinking. (I wish I'd chosen the Moroccan-style lamb meatballs instead. I love meatballs -- Swedish, Italian, Chinese, and, most recently, the Thai ones served at Koh Samui -- but often my companions demur: They seem to think they're baby food. "But they're on the menu," I point out.) The mildly cinnamoned couscous we've ordered alongside is fluffy and punched up with crunchy bits of pistachio and sherry-soaked golden raisins.
All is forgiven once we try our truly glorious desserts, a currant-freighted rice pudding scented with almond extract, and plump, eggy, sugar-crusted beignets redolent of orange-flower water, which we dip in orange marmalade and tangy yogurt. Betsy is on such a sugar high that when we wander back to our car (stopping only to check out the shoes at Delirious and the tchotchkes at Collage), she suggests we break our leases, find a flat in the neighborhood, and move in together. (This is not because of my charms, but because of the neighborhood's.)
Baraka filled up quickly that night -- every table was full -- but it's much quieter at lunch, when Bernice and I are given a window table. We begin with kirs made with tangerine syrup rather than the expected crème de cassis; I think the drink could use a drop more of the syrup, but it's still so refreshing that I drain my aperitif and surprise myself by ordering a glass of Riesling (it's lunch, after all).
We start with a refreshing fattoush salad, frisée adorned with cubes of goat feta, baby artichokes, grapefruit segments, almonds, and the fried chips that make the salad fattoush ("fattoush," it seems, means "moistened bread"). The varying textures and flavors make a delightful combination. We chose that salad when we found out Baraka was out of the roasted peppers with shaved artichokes and boquerones, so we are cheered when we find that our other starter of three grilled prawns skewered on a rosemary branch is served on a bed of pipérade -- mildly garlicky red and yellow peppers.
I am about to order the meatballs (Bernice is accepting of such foibles), but discover they're not among the lunch offerings. Instead, I go for another favorite, merguez, spicy red sausage, served in a sandwich and tricked out with what the menu calls silver beets (which look like spinach and turn out to be beet leaves), golden raisins (which add a nice touch of sweetness), pungent harissa aioli, and pine nuts: a terrific little sandwich. As is the jamon serrano and Mahon cheese bocadillo, layered with roasted peppers. (When I show the Baraka lunch menu to my epicurean godson Chester during our farewell lunch at Chez Panisse -- turnip soup, salad with preserved tuna, duck confit with snap peas and sage, beef stew with cannellini beans and bread crumbs, very good, thanks -- he says, "They have squid! They have rabbit! Why did you order sandwiches?" "They were very good," I moan piteously.)
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