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
"Know thyself," the saying goes, and one thing I know is that the sensation of peace and calm that some people say they get in church comes over me most predictably at farmers' markets. Oh, I like going to museums and browsing in used bookstores, too, and feel a certain elation when I enter a train station, which continues during the train ride. But for guaranteed relaxation and pleasure, there's nothing like strolling among the food stalls, taking in the sights and the sounds and the smells, and pausing from time to time to choose some fresh and healthy and delicious stuff to take home. It's a ritual I never get tired of.
1 Ferry Building, One Ferry Building
San Francisco, CA 94111
Potato and leek soup $6
Pasta Bolognese $12
Roasted whole chicken for two $34
Mushrooms in parchment $6
Cookie plate $6
Open daily for lunch from 11:30 a.m. to 3 p.m., and for dinner from 5 to 10:30 p.m.
Parking: difficult (valet, $12)
Muni: 2, 6, 7, 9, 14, 21, 31, 66, 71
Noise level: can be high
My father is of the same mind, and one of the first things we did together after I moved back to the Bay Area was to visit the Saturday market on the Embarcadero. Frog Hollow peaches! Cowgirl Creamery cheeses! June Taylor jams! Afterward, we had sautéed sweetbreads and pulled-pork Benedict for brunch at the Fog City Diner, and returned home refreshed, laden with amazing things to eat. A perfect morning.
So, a couple of weekends ago, we found ourselves at the Ferry Building, where the Saturday market has moved, giving up its cozy unity (stands now reside both in front and in back of the building) for dramatic views, fresh sea breezes, and proximity to the posh food stores that have colonized the ground floor. It's something of a culinary Disneyland, and I mean that in the nicest possible way.
Fall is not the most glamorous growing season, of course, but we found plenty in the piles of apples and pears and persimmons and cabbages and turnips and herbs to buy. Which predictably induced hunger. My father looked longingly at the tri-tip and sausages smoking seductively on a huge grill outside the windows on the southern side of the Ferry Building. I drew him away, because we were going to lunch in the new restaurant that recently opened behind those very windows, MarketBar.
When we entered, we faced the long glittering bar of its name (which I'm told is popular after work and with commuters), balanced on either side by two rooms of equal size, nicely if simply fitted out with long mirrors above banquette seating and white-clothed tables and wooden chairs. The place was quite full, but we were led to a four-top near the bar and entrance to the kitchen.
Both of us were slightly bored by the menu: butternut squash soup, minestrone, market greens, bruschetta, crab cakes, mussels, two pizzas, Niman Ranch hamburger, Niman Ranch pastrami sandwich, one pasta, tuna, seafood stew, chicken breast. That was it. There seemed to be no connection to the beautiful cornucopia surrounding the place on every side, nor to the season. Below almost every table were baskets spilling over with the spoils of the morning's shopping. These were serious foodies, which the menu didn't seem to acknowledge.
I asked our waiter, "How do you make your Bolognese sauce?" "With meat," he said, abruptly. I was taken aback. Spaghetti Bolognese = spaghetti with meat sauce; that's Italian Food 101. I wanted to know how this kitchen made its meat sauce. So I tried again, somewhat cautiously: "When you say meat, do you mean beef?" "It's a famous meat sauce," he said, impatiently. "Without tomatoes; that's why it's white." And he left.
When I told this story to another food writer, he said, "Bolognese sauce has three meats?" "Two, usually," I said. "And they could be almost any combination. Pork and pork sausage, for instance. But that doesn't matter. What matters is, he didn't know, and he couldn't be bothered to find out." I ordered it anyway. My father ordered the Niman Ranch pastrami sandwich, but he's sensitive to onions, so he asked to have the house-made onion relish served on the side.
Another server brought us two bowls of minestrone. "No," I said, "I'm the mushroom salad." It was brought to me by our waiter, who said, "I remember you said mushroom salad" but apparently not long enough to alert the kitchen. It was a nice enough salad, the firm chunks of button mushroom enlivened with chopped red and yellow peppers and glistening with good olive oil, but I wondered where the chopped egg and black olives mentioned on the menu were. Since the menu had been printed and dated for that day, I guessed that the egg and olives were garnishes that hadn't found their way onto the plate, rather than ingredients in an entirely different salad. But after our waiter's deft handling of the Bolognese question, I didn't want to trouble him.
He was having enough problems, what with his memory and all. After we finished the mild, sweet minestrone (vegetables in clear broth livened up with a splash of olive oil) and the salad, he came to the table. "I should have remembered this; it happened a couple of weeks ago," he began, and then went into a little digression. "You see, when you're as large a restaurant as we are" (I looked around; the whole place sat about 80 not an extraordinary size, as far as I was concerned), "and serve as many people as we do, you have to prep things in advance. And the pastrami sandwiches were all made this morning and there's no way to get one without relish."
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