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OK, I know the technology has been around for a long time, but it still amazes me when my friend Carl e-mails me from Japan and says he wants to have dinner at O'Reilly's Holy Grail when he's next in town, asks what night and time are good for me, and volunteers to make the reservation.
1233 Polk St.
San Francisco, CA 94109-5543
Region: Hayes Valley/ Tenderloin
Terrine of pig's feet $6.50
Oysters six for $11.50
Dungeness crab salad $12
Smoked pork shank $19
Irish breakfast $12.50
Peach melba $7
Open for lunch Monday through Friday from 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., and for dinner daily from 5:30 to 10:30 p.m. Brunch served Saturday and Sunday from 11:30 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Noise level: moderate
I'm mostly impressed that Carl manages to keep up with the local dining scene, as well as the ones in Tokyo, Los Angeles, and several other cities he frequents. His initial e-mail even says he's excited about the "peat-smoked" pork shank. Where he learned about that, I'm not sure, because it's not until a follow-up e-mail confirming our reservation, titled "O'Reilly's Holy Themepark," that he says he's taken a look at the spot's Web site and is having second thoughts: "It reminds me of that King Arthur restaurant that used to be down in Buena Park. Gads." But he's still keen on the idea of pork.
I'm already happy that the building that housed Mayes Oyster House since 1906 will be not only a restaurant again, but also one that serves oysters. (It contained a jazz-and-Ethiopian-food place for a few years.) This section of Polk has been growing increasingly shabby over the past several years, and I'm thrilled by the new look of the place, which has thoughtfully, I think, kept the art deco neon Mayes sign, but has smartened up the exterior considerably with fresh paint; it glows even as I walk toward it in the dark.
And when I step inside, I'm gobsmacked. This is one beautiful room. Everything gleams: polished wood floors, magnificent arched stained-glass windows, massive wrought-iron chandeliers suspended from a high coppery ceiling. I like it immediately. Carl is waiting for me at a tall table in the marble-floored bar area, a big, icy martini in front of him. We're led past the piano, whose ivories are being played by a guy with a Gershwin/Kern/Hart repertoire that delights me, to a leather booth for two. "I don't really remember what Mayes looked like," I say to the host. "I just remember a lot of booths. Is the tin ceiling original?" He tells us: "No, we changed everything -- we kept some of the booths. The stained-glass windows came from a church in Ireland."
I'm excited by the menu, too. I've never been to Ireland (which may be rectified in the coming year, when my goddaughter attends Trinity College in Dublin), but for years food and travel magazines have been touting the new Irish gastronomy and the respectful handling of the island's wonderful raw materials: seafood, lamb, and dairy products. "This is a fascinating menu," I say; there are lots of things on it I've never seen before, more so under appetizers than entrees, which, except for the pork shank we already know we're ordering, seem to be straightforward assemblies of meat, fowl, or fish with interesting sides: halibut in brown butter with sautéed spinach, lemon, and capers; roasted free-range chicken breast with goat cheese champ (buttery, oniony mashed potatoes), sweet peas, and carrots; rib-eye steak with foie gras potatoes and Irish whiskey sauce.
Carl and I are of the same mind, zeroing in on the more unusual dishes, which means we order four starters to share, followed by the pork shank, again to share. We begin with the sweet corn and oyster chowder, a huge oyster floating in the puréed soup among a scattering of cubes of salty, smoky house-made ham. This soup has everything going for it: garden, sea, and farmyard, in several textures and flavors, in happy combination.
Our next three dishes prove to be a happy combination, too: the terrine of "crubeens" (pig's feet), two slabs that are so lightly gelatinous they fall apart at the touch of a fork into shreds of satisfyingly chewy and suave meat, set off by crunchy, bright cabbage slaw and a sharp mustard vinaigrette. The Dungeness crab bake is its opposite, a pillowy, lush dish blending lump crabmeat with corn kernels under a soft blanket of champ. The only dish that disappoints is the sausage and oyster fritters: I expected light and airy beignets, in which both sausage and oysters could be discerned, but we get sturdy lengths of deep-fried sausage, in which the presence of oysters, probably minced and added to the ground sausage meat, seems elusive -- adding only some saltiness to the mixture. The spicy tomato-saffron aioli that the fritters are plated with doesn't bring much to the party.
Carl's instinct about the peat-smoked pork shank proves correct: It's a wonderful, wonderful dish. The massive, shiny, reddish cured meat falls off the bone in voluptuous chunks. I love its accompaniments of creamy, slightly grainy butter beans, cooked with bright green favas and a bit of tomato, Black Mission figs, and a sticky mustard sauce. We'd also ordered a side of colcannon, which I've usually had as mashed potatoes blended with cabbage; here the cabbage is dark green kale, stringier, prettier, and deeper in flavor than other cabbages, and the colcannon is perfect with the smoky meat and the pearly sauce. "I think this is the best meal we've had together in San Francisco," I say.
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