By rights, San Francisco should be deep into soup season, when our space heaters strain to combat the cold leaching through the windows of our Edwardian apartments, and dampness clings to sweaters and bus seats like bad juju. Through January and February, soup is normally a tonic we eat to banish bad humors, both literal and Hippocratic. For weeks now, I've been preparing for the season by eating around the Mission, spooning up caldos, sopas, and pozoles and waiting for the onset of the rains. Yet winter keeps calling in sick, holed up in its living room with the last... More >>>