Mesh Magazine

This is how good Sebo (517 Hayes Street, 415.864.2122) is: I have been so busy eating there that I haven’t had time to write about it. Also, it is so painfully bitchin’ that Jon now refuses to eat sushi anywhere else. At all. Including Kiss. In the words of my elementary school pals, it is wicked awesome.

When I first went to Sebo, I wasn’t so in love with their servers. The sushi chefs, yes, servers no. About 20 minutes into my first visit I changed my tune. Once it was clear that we were there to throw down, our servers spread the love. I came to realize that they are probably used to dealing with a bunch of fucktards looking for their Dragon and California rolls and quickly forgave what I had perceived as a chilly demeanor when we were first seated. Now that I’ve visited Sebo more times than I’ve visited my own home in the past month, I can firmly say that the servers are nothing short of dolls.

Sebo is hip without being pretentious and small enough that you never have to worry about getting the attention you want (unlike some other places in the city that are smaller and still can’t figure out how to put down the bong and serve for fuck’s sake). One notable thing: Sebo is warm. As in I wear a tank top there and I’m still sweating like your mama after plumber Billy is through with her. And I’m always cold as a general rule. So come naked or don’t come, ya heard?
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While dining with friends at Aziza recently, we got to talking about childhood toys. My friends were horrified to learn that I tortured my Barbie dolls by chopping off their hair and ripping out their limbs. What did you expect from a short little brunette?

I confessed that my favorite dolls as a kid were the Strawberry Shortcake dolls. Of course. I loved their little pets, and I loved that they had food names and I loved that they smelled nice. And they were cute. Like me.

Flash forward to Jon and I roaming the toy aisles of an unnamed shiteous store to kill time when we were early to the airport.

What I saw made me shriek in horror and, quite frankly, freak the fuck out.
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I have, I promise, started Part 2 of the El Bulli post. I underestimate my superpowers though, because it took me an hour, that’s right — AN HOUR, to write about the first three dishes. And I have too many jobs. I mean, honestly, I’m not sure that *actual* whores work this hard. Because of this, and because this week involves a great deal of personal pain for me, Jon and I are getting the fuck out of here and going to Disneyland. I’ll be back at the end of the week, and hopefully the weekend will provide a new El Bulli installment.

Today, I kind of feel like I threw my back out humping your mom last night. That is because yesterday I went to get down and boogie oogie oogie with over 20 other food bloggers at the San Francisco Food Bank. I had been there before, with my students, and remembered it as a tedious and painful, if noble, job. Perhaps that is because I was surrounded by 40 7th graders shrieking like harpies whilst we packaged lima beans.
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• First, jackwad, if you decide to go to Ton Kiang when it is butt ass cold outside, suck it up and stand the fuck OUT.SIDE. ‘Cause guess what pretty pretty princess? Even though you think you are more important than everyone else, here’s a news flash. YOU’RE NOT. I’m talking about you, blocking the door in and out with your thirteen hundred family members and your forty-seven double wide strollers, preventing anyone else from getting in or out, pushing into the restaurant so the lovely folk with their tasty dumplings can’t get back to me patiently waiting at my corner table. That’s bad enough, but what’s worse is your dumbass son elbowing another diner in the face and your fat ass slamming up against some poor sap’s chair while he’s munching on some cha siu bao. After patiently waiting his turn. OUTSIDE. I hate you. And in the words of Corky St.Clair, I hate you and your ass face. (Side note: Jon says that should we ever have offspring, they are so screwed because we will hold them to a higher standard of courtesy than the rest of the world holds themselves. Tough titty.)

• I also hate January (lots of hate going on up in here these days) because nothing good is in season, and all the good stuff that remains is getting murdered by this freakishly cold weather. It is also historically my worst work month, hence the lack o’ posts. Fuck January.

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I’m just about ready to shout out a big ol’ Hallelujah now that 2006 is coming to a close. I feel I would be nothing but a stanky twat, though, if I didn’t at least mention the restaurants I visited this year, but never got around to writing about. This is either because I never had the time to get around to it, or because the restaurant sucked balls. All restaurants are in SF, unless otherwise indicated. So here you are, dearest loves:

Auberge Provencale (Cannes, France) — An old, old restaurant in Cannes. Picasso used to eat there. Despite being relatively touristy (but not nearly as bad as most other places in Cannes), the boulliabaise was remarkable.

Aziza — Loved it, loved it, loved it. This, despite the fact that neither Jon nor I are super crazy about Moroccan food. I can’t wait to go back, especially because one of my favorites works there now.

Berthillon (Paris, France) — Perfectly delicious ice cream in rocktastic flavors like wild strawberry and cacao. I actually had a dream about it the other night.

Bistro Jeanty (Yountville) — An institution for a reason.

Bloody Mary’s (Bora Bora, French Polynesia) — Gimmicky restaurant where they have a list of the celebrities who have eaten there. Still, Jon and I had perfectly cooked fish there and it was truly delicious, a big change from the rest of FP where the fish was CHEWY. What the fuck?

Bushi-tei — Some things were delicious, others were just OK. Not worth the price (and if *I’m* saying that…).

Cafe des Phares (Paris, France) — Worthwhile if only because we got to make out with David. My croque madame wasn’t half bad, but Jon’s onion soup sucked ass.
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OK, kids, here’s the deal — every year we food bloggers (and by that I mean world wide) join forces for good. The campaign is called menu for hope, and this is the first time I’ve had an actual prize to donate instead of just throwing some cash of my own at the cause.

Here’s how it works. We raise some money for the United Nations World Food Programme by having you donate to the cause. Every $10 you donate gives you a raffle ticket to win one of the fabulous prizes AND –get this — you get to choose which prizes you want most. Super fucking rad, right?
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This summer I did a show where one of the characters referenced Mitchell’s Ice Cream. Night after night I’d listen to the line in rehearsal. Finally, one night I couldn’t handle the temptation any longer and drove straight from my rehearsal in Berkeley to Mitchell’s in the Mission. I felt like such a junkie.

Mitchell’s has been around for ages. Jon and I were there at around 10 last night and there was a line out the door. We took our little ticket with the number 84. We looked at the counter and saw they were on number 72. This is at 10 p.m. in November. It’s about 50 degrees out and there is a line out the door.
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I waited very patiently through the gestation period, but you bet your ass that as soon as Pizzeria Delfina (3511 - 18th Street @ Guerrero, 415.437.6800) opened her glorious doors, I was there.

Jon and I arrived to a small line (but a line nonetheless) on their first day of service. When the doors opened at noon, We rushed to seats at the counter for prime viewing pleasure, threw some flowers at Annie as a congratulations gesture (which, in retrospect, must have seemed like an assault attempt considering the ferocity with which it was done) and got to looking at our porn menus.

The server was sweet and friendly in true Delfina style, and we were totally in our element sitting at the counter. We had a great view of all the vittles coming out of the kitchen, and what’s more, we got to kick it with the funk-o-licious Melissa and Michael, who happened to be seated next to us at the bar.
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You wouldn’t think a vegetarian would be willing to eat in a restaurant called The Pork Store, much less a place that uses one griddle for just about everything, but we have several vegetarian comrades who love the other vittles that are available there so much that they throw caution to the wind and say “Serve it up, bitches!” Oops, run on sentence alert. Sorry.

Anyway, the original Pork Store is located in the Haight in, well, a former Pork Store. Let me tell you, this is definitely the place you want to be the day after a bender. Their menu has everything to lube you up, flush you out and keep you satisfied.

Now recently, they added a location in the Mission, much closer to where we live, in the old Bitterroot space. But we still seem to go to the one in the Haight. The Mission location doesn’t always have all the specials and it’s right next to Ti Couz so if we hit that one up, I end up feeling like I want two breakfasts, which is OK if you are a hobbit, but not if you are a human.
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It’s on the other side of Potrero Hill in the area that treads the fine line of cute/sketchy. Every time we are there, we comment about how it’s just waiting to become prom queen.

Over in this quasi-neighborhood is Mabel’s Just for You Cafe. Just for You used to be on the “acceptable” side of Potrero Hill at 18th and Connecticut (I think). We’d go for breakfast/lunch from work sometimes. It was a tiny hole in the wall with a counter and a table for three. It was on these trips that I discovered a) the louisiana hot sausage (if you haven’t been paying attention, I love spicy food) and b) the fan-fucking-tastic cornbread. It’s amazing. Plus, they have a nice sassy attitude (no cell phones, no kissing).
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