Jon Korn's Backstories - The Bold Italic - San Francisco

A Fine Mess

Jon Korn — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 00:00:14 -0800

In the end, there are really only two types of people. On one side are those decorous individuals who actually have table manners, like ones that they literally possess. These polite few lift pinkies, take sensible bites, and push back from their plates with clothes so clean that, well, you could eat off them. They are estimable, model members of society.

And then there is the other type. Sticky whirlwinds of napkins, condiments, and misused flatware. Parsley firmly lodged in between teeth held within a face smeared with sauce, all sitting atop a body covered in a thin film of whatever menu item offered the smallest ratio of price to tonnage. These messy martyrs are not afraid to sacrifice anything in search of a great meal, be it wardrobe or reputation. Fearless? Perhaps. Shameless? Most certainly. Friends, let it be known now and forevermore: I am one of them.

Don’t believe me? Well, read on and discover five of San Francisco’s messiest – and most delicious – meals, complete with photographic evidence. Welcome to bib country.

Barbecue is dear to messy eaters everywhere precisely because it is by definition greasy, saucy, and sticky. The fare at the Smokin' Warehouse Barbecue fits this description to a T. In fact, this Bayview gem’s meat verges on the platonic ideal of barbecue: an irresistible mix of smoky, juicy, and sweet.

There’s a lot to like about Smokin' Warehouse Barbecue, but paramount among its attributes is the literal truth of its name. This is not so much a “restaurant” as a window in the side of a warehouse, located in an actual warehouse district. Parking is ample, free, and not limited to the sides of the street. The owner of Smokin' Warehouse Barbecue also runs the fire alarm testing company that takes up the building’s upper floors. His love of cooking led to the creation of a catering company in the ground floor kitchen and that, in turn, gave birth to the blessed window.

Amazing things emerge from this portal. Wonders like a classic “three way” tray of meat, in this case brisket and double pork ribs, accompanied by creamy mac and cheese, baked beans with sweet morsels of pork, and shockingly hearty steak chili. The rib meat fell off its bones, mostly into my mouth, and the brisket inspired the platonic paean above. Just as impressive was the Monster Burger, a feat of carnivorous architecture that consisted of a half-pound beef patty topped with cheese, bacon, and – I swear – pulled pork. Every bite produced new jets of sauce and grease, each of which contributed to the calamity on my napkin.

My next adventure in grubby gastronomy took me to Chinatown, where the ineffable R & G Lounge offers up three floors of hospitality – and one wonderfully messy specialty of the house: salt and pepper whole Dungeness crab. I was but one of many there to sample this delicacy, and indeed there can be quite a wait despite the imposing size of the place. Have a drink and relax, the food is well worth it.

Whole crab is normally a bib-worthy meal in its own right, seeing as how it requires hands-on participation from the eater. But R & G’s version crosses into unique territory due to its preparation. You see, the whole thing is fried – shell on – and then served in the traditional way with crackers and tiny forks. Imagine! Not only are there gouts of broth and bits of crab flying around, but also grease and breading as well.

It is such a magnificently dirty process that even the truly mannered would have to abandon any attempts at gentility and dig in. Remember: The wet-naps are there for a reason.

But let us not forget the taste of the dish itself. Amazing. The good folks at R & G didn’t fry the crab just to construct an especially sloppy eating experience. There was intent here. This technique locks the moisture inside the shell, leaving wonderfully tender meat. This is the sort of meal you should eat with a prospective mate, just to ensure he or she won’t go all squeamish when the chips are down. But maybe don’t wear your favorite seersucker trousers.

We’ve all seen some dandy try to eat a chicken wing with a fork and knife, only to surrender to the traditional, manual approach. Truly a case of form triumphing over style – or perhaps function over substance?

Regardless, if wings are your goal then Wing Wings in Lower Haight should be your destination. Founded by head chef Christian, who used to work at the right honorable Little Skillet in SoMa, this tiny storefront has been churning out meaty, tempting wings for the past six months. Your order of 6, 10, 25, or even 100 comes slathered in 9 different sauces, including classic buffalo, tangy BBQ, and the evocatively named “Angry Korean.”

There is other fare on the menu as well – most germane to our topic being a pillowy biscuit, delightfully drenched in chicken gravy. Take-out is popular, as is delivery, but if you don’t eat on the premises then you would miss the opportunity to be serenaded by classic rap emanating from one of the establishment’s many equally classic boom boxes. So, you know, caveat emptor.

Looking to establish a proper base of knowledge, I ordered my wings with the eponymous Wing Wing sauce. It was tart, sweet, and just a little spicy – an enticing mix. It was also very liberally applied, at first just on the wings, but subsequently on my ersatz bib and hands as well. Add in the obligatory side of blue cheese and things got downright epic. A beautiful disaster, as you can see.

The hamburger you have been dreaming about lives in the Tenderloin. You know this burger: as tall as it is wide, piled with various and sundry toppings, just dripping with condiments. The sort of burger that cannot be put down once you begin eating, lest it collapse under its lofty ambitions. The sort of burger that makes the plate below it look like the scene of a crime of passion. The sort of burger that requires not just a mouth opened wide, but also steadfast resolve. And, well, torque.

The purveyor of this sacred feast is Pearl's Deluxe Burgers, a charming hole-in-the-wall that boasts five tables, one bathroom, overflowing condiment caddies, flimsy napkins, and free refills. Go at lunch and it will be packed. Wait for a seat: hefting Pearl's burger on the go would be an impossible feat. Atlas himself would wait for a seat.

The thing about Pearl's Deluxe is that the burgers are as irresistible as they are unstable. The thick juicy patty explodes with flavor, offset perfectly by crisp lettuce, fresh tomatoes, sharp onions, and whatever else you can imagine. (There is even a “King Burger” topped by a hot dog, which to me implies that “king” is being used in the Elvis sense of the word, rather than the royal one.) The fries are thick and crunchy, and almost as good as the burger. There are shakes as well, but my belly was beyond full. It was also covered in the evidence that I had enjoyed my meal. You will too.

Listen, we have had fun so far. That’s four amazing and messy meals. You can stop now and still retain some shred of self-respect. Or you can continue on with me to the most disgustingly wonderful meal I found in San Francisco. It’s your choice, I won’t be mad. Not everyone is built for this sort of peril.

Still with me? Excellent. Welcome, my grubby brethren, to Craw Station. A Creole-style seafood joint right in the heart of the Inner Sunset, Craw Station is the sort of restaurant where it’s not a question of whether there will be a shellfish antenna in your drink by the end of the meal, but rather how many. Here crawfish, shrimp, clams, and crabs are served by the pound. You choose among the four styles of sauce and within minutes the friendly servers plunk down a heavy-duty plastic bag filled with your food.

Then they bring you a bib, a wet nap, a roll of paper towels, and a bucket for your shells. Whatever happens after that is between you and your god.

Regardless of creed, all can agree that the food is incredible. I sampled both the house Cajun crawfish and the shrimp with garlic butter, and would be hard-pressed to choose a favorite. The former featured a beguiling mix of cumin and chili pepper, while the latter was utterly luxurious. I also enjoyed the house noodles, which are prepared Asian-style, with soy, garlic, and rich fish roe. Visit with a crowd and try everything. Just don’t plan on going anywhere afterwards other than home to do laundry.

Think you know a spot with messier, more appetizing food than these five? Let me know in the comments! But please abide by the sacred rule of the Internet: pics, or it didn’t happen.

The Smokin' Warehouse Barbecue is at 1465 Carroll Avenue in Bayview, right near the Muni. Head over to 631 Kearny Street in Chinatown to visit the R & G Lounge. Lower Haight is the place for Wing Wings, which is located at 422 Haight Street. Pearl's Deluxe Burgers waits for you at 708 Post Street in the Tenderloin. And Craw Station is just off the Judah line in the Inner Sunset, at 1336 9th Avenue.

SF 'Gate

Jon Korn — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 00:00:14 -0800

You may not believe it, but in these increasingly divisive and contentious times, the best place to find real community spirit is in a parking lot.

At a tailgate everyone is a fan, even if they’re not wearing the right jersey. Strangers are greeted like friends, supplies are shared without hesitation, and the next high five is always just moments away.

On a recent Sunday morning, I spent a glorious three hours in the lot at Candlestick Park among thousands of gleeful 49ers fans. The gates opened only four hours before the game started, but in that short time the faithful created their own microcosm of San Francisco. Every facet of our delightfully diverse city was there, full of civic spirit and draped in maroon and gold. The tailgaters welcomed me and my peerless photo team to their paty without borders, offering fellowship, food, and freaking strong drink. Get ready to meet some great people.

Favorite tailgate meal:

“Got to be lobster tails and filet.”

Dean’s been coming to games with his brother for three decades. He converted his RV, originally a bright-yellow school bus from Idaho, five years ago and has driven it to every home game since. He’d been parked outside Candlestick since Saturday.

Attendance record:

“I’ve missed two home games in the last 31 years.”

Looking at Terry, you might think the most interesting things about his setup would be the hat, the mustache, and the button-covered duster. But you’d be wrong. Using a motor from a woodchipper, Terry built a pull-start margarita machine that features wheels, a horn, and a siren. He shared one of his delicious drinks and explained why, exactly, he had gone to all that trouble. “Because you can. It’s America.”

On the grill:

“Tri-tip, wings, and linguiça.”

For the last five years, David has been grilling and chilling in his parking spot before games. That imposing piece of furniture behind him started as a simple wine rack, but now holds his supplies, which are numerous and varied. Who knows how big it might get in another five years? According to David, there’s just one rule for a successful tailgate: “Everybody is welcome.”

Farthest trip to the tailgate:

“This guy’s from Brisbane, Australia. He’s pumped!”

The Niner Empire, a remarkably well-organized fan group, was out in force with more than 60 members in attendance. Fearless leader Joe, from San Francisco, explained the Empire’s mission: “We’re a family. That’s the thing.” Meanwhile, the ladies minding the two huge grills had their hands full with ribs, tri-tip, and Hawaiian chicken. Niner Empire member “Uncle John,” of Oakland, was rightly proud of the spread, bragging, “We never go hungry!”

Favorite pregame game:

“ Cornhole. The best.”

Steve’s been coming to home games for the last 20 years, but he’s only had the “9R Party” for the last five. “It used to be my work truck,” he said with a smile. “I could have sold it, but this was better.” Steve can pull down a screen inside to show the early games while he and his friends enjoy their repast, which included pork tenderloin and Jell-O shots. (I couldn’t get a straight answer about the mask. Probably safe to assume the Jell-O shots were involved.)

“Boys” or “Boyz”:

“Put a ‘Z’ on it! Put a ‘Z’ on it!”

Some people just bring some drinks and grub to the parking lot and call it a tailgate, but the Section 12 Boyz know there’s more to it than that. After 10 years of coming to games, self-appointed chef Bernard has learned that you can’t spell “party” without “art.” “I pick a theme every week,” he explained. This week was Oktoberfest, so along with a lot of beer, the Boyz were enjoying marinated pork loin and Bavarian cabbage.

Tastiest tailgate ever:

“We did chicken tikka out here once.”

As you can see from the variety of amusements on the table, Omar and his friends know how to have a good time. Along with puffing on the only hookah I saw all day, they were engrossed in serious games of cards and dominoes. Omar’s been tailgating for three years, but he’s already learned the best thing you can find in the lot: “The people. The people make it fun.”

Words to live by:

“Never trust a skinny chef.”

A former restaurateur, Glenn wasn’t messing around when it came to the food. His tailgate featured grilled homemade pizza and a High Holidays smoked fish platter, imported from New York. He explained his philosophy succinctly: “You’ve got to set it up the right way. You need to have the right equipment. I do.” He should — he’s been coming to games for 32 years and attended all five of the 49ers’ Super Bowl victories.

Fandom, explained:

“You gotta have faith.”

Clyde starting going to games when he was 7 and the team was still playing at Kezar Stadium. With all that history, I had to know what his favorite 49ers moment was. Clyde smiled. “ The Catch was pretty good, against Dallas and all. I can get with that.” Judging from the crowd and the smell in the air, everyone else was looking to get with Clyde’s ribs and steak.

The parking lot at Candlestick Park opens to all ticket holders four hours before kickoff. Parking passes and more information are available on the 49ers’ website. (You can also check out my previous article about going to Candlestick.)

Muscle Memory

Jon Korn — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 00:00:14 -0800

It’s when he’s addressing the subject of why, exactly, he chooses to pack his prosciutto in a mixture of salt and sodium nitrate that Morgan Maki starts to show his true colors. The explanation takes over 10 minutes and does two things: (1) it reveals on a molecular level how the nitrate turns to nitrite and bonds with the iron in the pig’s hemoglobin in order to prevent oxidation and preserve color, among other things, and (2) it impresses upon me that, lest there be any doubt, here is a man who knows his shit. Morgan Maki is a butcher and charcutier of Bi-Rite Market. He populates his counter with freshly cut, farm-sourced meats and delicious salamis, bacons, patés, terrines, and more that are prepared in-house. But as Morgan’s voluminous knowledge implies, this is no mere job; it is his calling. Born in New Orleans, raised in Missouri, schooled in Vermont, mentored in Montana, and now having come into his own in San Francisco, Morgan was working with food even before he decided to forgo college for a gig in a kitchen.

Perhaps this same, limitless enthusiasm for his work, which at times blossoms into full-throated, protein-based zealotry, convinced Morgan to let me tag along with him on a typical Thursday. That, or maybe he knew I’d be happy to shoulder the weight of a day’s scut work.

It’s 10 a.m. and here I am at Bi-Rite. Morgan is already ensconced in his corner of the kitchen, which features two gleaming work surfaces, numerous sharp implements, and the cool functionality of an abattoir. After being introduced around the kitchen as “the writer,” to the great enjoyment of all, I am kitted out in my very own Bi-Rite apron and pin-striped shirt.

Morgan puts me right to work. I chop up a great knuckle (leg) and clod (shoulder) of beef and feed the chunks into an electric device that whirs with murderous intent. Morgan tips his head toward the diabolical machine, smiling. “That’s the hardest working meat grinder in San Francisco.”

When big pieces of meat are fed into a grinder like this, they slide into the blades with an obscene, sucking flutter and then emerge moments later as tiny shreds. Morgan effortlessly demonstrates the preferred style of presentation for ground beef, an appealing undulation he’s dubbed “the meatwave.” My first few attempts fall well short, resulting in something much closer to “meatwad.” Luckily, I have time to practice as Morgan receives a delivery and discovers that the price per pound of beef has been raised without notice. “Which means they get a phone call,” he mutters, heading back toward the meat locker.

Despite watching far too much of the Food Network during senior year of college, my actual experience in a professional kitchen is functionally zilch. So I am delighted to stay mum in my corner, listening as the constant chatter about food mixes with a never-ending, bilingual game of the Dozens, played with great relish by the tight-knit staff. Morgan particularly revels in his banter with Sergio, the charmingly insolent sous chef who can curse in two languages simultaneously. As we drop our meat-covered tools in the sink next to Sergio, Morgan reveals his friend’s Achilles’ heel: silence. “Just ignore the sarcastic comments and he’ll get so pissed,” he confides. We do and sure enough, Sergio appears near our station moments later, fuming and spewing filth. Morgan grins. I finish with the beef and move on to grinding pork, mixing in spice kits heavy on sage and cayenne. We are making sausages and, clichés be damned, I’m happy to report that you would be delighted to watch. Once it’s ground up, paddled in an enormous mixer and loaded into a hand-cranked extruder, the pork is fed into prewashed lamb and hog casings (aka intestines) to become breakfast and andouille sausages. Both casings come floating in liquid to keep them fresh, and when submerged, the gnarly cilia on the hog are very apparent. Morgan laughs as he remembers once ordering casings au natural – over the salesman’s objections. The resulting delivery had to be “squeezed out,” bathed with bleach solution, turned inside out, and scraped with razors. “It was awful,” says Morgan, slowly losing his smile. “ But it was a good experiment too. I’m never doing that again!”

The prosciutto I mentioned before is the result of another, decidedly less-disgusting experiment. After being packed in the salt and sodium nitrate mix for one-and-a-half days per pound, five pig legs are hung in a makeshift “aging room” for 14 months. The outside of the haunch is heavily mottled beige with green and white, like an aerial photo of Greenland. But inside, the flesh is a deep, lush pink of salty, porky paradise. Morgan examines the result with his boss, Bi-Rite owner Sam Mogannam, as they try to determine the proper price point. This leads to a tangential conversation about a vein near a pig’s lymph node and an awl-like tool Sam has seen Italian butchers – “the real-deal guys” – use to remove it. Morgan knows exactly where the vein is, but this is the first he’s heard of the tool. “I want one!” he declares, with a child’s desire for a new toy. Sam nods, simpatico.

Once the sausage is done and we have loaded the smoker with pork belly that is about to become bacon, it is time for the main event. Two full lambs are delivered by Don Watson of Napa Valley Lamb ="http:> , which Morgan discovered while working in the kitchen at Quince and declared to be “the best I’ve ever had.” Morgan befriended Don –“a rancher who takes it start to finish” – so now Bi-Rite is Watson’s only retail vendor in the city, going through three lambs a week. And that’s just because Morgan cuts up the animals himself. I clear off one of the tables and Morgan sharpens his implements while our photographer Gene sets up. Sergio cruises by and rolls his eyes at the proceedings, no doubt delighted at this new wealth of material on Morgan.

Regardless of whether you are a vegan, eat according to halal tradition, or subsist on baleen, it is an objective fact that Morgan breaks down a lamb with a skill that verges on artistry. First he uses a large knife and a hacksaw to separate the 42 pounds of animal into four “primal” cuts: shoulder, rack, loin, and leg. These are then further processed with a dizzying display of knife work as Morgan slices in deep, then “pulls back” on the blade for precision. Morgan can even butcher with his bare hands, tearing sections of the animal apart at seemingly invisible seams and performing “gravity” cuts that let meat fall away from the bone. All the while, he delivers a running commentary that contains explanations of technique, little known tidbits of physiology, and suggestions for preparation. Soon the big lamb has disappeared, replaced by an orderly stack of appetizing cuts ready for the table. At the end of the day I am surprised by how quickly time has passed. I bring a pan of freshly butchered lamb into the walk-in and realize that the beef I ground earlier has been moved into the case out front. The cycle is complete, at least for a tourist like me. I shed my Bi-Rite togs, shake hands with my new friends, and head out into the night smelling like bacon. Morgan remains at his post, breaking down the last of the prosciutto and ordering more product for tomorrow. He smells like bacon too.

How much Morgan do you want? Head on over to the butcher counter at Bi-Rite and ask for him – he’ll be right out if he’s there. Ask questions too, the man is ready. More? Contact Bi-Rite’s catering service and your next event can feature some of that same prosciutto, along with any number of other delicious things Morgan might whip up. Still more? Check out Bi-Rite’s community food organization, 18 Reasons, where Morgan cooks for special events and teaches butchery classes. And please remember, Sergio really can’t stand it when you ignore him.

Flaming Lips

Jon Korn — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 00:00:14 -0700

There’s a phenomenon that sometimes occurs after you’ve eaten something doused in enough hot sauce. Even after your meal is done, you still feel a slight tingle in the sensitive nerves on your lips. It’s like an echo of the conflagration that was just raging through your mouth, and I just love it.

Hot sauce is like a dare you give yourself. That first taste might be OK, but what if I added more? Pretty soon you’re sweating like crazy and trying to suck cool air into the maelstrom inside your head. Awesome.

In my search for hot sauce heaven, I’ve tried just about all the variants you can find in stores. But as my fellow connoisseurs of capsaicin know, the best stuff is always homemade. (Capsaicin is the chemical compound that makes things taste spicy. There’s actually a measurement of it, the Scoville heat unit, or SHU, which is about as nerdily awesome as food gets. It’s like being able to calculate your tongue’s on-base percentage.) So I went out into the city looking for some special hot sauce to feed my jones, listed here on my own 1-10 heat scale.

(Just to clarify: The sauces labeled “secret” are the ones for which I was unable to get a full ingredient list. But anything listed (other than the “unconfirmed” items) is in there, according to the restaurants.)

Take a trip to the Outer Mission and visit The Front Porch, which just got its liquor license and now features a new bar menu. Hog & Rocks is nearby in the Mission and is a sneaky-great place to watch a game while feasting on the aforementioned wings. There’s no TV at La Palma, but they are an amazing caterer for events big and small. Subs is in Noe Valley – remember to get that garlic spread with your hot sauce! You can also get amazing party platters from Hot Sauce and Panko in the Outer Richmond, but be sure to check the website because they do run out of food sometimes. Head over to Irving Street to visit King of Noodles and bring a crowd, as there are too many kinds of dumplings for just one or two to try. And Yellow Submarine, along on Irving Street, is close enough to Golden Gate Park that there’s no excuse not to have a spicy picnic.

Stick With It

Jon Korn — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 00:00:14 -0700

No food is more emblematic of summer than the popsicle.

It is cheap, delicious, and fun to eat – a weekend at the beach on a stick. When I was younger, my favorite popsicle was shaped like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle’s head with gumball eyes. My tastes have developed over the years, mostly due to the waning TMNT-themed merch, but also because I want more complexity and originality from my popsicles. But where in San Francisco should a frozen dessert lover go to get his fix? And how far down the path of esoteric ingredients could I go before a popsicle lost its purity?

If a decade spent in Los Angeles has taught this Massachusetts boy anything, it’s the importance of paletas. A Latin-American take on the popsicle, paletas have a base of milk or fruit juice and can be sweet or savory. (The name is the diminutive of palo, roughly meaning “little stick.”) Familiar flavors like strawberry and coconut provide a gateway to wilder ones like tamarind, dill pickle, pico de gallo, and avocado. Although San Francisco is sadly lacking a storefront paleteria, most Mexican markets carry them. At Casa Lucas in the Mission, I find the pink and blue La Michoacana freezer behind a display of beautiful queso blanco. At 99 cents for each paleta, you’ll want to buy more than one. I try a creamy strawberry and a walnut. The latter is good, but the former is the clear winner, combining big chunks of fruit with a rich smoothness. It’s like Strawberry Quik in the best possible way.

Staying on the paleta kick, my next stop is the Western Addition where the rightly lauded Nopalito makes its own. At $3.50 each, the pops are as affordable and delicious as the rest of the menu. (I admit, I sneak in a quick chicharrón quesadilla, just to make the dessert really count.) On the day I visit, Nopalito offers strawberry and chocolate-cinnamon versions. The strawberry is lighter than La Michoacana’s version, but comes bursting with fresh fruit flavor. And then there’s the chocolate-cinnamon. Even though it is dairy-free, the paleta is creamy and luxurious, with a fabulous dark chocolate base. This is not a popsicle you would eat while playing Frisbee on the beach. It demands a big comfy chair and an appropriately serious soundtrack – maybe Bolero?

From Mexico I turn to Italy, which necessitates a trip to Washington Square in North Beach to visit Gelateria Naia. The much-beloved purveyor of killer Italian-style ice cream has recently begun offering Bar Gelato, its frozen treat on a stick, available now at your local Whole Foods for a mere $1.99. Gelateria Naia offers flavors featuring many familiar local ingredients, including Blue Bottle coffee, Tcho chocolate, Numi jasmine tea, and St. George Distillery’s single malt whiskey. The super-friendly staff show admirable patience as I soldier my way through multiple samples before deciding on the aforementioned coffee. (The whiskey was wonderful too, but it wasn’t 5 p.m. yet.) Naia’s coffee flavor is like drinking some fantasy ice-blended concoction that I’m sure would offend orthodox Blue Bottle zealots to no end. But for a sweet-toothed, summer-loving philistine like me? F-ing heaven.

Here’s the truth: Unless you live in the Sunset, it’s a long trip out to Polly Ann Ice Cream on Noriega Street. Here’s some more truth: Unless you hate ice cream and fun, it’s completely worth it. Polly Ann offers ice cream, soft serve, shakes, cakes and, duh, popsicles with a pan-Asian twist. It is also a legit neighborhood institution. (One Yelp review I saw begins “…Been going here since I was four years old.”) With at least 48 flavors available daily out of a possible 400 in rotation, Polly Ann’s has installed a giant wheel that you spin to find out what flavor you’ll get. There’s even a chance to land on a “free” space, which wins you your treat, gratis. C’mon big money!

Even though I am there for popsicles I try a few tastes of ice cream, including fragrant jasmine tea, spicy ginger, and the foul-smelling/sweet-tasting durian. Then I head over to the freezer, where boxes and boxes of enticing, house-made popsicles are stacked. They are available in Thai tea, lychee, mango, blueberry, green tea, and taro, to mention just a few. The Thai tea delivers the goods, from its cloudy, orange color to the familiar tooth-shattering sweetness of condensed milk-laced tea. And only $1.99 for four popsicles! You’re running out of reasons not to make this trip.

With an eye on my youthful ideal, I am keen to find at least one truck-based popsicle. Luckily, the nice folks at Twirl and Dip keep regular parking hours at two spots around San Francisco. The purple and cream-colored truck makes me hungry just looking at it, which really has to be a sign of some sort of mental disorder.

On the day I visit, there are three flavors of “fruitsicles” available, including watermelon, honey melon and lime cucumber. All come on sticks in Twirl and Dip’s signature circular shape, which almost looks like a turtle if you squint. I go with the tart, refreshing lime cucumber, which is an appealing light green. The popsicle is delicious without being too sweet, just begging to be melted down and mixed with some gin. Now this is a truly adult take on my childhood favorite.

Inspired by all my rad adventures – and hopped up on a boatload of sugar – I decide to make my own popsicles at home. Remembering the spicy, savory paletas I loved in LA, I decide to attempt a “Michelada Paleta.” (For the uninitiated, a michelada is like a Bloody Mary made with beer instead of vodka and one of my favorite summertime indulgences.) I call my brother Nick, who works as a bartender at an amazing restaurant in Boston, to get advice about ingredients and proportions. The result? Cool, but crude – just like my Raphael, my favorite Ninja Turtle.

I know I have only scraped the surface of the frozen treats that are available around San Francisco, so tell me what else to try!

You can find La Michoacan paletas at Mexican stores around San Francisco. I got mine from Casa Lucas Market in the Mission. (It also offers amazing produce and that wonderful cheese counter.) Nopalito offers paletas at lunch and dinner. Gelateria Naia’s Bar Gelato is available at Whole Foods all over Northern California. Or you can visit the store in North Beach. Polly Ann Ice Cream is in the Outer Sunset, but please remember: all spins are final. The best way to find the Twirl and Dip truck is to check out its Twitter feed .

Black Magic

Jon Korn — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 00:00:14 -0700

In my opinion the best food isn’t about taste as much as the process of eating.

Oysters are delicious, but a real part of their appeal comes from the rigmarole of consuming one: shucking, dressing, slurping. For the novice, learning the process is just as intimidating as the flavor. The same principle holds for everything from edamame to lobster. This is dining as discovery, cuisine as culture.

On a recent trip to Beijing, I got initiated into a new sect of food: zha jiang mian (black bean noodles). They might sound innocuous enough, but there are infinite variations of the dish from several nationalities. In its purest form, though, what we’re dealing with is a thick, tangy sauce of pork and fermented soybean paste tossed with wheat noodles. It’s up to the eater to tweak the ratio between sauce and noodles, as well as dress everything with whatever garnishes are available. (In China, this included carrots, cucumber, onion, bean sprouts, and more.) The result is simultaneously salty, sour, and sweet – complex comfort food that is as central to a family lunch as it is to a night of drinking.

Addicted and seeking my fix after returning to the Bay, I went out to sample a few of San Francisco’s interpretations of black bean noodles.

Native Tung

My first stop was the venerable Inner Sunset institution San Tung. Along with a full menu of solid Chinese fare, San Tung offers two slight variations of black bean sauce noodles and dry black bean sauce noodles. This use of “dry” was somewhat misleading, as the only real difference between the two was the inclusion of scallops in the latter. I tasted some of the sauce to gauge its strength before I tossed it in and got a gratifying hit of the black soybean paste’s unique musky salinity. (This is an important step – too much sauce can ruin this dish. The ideal is a light coating, like the dressing of a salad.)

As I ate, I noticed that San Tung’s noodles were homemade. Their texture was amazing, springy, and perfectly cooked.

The sauce, while thinner than I had previously experienced, was still full of flavor. I’m not made of stone, so I ordered a batch of San Tung’s rightly famous dry fried chicken wings to go with my noodles. Insanely addictive and doused in a sweet, spicy sauce, these wings stand as proof that San Tung knows as much about food as it seemingly doesn’t understand the meaning of the word ”dry.”

Seoul Mate

Korean cuisine has developed a national take on Mandarin food that includes such favorites as jampong (spicy seafood soup), sweet and sour pork (in a sweet, clear sauce, rather than the bright red sauce), and a version of black bean noodles called jajangmyun . These noodles feature a richer, thicker sauce and come with banchan (side dishes), including raw onion with a salty black bean sauce, sweet pickled daikon, and cabbage kimchi. I decided to try a couple versions of jajangmyun.

Say It Is So

I arrived at So in SOMA and was immediately happy. Yes, the place was warm, welcoming, and smelled like pan-Asian heaven, but none of these were the source of my delight. What gave me such joy was the outside of So’s building, which features a giant mural of the Ghostbusters battling the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man done in the style of the Simpsons. (“It was the owner’s idea,” explained the waiter with a proud smile. I officially owe this guy a high five.) The smile-train kept right on a-rollin’ with So’s menu, which offered another two takes on my favorite dish: black bean sauce and So black bean.

The style here was definitely Korean, as both versions featured rich, luxurious sauce. The black bean sauce was closest to traditional jajangmyun, with the addition of calamari.

I also took advantage of the optional fried egg on top and was very happy I did. So’s black bean offered a fusion-y take on the classic, incorporating jalapeños, cayenne, and paprika. The spicy kick offered wonderful contrast to the tongue-coating richness of the black bean sauce. I balanced my meal with an order of dry sautéed green beans, which also offered an ingenious twist: house-made pickled radish tossed into the mix.

Variety Hour

As soon as I set out on my quest, I knew that I would have to visit Zazang Korean Noodle in the Western Addition. After all, the place is named after the freaking dish I was obsessed with. (“Zazang” is an alternate spelling of “jajang,” along with “zajang,” just to mix it up.) Zazang features a menu of deceptively large, cheap dishes ideal for family-style eating. In fact, the whole restaurant has a homey feel that extends to its friendly, helpful wait staff and – most importantly – the food.

Zazang also has two black bean dishes: zazangmyun and gan zazangmyun . The former is the traditional Korean version of the dish, executed in delicious fashion.

The ridiculously thick, almost creamy sauce was like a stew and was filled with tasty morsels, including big chunks of pork. The noodles, while tasty, were not homemade, although it was hard to notice anything other than that sauce. The gan zazangmyun offered a similar base, but added a healthy amount of spice and seafood to the mix. The result was less rich than the zazangmyun, but more exciting from bite to bite. Since I had come with a group, we were also able to sample the delicious jap chae (stir-fried yam noodles) and a mesmerizingly spicy seafood soup.

Triple Happiness

My last destination was Beijing Restaurant, which distinguished itself as being the only place I found in my search that made a Yelp reviewer burst into tears because it was so authentic. So I was already sold before I sat down and noticed Yao Ming’s face included in a photo collage of people who had eaten there. This place was serious! I ordered the black bean noodles, listed as Beijing Style Noodles with Brown Paste, just like they were in China. My waiter even tossed the noodles and some thin sliced veggies with the sauce tableside, reserving some for me to fiddle with the mix if I wanted to.

I didn’t. The thin sauce, more brown than black, was bursting with the tart, earthy flavor of fermented bean paste.

It perfectly coated the noodles, which were homemade and phenomenal. The rest of Beijing Restaurant’s menu was just as impressive, especially the dishes that featured “preserved greens,” a sort of insanely tasty Chinese sauerkraut. The easygoing waiter let us sit at our table for as long as we needed to, adding to the impression that we were in Beijing rather than San Francisco.

As much as I loved the noodles at Beijing Restaurant, I was just as happy with the other three variants I tried. Black bean noodles is a dish with unlimited potential, open to interpretations of every kind from classic to insane. And as much as I’d like to, I can’t try every place in SF myself – so get out there and eat some. Let me know about your favorites in the comments.

Looking for some black bean noodles in a familiar Chinese setting? Make a trip to the Inner Sunset to visit San Tung – just remember to save room for some wings. Interested in trying a more modern take? Go straight to So , the Ghostbuster-iest spot in SOMA. Devotees of traditional Korean jajangmyun owe it to themselves to try both styles at Zazang Korean Noodle in the Western Addition. And the aptly named Beijing Restaurant offers a supremely authentic version of the dish in Mission Terrace.

We Are the Champions (and Drama Queens and Weirdos)

Jon Korn — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 00:00:13 -0700

As another summer ripens by the Bay, all you have to do is look around to see the evidence in stark orange and black. In fact, the only thing San Francisco loves more than winning is when athletes who reflect the unique city that adorns their uniforms are the ones doing it. It’s that special sense of pride you get when Brian Wilson shows up at the ESPYs in a spandex tuxedo or Tim "The Freak" Lincecum brags about downing three double-doubles per visit to In-N-Out. Several of their Giants teammates – including yoga-loving surfer Barry "Captain Quirk" Zito – proved themselves worthy of their World Champion status by releasing an It Gets Better video early this year. Here are seven more titans of sport who not only won, but did it with signature SF style.

Before Big Bill led the Boston Celtics to 11 championships, he captured two NCAA titles for the USF Dons. But even more impressively, Russell and his teammates – black and white – confronted the racism of the era. When hotels at the All-College in Oklahoma City refused to admit the Dons’ black players, the entire team moved into an empty college dorm. Then they went out and won three straight games to capture the whole damn tournament.

San Francisco born in 1884, boxer Abe “The Little Hebrew” Attell had himself one crazy life. Not only did he set records by defending his title in 18 fights over six years, but no less an authority than lawman-turned-sportswriter Bat Masterson called Abe the best fighter he’d ever seen, other than Wyatt Earp. Oh, and then Attell was charged with helping notorious gangster Arnold Rothstein fix the 1919 “Black Sox” World Series. Flashing the sort of legal chops modern athletes can only dream of, Attell managed to convince the jury that they’d fingered the wrong Abe Attell and was completely cleared.

Everyone in SF loves Brian Wilson and his avant-garde bull pen antics. But before The Beard, there was Rod “Shooter” Beck, an old-school, extravagantly mustachioed fireballer who helped the Giants claim the National League West in 1997. Beloved for his blue-collar mentality, Beck even lived in a Winnebago behind the Iowa stadium of a minor league team he played on in 2003. After games he pitched, fans were invited over for beers.

Brandi Chastain was born in San Jose, schooled at Cal, and spent her professional soccer career playing for teams around the Bay. And yet beyond her success on field, she will be forever remembered for her riotous celebration upon scoring the penalty kick that won the Women’s World Cup in 1999. Flush with joy, Chastain whipped off her jersey and fell to her knees in an instantly iconic moment that was both beautiful and badass.

Not interested in adhering to the gender norms of the day, young Alice Marble boxed, played basketball, and baseball – even becoming “Little Queen of Swat” for the San Francisco Seals. She turned to tennis at age 15, learning the game in Golden Gate Park. Looking to expand her reputation as the coolest person ever, Marble also took an extremely dangerous espionage assignment during World War II. She went undercover to spy on an ex-lover in Switzerland and was shot in the back during a meeting gone wrong, although she fully recovered. The city of San Francisco memorialized Marble with the breathtaking Alice Marble Tennis Courts in Russian Hill.

The son of a ballplayer from rural Puerto Rico, Orlando Cepeda followed his father into the game, eventually becoming a Hall of Famer. Apart from his stellar play, Cepeda endeared himself to his adopted city in other ways. Felled by a knee injury in 1965, Cepeda augmented his more traditional treatment with cannabis, a regimen he continued until he was busted for smuggling after his playing days had ended. The man known as “The Baby Bull” has mellowed with age and having foresworn drugs, Cepeda converted to Buddhism in 1983.

As a part of the 49ers’ famed “Million Dollar Backfield,” Joe “The Jet” Perry racked up the sort of gaudy stats and honors that made him a lock for the Football Hall of Fame. But Perry was also the first black player on the team, a situation that he dealt with by being both incredibly nice and absolutely dominating on the field. (He’s still the 49ers leading career rusher.) The Jet was just as talented off the field as he was on it, hosting a music and sports talk radio show called Both Sides of the Record and bowling so well that he joined that sport’s pro tour after he retired from football.

Admittedly, there are so many loveable eccentrics in our city's sports history that this list is incomplete. So speak up San Francisco, who did I miss?

Wurst Case Scenario

Jon Korn — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 00:00:14 -0700

Modern Germany has given the world some pretty great things: fahrvergnügen, silly hats for days, Dirk Nowitzki’s fadeaway. I could go on – Werner Herzog anyone? But the most impressive thing Germany has to offer is a near-limitless range of delicious things to eat and drink. Lucky for us, a quick turn around San Francisco reveals numerous options to sample German cuisine and culture. You’re not going to lose any weight dining Deutsch, but you will gain the opportunity to consume huge amounts of dark beer and smoked meats. Sounds like a fair trade to me – although my body type is already closer to Augustus Gloop than Charlie Bucket. So I set out to explore four different German outposts in San Francisco, seeking a unique offering at each.

My first stop was Lehr's German Specialties, a Noe Valley stalwart since it opened about 40 years ago. Then the neighborhood was largely German, but now Lehr's feels like a relic from another time. A delicious time! The small store is stuffed with a dizzying range of products. This is the sort of place that has an entire fridge of cryptically delicious meat products with a proudly emblazoned sign that reads: “We have pinkelwurst!” Well, that answers my first question. I even snagged some German-style curry ketchup, a prized delicacy among the condiment-obsessed.

Holding down the counter was Bridgette, who has been working at Lehr's since it opened. According to Bridgette, the majority of the store’s customers are German ex-pats who make pilgrimages to Lehr's from far-flung locales like San Jose and Lake Tahoe. She identified a coveted poppy-seed cake as the most unique item offered. It’s often sold out hours after it arrives, each Saturday, from a German bakery in Vacaville. Since I visited on a Friday, there was none to be had. I will be back, however, and I’m not afraid to throw a few elbows in the pursuit of delicious cake.

I asked Bridgette to pick her favorite item in the store and she giggled, indicating her healthy figure, “Everything! Why, don’t I look it?” Never! Bridgette helped me parse Lehr's exhaustive candy aisle, which is mostly devoted to chocolate. Another aisle focuses entirely on the gummi arts. And so you see why Lehr's has prospered for so long. I eventually picked out a pack of Kinder Happy Hippos, which are a sort of wafer hippopotamus filled with vanilla and chocolate crème. They were easily the best confectionary members of phylum artiodactyla I have had in quite some time.

I then ventured over to the Western Addition to sample the eclectic brews on offer at Bistro Gambrinus. While technically a purveyor of modern European rather than strictly German cuisine, Bistro Gambrinus deserves to be included in any Teutonic tour of San Francisco. Upon entering you are greeted by a dizzying array of taps, which almost seem to have spread across the bar organically, like wildflowers. Wildflowers that dispense beer! A bar in the finest German tradition, Bistro Gambrinus offers beer by the liter – and at great prices. I soon had a massive stein of Franziskaner Dunkel, a beautiful dark wheat beer from Munich.

Dispensing the suds was Alex, a transplant from Belarus. He was a fount of entertaining conversation as well as beer. I was in the mood for a late lunch and Alex suggested the bigos, a meaty hunter’s stew considered the national dish of Poland. While not light, it was delicious, offering several species of protein and an earthy, herbaceous flavor. And it went perfectly with my beer. Alex hopped across the bar and cracked a skylight above me. Truly, this was an ideal spot for midday drinking.

Bistro Gambrinus’ unique offering is something best enjoyed with a group. Every night, this small establishment throws down the twin gauntlets that are its Seafood Extravaganza and Mixed Grill Plate. Both come in versions intended for five or 10, although judging from the quantity of food, those numbers could refer to non-confectionary hippos rather than people. The Extravaganza more than lives up to its name, featuring crab legs, shrimp, trout, New Zealand mussels, prawns, and crawfish. The Grill is just as exhaustive, offering lamb chops, baby back ribs, chicken kebab, Liulia kebab (an Azerbaijani lamb dish), and smoked sausage. This is party food done right, or else some sort of meat-based wager of which I want no part.

More was just what I found at Schroeder's, the largest and oldest German restaurant on the West Coast. Founded in 1893 by Prussian emigrant Henry Schroeder on Market between First and Second, the establishment has had several homes before landing at its current location back in 1959. Lest you doubt Schroeder’s authenticity, the place was once purchased with gold pieces. It also features a series of life-sized murals painted by Herman Richter in 1932. Richter’s artworks were such an intrinsic part of Schroeder's ambiance that they were transported from the old site to the restaurant’s current location.

At lunch, Schroeder's is snoozy, welcoming, and filled with regulars enjoying a beer and a hearty meal before an afternoon of pretending not to nap. I had a Bavarian-sized (38 oz.) mug of Paulaner and an amazing plate of Wiener schnitzel with perfectly roasted potatoes and buttery red cabbage. But then there’s the evening, when the whole hall is opened and the long tables fill with people ready to see what drinking a full boot (aka 80 oz.) of beer will do to them. The menu expands as well to include platters of sausages, a selection of steaks, and even venison. Schroeder’s also offers live music. When I visited, there were banners promoting an upcoming performance by none other than Big Lou's Polka Casserole Band. Oh Big Lou, you had me at “Casserole.”

After eating I had a chance to talk with the current owner and head chef of Schroeder's, Stefan Filipclk. While originally from the Czech Republic, Stefan started at Schroeder’s as a chef in 1986. Stefan and his wife Jana took over the place in 1996, keeping an eye on tradition while expanding the menu to offer more fish and – gasp! – even vegetarian fare. With little hesitation, Stefan identified his schweinshaxe, or ham hock, as Schroeder's unique fare. “Nobody does it like us,” he said with a smile. Stefan also mentioned that if you call ahead, you can special order pumpernickel bread, which comes directly from Germany. So now you know what to get me for my birthday.

Next it was on to Leopold's, an Alpine gasthaus incongruously nestled in Russian Hill. While the hospitality at Leopold’s is traditional in the best way, the menu aspires toward a more contemporary interpretation of German cuisine. The décor reflects this dichotomy, mixing dark wood and mounted animal heads with funky yellow walls and an open, airy setting.

Feeling my oats as a pseudo-Deutschlander, I ordered a half liter of Köstritzer Schwarzbier, a black lager with the taste of a porter but not the heaviness one expects. Also on the menu are liter glasses, two-liter boots, and steins in three and – come on! – five-liter sizes. Basically, you can really drink here. And you can really eat too. I started with the crisp flatbread melted with Gruyère, caramelized onions, and just enough arugula to be convinced it might be healthy. I also sampled the Crispy Pig Trotters, a rich gooey disk of fried porcine delight.

It was my main course that brought the truly unique dish: pan-fried trout wrapped in pancetta. Simultaneously cultured and rustic, this trout offered a wealth of flavor and pitch-perfect technique. The fish was perfectly cooked and infused with magic bacon essence. It was special. As I enjoyed some decadent apfelstrudel (a layered fruit pastry) for dessert, I showed my first bit of restraint by turning down a glass of Welschriesling Trockenbeerenauslese (a sweet dessert wine). After all, the next day would be Saturday and I had to get to Lehr’s early if I wanted some of that poppy-seed cake.

Head over to Noe Valley to visit Lehr's German Specialties, but be ready to buy a ton of candy. Bistro Gambrinus is right off of Masonic in the Western Addition. Make sure to call ahead if you’re coming with a big group. You won’t see Schroeder's from out on Market Street, but it’s there, I promise. Check its website for info about upcoming musical performances, some of which are sure to involve casserole. Leopold's is right in the heart of Russian Hill. You’ll know you’re in the right place because co-owner-master-of-the-house-Gérard Depardieu-doppelgänger Klaus will be right out front with a smile. Reservations aren’t accepted, though, so show up early.

The Gold Rush

Jon Korn — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 00:00:08 -0800

My sojourn among this decidedly esoteric group begins in befittingly secretive fashion as I head to the lodge of a certain club located somewhere north of San Francisco. (Out of respect for privacy, I’ve agreed to keep the identities of this group confidential. But as secret societies go, they’re somewhere between the Knights Templar and Fred Flintstone’s Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes.) Here I meet up with my adopted crew for the night, a welcoming bunch of old-school 49ers fans. Many don hats that identify the wearer as a firefighter or veteran; one younger guy has a shirt that depicts his team’s name graphically, with a 40 oz. bottle and a 9 mm gun. There’s a preponderance of Joe Montana paraphernalia, which is both a celebration of a glorious tradition and a silent comment on the franchise’s recent struggles.

As the crowd swells to around 50, I enjoy a beer from the private bar and buy into a final score grid pool that is suspiciously lacking in numbers. “We’ll pick ’em later,” says my host. I suspect this is some sort of hazing ritual or short con, but I’m perfectly happy to be the rube as long as I can tag along. And then we head for the bus.

That’s right: the bus. A beautiful, full-sized luxury craft that ferries my hosts to every home game in comfort and style. What’s more, a row of seats in the middle of the vehicle hold a giant tray of beers, two jugs of screwdrivers, and a full bar. These Niners fans don’t mess around. Our craft is a 47-seat Marin Airporter complete with a friendly driver and a bathroom in the back. The rate is about $660 for the six-hour round-trip to the game, which sounds like a lot until you divide it by 47 people. Fourteen dollars for transportation to Candlestick – including gas, parking, and tolls? Yes, please!

Even better, none of us needs to worry about concentrating on the road. Drinks flow and potluck snacks are passed around as “the weekly joke” is told over the bus PA by an erstwhile raconteur. Then we all draw cards from a deck in order to fill in the final score numbers on that pool. It’s basically the best carpool in the history of the world. While we wind our way through traffic toward the Golden Gate Bridge, I’m actually rooting for the road to stay busy so I can hang on the bus some more.

On the other side of the bridge we pick up a straggler and I’m treated to another glorious tradition. The whole bus breaks into song for the latecomer whom I’ll call Bill: Here’s to Bill! Here at last! Here’s to Bill. He’s a horse’s ass! My host informs me that if I’m last on the bus after the game, I’ll share the same choral fate as Bill. Good thing I wore comfortable shoes.

And yet, all the fun on the bus is merely prelude to the superfan’s natural habitat: the parking lot. We pull into the special bus entrance (another clutch perquisite of going charter!) and ascend directly to tailgate heaven. Admittedly, it’s been a decade or so since I last joined in on some pregame hijinks, but tailgating technology seems to have taken a quantum leap. Amid the expected grills, beer pong tables, and keg stands are margarita machines, satellite dishes, and flat screens. I’m sure I could find some decent Wi-Fi too. As my crew heads inside, I go for a turn around the lot. An informal survey reveals that some of these people have been here since 11 a.m., which was only five and a half hours ago! I make quick friends with a group watching a TV bigger than the one in my living room. Civic pride swells in me as strangers share hugs, complex handshakes, and toasts. A man runs down the middle of the nearest lane, screaming, “I love all of you!”

And this was no one-time deal. The main lot at Candlestick opens four hours before kickoff for every game, but you can get in only if you’ve bought a parking pass beforehand ($25 on the 49ers website). Visitors are welcome to bring in any sort of grill or cooking apparatus and there’s even places to ditch your used charcoal. Additionally, there are no restrictions with regards to alcohol or open containers, apart from normal ones like “don’t be a jerk” and “Dude, there are kids around.” What’s more, proving that we live in the best city ever, the 49ers don’t just recycle – they also have a robust composting program. Football and fertilizer? Awesome. After the game, I talked to Jim Mercurio, 49ers vice president of stadium operations and security, about the fun I saw. “We recognize how tailgating is such an integral part of our fans’ game day experience and we encourage all who tailgate to do so in a safe and responsible manner,” he said. He also reminded everyone that tailgaters need to “be respectful” since not everyone goes to a game for the parking lot party. And he’s right – there’s football too!

Inside Candlestick Park is a sea of maroon and gold, marred only by the tiny pockets of green that represent Eagles supporters. I ascend to the upper reserved section, which is just as chilly as it sounds and offers a great view of the field. I’m not sitting with my hosts – they have much better tickets – but superfans abound up here. In my immediate area is not just a fashionista in a full 49ers tracksuit, but also a dandy sporting an autographed Montana jersey and a hat that has “F**k the Haterz” embroidered on it. Turns out brevity really is the soul of wit. On field, the opening drive goes well, ending in a 49ers touchdown and an explosion of emotion from the jubilant fans around me. It would not last.

As you may be aware, the 49ers-Eagles tilt was something of a nadir for the home team’s 2010 season. After jumping out to an early lead, the 49ers ended up losing 27–24 in a game that felt much more like a blowout than the final score would indicate. Quarterback Alex Smith’s play was even bad enough to precipitate chants of “We want Carr” – referring to backup quarterback David Carr – who is, to paraphrase Winston Churchill, a mediocrity wrapped in an enigma. But the good thing about hanging with superfans is that they don’t let little things like losing dim their spirits. Their energy keeps the stands lively even as the temperature drops. (Seriously, it’s cold at Candlestick! Bring a hat, a scarf, and lots of layers. And maybe a St. Bernard with a cask of brandy around its neck.)

When the final whistle blows I race for the bus, desperate to not be declared an equine posterior in song. Soon the whole crew is aboard, although the high spirits that were on display earlier have faded somewhat in the grim reality of the 49ers’ record: zero wins and five losses. Rather than single out one of their own, the superfans plug poor Alex Smith into a full-throated rendition of the horse’s ass chant. This seems to help.

Then the winner of the final score pool collects her cash to cheers from all. Soon the bus is buzzing with excited talk about next week’s game against the hated Raiders. Someone near me mentions he’ll be bringing a friend along who is an Oakland fan and my host grins, pointing to the floor. “He can ride in our special Raiders section down below!” Laughter fills the air and a cheer goes up. Gimme an E! Gimme an X! Gimme an L! Gimme an A! Gimme an X! What’s that spell? EX-LAX! What’s that make you want to do? Go-Go-Go 49ers!

Hope springs eternal. Our bus pulls onto the Golden Gate Bridge powered by the matchless optimism of the raucous crew inside it. And here’s the real secret: No matter what happens on the field, superfans always win.

Ready to go root on the 49ers with a busload of superfans? Good choice! First step is tickets, which are available on the 49ers website. This is also where you can find the parking pass you’ll need to do some proper tailgating from your vehicle – although be sure to turn up a few hours early for a good spot. If you’re going big, contact Marin Airporter at (415) 256-8830. They’ll handle the gas, parking, and tolls so you can figure out who is making snacks, who is bringing beer and, most importantly, who is telling the daily joke.

'Wich Hunt

Jon Korn — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 00:00:11 -0700

I want to tell you about a sandwich that changed my life. Back in the early 2000s, in a neighborhood of Los Angeles called Silver Lake, KP’s Deli unleashed its BBQ pork banh mi. It was amazing. A perfectly toasted, fresh French baguette holding slabs of juicy meat, pickled carrots, daikon radish, sliced cucumber, jalapeño peppers, cilantro (see "A Note About Cilantro" below), Maggi sauce (a dark liquid filled with delicious hydrolyzed vegetable protein), and a little mayo. Each bite offered something new and wonderful. But wait – put down those car keys and take a seat because I have some bad news: KP’s closed long ago.

All is not lost, however, as San Francisco offers a cornucopia of options for the banh mi enthusiast. Summer was ending, the streets were busy, and the days were still long: perfect conditions for a banh mi hunt. Now, I realize that this quest might seem slightly insane. But why can’t a BBQ pork banh mi be for me what the whale was for Ahab, or what a madeleine was for Proust? Is it even crazier to compare myself to fictional obsessives? Enough questions, on to the sandwiches!

If you know anything about Vietnamese food in San Francisco, then you won’t be surprised to hear that my first stop was Little Saigon. Nestled in the welcoming, transgendered bosom of the Tenderloin, this area boasts approximately eleventy billion spots for banh mi. There’s also great pho, Burmese, and Thai. But I had the banh mi blinders on – I was a man on a mission.

My first stop was the de facto heavyweight champion of the field, Saigon Sandwich. Most weekday lunchtimes, this storefront sprouts a long line of business types happily waiting for banh mi at about $3.25 a piece. But when I arrived right at noon there were only a few fellow sandwich freaks ahead of me. Two brusque professional ladies held down the tiny counter, which was stacked with items that both tempted (shrimp chips!) and plied customers with wildly different impulses from mine (anonymous hunks of dried seafood!).

Out on the street I was ready to chow down, when the Tenderloin delivered one of its most delightful gifts: the insane overheard conversation. Two women walked past as one explained how her boyfriend had cut off her ponytail while she was sleeping. Maybe I was in a Proust story after all…

Any doubts that this nugget of lunacy was a sign that I was exactly where I was meant to be were dispelled as soon as I returned my attention the BBQ pork banh mi in my hands. The bread was near perfect, the pork salty and flavorful. There were only a few radishes, no mayo, and the Maggi sauce had been swapped out for something a little sweeter, closer to teriyaki. But this, my friends, was an auspicious beginning. Also, sorry to repeat myself, but HE CUT OFF HER PONYTAIL WHILE SHE WAS ASLEEP!

A little further up Larkin is Baguette Express, where the banged-up sign promises “Prices bring you in, taste brings you back.” The prices were actually right at market level, $3.50 for a BBQ pork, but the banh mi itself was huge. And instead of tough counter ladies, here I was greeted by a solicitous mother and her almost unbearably cute toddler daughter. Unsurprisingly, Baguette Express’ bread was fantastic, with a yeasty, robust crust that still yielded to my teeth and a pillowy soft interior. The middle of the sandwich was great, too, as the delicious, spice-filled pork and all the regular fixings were joined by long spears of crispy cucumber. Make sure you like blazing hot food as much as I do if you go for “spicy” because there were a lot of jalapeños in there. (I even added some rooster sauce, or Sriracha, because I’m crazy like that.)

I walked east one block to Mong Thu Cafe, a tiny spot with a diner-like feel and the most colorful cast of patrons I had seen yet. The star was a tiny, ancient woman who all but danced around the room, entertaining one and all as she sipped coffee and caged cigarettes from people that had to be 60 years her junior. I sat and was instantly served a free glass of hot tea while I waited for my sandwich, which featured pâté and steamed pork along with my traditional BBQ. (This was because the small menu offered one choice for me: pork banh mi for $3.25. Done and done.) The bread was warm and crispy, the pickled carrots mouth-puckeringly tart, and the different styles of pork created a wonderful range of textures in my mouth. I let the ancient lady upsell me on some iced Vietnamese coffee to go. Good news: It was perfect. Bad news: I was getting extremely full.

As I sipped my sweet pick-me-up, I walked north to Geary toward Hoang Dat Coffee Shop. It was bigger than anywhere else I’d visited and, like Mong Thu, offered table service. I ordered the combination pork and, on an insane, probably meat-triggered whim, the meatball banh mi as well. I was so happy I did. The combo pork ($3) offered a lot of flavor and a similar range of texture to the offering at Mong Thu Cafe, even though it was obvious that the BBQ-ing had not been done on the premises. But the meatball ($2.75) was a revelation; it was a giant, deliciously juicy package of pork, chives, and a secret spice mix that would make the Colonel weep. I wanted to eat the whole thing, but I was worried I might explode like Mr. Creosote from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. I live dangerously.

I was seriously full, but this hunt wasn’t over, not by a long shot. I needed to regroup, refocus, and get back out there when there was more real estate in my stomach.

For the next leg of my banh mi hunt, I ventured away from Little Saigon. My destination was the Richmond, which boasts a selection of Vietnamese food that rivals the Tenderloin’s, albeit without the cool nickname. Should we give it one? I vote for Wee Ho Chi Minh City or L’il Da Nang.

I found a parking spot on busy Clement Street, right at the heart of the Inner Richmond. There were tempting sights and smells everywhere, but I forced myself to ignore the dumplings and roasted ducks. I was looking for the New May Cheung Co. grocery store, because inside of that is Y & Y Vietnamese Deli. My search was successful and soon I was feasting on Y & Y’s version of BBQ pork banh mi ($3.50). It was pretty great – a thick, toasted roll packed with pickled carrots and giant slices of jalapeños, then finished with a delicious grind of fresh pepper. Also pretty great was the setting: two tiny tables in a bustling grocery store featuring the kind of hard-to-find Asian ingredients that can make a fella start menu planning. Fresh cut noodles with XO sauce for dinner?

Just around the corner at 6th Avenue was my next and last stop, the highly recommended Little Vietnam Cafe. This family establishment was also working the lunch crowd, offering banh mi, pho, and noodle bowls that came cheap and fast. One of the owners was even rocking pearls while she tended the fry-o-later, like a Vietnamese Julia Child. Overwhelmed by delicious scents, I gave into my desires and ordered a batch of imperial rolls ($4.50) to go with my BBQ pork sandwich ($4). The rolls were freaking awesome and the sandwich was great, too; it was big, colorful, and still steaming when it was placed in front of me. Meat and filling worked together wonderfully, despite the medium-to-heavy slathering of mayo. And despite being lighter, almost Italian in its consistency, the bread complemented its contents perfectly. This was a great sandwich. And I was full again. So, so full. The hunt was over.

Did I find a sandwich that perfectly approximated my first love? No. But that’s not the point of a good banh mi hunt. What I did do was eat some amazing stuff while absorbing the kind of hospitality and local color that makes me love this city. And I’m already planning my next outing, searching for delicious surprises wrapped in crusty French bread and slathered in Maggi sauce. But first I need one more nap.

Want to go on a banh mi hunt? Awesome! Start in Little Saigon on Larkin Street to check out Saigon Sandwich and Baguette Express. One block east is Mong Thu Cafe and just north is the Hoang Dat Coffee Shop. Head out to the Richmond to try Y & Y Vietnamese Deli and Little Vietnam Cafe. Make sure you bring cash – most of these spots don’t take credit cards.

Courting Destiny

Jon Korn — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 00:00:09 -0700

It sounds romantic, even utopian, but I really believe pickup basketball has the power to bring humanity together as one. Yikes Moondoggy, you’re thinking, this is a lifestyle site. Stick to the details and spare me the drum circle. Fair enough, but for honest to goodness egalitarianism you can do a lot worse than the courts of our fair city. Between those two baskets, a group of strangers can become a team. It’s like magic. Sweaty, sweaty magic.

Fresh off the sobering experience of turning 30, I decided to throw myself into some quality basketball time. It had been too long and the fresh air would do me good. Sure I was out of practice. In fact, you could make a good argument that I had never been in practice. But never mind. I would visit a few of the many wonderful courts in San Francisco and find a game that suited my talents (or, really, my lack thereof).

First, a candid assessment of my game: oof. I peaked as a player in middle school, when an early entrance into puberty blessed me with height, strength, and a faint moustache that I refused to shave. (That last one was more of a mixed blessing.) The problem was that although I developed a big man’s skills – rebounding, shot blocking, and so forth – I basically stopped growing by eighth grade. Now, I am a power forward trapped in a guard’s body, albeit a guard with a weakness for Scotch whiskey and Korean barbecue. My jump shot tops out around six feet and my vertical leap precludes blocking shots attempted by non-middle schoolers. I still have the moustache though. And I run often, so I have some stamina. I would need it.

I asked my more athletically inclined friends for good places to find pickup hoop games. Many were unaware of my abilities on the court - but no matter. I came away with three solid options, one basic, one intermediate, and one advanced. I would climb this stepladder of basketball and reclaim my seventh grade glory as a present to myself. Or perhaps just discover that roundball immortality had passed me by for good. Either way it was time to dust off my old shoes, take out my replica Boston Celtics wristbands, slap on some sunscreen, and then put the wristbands back because they looked freaking ridiculous on me.

My inaugural game almost didn’t happen. The aforementioned birthday was celebrated the night before and I got up later the next morning than expected. Undaunted, I ventured over to Russian Hill’s Alice Marble Basketball Court for a promised “Saturday morning game“. Seeing as it was 1 p.m., I should not have been surprised that the court was totally empty. And I wasn’t. But what did surprise me was how beautiful the setting was. Like legit stunning. Sitting on top of a natural rise, the court offered a panoramic view of the city, the Bay, and the Golden Gate Bridge.

Along with two well-kept baskets – sporting actual nets - the park also features three busy tennis courts. (No surprises there, as the eponymous Alice was, it turns out, a number one ranked tennis player in the ‘30s who learned the game in Golden Gate Park.) As luck would have it, by the time I warmed up and semi-rediscovered my ugly jumper, enough other stragglers had shown up that we could run a full court, four-on-four game.

The adjustment from “friendly solo shootaround” to “full court basketball” was drastic, but the competition was only slightly above my skill level. In fact, by the end of the game my team had won and I had actually sunk a few baskets. One startling feature of the court was the strong gusts of wind that result from its lofty perch. This may have actually favored my short-range style, as the strong breeze carried more than a few jumpers well off course.

The guys I played with told me they had made the earlier game at Alice Marble on previous Saturdays. Apparently, things get started around 9:30 a.m., and it often gets crowded enough that you will wait to play. There’s also a regular game early evenings on Fridays, starting around 5:30 p.m. Additionally, because the court is a de facto vista point and is so close to Lombard Street, tourists often end up as unintentional spectators. But there’s nothing more fun than plowing into a group of German shutterbugs while trying to grab a loose ball, right?

Flush with my success at Alice Marble, I felt ready to tackle the intermediate game. I even had a budding storyline for my comeback: much like Michael Jordan reconfigured his game by developing a jumper as he aged, I was being reborn as an energy/hustle guy and staunch defender. Like Glen “Big Baby” Davis, but without the slobber.

My next stop was the Embarcadero YMCA’s regular Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning game. The court is free to use with a membership ($65/month), or you can pay $15 for one-day access like I did. I arrived at 6 a.m. sharp, expecting to have a little time to warm up, but I discovered nine guys of varying ages waiting anxiously for me – or someone like me – so they could get started. Shots were taken to determine which squad was shirts and which was skins and I was thrown on a team. (It was shirts, thank God – hustle isn’t the only thing the stout Big Baby and I have in common.)

I quickly determined that the leap from basic to intermediate was going to be a dramatic one. The most glaring difference was the scoreboard, which while only used to keep time for the twelve minute games was still utterly rad. The court itself was tough and utilitarian, much like many of the players, with glass backboards and seemingly new nets. The progression of the game forced me to realize that my hustle/energy role was less useful now that I was surrounded by guys who hustled as a matter of course. What’s more, my lack of a warm-up meant my early shots lacked the crispness and accuracy I had eventually found at Alice Marble. Soon my teammates were ignoring me on the offensive end and even the novelty of the scoreboard’s buzzer alerting us that 12 minutes was up couldn’t dim the disappointment of our decisive loss.

I discovered that I had to sign up on a blackboard by the door in order to play again, but another ten or so players had already done so while we were losing. Undaunted, I scrawled my name and attempted to banter with my now ex-teammates. They proved to be much more friendly than they were on the court, which had been a hotbed of shouted instructions and trash talk. I asked one of them if this group shared a lot of history. “Oh yeah,” he smiled “Some of these guys have been coming here for years.”

In the next few games my meager skills came back, but I was unable to recreate my successes of Saturday afternoon. The basketball was great though, fast, lively, and competitive. You’ve got to like banging around a little to play at the Embarcadero Y – as well as not mind that some sweaty, shirtless dude is the one doing the banging. Even though I was less satisfied with my performance, as we finished, the same guys who had shouted at me earlier now warmly invited me to return. And after they saw me with my shirt off, too!

Having been humbled at the Embarcadero Y, I was wary of moving on to the advanced level. Had I earned it? No. But, dear reader, I am here for you. So it was off to the Moscone Recreation Center in the Marina for some real deal b-ball. I had heard that the indoor gym at Moscone hosted a game of former high school and college players every Monday and Wednesday at 5 p.m. When I arrived, however, a seemingly-fresh piece of paper was hung on the locked door, announcing the facility would be closed on Mondays “from now on.”

Luckily, the outdoor court was bustling – and just as well kept as the facilities at Alice Marble. My happiness at not having ventured out to the Marina for naught was quickly tempered by the appearance of my new teammates and opponents. They were young, mostly very tall, and sporting a mix of athletic gear that implied long careers in intramural athletics. In warm-ups they dunked. A few other guys my height appeared, but they quickly distinguished themselves from me by sinking long jumpers with great frequency. It was on.

We played five-on-five, full court and my time at the Y seemed to have paid off, as I was able to keep up with the young legs that surrounded me. My shooting still sucked, and the preponderance of height meant most rebounding occurred well over my head, but hustle is hustle – and my defense was still good. That said, the first game went by without me touching the ball much. During the break, I commiserated with one of the other short guys and he grimaced, “It’s like fucking Space Jam out there!” Amen, brother.

Despite the fact that lots of these guys were much, much better than me, I actually had a great time at Moscone. Sure, I only sank a few baskets, but I was able to set picks, help on D, and even grab a few (uncontested) boards. Plus, as a fan of the game, it was serious fun to watch such skilled players close up. At the end, everyone slapped hands and offered “good games” with a sincerity only available to the recently coached. It was sort of adorable.

So I made it through all three games without injuring or embarrassing myself – which has to count as a huge win for a never-was some 18 years past his “prime.” Even better, though, I found three great games that each exemplified my gooney “Basketball as Grand Unifier” thesis from above. Pick up hoops really is a special thing, but you have to play to understand. So lace up your shoes, take off those sweatbands - and get out there! I’ll be waiting – breathing heavily and ready to sink anything six feet or closer.

Games at the Alice Marble Basketball and Tennis Courts happen Friday nights at 5:30 p.m. and Saturday morning at 9:30 a.m. They don’t have lights, so daylight only. The morning game at the Embarcadero YMCA runs 5:30 a.m.-8:00 a.m., Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. And the games at Moscone Recreation Center run every day around 5 p.m., outdoor on Mondays and indoor all the other days.

Cinderella Story, Day Two

Jon Korn — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 00:00:09 -0700

And, we’re back! This is part two of our SF Sports Bar Bracket Madness—be sure to check out Day One to catch up on the action. Let’s review: in an act of utter selflessness, I spent the last week visiting spots all over the city to evaluate the premises and watch what was a thrilling NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. Then we set up a bracket and let the bars battle it out head-to-head, taking into account number of screens, beers on tap, amenities, bathroom upkeep, and numerous other factors far too complicated to elucidate here. (I drank a lot of beer during this assignment, OK?)

After the first day, only one combatant remained from the original eight: Noe's Bar. Let’s jump into our second day!

Pete's Tavern

If there were any truth to the hoary cliché about location being the only thing that matters in real estate, then Pete's Tavern would win our contest outright. Literally across the street from AT&T Park, this cavernous, multi-floor panopticon of sport utterly explodes from its unimposing exterior. And yet the utilitarians would be miffed: despite almost 20 TVs in the main room, along with two giant projection screens, I was surprised by how difficult it was to see all four games at once. The several private function rooms were more restrained, although they featured a measly two screens each. Luckily only one game went down to the wire, as little Wofford nearly toppled mighty Wisconsin.

Price is Right: Given its prime spot, it was nice to discover that Pete's offers sound food in big portions at very reasonable prices. And they had a whole salad section on the menu!

Shrinking Violets Need Not Apply: The brassy bartenders—all ladies—threw out some solid one-liners while keeping the completely male crowd happy and full.

BABY IN THE BAR ALERT: There was totally a baby in this bar. A real one.

Zeke's Diamond Bar

Just two blocks away from Pete's is Zeke's Diamond Bar, but I was thrilled to make the walk, working off approximately 1/256th of what I had ingested so far. The first thing I notice upon entering Zeke's is the almost insane TV-to-available wall space ratio. Although it’s probably one eighth the size of Pete's, Zeke's nevertheless boasts almost as many screens—18! The older crowd, which I judged to be mostly regulars based on their friendly banter with the hospitable staff, drank and marveled at yesterday’s excitement as we half-watched several mediocre games. The breakfast menu was a little lacking but the employees knew it and suggested several local spots for takeout during the break in play.

Grub, With a Twist: Along with all your familiar sports bar faves, Zeke's offers an appetizing Asian menu concocted by its predominantly Thai staff.

Drink Up: My Bloody Mary didn’t skimp on the alcohol, but I prefer spicier pours. Stick to one of the 11 beers on tap.

It's your classic Cinderella story, as the combination of Zeke's friendliness, unique menu, and refusal to skimp on screens overcomes the seemingly unbeatable juggernaut that is Pete's. Chug Pub

Speaking of location, you would be hard-pressed to top the artfully named Chug Pub, which is directly across Lincoln Way from Golden Gate Park. This long, skinny space features nine screens of different sizes but—shockingly—no package to see all three games at once. This oversight made it difficult to stay for long, although the charming bartender and her eclectic mix of indie rock and punk tunes helped. The group next to us was not nearly as bothered, ordering up one of the bar’s justly famous three-liter “chug towers,” which comes with a free order of fries.

19th Hole: Those brave souls climbing the chug tower were fresh off of a morning round of golf at the nearby public course. Not a bad idea!

Options: Sorry to harp on this chug tower thing, but with 15 beers on tap, anyone can find something they want to drink by the honking crapload.

Given its shocking lack of the games package, Chug Pub lost convincingly to The Blue Light Café, which also features more varied food. International Sports Club

During the day, the exterior of the International Sports Club might give you pause, with its peeling paint and ancient neon sign. But fear not! Inside, this place combines the appeal of a dive bar with the efficiency of a well-run sports bar. The small size of the place means you can see all four of its screens from almost anywhere, even while playing on the two pool tables. Similarly, the scant six beers on tap are supplemented by a daily $8 beer and shot special that runs the gamut of odd couples from High Life and Jameson to Coors Light and Fernet. It turned out that I needed the booze, as Baylor’s collapse to Duke severely endangered my first place standing in my bracket pool.

Happiest Hour: The International Sports Club’s happy hour, which runs from 4–7 p.m. every day of the week, features all well drinks and drafts for only $2.50!

Hey DJ: The friendly and fun bartender was happy to let me chime in on her jukebox selections, which were paid for out of the register.

A UN for Tummies: Although the International doesn’t offer food, its North Beach location lets it live up to its name, as the bartender had numerous suggestions for takeout/delivery from every cuisine imaginable.

The Taco Shop at Underdog’s

Just around the corner from Chug Pub in the Sunset is The Taco Shop at Underdog’s, which is certainly the first surf-themed Mexican sports bar that I’ve ever visited (or even contemplated, really). It’s mind-bending specificity aside, the Taco Shop is actually a bright, welcoming space with a lively crowd and great sight lines for its 16 TVs. The food was a solid selection of tacos and burritos prepared American-style, although what they lacked in authenticity was made up for in their affordability. All this fell to the background though, as I joined an actual alumnus of the upstart University of Northern Iowa in freaking out as his team took down Kansas, thought to be the best team in the whole tournament. Go Panthers!

Bathroom Check: The men’s room got extra credit for posting the sports section and a selection of pin-ups over the urinals.

Heck Yeah: There’s fun to be had at The Taco Shop apart from sports, with a Super Shot basketball game, two (!) tabletop Pac-Mans, and an Asteroids machine.

In a double OT battle similar to some of the thrillers offered by this year's tournament, the impressive Taco Shop is nevertheless eliminated by the International Sports Club for its genuine atmosphere and impressive thrift. Horseshoe Tavern

It was late morning when I dropped by the Horseshoe Tavern, which, understandably, looked—and smelled—like the previous night’s St. Patty’s soiree had been a doozy. The small space was basically empty, but a seat at the bar offered great views of three of the six screens. The venue seems like it would be rowdy when full, but it is also a dependable place to find an empty pool table during a lunch break. The few regulars seemed far more interested in their drinks than the round of 64 games, but the staff was fired up.

Bottoms Up: 15 beers on tap, but no food, although the bartender mentioned that you’re welcome to bring it in from nearby restaurants.

Even though I enjoyed the morning-after vibe at the Horseshoe Tavern, The Republic did what #1 seeds are supposed to do and beat out its smaller counterpart with impeccable service and delicious grub.

That means after the first round, the four bars looking to cut down the nets are The Republic, The Blue Light Café, the International Sports Club, and Zeke's Diamond Bar.

In a match up of very similar styles, Zeke's beats out the International Sports Club due to its having many more TVs and food on the premises. But don't sleep on Zeke's if you're headed to or from a ball game. The Blue Light Café

Busy Union Street in the Marina is filled with bars, including the Bus Stop that I covered yesterday, but none is quite like The Blue Light Café. The open, airy space was in decided contrast to the calculated gloom one expects from a sports bar, although I had no trouble following four games on the 18 screens. Best of all, the staff carefully switched between the audio of the most exciting games, allowing us to fully enjoy the action. They also mixed some pretty mean drinks, offering much-needed advice to someone (me) fried from a full-day’s "work" drinking and cheering. After Wake Forest edged Texas on two impossibly missed free throws, I headed home, so grateful that I had been able to watch one of the best opening days of basketball anyone could remember.

Choose Carefully: Stick with the meatloaf or the spicy chicken nachos—the best deal in the house.

Hey Ladies: Maybe it was just the neighborhood, as the Bus Stop was similar, but there were many more women at The Blue Light than at some of the other bars I visited, including some very vocal UNLV alums. Sorry about the loss, Lady Rebs!

At this point in the tournament, bars don't as much actively lose as they just can't quite beat out their opponents. That's certainly the case for The Blue Light, which is edged by The Republic's impressively consistent menu. The Republic

And so let’s turn to The Republic, the new, high-end “All-American” pub from the minds behind the Marina’s wine bar BIN 38. This place offers locally-sourced grub, comfy couches, and 20 beers on tap, almost all of which come from breweries within 150 miles of the city. With 12 screens—one of which measures in at 82”—spread around the open space, this might not be the best spot to watch more than three games at once. But the friendly, exceedingly patient staff was very accommodating to my frequent toggle requests as Murray State took down Vanderbilt on a buzzer beater. What’s more, there are three appealing salads of local veggies on the multi-varied menu.

Fine, But Not Fancy: The delectable “house burger” served with white-truffle aioli blows away mediocre sports bar fare, while the voluminous list of American craft bourbons and whiskeys offer numerous options for either toasting or wallowing.

Naughty and Nice: Clean bathrooms get extra credit for featuring cheesecake shots of 1930s-era Ziegfeld Girls.

Pro Tip: Ask for Jackie, a favorite bartender prone to creating popular “secret shots” like the recently exposed “Saffron Cisco Martini.”

Which brings us to this division’s final, pitting Cinderella Zeke's against the established program that is The Republic. And the slipper's off! The Republic wins out, overcoming Zeke's quixotic charm with its own smoothly efficient style.

After my ten-day odyssey, I was bleary-eyed, decidedly fatter, and utterly, gloriously happy. I had seen amazing basketball in some of the best venues San Francisco has to offer and met a remarkable cast of characters. (What if “Georgetown” and Ted hung out? And then started a detective agency?) That said, the whole conceit of this adventure was that one establishment must win out, just like a single team will ultimately prevail at the end of the basketball tournament. Who would it be? The Republic’s genteel atmosphere and suave menu? Or Noe's effortless welcome and cheap beer? In the end, I had to look back to what I said I really wanted from a sports bar. The homey feel that makes me excited to go there to share my passion for the biggest games.

And so the winner was clear: Noe's Bar! With food that comes close to The Republic's awesome fare, better sight lines, and a wonderfully happy feel, the little bar that could triumphs over its very worthy opponent. Congrats to all!

What do you think, did I get it right? Go explore the bars yourself and post your comments below.

Cinderella Story, Day One

Jon Korn — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 00:00:13 -0700

The secret of a good sports bar is that it makes you feel like you belong there. The wisdom of Sam, Woody, and Coach aside, there’s some perfect harmony that emerges from just the right mix of atmosphere, patrons, and amenities to create a sense of welcoming. It is this ineffable attribute that makes me emerge from my living room’s comfortable familiarity, where I pour the beer and know which couch is luckiest, empirically. And so, faced with the multi-screen behemoth that is the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament, even a borderline shut-in like myself must sally forth—first putting on pants—to find that special home away from home.

But where to go? In a city filled with options, there was only one fair way to find my perfect sports bar: a bracket! I visited 16 of the most intriguing spots in the city and then let them have at it to determine the best sports bar in SF. So, as you learn about the bars I visited, I’ll keep you updated with the results of the match-ups. It’ll be just like watching sports, but with words! My metric includes number of screens, sight lines for the same, number of beers on tap, food quality and prices, bathroom upkeep, extras (like pool tables), and salads—a great way to convince yourself that spending a day inside watching sports is still somehow "healthy."

And yes, I realize that I am the luckiest bastard around.

[One note: My intent was to only visit spots that featured enough TVs to watch four (or six) games simultaneously. We all have favorite bars that persist in not covering their walls with plasma, but this is not the place to talk about them—there’s basketball on!]

FINAL FINAL

Just in case you don’t think I took this seriously, know that I got up at 7:30 a.m. and fought Bay Bridge traffic in order to get to my first destination before the opening games began. My haste was rewarded, as the venerable Final Final was open and ready for the big day. Nestled in a sleepy little neighborhood at the foot of the Presidio, the place takes its name from a patron’s expression for the last round of a night—“Let’s have a final final”—although you need not stop at one. The neighborhood feel continued inside, where 11 screens were well distributed throughout the medium-sized space. As the opening round provided a near upset and a double OT thriller, there was no need for the friendly smattering of patrons to avail themselves of the two pool tables or dart boards.

Glug: The knowledgeable bartender had 22 beers on tap, and a spicy Bloody Mary for the morning drinker.

Chomp: Price is right (wings for $6.50 a pound!) for lunch and dinner but the only breakfast item was a store-bought bagel.

Pro tip: Make sure to grab a spot on one of the streets that offer three-hour parking, instead of only two.

And yet, despite it's laid-back charm, Final Final proved no match for the even more charming-er Noe's Bar. You'll find out what I mean further on down. Ted's Sports Bar & Grill

Deep in the seedy heart of SOMA, across from the Hall of Justice, downstairs from a bail bond company and a forensic psychologist stands the oasis of hospitality that is Ted's Sports Bar & Grill. The tiny space is crowded with 10 screens, a pool table, and numerous regulars who may or may not actually live on the premises full time. The eponymous landlord is a host in the truest sense of the word and he doled out free pretzels and profanity-laden advice in equal measures while toggling expertly between the games. The booze was cheap and, despite having only four beers on tap, the bar does offer a happy hour special—a brew and a burger for only $8.50. No word if Ted’s upstairs neighbors have similar deals.

Dollar, Dollar Bills, Y’all: Check out the awesome installation at the back of the bar, where patrons have covered a wall in decorated singles.

Kezar Pub & Restaurant

Most sports bar aficionados already know and love the Kezar Pub & Restaurant, which is located in Cole Valley, just across from the stadium that gave the establishment its name. The place was completely full at 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday, but rather than hardwood fans, these were partisans for Ireland, supporting their boys in a crucial rugby match against Scotland. Of the bar’s 24 screens, only two were tuned stateside. The crowd’s enthusiasm was contagious—a delicious Bloody Mary didn’t hurt, and soon I was cheering on the Clovers as well, although I kept a close eye on St. Mary’s upset win.

Chow Time: Kezar has a full menu for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, as well as frequent specials—like the corned beef hash I happily devoured.

Proper Pints: The tough but generous ladies behind the bar know how to build a glass of Guinness, waiting for the head to settle halfway through the pour.

BABY IN THE BAR ALERT: To be fair, the little guy was pushing two, but he was still indisputably in the bar.

Listen: I love Ted. You'll love him too. But despite a valiant effort Ted's still goes down to Kezar, which offers many more screens and bang for your buck. Bloodhound

Bloodhound is a hipster-style "sports" bar that features three screens—but not the all-important package that allows you to watch all the games simultaneously. Since the late games featured mostly one-sided contests anyway, I stayed, partaking in a very solid Old Fashioned served in a Mason jar. This was not a very sporty crowd, but I still felt welcome as the staff and bouncers joined me in hanging on the few close shots. And, when the buzzers sounded, I had a commanding lead in my bracket pool! (Attention Law Enforcement: Please don’t arrest us! The only stakes are pride. And krugerrands.)

Street Knowledge: Although Bloodhound doesn’t offer food, there are several perfect options just up the block. They range from delicious, Chicago-style hot dogs from Da Beef to the delectable, high-end French fare of the Spencer on the Go truck.

Even though Bloodhound manages to overcome what could be a terminal case of ironic styling, the Bus Stop rolled through with its 18 screens and its storied sports bar past. Mucky Duck

Right in the middle of the Sunset is the legendary Mucky Duck, which features an eclectic group of locals, a charmingly tough bartender, and a logo that must have been the source of several copyright disputes with Disney. In contrast to the popped-collar crowd at some of the other bars I visited, the vibe here was appealingly blue collar, a theme that continued to the remarkably cheap prices. Munching on free popcorn, I monitored a few blowouts on the six screens while counting the numerous beer taps, ultimately settling on 19. You gotta love any place that lists its specials by day, with the Friday offering being simply and incontrovertibly: PARTY!

Good Luck: There’s no way around it: parking is a major hassle in this neighborhood. Think about taking the N, which stops just down the street.

Jump/Jive/Wail: The crowd loved to choose songs from the surprisingly large selection of jazz and lounge on the jukebox.

Kennedy's Irish Pub

There’s something perversely appealing about the duality of Kennedy's Irish Pub and Curry House, a longtime North Beach favorite. On the one hand, it is a very passable Indian restaurant that has the distinction of serving food until 1 a.m. on weekends AND delivering to much of the area. On the other hand, the "pub" side of the establishment features foosball, air hockey, 10 screens, and a mind-numbing 42 beers on tap. It’s almost as if two random businesses decided to split rent. Somehow it works! My one peeve, a lingering incense smell, which faded when my food arrived, although MSU’s thrilling victory over Tennessee didn’t hurt.

Sharing is Caring: Don’t be put off by the $15 price tag—the mixed tandoori grill of chicken, shrimp, and lamb is the best deal in the house. Get it with some naan and it will feed three.

Belgian-sanity: The draft beer menu has a whole Belgian section of 13 delicious, high alcohol content brews. That’s at least a month’s worth of work, right there...

Jerry Lives: Check out the shrine to the late Grateful Dead frontman, complete with a picture of him in the bar.

The Mucky Duck is an institution in the best way, offering locals a place to gather and catch up. But how can it prevail in the face of 42 beers on tap, a full Indian menu and air hockey? It can't.

So, as the first round draws to a close, The Kezar, Noe's, Kennedy's and The Bus Stop are still in the hunt!

As the next round opens, The Bus Stop takes down Kennedy's, which finally succumbs to its incense issues. Here's why... The Bus Stop

At around 5 p.m. on Union Street, the many bars were crowding with folks leaving work and anxious to enjoy an insanely exciting slate of games. The main room at The Bus Stop was busy, but I was able to find a seat at the bar amid the skirt suits, $100 ties, and one dude referring to Georgetown as "we." The dark space was positively packed with screens, 18 by my count, with 15 beers on tap and generous daily drink specials to go with them. A waitress told me that this was nothing—“On a football Sunday you can barely move!” No food was available, although the staff keeps a thick sheaf of menus for patrons to use.

Old School: Find the awesome plaque that reads "Saloon since 1900" and lists the bar’s previous incarnations. It’s been "The Bus Stop" since switching from "The Transport Club" in 1960.

Sisters Doing For Themselves: If my previous three destinations were 90/10 in favor of fellas, the Bus Stop was noticeably more mixed, closer to 60/40.

It could have been the Championship Game, but the heavyweight fight between The Kezar and Noe's Bar comes down to the final buzzer. The result: an upset! Tiny Noe's unseats the intense atmosphere of the #1 seed with its easy appeal. Noe's Bar

Everyone from Noe Valley told me that I had to visit Noe's Bar, a neighborhood stalwart of much repute. Here I settled in to watch some predictable finishes amid a bustling crowd of regulars, enjoying the company far more than the sports. With 10 screens of varying sizes and 13 beers on tap, Noe's had a lot going for it before I noticed their rock-bottom prices ($4 pints/$14 pitchers!). Throw in the fact that you can also order off of the full Italian menu from Basso's next door and I was officially over the disappointing end to the basketball part of the day. The homey feeling even extended to the furniture, which was comfortable enough that I could easily imagine spending a full football Sunday on the premises.

Cheers: It seemed like the bartender actually did know the vast majority of her customers’ names.

In the Mix: Maybe it was just the combination of the basketball crowd and the regulars, but the jukebox was killing it, blaring everything from Sam Cooke to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

So Noe's Bar matches up against the Bus Stop, a part-time sports bar facing down a professional establishment. The Bus Stop is a serious place devoted to watching TV and drinking: exactly what a sports bar should be. Noe's however manages to fulfill those same requirements while also featuring the added value of great atmosphere and killer food. In a surprising move, tiny Noe's takes the day.

What a wild round! Only one establishment remains from the original eight: Noe's Bar. Check back tomorrow for action from the other side of the bracket and the crowning of the city’s best sports bar.

What do you think—did I get it right? Go explore the bars yourself and post your comments below.

Making a Killing

Jon Korn — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 07:00:12 -0800

San Francisco has a great reputation around the country - if not the world - for food, art and music. And yet, apart from that chase in BULLITT, our fair city has never had a high profile in the entertainment industry. But here I am, sitting in a lovely, wood-paneled chophouse on a snowy afternoon in Park City, Utah waiting to meet with two guys who are working tirelessly to change all of that. They are called the Butcher Brothers.

Park City? You're thinking, I've heard of that before. Of course you have. It's the site of the Sundance Film Festival, the grand dame of American independent film, which has just wrapped up a furiously successful opening weekend and is now slipping into its traditionally calmer second half. Unlike the snowstorm outside, which seems to be picking up steam.

I might be exactly the wrong person to write this piece. You see, I know the Butcher Brothers - or, at least, I knew the guys who became them. We shared an amazing, ten-day debauch back at the CineVegas Film Festival in 2004, when they were two unknown filmmakers screening a quirky comedy called LURKING IN SUBURBIA and I was a festival employee. But now I work for Sundance as one of the shorts programmers and I wrote the note in the festival catalog on the Butchers' new film THE VIOLENT KIND, a hallucinatory slasher epic that revels in its insanity.

Not to mention that I am scheduled to introduce their flick at what's sure to be a raucous midnight screening later on this very night. Hell, I've been rooting for these two for a long time, so journalistic impartiality just isn't an option.

My worries fade when my two friends appear, looking like they have been having at least as much fun at this festival as we did back in Vegas. Phil Flores and Mitchell Altieri - The Butcher Brothers. "It's not good to drink this much," says Mitch as he orders a beer to match mine. Phil sticks with water. "I actually think I proposed to a girl last night," Mitch continues, "I may have found my wife." The story that follows involves an NFL quarterback, his equally imposing posse and the Bros' - who are short in stature, but altitudinous in joie de vivre - misguided attempt to win a drinking contest against the same. The result: Mitch's possible (probable?) engagement. Sundance, baby.

Please understand, despite all the seemingly Hollywood antics, these Butcher Brothers are Bay Area through-and-through. Born and raised in South San Francisco, they met at El Camino High School and discovered a shared love for storytelling, collaborating on ideas and character studies. They made their first short film soon after, using equipment 'borrowed' from the local cable access station. Their inspirations were all around them, as they lived in what Mitch calls "the Jersey of the Bay Area." Phil agrees, noting that many of their films feature "the odd types we grew up with: Big Ben, Little Mike and the Guy With Messed Up Knuckles."

So - what happened? How did two mild-mannered Bay Area guys take on this sanguinary moniker and transform into purveyors of the craziest, most inspired gore of this new century? At first, Phil explains, it was an attempt at compartmentalizing themselves. "We wanted Mitch and Phil to stay those nice guys who do comedy and drama, while the Butchers could focus on dark content." But the success of their first project THE HAMILTONS meant transformation, and now, "It's kind of fun that people are scared of us."

Mitch and Phil have no plans to leave the Bay, saying they consider themselves 'lucky' to be part of a vibrant, close-knit film community. Phil explains, 'We're two of about ten working filmmakers in SF, so we can reach out and create a community. Everyone shares equipment. Everyone ends up working on each other's films." "We even all have the same attorney," adds Mitch with a smirk. "It's changed, and the Butcher Brothers helped change it."

The Butchers are doing it - living the independent film dream of working on the projects they care about with the people they love. A few hours later, as I'm standing in front of a hyped-up midnight crowd, this same feeling of satisfaction (mixed with a little booze) will well up inside me as I tell the audience how proud I am of these two guys. Then I'll relate an embarrassing story from our Vegas days.

Back at the chophouse, I ask a last, leading question: So, are you guys like the Godfathers of modern, independent Bay Area Cinema? The Butcher Brothers laugh, not taking the bait. "We're more like the Drunken Uncles," chortles Mitch, delighted. And then he signals for another round.

Due diligence is the name of the game; you owe it to yourself and your collaborators to know the territory you're about to enter. For example, making a horror film? You better watch all the genre flicks that have made the festival rounds in the last 5-10 years. Lots of these movies never get it into theaters, so your best bet is to make lists off the festival sites, then scour Netflix, Hulu and Google for the titles.

Got an amazing idea for an epic trilogy set in the 5th dimension with 100 characters and the biggest, baddest space battle ever? Sounds sick, but save it for when you have access to a big budget. For now, you've got to build a story that you can fully realize. It doesn't have to be small in scope, just reflect what you can actually spend. I've seen too many clunky sci-fi extravaganzas that unwittingly cross the line from special effects to very special effects. (Speaking of which....)

Time to go fundraising! Hopefully you have a rich great-aunt or a trust fund just waiting for your flash of inspiration. But, for the rest of us, budgets come from friends, family, credit cards, savings and everywhere else. Again, stay grounded. Don't assume you can raise millions off of a cool short or showreel - that rarely happened ever and almost never does now. And be sure to save some cash for contingencies, lawyers and (hopefully) festival expenses.

The hidden truth here is you don't need tons of actual currency. Follow the Butchers' lead and always help out other filmmakers with their projects. You'll learn a ton and feel good about yourself. Also, when it's time for you to shine, you can call in favors and field a crew for a fraction of the price. Same goes for studio time, dub houses and props....

Here's a fact: no one's first try at anything is usually very good. Even those hotshot twenty-something directors you saw triumphing at Sundance have been slaving away for years on student films and shorts before they even got near a feature. You have to learn your craft, ideally by watching someone who knows what they're doing. Then make shorts, music videos, commercials - anything.

This year at Sundance we received over 6,000 short film submissions and accepted only 73. You know which got in? The ones that showed us programmers something totally new, or something familiar done in an exciting way. You don't have to create a new genre or technique of filming, but don't be derivative! If your film is about a director making a movie, or an adaptation of 'The Tell-Tale Heart', or is a crazy sequence of events that turns out to all be a dream, just know: we've seen it before. Your project had better be fresh or it's never going to stick out.

This is where your circle of filmmaking friends really pays off. It's one thing to show your rough cut to your family and friends; they're going to be impressed because you made it and they love you. What successful films require is constructive criticism from people with enough cinematic knowledge to actually be helpful. Ply your friends with booze and get them to be brutally honest.

Not every film is going to Cannes, Sundance or Toronto - and not every film should. To use our horror movie example from above, you need to find festivals that represent the aesthetic you are going for. Get on Withoutabox and do some digging. Films do sell from smaller, more niche festivals like Fantastic Fest and the late, great CineVegas.

So you've found your project, wangled the funds, press ganged your friends, run out of favors and made your highly original film. As soon as you start showing in festivals, everyone's only going to have one question for you: What are you working on next? Have an answer.

Spirited Away

Jon Korn — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 07:00:13 -0800

It's not always on my mind when I'm bellying up to the bar, but making alcohol is serious business. Brewers soak specially prepared grains according to precise recipes, then subject the resulting mixture to a brutal program of hot water baths, boiling, filtering and straining. Mistakes can result in uncontrollable infestations of 'wild yeast' that will, at best, ruin the beer and, at worst, charge through a G.I. tract with all the reserve of a Barbarian horde. Harder alcohol is produced by distilling, which uses a similar regime of high heat to separate and purify the ethanol produced by fermenting plants. Combining the wrong ingredients and temperatures can result in powerful explosions or clouds of poison gas; improper filtering might fill your final product with ethanol's evil stepbrother methanol, which even in small doses causes blindness or death. Given these challenges, most commercially available alcohol comes from enormous companies that mass-produce their products in industrial settings. And yet, with a little bit of effort, I found a whole host of eccentrics bold enough to make their brews and spirits by hand, in small batches. These dedicated souls are returning their art to the local endeavor it once was, driven by a philosophy that dovetails nicely with both the local food movement and an awareness of the carbon footprint created by international shipping. In San Francisco, they tend to toil at the literal edges of the city, far from the watchful eyes of genteel society. But that just means they were even more excited to see me when I got there.

Photo by Mykl Roventine

My first encounter with a real, live producer of delicious booze came in a decommissioned hanger on the old Alameda Air Force Base, right next to the water. In this vast space, St. George Spirits creates a wide range of liquor, led by their founder, Jörg Rupf, a living-legend of American craft alcohol. Joining in on the fun is distiller Lance Winters, a former nuclear engineer on the USS Enterprise, whose passion for his craft is only equaled by his explosive imagination. Lance is infamous around the small company for being willing to make alcohol out of almost anything, be it wasabi, foie gras, or – one year – his own Christmas tree. That Noble Fir was hacked into pieces, soaked in brandy and then distilled, resulting in, of course, 'The Spirit of Christmas'. This heartwarming tale of the holidays led directly to my next question: who are you? Laughing, Lance explains that he and his fellow distillers are "deviant personalities who like to surprise people." Certainly Winters' next project substantiates the latter claim, as he is creating a series of gins with the "aromatic profiles" of the Bay Area parks he loves to hike. The business end of the operation features three gleaming, hand-hammered copper and stainless-steel stills imported from Rupf's native Germany. With their columns and complex ductwork, they look like wayward locomotives that have turned to a life of crime or, perhaps, the Devil's pipe organ. A giant shark lurks nearby, a souvenir from a special effects house neighbor. It's the actual beast that devoured Sam Jackson in DEEP BLUE SEA. Finding stills – and shark – in good working order, I headed for the comfortable tasting room, where a lively crowd tippled while enjoying one of the best views of SF's skyline in existence. For a mere $10, you can get a twelve-part tasting, which includes the company's signature Eux de Vies, clear brandies that showcase the powerful flavors of West Coast fruits, their renowned Hangar 1 Vodkas, and more. Impressed with my non-existent credentials, the staff upgraded my tasting, something that you can accomplish with an extra five bucks. Soon I was quaffing St. George's Absinthe, the first to be produced by an American company after a 95-year-old ban on the stuff was lifted in 2007, and the deliciously smooth Agua Azul, produced from whole, Jaliscan Agave.

Photo by misterbisson

Almost exactly across the Bay from Alameda, in the shadows of AT&T Park, is another of our modern-day alchemists. Arne "The Ginertor" Hillesland may not have perfected the lead-into-gold maneuver, but at Distillery No. 209, his one-man-band operation in a converted warehouse on the pier, he's certainly making something precious. Hillesland, who used to develop artificial intelligence software (sensing a trend?), creates just one beverage: "The 209," an artisanal gin that he told me aims "to change people's perceptions" of the spirit. Whereas most other gins are made by blending different flavor concentrates on top of each other, Hillesland creates his in small batches that contain the full flavor profile of the finished stuff. The distillery is not open to the public, which is a shame, as the juxtaposition of exposed wooden beams above and gleaming modern equipment below – not to mention its beautiful Bay views – is thrilling. Looking to establish myself as both "local" and "bold," I managed to get myself invited over for a late-afternoon gathering of liquor distributors, veteran bartenders and other honored guests. As beautiful as the physical space of Distillery No. 209 is, the real star was the gin itself, which subdues the spirit's familiar juniper flavor in favor of a citrusy-floral mélange that blends wonderfully into a wide range of cocktails. Hillesland took several of us into his "botanicals room," an end-of-days spice bunker made from a converted shipping container and stuffed with fragrant ingredients. As Alain Royer, a visiting French distiller, nosed sacks of spices, Hillesland noticed me furiously scribbling down the names of exotic herbs, which included Guatemalan cardamom, hand-sorted coriander, English cassia bark and many others. "Some of the things in this room are in The 209 and some aren't," he said with a small smirk. "And some of the things that go in The 209 aren't even in this room." The full recipe of the stuff should rightly remain shrouded in mystery, but that doesn't mean we can't keep trying to figure it out. Numerous spots in San Francisco offer The 209 – impress a bartender by asking for it with a "the" in front. The first time you have some, try a sip neat to appreciate its full complexity, then order up a refreshing Cucumber Collins or a tangy Pink Gin, or both.

Photo by Joe Thorn

For the final stop on my boozy tour I needed a beer, or five. So I headed down to a certain non-descript building in a Bayview office park that happens to be emblazoned with a giant pair of shifty eyes. This is the brewery/headquarters of Speakeasy Ales & Lagers, makers of delicious, high-octane suds in small, handmade batches, including numerous one-off, seasonal brews. Every Friday the happy staff throws open their doors to fans like me for an open house that features tours, Mexican food, occasional music and – most importantly – pints of their wonderful beer, fresh from the vats. The event began as a pre-game tailgate of sorts when the Giants were still playing at nearby Candlestick Park, but has become a beloved tradition. When I dropped by at 5 p.m., I found a diverse bunch munching on free popcorn and sipping on Speakeasy's rightly famous Big Daddy I.P.A. (6.5% Alcohol by volume, about twice as strong as your mass-produced light beers), it's robust counterpart Double Daddy Imperial Ale (9.5%!) and a new, as-yet-unnamed, spicy Blonde. Old men puffed cigars by an honest-to-goodness grain silo, while little girls in pink tutus ran around, giggling. $10 got me two beers and a free pint glass, which the long-haired bartender was happy to fill up with numerous 'tastes' of the many varieties. Soon the place was packed with revelers, toasting the end of the week with delicious beer. The brewing apparatus itself was similar to the stills I'd seen earlier, although the quantities involved were much larger. Speakeasy turned out 2.5 million bottles worth of beer last year, almost 75% of which got drank right here in the Bay. (I can take credit for, like, 40 of those, easy.) Sipping on beer that he made himself, Assistant Brewer Kushal Hall explained that the company is constantly experimenting, combining malt and hops from all over the world with different spices and flavors as they tweak their classics and create new recipes. Hall sourced Speakeasy's utilitarian vibe in the company's preference to promote from within. Virtually everyone in the place started on the bottling line, which despite your fond "Laverne and Shirley" memories is actually grueling, thankless work. The resulting crew is tight-knit and fiercely proud of their product, as evidenced by how many of them stuck around after hours on a Friday to enjoy the fruits of their labors. As I chatted with Hall, Speakeasy's sales and marketing guru Tommy Yracheta jumped into the conversation, toting a beer of his own. He expanded on the communal feeling around the brewery, referring to his fellow staff as "modern day pirates" and then launched into an elaborate plan to convert one of the brewery's trucks into a beer-dispensing ship. The lesson here is that just minutes away from your corner bar are a bunch of deviant, mysterious pirates who are mixing up something much more interesting than your watery well drink. They know all about the danger and hard work involved, but they're doing it anyway. The least you can do is go try some.

Hard Roll

Jon Korn — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 00:00:12 -0800

They say that it's not worth the trouble. You have to fight rush hour traffic all the way over to the Inner Richmond –and forget about finding a place to park.

They say the owners are particular, aloof and unwilling to speak English. The place has rules – lots of rules – ranging from strict to draconian.

Hell, they say sometimes the couple doesn't even show up and you're left standing there like a chump, hungry and cold. They say it's just too hard.

For better or worse, we expect a certain, decidedly American style of treatment when we head into a restaurant. Big smiles, friendly chit-chat, maybe even some light toadying. It might be hard to get a reservation at some hip, new place, but once the hour is at hand, you're basically the Sun King, right? Specials are announced and menu substitutions are happily made. The staff is at your disposal. The food is important, but the diner's experience matters most. There's a reason they call it catering, after all. Personally, I crave food with a higher degree of difficulty. Secret passwords, odd hours, bizarre ingredients – anything to give the dilettantes pause. Metaphorically or not, I have no problem singing for my supper as long as whomever's preparing it keeps up his side of the bargain. So when I heard about Tekka, I knew it was just my kind of place.

For over twenty years the proprietors of Tekka, an older Japanese couple, have been quietly turning out some of the best food you might ever have the chance to eat. She waits on tables and handles the glorious cooked dishes, the fare "from the farm" as she put it. He mans the bar, slowly but surely dispensing divine pieces of fish. Dreams wrapped in rice and seaweed. I know their names, but I'm not going to tell you. If you don't like it, find your own impossibly amazing sushi restaurant. And remember when I said the rules were lies? That was a lie. There's one, big rule: You have to do things their way.

You could drive right by it, wedged in between a well-worn flooring showroom and a nondescript apartment building. There's no sign, except for the one that reads 'closed.' And the lights are probably off. If you want to eat, they'd better be. We get there at 6:30 and we're 8th and 9th in line. There are only two sittings a night, at 7 and 9:30pm, and the place is tiny. I've heard it holds 10 tops, but they're happy to do less. I let out a relieved sigh and my girlfriend lets me know that, despite her assurances to the contrary, she would NOT have been happy to wait for the later service. A few minutes later a couple arrives after fighting two hours of traffic. They count the bodies in front of them and the grim reality sets in. It's not happening.

Finally, the owners show up, bearing a few shopping bags that hold integral components of the night's meal. They go inside, the lights come on and we continue to wait, thrilled at the privilege of standing in the cold. I couldn't be happier. She disappears into the kitchen. He puts on his chef's uniform and goes to work behind the bar. We wait, trying not to look like we're watching as closely as we are. Seven o'clock comes and goes, with no sign that we will ever get to eat. Locals walk by the line, small smiles on their faces. They must see it all the time.

Finally, she appears and flips the sign over to 'open.' Then she hangs a small banner over the door and turns around without a glance at us. Befuddled, the line tentatively files inside, instantly filling the small space. The stragglers come in as well, hoping against hope that they can somehow find seats. The rest of us shift uncomfortably, feeling something halfway between compassion and entitlement. The Proprietress notices their vain search. "Come back at 9:30," she says in a tone that implies she does this a lot. They disappear into the cold night, still hungry.

The Chef enters from the kitchen, barely acknowledging us – his customers. He sets up a few things while his wife circulates, taking orders. The couple next to us tries to order the omakase – chef's choice – only to be told that it's available strictly by reservation, made at least ten days in advance. "But we called for weeks," he says. "Nobody ever picked up." She shrugs. Across the bar, the Chef fires up a small TV, starting a DVD of The Three Tenors. His wife comes over to us and I try to order almost everything on the menu. "First time here?" she asks. I nod. "The pieces are very big. You want less." Already planning on Tekka and its owners becoming important parts of my life, I cut our order in half. She seems satisfied. On screen, Zubin Mehta takes the stage to rapturous, Italian applause.

Beer and tea appear. A foolish soul asks for soda, only to have the Chef point brusquely at a placard above the bar that lists the 'House Rules.' "No soda," his wife says as the Chef goes to work. (Of course there are more rules! But they're all part of that big rule I mentioned before.) As Plácido, José and Luciano trade arias, we watch a man no less talented practice his art. Here is the thing that makes everything else OK. The rules aren't there to annoy us, just to make sure we're really ready to appreciate this experience. The Chef carefully slices beautiful slabs of fresh fish – ruby red tuna, golden salmon, fluorescent orange sea urchin. He takes his time and our food comes slowly, as it is meant to be eaten. Have somewhere to be? Brother, are you ever in the wrong place.

She was right – the pieces are extraordinarily big, and almost comically so. The fish hangs over the sides of the small mounds of rice, all but obscuring it. I couldn't be happier about the oversized portions, because everything is thrillingly perfect. I'd heard that, given his seniority among San Francisco's sushi chefs, Tekka's proprietor has first choice at the fish market. And now having eaten there, I completely believe it.

The salmon is thick and creamy, the scallops firm and subtle, the tuna—my fucking God, the tuna. It's presented perfectly and melts away in your mouth. I moan loudly and the Chef finally glances at me. "Bluefin," he says, with a proud look. Then he returns to his work.

Here's where I could tell you about the conversation that followed. How we talked to the couple about their restaurant, about the fish, about any number of things. But I'm not going to. Like everything else at Tekka, you need to earn it for yourself. Just know this: before we left, I tell the Chef that I am writing an article about the place and ask if I can interview him sometime. "No," he says firmly. "We have enough customers." Which is just fine with me, because I know he is counting us among them.

Want to try the Tekka experience? Head over to 537 Balboa Street and look for the tiny restaurant with no sign. First sitting is at 7pm – be in line at least 30 minutes early to have any hope of eating. Second sitting is 9:30pm, but the line starts forming again around 9pm. Or you could call 415.221.8455 and try to make a reservation. Maybe someone will answer, but don't count on it. Cash only.

Photograph and design by Kari Stevens