VittlesVamp

A Gold Star

Hafta give a "thumbs up" to Ryan at The West Indies Cricket Blog, who hosts my Web site. He has been attempting to switch servers over the last few days and things were getting a bit wonky. Came close to losing a year's worth of VittlesVamp postings. Ack! Needless to say, it all worked out in the end and I live to Vamp again - with all previous Vamps intact.

So, a "Gold Star" for Ryan.

And, speaking of stars, looks like Philadelphia's prolific restauranteur Stephen Starr is starting up yet another high-stakes eatery in the City of Brotherly Love - a French spot called Parc.

It's becoming more and more clear that Starr will accept nothing short of dining domination in Philly. But now, let's see if he can get a handle on the New York scene with his Meatpacking District spin-offs of Buddakan and Morimoto.

A bit of sage advice for Starr: Be aware, there's very little "brotherly love" to be had in the Big Apple. (Unless Chelsea counts.)

Move Over Algonquin

There's a new "roundtable" in town. Well, not really. Not in the same town. In San Francisco to be exact.

After a day of touring Sausalito - way too crammed with tourist trap gift shops, but the glorious ferry ride made it all worth while - I was peckish. Before boarding the ferry in the AM, I ravaged a breakfast sandwich stuffed with fluffy scrambled eggs, roasted red bell peppers and melty gruyere from Lulu Petite, a quaint deli located at the Ferry Building Marketplace. Quite sated, I'd skipped lunch, but now I was in dire need of sustenance.

But I didn't need to worry. I had secured a reservation at one of San Francisco's most popular restaurants, Jardiniere. (Pictured above.) A dreamy Deco throwback to a more civilized time, when we "dressed" for dinner and wouldn't consider breaking bread before downing a perfect martini, the dining room's French-California fare was legendary with award-winning Chef Traci Des Jardins behind the stove.

Tonight - I wouldn't just find sustenance on the menu, but truly vibrant cuisine.

Seated with Hi, Ho and our mutual pals Paul and Christina, I could sense some apprehension within the party. I looked around and noticed that the surrounding tables were filled with decidedly older diners, who had a stuffy air about them.

Oh, right. Jardiniere was up the street fromDavies Symphony Hall. This was the invasion of the "San Francisco Symphonistas" - the slightly uptight, overwound crowd that pays regular homage to Musical Director Michael Tilson Thomas.

We could ride them out.

And, within minutes of getting an array of gorgeous appetizers, including a rich Duck Liver Mousse with Garlic Croutons and Housemade Pickles, and a plate of Belgian Endive, Seasonal Figs and Prosciutto di San Daniele Salad with Honey-Thyme Vinaigrette and Marcona Almonds, we could have cared less about our neighbors. We were having a grand time!

In between bites of our various dishes and sips of Pinot Noir, substantial talk took off and zingers flew at will. We buzzed on about the nature of journalism, West Coast vs. East Coast, politics, Ho's ass, women in business and more, until it was time for cheese.

The restaurant had a cheese cave that beckoned us from the evening's get go - and only the ripest specimens were featured on tonight's menu. We dove into all five - from the lush and creamy Brebiou, a bloomy rind sheep's milk cheese from the Pyrenees to the Daylesford from Gloucestershire, a full-bodied raw, organic cow's milk varietal.

We ooh-ed. We ahh-ed.

We began to get silly, as only overstuffed wouldbe intellectuals can. (Oh my gosh - Did this mean we were as 'stuffy' as the Symphonistas? No. Overstuffed - as in gluttonously full to the rim. Although I will say that we were beginning to fit in with the crowd now - the Symphonistas were at the symphony and the crowd had gotten a good deal more attractive.)

Dessert was required. My selection: a warm, decadent Macadamia-Coconut Tart with Coconut Sorbet.

And, I thought I was silly before.

Christina was just as taken with her Cappucino Panna Cotta, surrounded by icy cold Granita and Paul seemed lost in blissful reverie while inhaling his dessert of Dark Chocolate Cake.

Hi and Ho were good boys. They simply ordered hot beverages, while Hi taunted the waiter relentlessly.

The bill arrived.

Christina and I took the conversation seriously about women being empowered in the business world and felt empowered enought to pick-up the tab for the gentlemen. (Next time, I think we'll let the gents have a chance to feel empowered. Gary Danko seems like a sensible spot for it.)

We chatted for a bit. Downed a bit more of the tea and cappucinos. And, suddenly we hated to leave. This was our table. At least for tonight.

But, we had no choice. We had to go home, back to Telegraph Hill.

It was a lovely evening. Dorothy Parker would have eaten her heart out - or at least eaten a bite of my Macadamia-Coconut Tart.

But somehow I think she would have found a better way home than a Muni bus.

On to San Francisco

That's right folks. I'm skipping my sojourn to Scottsdale. Why? It was work - and nothing but work. Pretty resort for it, but dang if I had any time to enjoy it.

So, much more productive to just move on along to San Francisco, where I was put up (and put up with) at the lovely new North Beach home of Hi and Ho. And, with Hi and Ho committed to a work schedule on Thursday and Friday, I was left to my own devices...What to do? Who to hang with?

Lucky for me, Hi and Ho weren't the only game in town. My pal Karen had recently moved back to the city and is happily ensconced in an honest-to-goodness food writing position at a Bay Area magazine. (I'm quite jealous!) Lunch was planned.

And, with Karen in a position of foodie majesty, she selected a "hot" new spot - well actually a "hot" new re-creation of an old spot - Cafe de la Presse. The folks at the celebrated SF restaurant Aqua recently took over what once had been a rather unremarkable coffee shop/newsstand and turned it into what they hoped would be a remarkable bistro. Early reviews had been good. Karen snagged a coveted 12:30pm reservation and since she wasn't reviewing the place, allowed the restaurant's flack to give the front of the house a "heads up" about our arrival.

We were both looking forward to an efficient, if not excellent, eatery experience.

We received neither.

If I were to go with a more accurate descriptor, also beginning with an "e," I would have to go for "erratic." And, that's for both the service and the food. Our waitress seemed flustered from the moment she arrived at our table - and didn't improve through the course of the meal. Silverware and plates were forgotten - as was a most necessary cocktail. Not good.

Karen and I decided to try a range of items from what appeared to be a fairly pricey lunch menu. Hmm. With the Aqua pedigree and these pricetags this Frenchy fare was bound to be worth it - non?

Non, indeed. The tasty sounding Provencal Tarte was more like an oversized Carr's Table Water Cracker topped with a smattering of overly sweet-savory ingredients, than the decadent tartlet we had expected. The Pate Plate was a misery - with the housemade Rillette devoid of flavor and palatable texture - actually Play-Doh came to mind.

We hoped the main courses to be better.

What a waste of hope. My $18 Nicoise Salad was flavorful enough, but paltry in portion. And, the Tuna atop seemed out of a can. C'mon. For 18 smackaroos, you could at least grill a wee ruby red piece of tuna steak. Karen's $18 Steak Frite wasn't much better - a sad lump of beef served without garnish or sauce, alongside a collection of disappointingly uncrunchy fries.

We were ready to flee. But, the very sweet hostess, who was well aware of Karen's food writing position, swept down and insisted that we have dessert. We acquiesced and ordered the Cheese Plate. The hostess frowned. Just the Cheese Plate? She swore that we'd be missing out on something special if we didn't also get one of the cafe's luscious pastries. We acquiesced once again, and ordered the Strawbery Tartlet to follow the cheese.

Once the Cheese Plate arrived, we understood why the hostess had worn a frown when we ordered it. One look at the puny plate, with all of TWO cheeses on it, and we were frowning too. For $12 we received a few "Kate Moss"-slender slices of one selection and two wee lumps of goat cheese drowned in olive oil.

Yummy. Not!

The Strawberry Tartlet isn't even worth writing about at this point. You get the idea.

Needless to say that this lunch had one saving grace - my friend Karen. And, happily for me, she is quite a grace. So, lunch, although not a culinary delight, was a delight nonetheless.

But, you know me - I still needed some sort of gourmet satisfaction. I headed off to Alamo Square and toured the Hayes Valley and then couldn't hold out any longer. I needed to have my epicurian itch scratched.

Thank goodness for Absinthe Brasserie and Bar, a glorious refuge of refinement and quality cocktails. One look at their drink list and I knew I had come to right place. And, one sip of my 21 Hayes (pictured above) and I knew I had ordered the right cocktail.

My itch was scratched. I let out a sigh of relief and pleasure.

Now, my holiday had officially begun...

And So It Begins - In Newark

What could be more grand than eating at Newark Airport? Nothing, says I. And, my journey Westward began with a grand meal indeed - at the Gallagher's outpost in Terminal C3.

I thought the overly salted Onion Soup topped with mounds of gloppy Muenster Cheese was going to be the highlight, when suddenly I was presented with "silverware" for my Steak Salad. (Photo above.)

C'mon folks. Don't you think me gifted enough to wreak havoc with the fork alone? I promise you - I am.

So, this is what U.S. high-level security has come to - plastic cutlery.