BakeSpite.net

“This broth is great! I wonder what their secret is? Why’s it so good?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s basically just liquid pig.”

(Saiwaii Ramen, 2240 Irving Street in San Francisco. It’s new, and it’s pretty decent.)

It seems like my life is full of New Yorkers. I love them, but as we all know, the common thread that binds people from New York City is their adamant, unshakable belief that NYC is innately superior to all other points on the map. That’s fine. Home town pride is natural. I still have a deep fondness for my home towns of Flint, MI and Lubbock, TX… even though I really shouldn’t.

The one area that New York pride really grinds on my nerves, though, is when it comes to pizza. New York-style pizza is, in my opinion, just shy of inedible, with their platonic ideal consisting of plasticky cheese and a miniscule hint of sauce scraped haphazardly across a thin, cardboard-like crust. I have eaten New York-style pizza in New York from New York pizzerias that have been canonized by New Yorkers, and that pizza was unremarkable at best, awful at worst. It’s even worse when certain unnamed people at 1UP insist on buying San Francisco-made attempts at NYC-style pizza for staff meetings and parties. Bad as New York-style pizza is, true disaster strikes when people who aren’t currently living in New York City try to mimic it.

Frankly, the whole thing put me off pizza for a few years. I’d convinced myself that I just don’t like pizza altogether… until one night last summer, when I walked past a local pizzeria called Irving Pizza and bought a slice on a whim. It was fantastic, and it reminded me that I don’t hate pizza — I just hate the oppressive fascism of New York pizza adherents.

Custom margherita slice from Irving Pizza.

Irving Pizza, so named because it is located on Irving Street, made me love pizza again.

The crust is thicker than New York pizza, yet it’s thinner than the Chicago tradition demands. It’s soft but not doughy, and the crust edges are reminiscent of a good ciabatta; tender and spongy inside, but crisp and brown outside.

The sauce is rich and well-seasoned. It’s not applied too heavily, but it still has enough of a presence that you can actually taste it, unlike the faint intaglio of red you see on New York pizza. I’m not entire sure what the cheese blend consists of, but it’s definitely more than just mozzarella. It’s melty and always perfectly browned, and thick enough to make you feel like you’re actually eating something substantial without giving you what Cat refers to as “cheese belly.”

The best part about Irving Pizza, however, is their lunch deal. Four bucks gets you a huge slice of pizza and a gigantic drink. (They no longer advertise the special on their menu, probably because it’s such a good deal.) Their afternoon slice selection is pretty poor — usually just cheese, pepperoni, combo, and Hawaiian — but there’s a secret. If you ask them to add a couple of toppings to a slice of cheese, they’ll send it back to the kitchen and have it tricked out to your custom specs. They accomplish this by dropping on whatever toppings you ask for, sprinkling on a bit more cheese, and running the thing through their oven again to reheat it and seal the toppings with the added cheese.

The margherita shown above is the fruit of this particular cheat; as you can see, they don’t scrimp on the toppings when you ask for a custom slice. They covered the thing with huge, fresh slices of tomato and a ton of shredded basil. Actually, this slice is a bit more meagre than normal, since they usually include a lot more cheese on the top layer. So long as the added toppings don’t fall off en route to my mouth, though, I’m not too picky.

For my money, Irving Pizza is probably the best, most satisfying pizza I’ve ever eaten. It strikes a perfect balance between taste, texture, and substance. Of course, pizza’s a matter of taste, and since BakeSpite’s co-proprietor is rather ferociously from New York City… you can probably expect a rebuttal soon. But hey, if you’re ever in San Francisco, I recommend you try Irving Pizza to decide for yourself — it’s just a block south of Golden Gate Park, right at 19th Ave.

Man, now I want some pizza.

A three-day holiday weekend with lots of sunshine and mild weather? That can only mean one thing: It is Memorial Day, and there is time for crepes. And, obviously, terrible puns about crepes. But don’t blame me; I didn’t start it. No, the culpability for that rests squarely on the shoulders of the proprietors of our neighborhoods creperie, the Crepe Vine.

I’m not sure if this style of crepe is mainly a Bay Area/Northern California thing or if it’s something that became suddenly popular as soon as I moved here, but I’d never seen them before I moved out to San Francisco where they are a ubiquitous weekend brunch food. The formula is always the same: A savory crepe served with home-fried potatoes and a small salad. It’s not something I indulge in often, but when I do I always enjoy it.

(You’ll have to forgive the sub-par photography, as I forgot to bring along the real camera and was left to take iPhone snaps in the glare of the early afternoon sun.)

Above is Cat’s choice of crepe, called the San Francisco. You might wonder what combination of ingredients the owners of the Crepe Vine have deemed worthy of naming after their home town, but the answer I fear is mildly underwhelming. It’s just salmon, greens, onions, dijon, and something to do with capers. Me, I tend to think of salmon as more of a Pacific Northwest thing, whereas the essence of San Francisco would be some sort of Asian fusion. But clearly they’re the ones raking in the American Funbuxx™ with their popular crepe restaurant, whereas I’m some dude who barely ever remembers to update his amateurish food blog, so what do I know?

My own selection, which is much less disgusting in person than the photo would suggest, was the Tuscan. That angry green blob on top is a smear of pesto, and I swear it looks far less toxic in person. Unlike the San Francisco, the Tuscan actually seems somewhat representative of its namesake location, consisting as it does of chicken, feta cheese, pesto and almonds, and big chunks of tomato. Although I don’t doubt someone from Tuscany might sneer at this offering; it is, at the very least, representative of the stereotype of that region.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter what you put in a crepe, because by the simple virtue of being in a crepe it will be delicious. Crepe Vine doesn’t make the absolute best crepes in the world, but they’re definitely tasty. Having those wonderfully carcinogenic home fries on the side doesn’t hurt, either. Those things are delicious in that special way that only something fried to the point of carbon in a pool of heart-stopping fat can be.

It probably goes without saying that Crepe Vine and other similar creperies offer dessert crepes as well, usually made with things like lemon sauce and Nutella, but my wallet and waist line can only afford so much indulgence in a single day. That will be a treat for a different day.

I’ve been back on the exercise wagon for a few weeks, and it’s really made me appreciate how much better I feel when I’m active. It’s not even really about weight, honestly; I just like how energized I feel. Also, when I come home from work and hop on the elliptical for 45 minutes, I sleep really well that night. Like, really well. As in, I put my head on the pillow and I’m comatose within seconds.

(It doesn’t hurt that my standard workout is exactly the length of an episode of Lost — a handy coincidence now that Netflix streaming to consoles is a beautiful reality.)

So, now that I’m back in action, I don’t feel quite so guilty about the bumps along the road. The scrumptious, delicious bumps.

Meet today’s bump: Beard Papa. I have no idea why this pastry is called a Beard Papa — well, no, that’s not true. I know exactly why it’s called a Beard Papa. The Beard Papa chain is Japanese, and therefore its name is made of random English words slammed violently together like atoms in a cyclotron.

Beard Papas are far more appetizing than their name would suggest, which is to say that they are not hairy old men. They are cream puffs, and they are incredibly good cream puffs at that. The litmus test here is the fact that I will eat them; I’ve always hated cream puffs, but these are different. The pastry is super light, crisp on the outside and extremely airy inside. The cream itself is, you know, actually cream, not some vile concoction of corn syrup and dairy solids. The take-out packaging recommends you consume your purchase within the same day, because honest-to-god fresh dairy products and baked-daily pastries don’t keep.

The Beard Papa experience is elegant in its simplicity; it is the In ‘N’ Out Burger of desserts. On any given day, you are allowed your choice of three different flavors of cream: Vanilla, chocolate, or the flavor of the week. Once you make that selection, you may then choose whether you want a plain cream puff or an eclair. And that… is the extent of your choices. OK, Beard Papa also sells a small variety of croissants and cheesecakes, but I don’t really know why you would go to Beard Papa and order something that is not a cream puff. Would you go to a fine Italian restaurant and order macaroni and cheese? No, you would not, because you are not a heathen. Likewise, you would not go to a Beard Papa and order cheesecake. Some thing are simply Not Done, at least not by the properly civilized.

Pictured above is this week’s flavor, coffee, served eclair style. (The shop’s signage said the current flavor was pumpkin, so the reality disappointed me… but only slightly, because there is no such thing as a bad Beard Papa.) Based on my pre-Beard Papa experiences, I always thought eclairs were disgusting, soggy, creme-filled donuts topped with cheap, sugary chocolate frosting, but Beard Papa has taught me otherwise. Eclairs are, in reality, delicious fresh cream puffs dipped in top-quality dark chocolate. Eclairs are, in reality, wonderful. The chocolate shell is pleasantly thin, too, so it doesn’t add much heft to the basic puff shell. One of the finest attributes of a Beard Papa is that its flavor and texture are absolutely decadent, yet it’s light and modestly sized so it doesn’t sit in your belly like a rock. This remains true even as an eclair.

I only know of three Beard Papa shops in the world; one is in Shibuya, Tokyo, Japan. The other two are, inexplicably, a block apart in downtown San Francisco. They are both less than a ten-minute walk from my office, which means the fact that I do not buy one daily and simply roll to work may surprise you! But delicious things like this — even if weight-watching weren’t an issue — shouldn’t be eaten too frequently. A Beard Papa is not the kind of thing you want to take for granted. It is the sort of thing you eat only occasionally, perhaps to celebrate a great success in life, or maybe because someone you love has come downtown to join you for a rare lunch date. You share Beard Papas; you savor them; you appreciate them.

And then, the next day, you jog up a mountain to burn off the extra calories. Yeah, I have my Saturday morning cut out for me.

P.S., did you know that if you click on a photo twice, you’ll see a much larger version of that image? In this case, I feel doing so is a necessity in order to properly appreciate the delicate interior of a Beard Papa.

Far be it for me to turn this blog into a “hey guess what rad thing I ate” bragging fest, but sometimes you just gotta. We were in Baltimore a few weeks ago, and Cat’s sister and brother-in-law took us to a restaurant called Salt. Funnily enough, we’d actually been the ones to introduce them to the place; Cat suggested sending them a gift certificate for her sister’s birthday, based on good reviews. They liked Salt so much they’ve been back several times and wanted to share it with us. And who are we to say no to such kindness?

Salt may not be the best restaurant I’ve ever eaten at, but it certainly gave it the ol’ college try. I probably could have made a meal out of the appetizers that made their way to the table, honestly. Actually, I probably could have stopped at the Kobe beef slider with foie gras… ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Buster Brown: Bourbon + vermouth + bitters = surprisingly tasty.

Dinner began with drinks. No one makes gin & tonics like Scott, so I went with the only house cocktail that didn’t sound disgustingly sweet, the Buster Brown. It’s a mix of bourbon, vermouth, and bitters with a maraschino cherry on top. Kind of like a sundae… a potent, boozy sundae. I rarely drink whiskey, so this was all the drink I needed for the night. (For the week, really.) Strong stuff, but it had a good flavor.

Duck fat fries and truffle aioli? This'll work with my diet, right?

Fortunately, we didn’t waste any time rounding up some fatty food to soak up the alcohol. This little tableau here is a basket of French fries cooked in duck fat and served with three different kinds of aoili: malt vinegar, chipotle, and truffle. This might actually be the single most fattening thing I’ve ever ingested.

The thing about fat is that it is delicious, and these fries — each one guaranteed to necessitate a coronary bypass — were incredibly delicious. I’d actually eaten something similar years before at a place called Villegas in Okemos, Michigan (which Yelp tells me is tragically no longer in business), but these were a step beyond what they served at Villegas. I’m pretty sure the duck fat made the difference.

The fries were fantastic: Extremely rich in flavor, crisply fried yet tender inside, and not greasy in the least. They were lightly seasoned with herbs, just enough to add a little depth to the flavor but not so much as to be obtrusive. And the aiolis were exceptional. The malt vinegar was potent but not overpowering, the chipotle was creamy but left a lingering heat, and the truffle was rich and earthy.

Possibly the highlight of the night: Kobe beef, foie gras, and truffle aioli sliders.

However, the fries were nothing next to the real highlight of the evening: The slider. I’m sorry that this photograph makes this dish look so revolting, because it was the furthest thing from it. I tasted only a tiny bite of the slider myself, but that was enough to fill my life with joy. It’s extraordinary.

And why shouldn’t it be? The patty was Kobe beef — and while the concept of Kobe beef has been cheapened by less-than-stellar meat that disreputable people have been known trot out to bump up prices, this was Kobe beef worthy of the name. Buttery, juicy, rich, generally just incredible. The patty was topped with a portion of foie gras, and the crown of the perfectly baked bun was slathered with a dollop of that truffle aioli they served with the fries. The aoili was topped with red onion marmalade, which admittedly sounds kind of gross. Please accept my assurance that it was not.

Chris Kohler tells me they serve an entire full-sized burger exactly like this at Burger Bar, but honestly as rich as that single half-bite I took was, it’s hard to imagine eating the entirely slider… let alone a quarter-pounder.

The lobster roll and shellfish chowder appetizer was basically a full meal.

Cat’s sister ordered a lobster roll and a cup of chowder. I tried a tiny bit, and it was very good. Sadly, I was still basking in the glow of the slider, so it’s hard for me to really remember much about this. I seem to remember something about… bread? And some kind of seafood, maybe?

I don't know whose idea it was to put ox tail in ravioli, but I love that person.

Actually, Salt seems to excel at beef-related dishes. The seafood appetizers were fine, but anything involving red meat jumped straight to “incredible.” This tiny fellow is an ox tail ravioli. Again, I tried just a tiny bite of it, and it was exceptional. The wrapper was delicate and melted in the mouth; the meat was flavorful and potent, but it too melted in the mouth. Accompanying the oxtail was potato purée, a flake of shaved parmesan, more truffle, and butter blended with chives. It’s a shame the ravioli was so small, because it encompassed a lot of wonderfully complementary flavors all at once and really merited further exploration.

The salad reinforces my theory that grapes are just olives who were disowned by the family.

However, I had to save room for my own appetizer (the rest were for other people and I merely sampled them). I decided to go with a salad, based on the logic that it would be the healthy selection. I didn’t expect for it to be soaked in a creamy hazelnut dressing, though. But at least all that fat helped soak up the Buster Brown, I suppose.

It was a delicious salad, which is neatly in keeping with the tradition established by the rest of the meal. Despite the photo, it didn’t feature olives; rather, those are grapes. An unorthodox choice for a salad at first glance, but actually a great choice. The bulk of the salad was a combination of radicchio and fennel, which made for a very bitter base. The sweetness of the grapes was a perfect way to offset the flavor of the greens, and the rich nutty flavor of the dressing tied it all together in a full yet subtle way.

It’s always nice to have one of those meals where you can take it slowly and savor every bite. Because, let’s be frank, most food you buy just isn’t worth it — at least not on our budget, anyway. Salt serves food worth savoring. I think it’s entirely possible that it took us longer to work our way through the appetizer course than it did for me to write about it. It’s one of those places where every bite is memorable.

Cat and I walked over to Howard’s Cafe at 9th and Judah for lunch this morning. It was an extremely early lunch, but I just can’t bring myself to call it brunch. Brunch has always been one of those things other people do, kind of like watching football or owning handguns. I know it happens, and it’s popular, even! But something about it bothers me on a level I can’t quite explain, so as far as I’m concerned it was just a premature lunch. Truth be told, I’m not so crazy about diners, either.

But Cat loves going to diners for brunch on the weekends from time to time, so I nod and smile and ask for the lunch menu. She has brunch, I have lunch, and we meet peacefully in the middle.

And I do enjoy the ambiance at Howard’s. It’s relaxed, and it’s built with a huge plate glass view of one of the neighborhood’s most trafficked intersections, so you can people-watch as you eat (and feel your stomach knot in horror as inattentive pedestrians come within inches of being flung beneath the wheels of the N-Judah train). Its employees fall into the “likable and friendly” category rather than the “surly fat guy in a greasy wife-beater” category. You can tell that most of the customers tend to be regulars, and the staff knows their tastes and habits by heart. I can definitely see the appeal; the problem is that most food I associate with diners tends to be stuff I can make on my own, like bacon and eggs. And the way I make that sort of thing is much less deleterious to your cardiovascular health.

Fresh-made New England clam chowder, garnished with... Saltines. (Photo: Jeremy)

Fortunately, Howard’s isn’t all just breakfast food, and they seem pretty good about making everything from scratch. The soup of the day, for instance, is always New England clam chowder on Saturdays, and it’s always their own idiomatic take on the dish: Not as thick or oily as most places serve, but not watery, either. It’s rich and a little buttery, and full of vegetables and herbs. “Flavorful” would be the word. That’s a good word when it comes to food, so I approve.

I love clam chowder, but I also love being able to fit into my jeans, so I was content simply to watch Cat enjoy a cup of soup as a starter.

House omelette, with the home fries cooked French-style. (Photo: Jeremy)

Since Cat cheerfully endorses the “brunch” thing, she almost always orders a breakfast-style meal at diners. Pancakes, eggs and toast, that sort of thing. Today she went with the house omelette, which is made with spinach and bacon and served with sour cream. It also comes with a toasted English muffin and home fries, although she substituted French fries in place of the latter. She also sprinkled the omelette with jalapeño Tabasco sauce, adding a little heat to complement the sour cream and a hint of sweetness to match the bacon’s saltiness. I haven’t eaten an omelette in about 15 years, but I have to admit it looked compellingly tasty.

Fish and chips, for that international touch, wot wot. (Photo: Jeremy)

As for myself, I accept that it’s impossible to eat healthily at a diner, so I figured I might as well just surrender and go all-out by ordering a portion of fish and chips. I was a little disappointed by the fish; I prefer the smoother style of batter-dipped fish to the rough, crumbly breading Howard’s uses. But they do make their fish and chips in-house from scratch as well, and the cod inside the batter was tasty and fresh. Whatever they use in their breading is delicious with a sprinkle of malt vinegar. I tend to skip the vinegar on my fish and chips, because it often overpowers the flavor of the food, but their cook put together a sufficiently bold batter that the vinegar becomes an accent rather than the main flavor.

On the whole, I prefer eating places where the secret ingredient isn’t year-old grease… but that’s diners for ya. And so far as diners go, Howard’s is pretty respectable fare. Even if they do take cash only.