It’s been an epic week of eating—at times, with a chaser of Alka-Seltzer. In fact, I’m trying to rush this blog so I can get over to try Del Popolo’s epic-truck parked along Sydney Walton Square. Jon, our editor in chief, tried to get a taste of Jonathan Darksy’s pizza on Wednesday and they sold out early. It’s 11 a.m. I’ve got 30 minutes if I want to be first in line.
Last week I bum rushed Central Kitchen, a week into their opening. This great article in LA Weekly sums it up the “casual insouciance” this city’s restaurants are all about right now. (Apparently in 1985, Ruth Reichl coined this term and I intend to drop it in my next conversation and impress everyone). Following in the footsteps of Saison, Commonwealth and more, Central Kitchen is bringing cultivated nonchalance to another level. Unlike Flour + Water with its hearty pastas, Thomas McNaughton’s elevated, hyper-seasonal, delicate—bordering on ethereal—food at Central Kitchen is countered with casual service and classic rock. Tablecloths aren’t even a conversation at this point. In fact, they’ve been so willfully discarded that the next hip-chic restaurant will probably use them as an edgy statement.
For lunch last Friday, I met the charming Liam Mayclem at Piperade, an old favorite of mine that feels good about its tablecloths. I ordered their most beautiful and perfect butter lettuce salad tossed with herbs—and followed that with foie gras (may it soon r.i.p.). You know, to balance the health factor. That, plus a glass (ok, brinking on two) of the bright and refreshing Clos Pissara Garnatxa Blanca that chef Gerald Hirigoyen is making in Spain and the work meeting I attended after was particularly fun.
Then there was the party on the fire-pit-and-all roof of Hipstamatic’s very cool SoMa office to celebrate Cochon 555. Ravi Kapur, now of pop-up Liholiho Yacht Club, cooked and the food was perfect: buns filled with thick slices of pork with black bean sauce and kimchee mayo, some amazing smoked octopus, and much more, all paired with bourbon drinks shaken up in mason jars. I could go on.
Another great lunch was had at Delfina Pizzeria on that glorious Sunday last week. D.P. is one of those restaurants that I love so much I’d burned myself out on it. Until I found myself consumed by a margherita craving that wouldn’t go away. Back in the saddle, I sat down with Joe and Mia (husband and step daughter) to a meal of a perfect spring salad of chickpeas, calamari, and argula with a liberal dose of olive oil, arancini filled with beef sugo, and a skillet filled with a coil of housemade sausage topped with tangy onion jam that I could have eaten by the spoonful. Pizza? We had plenty, but I’m telling you—those three dishes were knock outs. When D.P. is on, it’s on.
There was more and there’s more to come. I also ate at Copita in Sausalito on Wednesday night and I’m going to Local’s Corner tonight. Then there’s Ravi Kapur’s pop-up on Monday (after trying his food at the party, I instantly made a reservation) and Meadowood on Wednesday night.
My mother thinks my work life is obnoxiously fancy, which it is. I never take it for granted. But Mom—just for you: Last night I stopped by my little corner store, bought one of those dubious food-in-a-bag things of chana dal from Tasty Bite Indian food (why a packet is scarier than a can, I don’t know), and heated it up in the microwave with some leftover basmati rice. I poured myself a glass of cheap rose, sat on the couch, flipped on "So You Think You Can Dance?" and made a tablecloth out of my lap. I even had seconds.
P.S. It’s now 1 pm and the pizza at Del Popolo is surely sold out.