Who knew?

Red wine and coca cola tastes like sangria! Add an orange slice and you'd never know the difference.
Amazing really.
Kudos to Bocadillos for teaching me something new.

Pleasing the hard to please

After many years of working in the restuarant industry, I think I'm a bit sensitive to the various challenges that face those in the industry: I have compassion for the lone server tasked with waiting on over half the restaurant, I feel for the server who gets snapped at (NEVER snap for your server!). Also, following my years spent in uber-polite Japan, I've become accustomed to trying very hard not to make waves. Combine these two things and you have the most polite diner a server could ask for.

All things considered, one could imagine my horror at being tasked with finding a restaurant to take someone who has a history of being a difficult diner. Apparently, this woman has never not sent her food back to the kitchen--too tough, not warm, not what she expected, etc. No table is good enough for her--she always requests a different seat than the one the hostess offers. These things make me shrink away with embarrassment. Not only did I have to choose the restaurant (and bear the disdain if it was unsatisfactory), but I would have to dine with this woman as well! So it was in my best interest to pick a winner...and what a winner I picked.

I have dined at Bacar (which means 'wine goblet' in Latin) once before, but I was in the throes of a breakup and couldn't really taste the food. Last night, I was happy to once again have the opportunity to feel swanky at a restaurant that boasts over a 1,000 bottles of wine (over 100 available by the glass) and nightly jazz at the bar. The bar was almost too rowdy, with venture capitalists knocking back wines and cocktails for the "Bacar break" (aka happy hour), but luckily, no one looked twice at me or M., pierced, tatted and in jeans (the cocktails are THAT good).

After a glass of pinot gris, our difficult diner arrived (henceforth to be known as D.D.). She had a seat with us in the bar, next to the tinkling piano and booming V.C. voices and mused, what a great place! Only a local would know this area! (It's only SoMa, but this is a New Yorker who doesn't venture south of Market. Ever.) Regardless, point for me.

As our reservation time drew near, we were taken to a back booth across the lively dining room. I grew nervous, perhaps D.D. wouldn't approve of the table...but no, she slid into the booth with a smile. 2-0.

We were all enamored with the menu; there was a significant selection of oysters, interesting appetizers, and truly innovative entrees. Where do you ever find fiddlehead ferns on a menu? Unfortunately, they're out of season right now, but still....

As our decision-making came to an end, D.D. eyed a nearby diner who looked to be having the salmon, something she was considering ordering. The waitress confirmed that, yes, that was the salmon. D.D. grimaced, ugh--looks tough, she said. 2-1.

Final decisions had to be made. We started with a caesar and star route farms little gem salad. The caesar was standard, a bit dry, but the gem salad! With avocado, del cabo cherry tomatoes, house made bacon and the most mouth-watering buttermilk dressing ever, I wanted to lick the plate.

For entrees, I was feeling adventurous and had the pan roasted drunken quail. I've never had quail before, and definitely never drunken quail! It was so cute, with its little bones (I'll admit it, I felt a little guilty), and it came on a bed of spaetzle with rhubarb-apple compote. All of the flavors worked miraculously well-together (even if you're anti mixing the sweet and savory).

D.D. opted for the steak, mesquite grilled painted hill rib eye, with fingerling potatoes. Amazingly, no complaints. 3-1.

The stand-out entree, though, was M.'s kurobuta pork chop (Japanese black hog) and mashed yams. The pork was juicy, tender, and totally melted in your mouth like no other pork chop ever has.

The portions were appropriately sized so that we were ready for dessert. Let's face it, we're always ready for dessert. M. and I had been eyeing the olive oil cake since the early afternoon while browsing Bacar's website. We were nearly swayed by the cherry and peach shortcake, but we stayed the course and were aptly rewarded. The warm cake was slightly toasty on the outside, but not dry on the inside, and dare I say it?? Moist. Yes, you're allowed to use that adjective for cakes and muffins, but nothing else! Eck, I hate that word. Anyway...

The cake was accompanied with caramel-baked pears and fleur de sel gelato. Fleur de sel? you ask. Expensive French sea salt. Yep, salt gelato. It was actually remarkable, the way the gelato cut the sweetness of the caramel and cake. We were all in heaven, sipping our Peet's coffee. And I, particularly, was revelling in my 3-1 success, as not one item got sent back to the kitchen, and not once did I feel like crawling under the table in embarrassment. M. patted me on the back as we left, she knows I'm good at pleasing the hard to please.

Bacar
448 Brannan Street, SF 94107
415.904.4100

Welcome...

Alright party people--I've caved, buckled, and completely given in. I thought that happened when I joined myspace, but now it's official.

Welcome to my blog, Sangria & Sunshine (remember the summer of '04?? aahhhh....).

I'm going to do my best of taking my many friends' advice and create a sort of food column here (and alcohol, of course, hence the sangria). I can't promise that you will be saved from any gritty personal details in this blog, but chances are, you'll be more interested in that than any restaurant review I could give.

Anyway, I thank you kindly for reading. I hope to win you back again and again with my mouth-watering descriptions of various San Francisco culinary delights, well-mixed drinks, and hot, sweaty sex. Yum!