AOC

LA is not my city. I could never live with the traffic. But I’m learning to love it when the subject is food.

Case in point: AOC. Consider it modern, California tapas. I knew I’d love place from the moment they set down the menu—the first page is nothing but cheese and olives.

AOC is not necessarily a vegetarian Shangri-La, but there are certainly plenty of options to keep a girl happy. Far more than most restaurants, I’m happy to say.

We started with the Root Vegetable Salad with Burrata, Ginger and Mint. The burrata/mint combo was inspired—subtlety defined as a salad dressing. It had that kind of effortless balance that actually takes a shitload of work. We also had the Marinated Beets, Olives, Fried Chickpeas and Feta Salad. Fried chickpeas, dude. Who knew? So crispy. So light. And the feta was as mild as a day in May. (That is to say a day in May if you live somewhere other than San Francisco. May here is apt to be colder than January.)

Next, from the wood-burning oven, came Cauliflower with Curry and Red Vinegar. And you know what a whore I am for roasted cauliflower. They nailed it, too. Just like my lovers at Pizzeria Delfina. It was cooked to a creamy surrender.

And finally, a Farro and Black Rice dish with Pinenuts and Currants. This was a reco from our waitress, and I’m so glad she steered us toward it. I might have overlooked the dish otherwise, and headed for the Crushed Fingerlings with Crème Fraiche. (I had the potatoes on a previous visit, and have dreamed of them ever since.) The farro and rice was a hit, though, with the currents adding a flirtatious hint of sweetness.

So, yeah. AOC. It kind of makes up for the boob jobs and chin implants in LA. But not really.

Goin’ South

Remember that CD “Goin’ South” from the ads on TV? You know, the one that featured all those trashy country-rock anthems like “Hold On Loosely” and “Bad to the Bone”?

Yeah, that was cool.

South Food and Wine Bar, though…not so cool. Not bad, per se, but certainly nowhere near as entertaining as an evening spent with a sixer of PBR and your boom box cranked with Georgia Satellites.

Perhaps I’m getting old, but the noise level at South verged on deafening. (Maybe too much Skynyrd in my past.) I’d suggest they invest in noise dampening tiles, but they already had them on the ceiling. Oh well.

They started us off with bread bits (think Fondue-sized chunks) served with Duka. Or is it Dooka? Or Ducca? Or Dookuh? Mac nuts, peanuts, cumin, coriander and sea salt, chopped up in a tiny condiment bowl, along with house-made olive oil. I guess I just didn’t get it. I mean, individually, all those ingredients are wonderful. In combination, however, South managed to create a flavor-free poultice that didn’t stick to the bread. (Read: Hard to get in mouth.)

My Haloumi Salad was tasty enough, with Apple, Fennel, Walnuts, Beetroot and Wild Rocket, but nothing about it wowed me.

I was psyched to see a vegetarian entrée on the menu—a Wild Mushroom, Sunchoke and Pecorino Pie—but again, it didn’t knock my socks off. It was good in that way that anything salty and bubbly and baked is good. So I suppose I ought not complain.

I dunno. Maybe I’m being overly harsh after my brush with heaven at Cyrus . But riddle me this, Batman—must every dish be served with a garnish of chives sprinkled atop it? Like, my partner’s Lamb, my friend’s Beef, and my Pie, all festooned with chives. It reminded me of the omnipresent sprigs of parsley at Denny’s. (Parsley with my pancakes? Sure. Makes perfect sense.)

I guess we could have been left with a more positive impression had we not ordered dessert. The Coconut Rice Pudding was a glutinous bore. I mean for chrissake, people, it’s RICE and COCONUT! Two of the most delicious things known to humanity. And yet.

So, in summary, points for having a veggie option—especially when the delicacies from Down Under tend to be so meaty—but the joint ain’t up to the hype. Unlike Pure Prairie League. They deserve the kudos, for sure. (Amie, what are you gonna do?)

Cyrus

I cried.

That’s my two-word review. I think it just about says it all.

But being the long-winded rambler that I am, I’ll give you the full-meal deal.

Dinner at Cyrus was nothing short of transcendent. There were moments during my meal when I literally shook my head in disbelief. Where did these flavors come from? How did something so wonderful wind up on my fork? If I took smaller bites, could I make each course last just a little bit longer? It was like reading a book you wished would never end.

People, one dish included a flavor I had never tasted before. I think my partner said it best: “It’s like seeing a color you never knew existed.” At that point, the only thing I could manage to write in my little notebook was “WTF?! OMG.” I was reduced to text messaging-isms, for chrissake.

But let me back up.

Countdown to Cyrus

Saturday night, people. It’s ON. Finally, dinner at Cyrus.

I just called the restaurant to let them know they’ll have a veggie in the house. They were sweet as punch about it.

I. Can’t. Wait.

Happy Birthday

Break out the cake and candles. A Few Reservations is now one year old. Soon, I’ll have a toddler on my hands.

If you’re feeling nostalgic, why not check out some old posts?  Like this hissy fit over NOPA, or this gushing love-fest for Andina up in Portland, Oregon. And don’t forget, you can always find a complete list of reviews here.

Reco for Phoenix?

Gotta make a quick business trip to Phoenix/Scottsdale this week. Does anyone out there have a restaurant recommendation for me? I’m hoping to avoid the horror of an Olive Garden next to a strip mall.

Yet another fabulous meal at Canteen

I don’t want to sound like a broken record by heaping even more praise on Chef Dennis Leary, but damn, that man (and his assistant Luis Contreras), can cook.

We ate at Canteen last night because we wanted a sure thing. The meal HAD to be good, and there HAD to be a decent entrée for me to enjoy. I wasn’t in the mood for exploration or disappointment. And Canteen delivered. Even from a menu with just four entrée options, they always include a vegetarian dish, prepared with the same delicate consideration as their meat dishes.

Thanks, Canteen. You made my night.

Local Kitchen and Wine Merchant

Here’s a word of warning: When you go to enter Local Kitchen and Wine Merchant, march straight ahead and open the wide glass door. Don’t make the same mistake I did—which was to stare at the broad expanse of glass, figure it must be a window, then try to enter the restaurant through the locked storefront entrance on the left. The lesson here? Sometimes beautiful design can make you feel stupid.

Local Kitchen and Wine Merchant feels like the hipster loft of your imaginary friend who writes for Wallpaper and listens to nothing but Hotchip. Cool in both senses of the word.

The food was average, verging on pretty damn good. The Pear and Cheese appetizer—Roquefort served with Caramelized Pear, Hazelnuts, Mache and Black Pepper Gastrique—was a nice way to start. I moved on to the Roasted Parsnip Soup with Maple Syrup and Walnuts, which was apparently vegan, and quite well-balanced. The walnuts gave the soup a nice bit of heft. Then I opted for a salad instead of a pizza or the solitary vegetarian entrée, which was a Butternut Squash Ravioli with Sage and Brown Butter. (Thankfully, my friend went for the ravioli and I got to mooch some. The sage was fried and tasty as all get out, and the brown butter was done just right.)

Here’s the mysterious thing, though. None of Local’s salads are vegetarian. The Butter and Watercress comes with Bacon. The Ceasar with obvious Anchovies. The Nicoise with the usual Tuna, and the Boquerones and Shaved Fennel, well, with Boquerones (anchovies with a fancy-pants name). Bummer. I chose the Fennel, sans fishies, and hoped for the best. Usually, leaving out a key ingredient—especially one that adds so much punch—is a recipe for disaster. But my salad turned out pretty swell without the sardines. Its Orange Segments, Sherry Vinaigrette and Roasted Pistachios stood on their own, all bright and smiley with citrus.

The Tomato and Basil Pizza was a bit of a disappointment. (Especially in a town where places like Pizzeria Delfina have set the bar at a staggering height.) Maybe we would’ve had more luck with the Roasted Mushroom and Green Olive Pizza. Who knows? I’m sure I’ll back to test that theory. If not for the food, then at least their lengthy selection of wines by the glass. Mamma needs her vino, no two ways about it.

I know a lot of folks here in San Francisco like to bitch about our sudden flush of wine bars, but me, I couldn’t be happier. Like, if someone rigged a Foam Dome with two Riedel glasses and a couple of curly straws, I’d be first in line to buy one. Does that make me an alcoholic?

Wait. Don’t answer that.

Essencia

Let’s just get the excuses out of the way, shall we? Holidays, work, family, stress, blah, blah, blah. I know. It’s been a long time since we’ve chatted, Dear Reader. My bad.

I had every intention of doing some sort of Holiday Roundup, with a rundown of all the places I ate for free, thanks to the wonder of corporate Yuletide merriment. But you know what? I just got frakin’ lazy. (Speaking of frakin’ lazy, what’s up with the BSG season premiere not happening until March now? I mean, has the writer’s strike not punished us enough? But I digress.)

On to the subject at hand: Essencia. A tiny Peruvian place in oh-so-happening Hayes Valley. I was pretty stoked to check out Essencia last night as I remembered the phenomenal Peruvian meal I had a year ago or so at Andina in Portland.

The feeling of stokedness lasted through the description of the evening’s specials, which included a Wild Mushroom Ceviche. Color me joyous—it sounded divine. And its presence sort of made up for the fact that there wasn’t a single vegetarian entrée on the menu. Our waiter, a man both eager and earnest, assured me that the chef would be glad to make a special dish for me. Something about a Canario Bean Tacu Tacu with lots of veggies on top. I was game. I was even impressed when our waiter returned to the table to double check if eggs were okay with me. (Some folks don’t even bother. So kudos for him.)

But my happy dance ended when the food arrived. It wasn’t bad. It was just painfully mediocre.

The Ceviche was all lime and no nuance. Put enough lime and chile on a pair of sneakers and they’ll taste good, you know? None of the mushroom flavor made it through.

At least my entrée felt like an entrée. You know how I hate getting served a collection of sides. The Tacu Tacu—a fried bean and rice patty—took up a good portion of the plate, so the dish seemed substantial, if nothing else. (Emphasis on the “nothing else” part.) The flavor, however…well, I don’t even know what to say. It just kind of sat there. Perfectly edible, but boring. Like some guy your friend thinks she should date because he’s inoffensively nice, but secretly, she hates him because he has no passion. Oh, relationships.

Anyway, we skipped dessert for fear of calories wasted on unspectacular confections. (There’s no worse feeling, is there?) Their Quinoa Cannoli sounded promising—but then again, so did the Mushroom Ceviche. We just had to pass.

Onward and upward in the New Year, though, eh? I’ve got dinner plans at Local Kitchen and Wine Merchant tomorrow. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Ring it in

Happy New Year, y’all.

My celebration? Making reservations at Cyrus for my partner and my ten-year anniversary. (It’s in January, but we couldn’t get a Saturday night rezzie until February. Worth the wait, though, eh?) We’ll be staying overnight at the Hotel Healdsburg for maximum indulgence.

It’s gonna be a good year, people.