Friday, November 19, 2010

Birthday Sushi


This past Tuesday I broke two major rules in Ann’s unpublished Guide to Economical Eating: 1) Never grocery shop on an empty stomach, and 2) Never buy produce at a supermarket, especially when corner bodegas and local farmers’ markets offer the same selection--and often better quality--at a fraction of the cost.


I figured it being my birthday, I could afford to indulge and stray outside my normal spending boundaries. So when the intense craving for a juicy piece of fruit hit me as I cut across the local Safeway parking lot on my way home, I consciously ignored the inner voice of reason encouraging my legs to stay the course and instead gave in to the rumblings of my tummy. Minutes later as I watched the supermarket cashier place a perfectly round organic Honeycrisp apple on the scanner, I felt a tinge of regret. Maybe I should have kept walking, maybe this was a bad idea, maybe ....

The monochromatic cash register monitor flashed “$4.24”. For one apple??? I paused and considered telling the young man I had made a mistake, that I didn’t want it after all. And then I remembered what day it was. With a carefree smile I reached into my wallet and took out my credit card ...


Some girls splurge on clothes and shoes for their birthday. I choose to charge fruit on my AMEX.


And so with caution blatantly thrown to the wind, the birthday dining began. Between lip smacking bites of my outrageously priced organic Honeycrisp, Jenny and I finalized the evening agenda. Kiji, a Michelin reviewed sushi restaurant a few blocks from our apartment, had been on Jenny’s radar, and even though my heart remains still faithful to Sushi Yasuda in New York City, I was eager to make my first foray into the San Francisco sushi scene. We were seated very quickly after our 8 pm arrival, but took note of the ensuing storm of customers--parties of three, four, five, and larger arriving about ten minutes after us. We had come at the perfect time, it seemed. The birthday gods were smiling down on me.


The restaurant itself was cozy, partitioned into three small dining sections, each room leading farther back into the building and successively narrower, sparser in decor. Jenny and I scored the best seats in the house, a corner table by the front window, in plain sight of the bar and the rest of the diners. I worried, though, that the clashing sounds of neighbors’ conversations and the rather loud, upbeat, jazz-inspired music would distract me from my dinner. In general, I prefer restaurants on the quieter side. Food is serious business; the quiet helps me focus.


A friendly server presented a heavy black iron pot of green tea; the accompanying small tea cups set the tone for the meal. Compelled to take dainty sips, else I’d be pouring tea after every other swig, I began to settle into the space, taking my time, enjoying catchup-chat with Jenny ... and savoring the tea.






Miso soup. Lightly fermented, but with enough zing to get the gastric juices flowing. We drank it straight from the bowl, too engrossed in our conversation and too lazy to tell the server we didn’t have spoons.


Oshitashi. Blanched spinach in ponzu sauce, topped with bonito flakes. After the warm tea and soup, the cool citrus flavored spinach calmed the palette. Jenny and I stopped talking, our heads nodding in sympathetic agreement at the perfectly prepared spinach--firm enough to warrant a chew, yet silky smooth in texture.


Hamachi carpaccio. Thinly sliced yellowtail, with spice, truffle oil, sea salt and jalapeno. This was Jenny’s favorite dish, definitely one of the highlights of the meal. The combination of cool fish and spicy jalapeƱo, their opposing qualities married together by the salty oil was delightful, a palette conundrum for my brain. I had to laugh as the contrasting flavors took turns registering, flashing hot then cool then salty then all at once, as I swallowed each bite. Definitely a tease, I couldn’t resist going back for more.





Jenn roll. Cucumber, avocado, and tobiko roll topped with salmon and lemon. This was an elegant example of traditional meets nouveau. The paper thin slices of lemon sealed onto the outer layer of salmon added a high note to this standard roll combination. Cucumber and avocado suddenly became exciting, their lemon infused flavors holding my attention for much longer than usual. I was impressed by the simplicity and effectiveness of this roll.





Soazik. Uni, ankimo, quail egg nigiri. The wild-card order of the evening. If the Jenn roll were a Mozart aria, exquisitely crafted and ease-fully light, then the Soazik would be a Wagnerian lied, deeply profound, deliberate, mystical. (A bit too dramatic for my taste--no pun intended.) Blending ephemeral elements of sea and sky, the fish eggs and bird eggs provided the liquid smoothness, the salt, the musk. This starkly contrasted with the more earthbound chewy monkfish liver, its flavor sightly metallic. While I probably won’t order this dish again, its complex flavors and poetic composition will be remembered and retold in the unpublished annals of Ann’s Wow Meal Moments.





We were done. Anything else would have been anticlimactic. Plus we had another stop to make before the end of the night.


Kiji’s prices were very reasonable, especially for such thoughtful and precise presentation. What also struck me was the slower pacing of the meal. Each course was presented at a point in time where any later would have given cause to suspect disorganization in the kitchen. But as a result, I remember an expansiveness, a timeless element to my conversation with Jenny. We chatted about our past four months in San Francisco, plans for the next four months and beyond ... the typical reflective and projective birthday talk of life and love.


Feeling the cool night air, we walked briskly, turning on 24th street, heading toward Noe Valley and our favorite 24-hour local donut shop, Happy Donuts. There are very few pleasures in this world that can surpass a late-night chocolate covered cake donut and cinnamon roll.


It was a fitting ending to our dining narrative--the apple, the sushi, and the donuts--and a fantastic beginning to a new year.




Kiji Sushi Bar and Cuisine

1009 Guerrero Street. (between 22nd and Alvarado streets)

San Francisco, CA 94110


Thank you, everyone, for the facebook messages, texts, e-mails, and phone calls. You made this day so special.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

El Dia de Los Muertos


Keeping vigil


While walking from my apartment to the starting point of El Dia de los Muertos parade yesterday evening, I reflected on the happy madness of the past few days. A confluence of many events--Halloween, the Giants winning the World Series, and Election Day--have stamped a glow on the collective consciousness of San Francisco. You see it on people’s faces, hear it in the small talk, and smell the wafts of cannabis in the air. Since last Saturday, every night has been a rollicking party in my Mission neighborhood ... and so I wondered what this night would reveal.


Glancing at my cell phone, I noted the time. Five minutes until 7 pm, the start of the parade opening ceremonies. My pace quickened as I approached the intersection of Bryant and 22nd Street, but already I noticed something strange. It was clear that my fellow pedestrians and I were converging on the same point, yet our strangely hushed demeanors and urgent pace unsettled me. It brought back a distant memory of being late to church on a significant holy day, scurrying across the parking lot after my parents, feeling unsure as to why we were in a rush, but knowing something important was taking place, something that I should not be late for.


Bryant Street was packed with bodies, and I headed straight into the pack. A plainly dressed man in brown holding a bowl of incense led the opening blessings, calling upon the crowd to vocalize. Vocalize exactly what, I wasn’t sure, but I bowed when told and blended my voice with the symphony of voices surrounding me. Staring openly at the fantastic representations of death, I appreciated the stark contrast of thick black lines outlining features on painted-white faces, visages artful in their grotesqueness. A sea of candles illuminated costumes portraying skulls and bones, made of feathers, lace, and leather. Slowly at first, the parade began to move forward, but as the drumming and dancing crescendoed in fervor and volume, so did the crowd. People played flutes, guitars, claves, bells, and whistles ... or they used their voices to accompany the hypnotic beating of the drums. Entire families with children and pets marched alongside the performers. It was often unclear who was marching and who wasn’t ... as everyone at some point did both. Camera flashes broke up the darkness, lending an air of paparazzi glamour to the gathering. And so I walked into the night, lost in the myriad of sights, sounds, and the smell of burning sage.



Mission Street



Hours later, the strains of the parade long faded, I came upon Garfield Park, where alters honoring the dead spoke to those alive, prompting us to remember, to make peace with the inevitable loss of even our very selves. A public shrine made up of hundreds of notes strung on clothes lines attracted passersby, who sat on the pavement to write personal notes to those no longer living. On this night, the division between the two worlds, the living and the dead, was suspended. I approached a small group of singers and musicians, swaying to their music, a lilting fiddle tune of eerie dissonance and charm. Gathered around an alter of candles, flowers, and statues of saints, their hauntingly mournful faces reflecting the yellow-orange of the burning flames, they were unrecognizable under the thick black and white paint; yet their honest emotions lay bare, unapologetic and beautiful before the cameras and stares of people like me.



Public shrine at Garfield Park


Grief, like joy, seeks its expression. And when that emotion is shared among people, the more intense and powerful its expression. Two nights ago, the Giants won the world series, and San Francisco spontaneously combusted. The instant the game was won and victory confirmed without a doubt, drivers pressed on their horns without mercy and firecrackers popped sharply in sporadic bursts. The alternating two-note ostinato of police sirens cut through the din, all the while accompanied by the underlying base-line “hum” of voices shouting. And my reaction as a quiet onlooker safe within the walls of my apartment? Hardly annoyed, quite the contrary, I felt my own inner excitement over the win reflected in the jubilant cacaphony outside.


I, like probably many in the Dia le los Muertos crowd, came for the spectacle of the night--the painted faces, the costumes, the music--but I walked home with my friends feeling deeply touched. I had not only looked, but I felt the sadness and the sweetness of those who held candles for their loved ones, the passion of the dancers and singers channeling their energy to connect with the sublime, and ... the silent tears of a solitary young woman in Garfield Park keeping vigil over a colorful photo collage, its subject a smiling and vibrant young man, perhaps her brother or a lover. It didn’t matter.





For it’s not the dead who need this night. It’s us, the living, who come together to give expression to the tender emotions we keep tucked away, shielded from the hard edges of our modern daily life. And whether it be the acknowledgement of a memory or a wailing song to the gods, it is a deep and powerful celebration ... El Dia de los Muertos.


A special thanks to Sidney, Ryan, Danny, Amy, and Josh ... fellow companions on this evening’s journey.

To those who have left us, you are not forgotten.



For more El Dia de los Muertos photos, click here.