Adventures in San Francisco's Chinatown

We arrived to blue skies at the Ferry Building in San Francisco after a mammoth 52 hour train ride from Chicago to the City by the Bay. Living at the foot of the Chilterns myself, I dismissed the infamous hills of SF and we elected to drag our cases along the Embarcadero and up Broadway to our motel. Half a hot and sweaty hour later we had triumphantly made it, and were ready to hit the town.

Broadway is positioned on the Edge of both North Beach and Chinatown, providing both good pizza and good dim sum. Perfect. It's also home to the famous City Lights Bookstore and the city's red light district, but they weren't going to fill our bellies.

First stop was Grant Street, a main artery of this Chinese Quarter, home to the Chinatown Gate as well as numerous restaurants, discount stores, bars and the Eastern Bakery. Purportedly this is the oldest bakery in the United States, with their moon cakes being a speciality and the steamed or baked pork buns being 'the best in town'. There's a few battered tables and chairs at the back, but we grabbed a selection of pastries and buns, and a bubble tea for the Ewing, and nibbled our wares on the street outside.

The lotus moon cakes were good, although I confess I don't really have a benchmark to compare them to. I did enjoy reading the spiel on the poster outside though: 'The Orient chemical water contaminated is no match to our San Franciscan water. The cleanest in the world! No other bakery cooks its own filling in the USA. It's expensive and hard'. 

My favourite type of moon cake were filled with dense sticky coconut and pieces of dried fruit, and they also sold those wonderfully friable giant almond cookies that crumble into buttery crumbs at the slightest touch. Lovely, but less good when the Ewing took to eating them as a midnight snack, leaving an alarming number of crumbs stuck to me the next morning.

They had run out of baked pork buns by the time we arrived, but the Ewing, an avowed steamed bun fanatic, pronounced their effort 'pretty good'.  Although they may not have been the best, it didn't stop her eating two massive buns, along with drinking about a gallon of bubble tea.

It may come as a surprise to unfamiliar readers that we were still remotely hungry after our extended bun stop, but we were. Deciding we really should attempt to eat some thing vaguely green and healthy, we stalked around the streets a bit before finally using the tried and tested 'if the locals are eating there it must be good' method to chose a place for dinner.

As luck would have it that place happened to be the Man Kee Cafe, which was almost directly opposite our motel. Inside was utilitarian, bright lights, Formica tables and the NBA playoffs on the TV. Most reassuringly, everybody else eating there was Chinese.

The menu came helpfully with pictures of most of the dishes, and as well as pages of a la carte options there was also a section of dishes offered at three for 19 bucks. Bargain. Feeling a little too digestively ginger to experiment too much I sadly avoided the frog's legs with bitter melon, and the stewed pig's intestines for the more familiar Szechuan green beans with pork and Chinese broccoli with oyster sauce.

For our third choice the Ewing let me decide, and I was quick to chose the honey and walnut shrimp; like the lox and bagels I had read about in a book as a child this dish was something I had heard about, but had never seen with my own eyes. Giant prawns fried and served with crispy honey walnut pieces. Then covered in mayonnaise. (I kept the whole mayo thing quiet at that point, wary the the Ewing was mindful of my previous dining disasters, and not wanting to scare the horses.)

It seems funny that one of the most innocuous sounding dishes, on a menu featuring all kinds of offal and off-cuts, potentially held the biggest surprise....

But before we had to navigate the perils of hot, nutty mayonnaise prawns we had to get through the soup course. You might not remember me mentioning ordering any soup, and that's for one very good reason, we didn't. Almost as soon as we had confidently pointed at the pictures of the food we actually wanted to eat a giant cauldron of soup appeared, unbidden, from the bowels of the kitchen.

Although no one else appeared to be eaten this soup we gamely ploughed through a few bowlfuls, without seeming to make any impact on the depth of the soup still in the cauldron. To be fair, it didn't taste too bad. Rather like a mixture between Heinz tomato and oxtail, with a few lumps of potato and carrot bobbing about and some mysterious, and alarming, 'meaty' chunks hidden in its depths.

Feeling we had done our duty another, equally vast and equally unordered, vat of rice appeared. By now both of us were rather green and sweaty and none of the food we had actually requested had turned up. Thankfully some greenery was next to appear. Some rather nice, charred and oily beans with crispy pork and a lick of numbing Szechwan pepper, and a forest of bitter cruciferous greens with a salty oyster gravy.

The fabled Honey walnut shrimp. These were, truly, some of the biggest and sweetest shrimp I have ever eaten. The mayonnaise coating, although slightly unnerving, was pleasant enough, and the nuts provided a sweet crunchy contrast, but we were eventually defeated by the richness of the whole dish. This was a bastardised American-Chinese experience right up with eating takeout from those iconic paper cartons on your hotel bed. So wrong, yet so right.

For our penultimate feast on American shores we decided to hit the streets for a dim sum that we could enjoy in the motel room while packing our suitcases.

Louie's Dim Sum had cropped up in the guide book as a good stop for some steamed buns, so we set off round the corner to Stockton Street.  While there we also decided to try a few cakes and pastries from the Wai Lee Bakery, as we had been looking at it from our motel window for the past week.

Our rather impressive haul of goodies, minus an almond cookie that had been accidentally consumed on the, very short, journey home.

The Chinese tamale, or zongzi. There had been some confusion in ordering this,  I had just stepped outside to take a picture when the woman at the counter had started barking something unintelligible to the Ewing, to which she kept hopefully repeating 'yes?'. It turns out she had been asking peanut or green bean, the two different choices of filling available. Eventually she just picked up the first one to hand and stuffed it in a bag for us.

On breaking it open back at the motel the tamale turned out to be mostly filled with chunks of pork and some small nutty bits, that may have been peanuts but tasted more like sweetcorn. It was 'interesting', if not a little bland and stodgy sans any kind of dipping sauce.

One of the finest baked pork buns I have ever eaten, this almost wasn't even purchased. After picking up our buns from Louis we were on the lookout for a bubble tea when I spotted these bronzed beauties sitting in the window of a You's Dim Sum, a couple of doors down from the motel. The Ewing was reluctant, reasoning (rightly) we already had far too much food, but I needed that bun.

Turns out it was a good call. Louie's buns were fine, but this was a different beast. Fat, sweet and shiny, and stuffed full of succulent shreds of red braised pork. I also couldn't resist a couple of their dumplings stuffed with Chinese chives. Another winner; the springy, glutenous rice wrappers gently holding the salty, garlicky greens.

We also enjoyed a couple of the traditional favourites; juicy and deeply savoury har gau; and sweet siew mai, whose wrappers a touch thicker than I'd have liked, but understandable due to the takeaway nature of Louie's Dim Sum. (Nothing more distressing to find gossamer thin dumpling wrappers have stuck to everything and torn apart, spilling their cargo everywhere, when you finally get your booty home.)

A good dim sum feast would be nothing without a egg custard tart to round things off.  The tart was very good; rich and creamy with gloriously short and flaky pastry. We also tried a piece of pineapple sponge cake, very light with a lovely, tangy filling; a dense and sticky moon cake; and a sweet, fried sesame ball.

The sesame ball looked rather promising from the outside, golden and glossy, studded with seeds, but the coating was disappointingly thick and greasy. The inside wasn't much better, comprising of a white and chewy tasteless mulch, complete with a bulls eye of brown and chewy tasteless mulch in the centre.

Needless to say it was cast aside, probably a good thing as we were fit to burst at this point. The only real low point of an unusual, delicious, and bargainous dim sum brunch.

Like many inner city Chinatowns, crowding and costs are pushing people out into the suburbs, with places such as Richmond, Daly City, and across the Bay Bridge, now being the new spots to find the locals congregating, and the 'best' and most 'authentic' food. 

But for all the developments and change it has seen, San Francisco Chinatown still holds a mystique and allure that is hard to replicate in strip malls and out of town shopping centres. From the fortune cookie factory to the Gateway Arch, the largest Chinese enclave in North America still has a unique sense of place and history. 

If you ever find yourself in the vicinity you can do far worse than an early morning stroll along the bustling market stalls of Stockton street, followed by a pork bun from the corner of Stockton and Broadway and moon cake and bubble tea from the Eastern bakery. And if your really brave there's always the honey walnut shrimp....

Jack In the Green Inn, Rockbeare, Exeter

I was, rather predictably, feeling a little fragile after the previous two days merriment. Hot, hung over and with the sort of heartburn you really have to earn by drinking copious amounts of cider and eating crisps at three in the morning (so I hear).

The Jack in the Green 'selection of cured meats'. The menu underplayed this one a bit, and, even as a self confessed charcuterie fanatic, it sounded a little uninspiring. After enquiring a little bit further we were told that the meats are all cured in house, and the platter featured a mixture of pork, venison and Whimple lamb from just down the road. It doesn't come much more local than that.

The meats came dressed with a tangy sauce gribiche, a rocket salad alongside. All the charcuterie was very good; deep, gamey, salty slices, each with well distinguished flavours, the lamb being particularly unusual and delicious. All very well done and quite delicious.

The Ewing chose the mackerel with curry spices, cucumber, yoghurt, peanuts and microcress. While the flavours were spot on, and the fish spanking fresh and perfectly cooked, the portion was a little on the bijou side. I know the concept of a starter is to whet your appetite, not knock you out for the afternoon, but it was very good dish and it would have been nice to have had a little more.

From the sublime to the ridiculous; after starters that were on the smaller side we made sure to eat some of the decent bread and butter proffered to us, only to be faced with the largest main course I have encountered for a long time.

I can't actually remember the last time I chose chicken on a menu (save for the majestic bird served at Zuni Cafe), but here I was swayed by its comforting properties, and the intriguing-sounding savoury bread pudding served with it. The roasted breast was presented with said pudding, nesting on pile of buttery mash and topped with crispy bacon. So far so good, then the side dishes began to arrive; first a dish of giant roasties; followed by braised red cabbage, beetroot and red onion, carrots and  cauliflower cheese; next a (still unidentified) bread-type sauce, studded with chunks of ham; and finally a large dish of broccoli, mange tout and green beans.

The feast set before us. Roast dinner out are almost always a disappointment; potatoes not crispy, not enough meat, soggy veg, watery gravy, no chance of making a sandwich from the leftovers late on a Sunday night. Apart from the last point, this dinner ticked all boxes; it was a triumph.

Everything there was perfectly cooked, a feat in itself, and even more impressive considering vast array of food were presented with. The chicken was moist and juicy; the pudding richly saturated with glossy gravy; the spuds, in both incarnations, perfect. The red cabbage/onion/beetroot was an unexpected pleasure, being the perfect balance of sweet and sour and providing a tangy edge to work against the cauliflower cheese and the rich (mystery) sauce.

Just looking at this picture now give me that lovely postprandial feeling, a sensation of gently glowing from a surfeit of good food and good beer, ready to fall asleep on the sofa in front of the Antiques Roadshow.

The Ewing's plate was a little less traditional, but no less delicious; monkfish 'scampi' with a curried mayonnaise and skinny fries.

The sauce provided a little controversy. Despite advertising itself quite clearly on the menu, the Ewing was a little surprised after the first taste, mistakenly believing it was the, more traditional, tartare. Although she remained unconvinced of its merits, I thought it was lovely, especially when the juicy coins of crisp fish were dipped into it. Chips were good, and the side salad served with it was shot through with feathery dill fronds, a very good match with the fish and spices.

After my magnificent main I reluctantly threw down the white flag (we did both share the sides, I wasn't a complete glutton), but the Ewing showed a little more stamina and chose the Bakewell Tart with sour cherry sorbet to finish.

Luckily they gave us two sets of cutlery, meaning I could steal in and swipe the nose of the tart and some of the wonderfully sharp sorbet. Cherry and almond are the perfect bedfellows and both elements were great, the frangipane layer being gorgeously dense, almost more like marzipan than a sponge, and the pastry perfectly light and friable.

At twenty quid for two courses, and twenty five for three, the Sunday lunch menu is very decent value for some very decent cooking. An extra mention for the front of house staff, who made us feel just like locals from the moment we arrived, and made the afternoon even more enjoyable with their friendly humour and warm welcome.

After lingering for a good while over cappuccinos and fudge we were finally gently herded back to into the lounge, so they could prepare for the second wedding reception of the day. The perfect opportunity for us to take our leave, and make the most of the sunny afternoon with a drive around the local villages and that well deserved Sunday nap.

Pony and Trap, Chew Magna, Somerset

A couple of weeks ago week we were due to drive down to Exeter for a friend's birthday bash in the West Country. Some major road works around the Bristol area provided the perfect excuse for a detour; Lunch at the Pony and Trap, just outside Chew Magna in Somerset, followed by an afternoon driving through Cheddar Gorge.

Despite being stuck out in the sticks, a Michelin star and a big reputation meant the car park was full at 12.30 on a Friday lunchtime. We were shown through the cosy front bar into the light and airy dining area, complete with stunning views across the Chew Valley.

The local Butcombe and Steam Box bitters were well kept, but lack of bread, or any sort of nibbles, meant it went to my head a little too quickly after the long journey, and I was very glad to see the starters finally arrive.

Indecision lead to a little squabble over who was going to have what, and in the end decided to 'share'. Now, as readers of this blog may know, neither the Ewing or I are completely comfortable with the concept of giving away our food (even if it is in exchange for someone else's). My duo of pigeon starter didn't help; being presented as it was in an asymmetrical way, with the uneven numbers of each element on the plate making division pretty much an impossibility.

As it turns out I was even more reluctant to share than normal. The pigeon had been presented two ways; pan fried breast, with an obscenely pink interior, and as cured strips of 'bresaola'. The plate was finished with apple; carrot, both pickled and pureed; and crushed and pickled walnuts. It was light and lovely, my only real criticism being I could have eaten far more of it, especially being as the pigeon chunks were the same size as the walnut halves. The carrot puree was an unexpected delight, sweet, earthy and complimenting both the iron of the bird and the sharpness of the pickled elements.

The Ewing's choice; a, pretty as a summer picture, Valley Smokehouse smoked salmon terrine with piccalilli and pickled cucumber sorbet. Again there was a real punch from both the pickles and the sorbet, which just stayed on the right side of overpowering; a good foil for the smoky, oily fish.

My beef fillet with tongue, veal sweetbreads, asparagus and mushroom ketchup; a poor photo, a lovely dish. Normally fillet doesn't really float my boat, but this had been cooked perfectly rare and had that butter soft 'beefiness' that makes it so revered. The sweetbread was delicate and creamy but the tongue was exceptional.

After being somewhat scarred by the offally, grey lumps that I was served in a taco in San Francisco I approached with some caution at first, but the ruby red meat flaked apart in juicy shreds and tasted like the finest corned beef known to man (a Very Good Thing). I reluctantly let the Ewing taste a few mouthfuls, and she was a love-struck as I was.

A little bit more tongue action. The spring veg, served alongside, were also perfect. Buttery and crisp with the wonderful fresh chlorophyll flavour of early summer.

The Ewing continued her fish theme with the Cornish hake, local sausage, white beans, clams and pesto parsley. This was a decent sized, and well cooked, piece of fish and the salty, smoky sausage played well with the beans and punch from the parsley pesto. Clams are one of my favourites, and I'm always glad to see them on the menu; sadly the Ewing shares my sentiment and I didn't get a chance to sample them, but the empty shells left at the side of her empty dish proof positive that they were good.

My pud was a square of chocolate brownie, topped with salted peanut mousse and chocolate ganache, served with gingerbread ice cream, on a slice of gingerbread and a sesame snap. Both great puddings in their own right, but I'm not too sure they had too much business being on the same plate together. You can even see from the picture that they didn't seem to want to get too up close and personal.

All said and done I enjoyed them immensely. The word unctuous could have been invented for the layer cake; the peanut/salt element was subtle, but it combined nicely with both the the chewy brownie and the buttery, yet bitter ganache. The ginger cake was properly spicy and dense, although the ice cream was slightly crystallised.

The Ewing's trio of deserts provided us with some unintentional hilarity, again revolving around complementary elements. The fennel seed creme brulee featured a good, perfectly smooth, anise-scented custard. Serving in a shallow dish provided maximum caramel crunch action, but the grilling had also made the interior a little warmer than I liked (the Ewing didn't seem too fussed, and made light work of it). 

The amusement came from the other elements on the board; a orange sorbet on a bed of fennel pollen popcorn, and a chocolate pot topped with the same puffed maize snack. Apart from the fennel in both the corn and the brulee, there didn't seem to be any other link between the three. Unfazed, the Ewing was determined that they must have been designed to go together, and so added the sorbet to the chocolate glass. She then took a mouthful, promptly grimaced, and tipped it back out again.

To say watching this was amusing is quite an understatement, and lead to Fay crossly shushing me as I collapsed in fits of giggles. The sorbet turned out to be very nice, reminding me of enjoying a Minute Made lolly on a summer's day as a kid (still one of the best things on a stick). The chocolate pot far less so; essentially a bitter chocolate ganache it was too rich, and served too cold. Even the chocholic Ewing didn't really enjoy it, and I've seen her eat half a fluff-covered Kit Kat from under the sofa before.

So, a very enjoyable lunch, with friendly service and a fairly modest bill (drinking a pint and a half between us helped). And who could fail to be seduced by these magnificent, sweeping views of the Chew Valley. A little gem in the West Country crown.

Zuni Cafe, San Francisco

After three solid weeks of consuming and imbibing we limped into our final weekend in the States with a heavy hearts and straining waistbands. With so much to do/see/try the effects of multiple cheeseburgers, pork buns and craft beer was taking its toll and all I really craved was something plain and simple; a good old roast chicken, hot and crispy from the oven, for example.

 

As luck would have it we were staying a mere mile or so from the feted Zuni Cafe, established by Judy Rogers in 1979 and celebrated for serving some of the finest roast chicken in the land. I tried the website, hoping to snag a Sunday reservation. No luck, fully booked all day. They were also closed on Monday, and we were flying home Tuesday afternoon. After so much good fortune, had our luck finally run out?

Fortunately I noticed that walk in tables were kept free at the bar, and on good days you could even snag an unreserved table outside. Even more fortunate the Ewing agreed to get up early on Sunday, and schlep down some of the seedier parts of Market Street (including dodging fleets of, rather erratically pushed, shopping carts and being propositioned at several sets of traffic lights), just to nab a table when they open just after eleven.

 

Luck was still firmly on our side as we were warmly greeted and, despite our lack of reservation, lead upstairs to a sunny window table, with views to both the street and the kitchen below. Triumphant that the infamous chicken was soon to be ours we ordered a bottle of chilled Napa Sauvignon Blanc to celebrate. (And to help pass the time; each bird is cooked to order, and takes an hour to prepare.)

San Francisco sourdough; I'll never tire of this stuff. The deeply blackened crust and slightly 'fizzy' flavour, slathered with a slab of pale and creamy butter.

The pizza with Wagon Wheel cheese and onions; the perfect pre-chicken nibble accompanied with a cold glass of wine. This had a beautifully light and blistered crust from the wood-fired brick oven, but was missing a touch of seasoning. The sweet onions and oily cheese just needed a little something sharp or salty to give it that cutting edge.

Watching a chicken production line from my vantage point on the balcony. It was quite a sight to see so many birds being perfectly cleaved before being presented on their little nests of bread and greens.

The money shot: Zuni's roast chicken for two with Tuscan bread salad. Despite all the hype I always thought that the pictures I had seen of this looked a little underwhelming. Roast chicken, check; green salad, check; handful of crispy bread; check. Hardly awe-inspiring stuff. Of course, that was until I tasted it....

The simple things in life are often the best, and the chicken at Zuni exemplifies that. The bird is good, but the bread stuffing is even better; a wonderful mixture of crispy and crunchy, all gloriously soggy with chicken fat and sharpened with wine vinegar. The stuffing had a sprinkling of inky black currants and toasted pine nuts, which sounds a bit strange but tastes totally brilliant.

 

It may look like a light lunch, but looks can be deceptive. Despite being advertised as being for two to share, there was easily enough to feed a family. Having said that, the Ewing and I took it down between us, much to the amusement of the two ladies sitting next to us.

By this point I had truly reached saturation point. Three weeks of pure gluttony were finally catching up me and I was left slumped in the gently dappled light of a Northern Californian afternoon, barely able to even finish the rest of my wine.

While I was moaning and groaning across the table the Ewing was having no such problems, and was greedily pouring over the desert menu. The Meyer lemon and olive oil sorbet with hazelnut biscotti and candied lemon peel was her pick of a fruity-sounding bunch. A truly lovely pud that was, in turns, sharp, fruity and creamy with the scent of summer in every bite.

After lunch, to keep my side of the bargain, we rolled back down Market Street, and I was subjected to an afternoon shopping in Westfield San Francisco. Now I can officially say that visiting the mall on the weekend is a special kind of hell no matter where you are. Lucky for me our glorious lunch more than made up for any discomfort caused by waiting outside changing rooms, while attempting to comment on seemingly endless, but subtly different, outfits without offending anyone.

A bellyful of chicken and wine, and the memories of a wonderful meal, were all I needed to keep a smile on my face and my sanity intact.