Diet break
By Paul Mantee
We drove up to San Francisco to take a break from the Atkins Diet. Why not? I lost 21 pounds in two-and-a-half months. Suzy the magnificent significant shed 12, and I say what better way to reintroduce Mother Nature’s carbohydrates into our deprived bodies than to do it in the restaurant capital of the West.
We began our odyssey by sucking up a pair of extra-large O.J.s and stacks of German pancakes with sides of sausage at the IHOP off Freeway101 in Camarillo. For the occasion, we picked up a bottle of real maple syrup (52 grams of carbs per quarter cup) at a nearby Trader Joe’s and doused the works again and yet again.
A dramatic entry into the obscene, but hardly enough to sustain us all the way to San Francisco.
Fortunately, Suzy had the foresight to purchase a large decorative tin of caramel corn from a group of small boys who were selling it for more than it was worth for some good cause or another outside Albertson’s in Calabasas. We began picking at it between Bakersfield and Fresno. Only because it took me till Arvin to get the can opened.
Once in the city, we stretched our legs and scurried to my favorite restaurant, La Felce (corner Stockton and Union) had two quick cocktails and enjoyed a six-course meal of antipasto, salad, soup, pasta, the best commercial osso buco I’ve ever tasted – Suzy had the chicken breast sautéed in egg batter – and spumoni. And then, of course, went directly to bed, which is the best way to allow those carbs to do God’s work.
The following morning we skipped breakfast, except for the complimentary doughnuts, juice and coffee offered by our hosts at the Pacific Heights Inn, and went directly to the Tadich Grill in the Financial District, had a couple of Bloody Marys, two giant Dungeness crab cocktails and I chose a mile-high platter of boiled beef with potatoes and vegetables and Suzy the charbroiled petrale. After which we forced a homemade rice pudding.
Then we took a nap.
That night, we drank six (three each) of the best martinis in the hemisphere at John’s Grill on Ellis Street. The place originated in 1908 and it says right there on the menu that Dashiell Hammett wrote “The Maltese Falcon” on the very premises. In the book, private eye Sam Spade is quoted as having ordered the lamb chops and baked potato, so following a bowl of irresistible clam chowder, I ordered it as well. I’d like to get back to writing and it seemed an appropriate kickoff in that direction. In fact, after three martinis and a plate of oysters Wellington, Suzy suggested that I might well have been Dashiell Hammett in a past life. Suits me. After a sambuca and a set of soft jazz at the joint across the street, we were again off to bed.
Tuesday, I guess it was, after morning coffee, O.J. and a couple of free doughnuts (one buttermilk, one glazed) at the hotel, we said to one another, the heck with it, when do you imagine we’ll ever get back to Tadich’s anyway, so we did it again. Immediately. This time, we ordered bowls of Boston and Manhattan clam chowder and switched off, after which we each inhaled a huge Crab Louie and polished off two full orders of sourdough the size of Alcatraz. Soup and salad will do that to you. You can’t find that bread south of Salinas, though Taverna Tony’s makes an attempt.
That evening, friends – a slender couple – invited us to their home in the Berkeley Hills for vegetarian Atkins. The hospitality was lovely, the view divine and the food very pretty to look at. On the way back to the city, I wolfed a handful of the caramel corn in order to retain some sugar consistency – the last thing I needed at that point was a shock to my system.
Let’s see. Oh, I remember. The next day after our doughnuts, we made a trip to Lucca’s Delicatessen on Chestnut Street (Est. 1929) and loaded up with about $75 worth of take-home items S.F. refuses to share with L.A. – Molinari salami and teleme (pronounced tell-a-mee) cheese. Stocked with heavy sandwiches of imported prosciutto and provolone, we drove out to the Cliff House and, after a couple of Bloody Marys, sat by the beach and grudgingly shared with the local seagulls.
That night, we went to Original Joe’s out the Mission since 1937, where I wallowed in a huge bowl of pastina in beef broth, and a platter of Italian pot roast with ravioli. Suzy went light with the minestrone and broiled chicken. Heaven. No dessert.
On our last full day, we drove to Monterey and stayed at the charming but expensive Hotel Pacific. On the way, we submitted to an okay burrito, guacamole, chips and salsa in a plastic plate at a so-so Mexican joint in Santa Cruz to tide us over till martinis and dinner at the barren Café Fina (Est. yesterday) on the Monterey wharf. I made the mistake of getting chummy with our nouvelle server and he asked us where we’d eaten in San Francisco. I was well into the story of Dashiell Hammett
and “The Maltese Falcon” when he asserted he never heard of
those people. I tried to bridge the youth gap by mentioning that Humphrey Bogart did the movie. “I’ve heard of Humphrey Bogart,” he admitted, and I nearly hit him with my linguine and clams, al dente. Suzy reminded me that only in Southern California does every waiter come equipped with a kinship for “the business.”
Other than a complimentary eye opener of juice, eggs, croissants, raspberry jam and coffee at the hotel the following morning, that’s about all the eating we accomplished.
Except for a stop in Paso Robles at a coffee shop called Margie’s, which boasted on a billboard: We serve real food! And sure enough. The meatloaf was the size of a manhole cover and the country gravy scrumptious, as was the tub of homemade mashed potatoes along with a fistful of scratch fries I snatched from Suzy’s turkey, cheese, Ortega chili melt on rye.
I personally finished off the tin of caramel corn just outside Lompoc. We drove uneventfully the rest of the way to Malibu and arrived at Guido’s just in time for dinner.